Over-the-road
strange
but true
Debra
Woolard Bender
Florida, USA
Truckstop. Early 1980's. Somewhere on I-70. The Mayflower idling
among a hundred or more fourteen-wheelers. Thick smell of diesel
even becomes homey after awhile. The two kids left in Denver with
Grandma, I've joined my husband on an over-the-road furniture
delivery to New York City. Sleeping in the truck is cozy - a
zip-up compartment behind the seats, just enough room for two. The
engine runs all night like a mother rocking babies. Portable TV
plugs into the lighter. Later, listen to the truckers jaw on the CB:
Fish stories, one-upmanship, chatter, nonsense. Packing quilts line
the windows, keep out light and stares of curious onlookers. Inside
the truckstop, bathrooms, showers, food. Morning before sunup,
breakfast. After that, a fill-up of coffee for husband's thermos. I
gulp the last of my hot tea. Husband leaves me at the booth to pay
and get change for a tip. Enter three men. The middle one is looking
straight at me. Handsome? Beautiful? His face seems to shine,
open-like. "Where y' headed?" he asks. They are getting
ready to take the next booth. "North Carolina", I answer,
"then on to New York City". He looks into me -- his eyes
pierce me, knowing, kind. "Ya'll be careful, y'hear?" He
means it. His words go right into me, too. To the bone, like some
kind of quiet thunder. "Thanks," I say. Husband returns,
slips cash under the empty plate. I know what I have to do: Say
nothing. Absolutely nothing. Back at the truck he checks the tires
and engine. Meanwhile, I wrap the TV in the packing quilts,
carefully center it, wedged in the rear of the sleeping cubby,
surrounded by pillows and blankets so that when we have the accident
it will not be thrown forward to hit either of us in the back of the
head. I remove one pillow, place it on my lap. Then I zip up the
thick black cloth panels, make sure they are taut. I take off my
eyeglasses, put them under the pillow. Husband hoists himself up
into the driver's seat, sound of air hissing from the brakes.
Seatbelts secured. Stops, jolts and starts through avenues of
sleeping trucks, then onto the open road. A few miles into sunrise,
traffic cones funnel two lanes into one. Workers cutting roadside
trees. Brand new white car in front of the Mayflower. Dealer tags
still on the rear end. Older man gabbing to three older women, not
watching the quickly slowing traffic. A mile or so ahead, red car on
the right stopped at the end of the cones, trying to get back into
the flow. Husband grabs the CB. The sound of his voice to anyone
listening: "10-4, accident about to happen on I-70 East, and
it's gonna be a Mayflower. That'll be me. There's a white four
wheeler who's not watching what he's doing." Red car makes a
run for it. White car slams on the brakes. Next moment, the
Mayflower is barrelling into the left median. Rolling into the
ditch, full force. Pillow over my face. The TV hits the middle of
the zipped cloth panels, bounces back, nothing harmed. New white
car's left rear bumper clipped and crushed. Angry driver. Their
lives saved, our lives saved, and who knows how many behind us,
saved. Road crew witnesses all, vouches for husband. White car
driver gets a ticket. The Mayflower is loaded with someone's family
antiques. Nothing is broken.
old spindle bed
a few lifetimes
left in the wood
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