Sally was cleaning up at Shepherd's Bar, a roadhouse out on Rt 62. I was past closing time, but she knew there was a party out back, because people didn't want to stop drinking just because the liquor laws said otherwise, and there was good money to be made in catering to that impulse. So long as things stayed quiet the cops wouldn't pay attention, for the very good reason was the Sheriff was likely to be there. But Shepherd's everybody saw, so it had to close and she was head of the closing crew. She wiped down the counters and watched the yellow light above the door. It had been a quiet night, really, only a couple of the men had grabbed her ass, and she'd been able to free herself with a curt look. Sometimes they acted like she was one of the girls who worked the building with the red light out behind the garage. She wasn't one of those girls, never would be, and resented them thinking that.
Not that they might not have had a bit of encouragement. Sally was pretty, a lean girl with small lips, blonde hair and a sprinkling of freckles that made her seem like the girl next door. She'd learned that the tips were better if she wore tight clothing, so her jeans hugged her full bottom and her checked blouse was tight with just enough buttons undone to offer a hint of cleavage. Brown cowboy with heels a wide leather belt belt finished her ensemble. She'd drawn eyes and her tips were good that night. A Saturday night with good tips and only a few butt squeezes was a good night. She knew her cat would be waiting at her apartment, wanting some cuddle time. She stacked up the chairs, made sure the lights were out and let herself out the back door to walk across the truck lot to her truck.
"Hey honey," called a feminine voice to her right. She looked over and saw a big blue Freightliner with the driver's window open. Someone took a long puff on a cigarette, only the smell was too sweet for tobacco. The person puffing on it was a woman, short haired, she'd been in the bar for a while earlier, and she remembered serving her Stroh's. She was nice looking too, short dark hair, no makeup and loose clothing to hide her figure, but Sally had remembered her.
"You're Billie, right," Sally said, She'd tipped her well, not too well, but well and had made a couple good jokes when Sally had a moment.
"Yeah, you remembered. Must to be hard to remember people when you have so many."
"They say I have a talent for names. But you'd have stood out. I'd seen you here every few weeks. I'd heard girls had started driving, but hadn't met any drivers yet."
"Girl, it's 1972. The world is changing, and it's changing with us." Billie took another puff. "Looks like you had a long night."
"It wasn't so bad. Pretty decent night actually."
"Some of those guys had their hands all over that pretty little ass of yours."
"That's every night around here. They weren't too bad."
"You like giving them a grope?"
"No, but I like it when they tip well, and if a squeeze nets me a couple extra bucks then I'll take it."
Billie nodded and lifted up a beer. "Surprised you haven't got a boyfriend picking you up at this hour."
"I haven't got a boyfriend. Don't need one neither." Sally spat it out, like she was a combination of proud and disappointed at the same time.
"That's a shock, pretty as you are."
"Maybe I haven't met a man around here I want to be with." And the truth was, she'd run through about every boy of even moderate interest.
Billie laughed. "I've seen some of your choices. They tried buying me drinks."
Sally smiled. "I saw you sitting alone all night. Didn't look like you wanted a man."
"Oh, I wanted company, just not them."
"What kind of company were you looking for?"
"Someone different. Come on up and take a leg off. You look like you could use a break. I have a couple beers and some Hank Williams eight-tracks."
Sally thought for a moment. She could go home to her cat and watch the late, late movie on Channel 43. She decided she'd seen enough commercials for for the Chrysler Cordoba. "Maybe I will. Got any more smoke?"
"Got enough," Billie said with a grin. She shifted over to unlock the door. Sally went around, grabbed onto the handle and step and hoisted herself up into the cab, taking a quick moment to check herself in the mirror. Then slipped inside, sitting on the seat, the thick console between them, sort of armor if she needed distance. But the sleeper was behind them and the curtains were open.
It's not like there was a lot going on around there. Emoryville was built around the local Baptist Church, Wooler's IGA, and the diner. A couple homes. A place where the only strangers when the drivers out on 62. Sally knew she was . . . different. She'd dated boys, even balled a couple, but really none had stuck. She knew she was twisted, and there wasn't much hope out in Marin County of a girl like her. Or a boy either. Davey Willers had gotten himself dragged last year for about four miles by a couple toughs. Drew not a line in the local paper outside of his six line obituary Not much left of Davey either. She looked over at the trucker. She had a pretty smile and a woman's full chest. Maybe Billie was a little twisted too. And not local. Billie was safe from the rumor mill. It wold be nice to spend a little time with a fellow traveller. Billie pulled a beer out of her cooler, popped the top and handed the other can over. Sally took it and lifted it so they could tap their beers together then took a sip. She didn't really like beer all that much, but it was cold and it was nice to be off her feet.
