The road unwinds before me like a broken tape measure in the dark. The flickering of the dashed white lines, the sleeping towns, the gentle snore of the engine and drone of the wheels.
This is my life.
Lonely, yes, but one I chose with my eyes open.
Stretch my back, twist. Check speed, check road ahead, check mirrors. Trailer tight and following perfectly, no flapping of the canvas sides. Tonight I have a delivery.
Tomorrow, a funeral.
My brother. To be honest, he was a worthless piece of shit. Never held a job, except dealing coke. You know the sort - spread his seed far and wide, then ran like hell when some of it grew. Totally irresponsible. One of the main reasons I sit in a rig all night instead of laying in a warm bed with a comfortable wife.
Meh - who cares. Check trailer, check speed, check road. Reach for my flask of coffee.
A bump - nothing major for a rig, but joggles my arm against the dash. Quick check shows that everything is as it should be. I have sped up a bit while bracing - ease back on the gas and drop her back to 55.
I know this route. Emily, my rig, could probably drive it without me, we have done it that often.
I lean back and enjoy the night.
Check road, check speed, check trailer.
My brother wasn't all bad - don't go thinking that. He is .. was ... two years older than me. He looked out for me when we were kids - caught more than his fair share of strappings from the old man too. Now there was a nasty bugger. You did it his way, and right the first time, or you got the strap laid on with no light hand. Mom, I don't really remember. She left Dad when I was two. Just put down the dishcloth one day and walked out. By the time Dad got home, I was, so I have been told, screaming in fear of the dark, with Bobby outside my playpen holding my hand. Like I say - he wasn't all bad.
Check trailer, check road, check speed. Blink and stretch.
Night driving is peaceful but it is boring. Tonight I am not really in the mood for voices though - even though they are a switch throw away on the CB.
When did Bobby go wrong? I don't know. This has bothered me for years. He protected me always, don't get me wrong, except from Dad. I was, I suppose, what they would now call educationally challenged. Oh, I speak well enough, but writing and figuring are hard for me. I blame Dad for that. After all, there are only so many times you can be hit in the head before it has an effect. Look at poor Muhammed Ali! Poor guy can't even string two words together now.
But one thing I can do is concentrate.
Check speed, check trailer, check road. Scratch balls.
Sip of coffee. Lucy, down at the truck stop, fixes me a flask every night. Extra strong, cream, 6 sugars. Just the way I like it. It helps with the boredom. Coming up to the crossroads in Three Rivers. Shift down and slow. The lights turn to blinkers at night here. No red, just caution. Check for traffic. 3 am, so unlikely to be drunks or racers on the road. Shift down again and take the corner, then accelerate and shift back up.
Check road, check speed, check trailer. Slight wobble, damping out as I speed up. All good.
"All Good." Story of my life. Failed my diploma. It was fine, I went into the Army and they taught me how to drive. Came out, got a job driving rigs, met a girl, courted and won her. Yeah - her name was Emily, why do you ask.
Then Bobby came back from wherever the hell he had been. California I think it was. He had no where to stay - what was I going to do? But I was away all night, 6 nights a week. One morning I got back - they were both gone. Along with the savings and the few bits and pieces from mamma and grandma I managed to save.
Check trailer, check road, check speed.
Guess I am still married to her - or at least I was until the accident. A shame in a way. Lucy, you know, the girl from the truck stop, is interested in being Mrs Johnson number 2. I guess there is nothing stopping us now. Except Emily is the only one for me. Lucy is sweet and all, but there isnt the - whats the word - excitement there. Sometimes I think that excitement is not something for me.
Excuse me - we are coming up to the bypass at Bumpville. I need to see if there are any checkpoints. Not that I am hauling illegal shit, but it will slow me down.
Check road, check trailer, check speed. Switch on CB. Mike snuggling in my hand like an extension of my body.
"Breaker, Breaker. This is Freewheeler on 109, asking if it is all green to bring on the machine."
Nothing but static. Check channel. 187.
187?
"Ray?"
I didn't hear that - did you? Was just the static on a channel that doesn't exist.
"Ray, I know you are listening." My disbelief is melting fast. What do I know about this sort of shit? I have enough trouble reading the damned comics.
"Bobby?"
"The one and only, little bro."
Check road, check trailer. Stay calm.
"So who we burying tomorrow Bobby? You conned someone into taking the last fall?"
"Me and Emily, bro. It isn't too bad here. Pretty much everything you could want."
Channel 187. An impossible channel. To the afterlife, apparently.
"Bobby, stop fucking around. If you are on the radio you ain't dead."
Check road, check trailer.
"Yep, Ray. We watched them scoop up what was left and bag it. Em is still laughing that one of her arms went in my bag."
Shit. This is deep. What the fuck do I do? Got any suggestions?
Check trailer.
"Bobby, why?" I may be dumb, but I got my curiosity, and pride.
"Because I could, Ray. After 15 years of taking the blame for you and your fuck ups, I deserved something. And I got it here" Very faint. Lean forward to hear. Brace on the pedals.
"You know you asked me if I found someone to take the last fall? I did."
OH FUCK!! CHECK ROAD, CHECK SPEED!
"It is you, Ray. You"
As I crash through the barrier at 75, I console myself that at least the afterlife is real and something will survive beyond death. Then my passenger, who has been there and not there the entire trip, speaks.
"Heaven is channel 154."
