Author's Note:
I always say I'm going to write a short story when an idea hits me, then fast forward a little while and it runs away from me. As a truck driver, a story like this had always interested me, and I haven't really stumbled across anything like it, so I sat down and wrote it. There are some friendly faces in this one, even if it's just for a cameo.
As always, thank you JFS1212 for editing this work. I hope you enjoy it, and stay tuned for more stories!
**
"Get the fuck out of my way!" I yelled to nobody in particular.
Some steering wheel holder was sitting in the left lane of the two lane section of Interstate Eighty I was on. I mean, he wasn't just sitting there, he was passing. Just very slowly, but I'll at least give him that. Moving half a mile an hour faster than the guy you're passing wasn't a valid reason to hold up traffic.
Again, I was being unfair. he wasn't holding up traffic. He was holding up me. It was three in the morning, and it just so happened that the only three trucks on the road in this particular part of Nebraska were clustered together. Some Swift driver (I've got nothing against Swift drivers, I started there myself) was doing his thing at a cool sixty-five miles per hour, the speed he was governed at.
The asshole, rather, the driver that was passing, was doing like sixty-six. That wasn't a crime. It was three a.m after all, he wasn't holding up a bunch of traffic, just me. I had places to be though. I wanted to hit the 'get gone lane' and, well, get gone. I was on a run from Lincoln Nebraska to Couer d'Alene Idaho with a load of snowblower parts, of all things, that some other owner-op couldn't deliver due to a breakdown, so I got the call, and as luck would have it, I was in the area and just dumped a load.
I knew the few minutes waiting for him to pass would lose me wouldn't really matter in the long run, but it still pissed me off. I left Lincoln a few hours ago, after already driven three hundred miles to get to Omaha to drop off my last load. God Bless paper logs. I knew I wanted to at least making Billings Montana before shutting down to grab a few hours of sleep, and I wanted to get there like yesterday.
That's me, I'm a truck driver. A Highway Slammer, Road Hammer, Gear Jammer, Super Trucker, Johnny Big Rig, or whatever else you want to call me, I've heard it all. I live between white lines and highway signs. I own and drive a nineteen ninety-three Peterbuilt Three Seventy-Nine I was gifted from my father three years into my career. I started trucking when I turned twenty-one, just like my dad before me, and I was twenty-six now.
Off loading the other drivers trailer and loading the stuff onto mine took a little while, but luckily I had a pallet jack so we didn't have to hunt for one. I was still about six hundred miles away, and I was starting to worry that my thermos of Jitter Juice wasn't going to cut it and I'd have to shut down early. I had my own food on the truck so at least I didn't have to worry about finding somewhere to stop with food if I had to shut down before Billings.
The passing truck finally got clear and got over, so I laid into the throttle and let my eight hundred horses sing. Yea, she was tuned up. I knew this stretch of road like the back of my hand, so I knew I should be clear on bears. Really, I knew most, if not all stretches of interstate in the country like the back of my hand.
I got Candy, my truck, because her dominant color was Candy Apple Red, wound up to seventy-four and kicked back to hopefully enjoy another few hours without seeing more than a couple cars or trucks. I knew running that quick killed my fuel mileage, but I liked it better, and I more than made up for it from the pay from my freight. I specialized in other peoples fuck ups. When someone couldn't deliver a load for whatever reason I picked it up and hauled ass to get it there on time. I did other things too, I hauled a reefer, which could be utilized as just a van so I had options.
I had covered about fifty miles since the truck passing incident and was settling back into my grove, jamming out to some Koe Wetzel when I heard my CB radio go off so I quickly killed the music so I could hear. Hardly anyone used the things anymore, but when they did it was usually either good information or good conversation to break up a drive.
"Hey lost souls on the westbound, better back 'er on down. Got a Kojak with a Kodak at the thirty-three yard line," a voice called out.
Sometimes it's hard to tell over a CB, but it sounded like the voice of an angel. The woman's voice made me think she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. Maybe she was, or maybe I'd just been on the road too long. It had been four months since I'd been home, and way longer than that since I'd felt the touch of a woman.
The call out was for the thirty-three yard line and I was at the sixty-four, so I knew I had time before I got there, but I made sure to make a mental note to slow down when I got closer. Usually a CB was good for seven miles at most, or so I'd read, but they can be tuned up to reach way further than that, which mine was. It also helped that it was Nebraska so there wasn't anything in the way to block the signal.
"Ten-four on that driver," I called back. "I'm about thirty miles off your back door, how's it look the rest of the way in?"
"Clean and clear, bears seem to be in their dens for the night," she answered.
"Hammer time then eh?" I laughed.
"Pedal to the metal and tear a strip off that white line driver," she joked back. Her laugh sounded like music to my ears.
"Whats your cruising altitude?" I asked.
"A nice cool sixty-eight, how 'bout you. come on back." She asked. I don't know how but I could hear the smile in her voice over the radio. Maybe she was just lonely, or tired and wanted entertainment. I knew the feeling well.
"Rockin' about seventy-four. You keep going I'll catch your back door before Cheyenne," I joked.
"If you're goin' south then you just might. Makin' a left turn and headed to Shaky Town," she explained.
"Ten-four on that. Good luck down that way. I'm makin' me a right turn and headed to Idaho"
"I'll trade you," she laughed. "Hate heading my way."
"Yea I stay out of Idiot Island," I laughed back. "Who do I have the pleasure of babbling with?"
"You got Lady Luck on this end, how 'bout yourself?"
"They call me The Kid," I responded. I'd been called that by just about everyone for so long sometimes it took me a second to answer to my given name.
"Pleasure making your acquaintance Kid," she said.
"You as well. Would it be Lady or Luck if one was to shorten the handle?"
"Either works. Most people go with Luck. Guess they don't wanna just call me Lady," she explained. She let a laugh trail off as she let off the mic. There was that damn laugh again.
