When Shelly told me she had freight lined up out of California, I was happy knowing I'd run into Rip again. No one, absolutely no one, treated me like he did, in or out of bed, with that cock being the icing on the cake. For a week and half, I ran freight in and out of Bakersfield and each time I touched down in his town we had a meal, in addition to him feeding me that fat, black cock.
"I'm addicted to you, honey," I'd tell him each time afterwards, as it seemed like perfect harmony thinking he and I could be something.
Turned out I was wrong, as indicated on the final night when I was in his bed, giving him the best head of his young life while trying to claim my stake in it the same.
"Next time you come this way, give me a heads up, Wayne," he told me when I was preparing to leave. "I could plan better, and you know, maybe get a third in here to help me with all that ass. Take care of yourself."
To me, that was the final chapter of what we had and I was heartbroken, as I really thought we forged something. That was life for you, and being a trucker I was trained to take wins the same as losses to mush on to the next load. Hell, feelings don't pay for fuel or the food in my mouth, and though sex is common, even that is expensive with all the logistics. I was leaving Bakersfield with a load of beef for Tacoma, Washington, but Shelly called in the wee hours, and had me drop the trailer at a broker in Flagstaff, then swap to a load coming back home.
"I figure we keep you regional a bit," she told me as the freight was weaving east again.
I liked our "regional bubble" as I usually caught easy, good paying loads running it. I committed to a light load of tortilla chips from a Flagstaff-based distribution warehouse, and brought it home, landing at the terminal yard in the wee hours of what was my birthday. I'd drop the trailer, text Shelly of my arrival, then unhook and park my rig at the front of the lot to walk a few feet to my beloved pickup before I barreled down the road to the apartment. For eight hours I slept like a rock, and would wake to call my kids, and my grandbabies to return all the "happy birthday greetings." I didn't feel like 65 after that slumber, and was ready to take on the world, and perhaps more freight, when I took a hot shower, got dressed, and rumbled my truck to the terminal just to see Shelly and her coworkers scream "happy birthday" to me once I opened the door to the office.
"Surpriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise," they'd yell.
They led an ode of Stevie Wonder's version of the "Happy Birthday" song, and I became an emotional wreck, bursting into a ball of tears.
"Our Big Wayne, we love you. Now make a wish," Shelly said as she brought out a big cake with the number "65" on a candle.
I blew it, and they all clapped and cheered, as there were dispatchers, load planners, a handful of truckers, and Owen, the owner of the company.
"Thank you for all you do," Owen said as he came and hugged me.
He then handed me an envelope of a hefty check, then asked what my plans were for the evening.
"No plans. I already spoke to my kids, you guys did all this for me. I'm good," I told him.
"You're not good," he said. "Put on your best threads. We're going out for the best steak in OKC, as its the least we could do for one of our best drivers."
Owen was more than the owner of this company, but a proprietor to many other entities and a heavy hitter within the Oklahoma economy. He had thousands of employees, and yet he took the time to acknowledge this fat trucker, one that lived simple and just wanted to be the best deliveryman. I followed his direction and visited a spa to get a nice haircut, then went home to shower and shave good before donning my favorite blue polo shirt, khaki pants and loafers. We would meet at Symmetry's, one of the best steakhouses in the state.
"Wayne, meet my boy, Jake," Owen said as we met at the door.
We looked like part of a business conglomerate, with me in comfortable, yet business casual attire, and the two of them in expensive suits. Owen, who was in his mid to late 50s, appeared to be in his 30s with his head shaved, and worked out regularly as evidenced from his toned frame. Jake was just as handsome, a curly haired, freckle-faced, suit clad stud fresh out of college who had his hands in business, too, and was evenly shaped. Owen snapped his fingers and a young lady who might've been the manager came right over.
"Hi, welcome Mr. Powers, Jake, and you sir," she said.
She put out the specials, and Owen would interrupt, letting her know we were ready to order.
"I'd have the ribeye, medium well," I said since I was familiar with the meat vendor of the establishment since it was one of our customers.
Jake requested his steak, and Owen ordered us two bottles of chilled, red wine, along with his Porterhouse cut, since it complimented the steak so well.
Minutes later the lady came back with our sizzling orders and my eyes grew big.
"This thing is almost two inches thick," I said to the guys.
I'd punish my steak, as the other two had more talking to do vice eating, and Owen would turn the conversation to me.
"No one to go home to, birthday boy," he asked.
"Single as a penny," I told him before my last piece.
Owen, married to Jake's mom Freda for over 30 years, tried to school an elder on relationship values.
"You get that one Wayne, and well, everything else is a piece of cake," he mentioned. "No reason for you to be single."
I then advised him that I was once married, and had children as well.
