Amarillo By Afternoon

For David

A Joe Buck Tale

Chapter 1 - Truckin' Across the USA

There are ways for me to insure a smooth trouble free ride before climbing into the driver's seat. If I want to keep getting good loads from my dispatcher, I need to arrive at my destination safely and on time.

Being a professional truck driver with a thousand to two thousand miles ahead of me, I need to check all the truck's systems to be sure everything is in good working order. Once the safety check is complete, I take one last walk around the trailer I'm picking up to be sure all the lights are working and the tires are up to the task ahead.

Once I'm in the driver's seat, I start the Cummins engine and monitor the gauges on my dashboard. If they're all registering in the proper range, I rach for my Willie Nelson tape and put it into my tape player before shifting into gear. To the sound of On the Road Again, heading for the closest super slab.

I'm not simply a truck driver. I'm an owner-operator. That makes me a businessman. I own my own truck and I lease my services to a company that books my loads.

As I shift through the gears and get up to speed, I listen for sounds I don't recognize. A trucker must always be on his toes and the sound of trouble often precedes the feeling of trouble.

I depend on my ears almost as much as I depend on my eyes and my eyes are about to encounter some of the most beautiful country in the world.

Any time I'm going more than a few hundred miles, I'm going to see wide open spaces, purple mountain's majesty, and fruited plains. This is why I'm a trucker. I love the journey. The idea I make money while doing something I love makes it almost perfect.

A driver depends on his ears, just like he depends on his eyes, to have a complete picture of how his equipment is performing. A good trucker can feel a flat through his hands. He knows when something doesn't feel right. A fire inspection will take five to ten minutes and you've got to pull over to check. Checking your tires at every stop will keep your tires rolling. With eighteen tires to check, it's best done when you are stopped for fuel or food.

Because I've driven to where I pick up the loaded trailer, I know my engine sounds fine. The fact I pick my truck up from my mechanics shop is reassurance. Each time i come off the road, after a two to three month stretch, I leave my truck with my mechanic and he checks everything. I have him replace anything that looks suspicious.

I've been driving the highways of America for over a decade. My mechanic knows my schedule, and he has a good idea of when he'll see me next.

Heading off potential breakdowns, by doing preventive maintenance, is serious business. A breakdown on the road costs you time and big bucks. My mechanic charges a reasonable rate, and he takes a reasonable amount of time.

A breakdown on the road will cost you top dollar, once you've paid a lot of money getting towed to a place that won't charge reasonable rates, because I let my equipment fail me in his backyard. My loss being his gain.

In the last decade, I had one major breakdown on the road. I broke a drive shaft. I lost a week, which cost me two to three thousand dollars in lost freight, and it cost me an arm and a leg to get my truck back from that mechanic.

Every other time, for ten years, when Dave gave me his nod, I was good to go, until I drove back into his yard. Yes, there are flat tires, dead batteries, and nagging little difficulties that arise when your tires are always turning, but little nuisances are built into the equation. If I lose an hour or two this afternoon, I'll get it back tonight.

I like to keep my miles behind me, driving the first five hundred miles by the end of the first day. I might or might not stop to stretch my legs, and get a bite, but I don't fuel, until the second day, and I know where I'll be, when I fill my tanks. That'll be one of the cheaper fuel stops on my route.

Once I begin a run, after my dispatcher and I agree on where I'm going, I immediately head for the closest Interstate. Being in Pennsylvania, I turn my rig west, until I hit I-81 south, an hour from where I picked up the trailer that needs to go to Long Beach, California.

I'll be on I-81 through Virginia, and into Tennessee, where I'll pick up I-40. I-40 will continue taking me southwest, until I hit Memphis, where I cross the mighty Mississippi River, where I-40 turns west for the next two thousand miles.

I fuel late on the first day, after I'm five hundred miles along. I'll drive down past Nashville, before I pull over for a few hours of sleep. I take enough food with me so I won't need a food until the second day, and when I do stop for food, I know where that will be.

I get up after a few hours of sleep, and I have the highway to myself, as I drive to Memphis, where I cross the mighty Mississippi, and head out into the flat lands of Arkansas, where the sun is rising behind me, as I-40 turns directly west.

After Little Rock, it's hammer down into Fort Smith, where I'll stop at the scales. I won't get a second glance. For me, Fort Smith was where I leave the east behind. Up until then, traffic has been moderate to heavy, except when I start my second day at two, going through Memphis before the four-wheelers get out of bed.

Leaving Arkansas, entering Oklahoma, it's hammer down for the next five hundred, except when I ease back on the throttle for Oklahoma City. A little after noon, on the second day, I'm watching the truck stops go by, as the city is dead ahead, and I'm right at the speed limit.

I can't afford to let a smokey slow me down, and if you speed through cities, you'll end up talking to smokey.

By the way, I don't think we were properly introduced. I'm Joe Buck, cross-country trucker, and I've let you ride along, until the middle of the second day on this run to Long Beach, California, but I'm going to need that seat soon, or at least I hope I'll need it.

I might find a hitchhiker along this stretch. I might find one heading west, anywhere along I-40, but usually they are more plentiful, once you cross the Mississippi River. One of the best spots to pick up a hitchhiker is where a north/south Interstate intersects with an east/west Interstate.

In OK City I-40 west intersects I-35 south. I've picked up more hitchhikers here than anywhere in the country. I keep my eyes open and my speed down.

By this time on the second day, a thousand miles behind me, I need to hear someone talk. With someone talking to me, I'm more alert. If I'm going to make it to the Mexican restaurant in New Mexico, where I get my first meal, and several more hours of sleep, I need company.

Today, the ramp from I-35 is empty, which disappoints me, but there is a good chance a hitchhiker or two took rides to get out of the city, and not much further. I'm not giving up. I intend to keep looking.

Now, I don't pick up just any one. A prime candidate to ride along is in his early twenties, clean looking, and no sign that he might be trouble. It's hard to tell these days. Young men have become very good at deception. Most guys are OK, and if they look a certain way, I'll stop.

There is a look that clean cut young men have, without making any effort to look that way. He's the guy I pick up.

Once you reach your mid-twenties, if you're a halfway decent sort, you aren't on the road hitchhiking. Twenty-five-year-old men have usually started building a life. Up until then, he might make a false start or two, and takes to the highways to start fresh in a new place.

I will admit, most of my best helpers, were standing on the side of the road, when I found him. If a guy looks fit, and he doesn't look dangerous. I'll stop for him.

I don't question a hitchhiker. After establishing we're going in the same direction, I wait to hear their story. It will eventually come out. Most boys I've picked up, don't have an answer for the question, “Where you heading?”

They left where they were, because it wasn't where they wanted to be. They needed to leave to go in search of themselves, or so it seemed to me in many cases. The fastest way to run a hitchhiker off, ask a lot of questions that they feel obligated to answer.

Once they tell me they don't know where they're going, or what they intend to do when they get there, I give them options that they didn't have, before getting onto my truck.

I think of my trucks as a refuge for boys who haven't found their way, but they're looking. Most boys have looked at an eighteen-wheeler, and thought, I'd like to drive one of those. It's like being a cowboy.

Who hasn't thought about being a cowboy?

It doesn't take long for a young man who has nowhere to go, to see my truck as a port in the storm. They're safe while they're on the truck. They're making money, getting fed, and they have time to think about where they're going.

Half the boys I pick up hitchhiking, end up working for me. Some might stay a week or two. Others stay for two to three months, which is the average. A few call, wanting to get back on the truck, a port in yet another storm.

There comes a time, when even the best helper, has had enough of going back and forth, back and forth. Sooner or later, they'll say, “The next exit, I'll get out there.”

The last thing I see of him, a fading shadow in my right-hand West Coast Mirror. It's sad seeing someone go, once I've gotten to know him, but it's good to see them ready to give life another try. It leaves me with a seat to fill, and I keep my eyes open for my next helper.

I'll be keeping my eyes open for the next hitchhiker, somewhere down the road, and once he gets in, his story won't be much different from the story of the boy who has just left me. The road is weird that way, and how many reasons can there be for a young guy to hit the road.

I see what I'm looking for on the far side of the Oklahoma City's suburbs. There are still houses, but they're few and far between, but on a ramp, leaving an Oklahoma secondary road, stands a hitchhiker, thumb out.

He is smart enough to leave plenty of room for my rig to get completely off the road's surface. If there isn't enough room to pull safely out of the way, the hitchhiker stays where he is.

This one is sprinting for the passenger's door, as quickly as he hears my hissing air brakes. It announces to him, he has a ride.

I watch the door open, and a gym bag flies up into the second seat, and he follows it. He's out of breath from his dash to the truck. He looks me over, not forgetting an appreciative smile.

I'm surprised at what I see. He isn't simply clean cut, he's squeaky clean. Most young men who climb aboard my truck, don't look as though they've just come out of the shower, but he does, and I attempt to hide my surprise, as I shift up through the gears, merging back on I-40, not wishing to waste more time than is necessary.

Back up to speed in the light midday traffic, I feel comfortable turning my head to face my passenger. He's young, college age, and he looks as fresh as a daisy.

“What's wrong?” he asked, looking straight at my face.

“Where you heading?” I asked, which is where we needed to start.

I wondered if he was heading a few miles up the road to school. He was carrying a gym bag.

A hesitation tells me he doesn't have a made up story. It's not unusual to get a load of bull, before you got the truth. He doesn't know me, and I don't know him, and he might be gone in a mile or two, but I sincerely hoped not.

This clean young man looked very nice.

“I'm Cassidy,” he said with a big Midwestern smile. “Cassidy Lane,”

He reached across the doghouse for my hand, once I was back up to cruising speed.

After we shook, I looked at his face. He had a winning smile.

“Joe Buck,” I said. “Where you heading, Cassidy Lane?”

“I'm going west. I guess that's obvious, isn't it?”

“West covers a lot of territory. You from OK City?” I asked, thinking about his fresh scrubbed look.

“I'm from Appleton. That's in Wisconsin.”

“I've been there,” I said. “You may have noticed, I'm a truck driver.”

He had a sudden tragic look on his face, like he'd just farted in front of the student body.

“I thought you might be from nearby. You look like you just stepped out of the shower,” I said, waiting for a story.

“I did,” he said, a little more cautiously. This nice man picked me up in southern Missouri, near Joplin. He took me home, fed me, and let me sleep in his spare room. When I got up this morning, he had breakfast ready, asked me if I wanted a shower. I did, and he let me off on that ramp.”

“He didn't live in Joplin? He lived here,” I calculated.

“Oh, I get out ahead of myself sometimes,” he said. “Yes, he lived a mile from the ramp, where you picked me up. I was only there a half hour or so. On the ramp, not at his house. Traffic is light.”

I smiled.

He'd become precise rather quickly. I don't know why I was amused by that. I liked what I heard.

“Everyone's at work, except for you and me,” I said, explaining the light traffic.

“Except for me,” he said. “Your work goes with you.”

“Very good,” I said. “You're fast on your sneakers, and a lucky guy,” I said. “There are some nice folks out there. Glad you found one of those,” I said, and I was glad.

“You mean there are some not so nice people?”

“I've heard that too. I know of some pretty nasty characters, but if you're careful, and listen to your instincts, before you climb into a car, you should be OK. You can't just hop into a car without checking out who you're getting in with. I suppose it all depends on what you have on your mind, when you stick your thumb out,” I told him, using my best trucker's logic.

“I was in my sophomore year at school, and, well, I needed to get away, and, well, here I am. That's what was on my mind.”

“Most college students are anxious to get done with their education. You want to take time off. That's unusual.” “I decided not to go home. I've been there all my life. It's time I did something on my own.”

“I'm heading for Long Beach. That's in California. It's about as far west as you can go. Long Beach is on the Pacific Ocean,” I said.

That got no response. He'd grown tired of looking at my face, and he began studying the highway ahead of us.

By the time we were nearing Elk City, where I would fuel up, Cassidy had grown quiet, sitting forward in his seat, looking apprehensive, as he watched out of the windshield. Cassidy Lane carried a heavy weight with him. He was unable to leave it in Wisconsin, but I doubt he carried it in his gym bag. He traveled light.

“You're going to the right spot with a name like Cassidy Lane,” I said, wanting to start a conversation before we stopped for fuel and food.

Leaving him to stew in the juices of the life he'd left behind him, wasn't a good idea. I needed to get his mind off his troubles, and onto more pleasant considerations. It wasn't hard to see that Cassidy needed to talk to someone.

Chapter 2  - Cheap fuel, Good Food

Cassidy Lane came south out of Wisconsin, and I came southwest out of Pennsylvania. We met west of Oklahoma City, and we were discussing his name.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at my face.

“Rocky Lane and Hopalong Cassidy are two famous Hollywood cowboys,” I said.

“His name was Hopalong?” Cassidy asked

“William Boyd was his real name, but he played a character he developed. He rode it to fame and fortune.”

“My friends call me Cass,” he said with a smile.

“I'll call you Cass as well. I take it California is far enough, at this point?” I asked.

“Yeah, I'd like to go to California. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go, but that sounds good to me, if you don't mind me riding along.”

He was presuming nothing. My picking him up was no guarantee, I'd take him to the end of the line. Behind the smile and friendliness that he couldn't fake if he tried, was someone who had hit a patch of rough road. Rough enough to make him leave school behind. It was the middle of the second term for his sophomore or junior year, I guessed.

“We've come the same distance,” I said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

“How's that?” he asked.

Appleton would be a thousand miles from here. I left Pennsylvania before noon yesterday. It's a little over a thousand miles for me.”

Having a strange expression on his face, he said, “How in the hell can you know how far it is to Appleton, Wisconsin, from here, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Did I mention I'm a trucker? It's nearly eight hundred miles to Chicago from here, and it's a little less than two hundred and fifty miles to Appleton from Chicago,” I said.

His mouth had opened, while he stared at me.

“No one could possibly keep all that inside his head,” Cassidy said, not looking a way. “You a magician or just your everyday genius?”

“I go to Chicago two or three times a year. I get into Wisconsin and Minnesota at least once a year. Once you've been, you know how far it is. You know how long it takes to get from here to there, and you know what you need to know about where to get food and fuel. I've been doing this for over ten years. I know as soon as I hear my destination, how I'll get there, and where I'll stop along the way.”

“That's not possible,” he said. “I don't even know how I got here,” Cass said.

“You took a secondary road to I-55, and you picked up I-44 south of St. Louis. You followed that, until you hit I-35 south, and you hit I-40 at OK City. We're on I-40 west,” I advised him.

“Shut up,” he said, looking straight ahead.

I laughed. My basic trucker's knowledge amazed Cass. I wasn't sure how much I knew, until I needed to know it. When I picked up this trailer, I calculated that I'd be fueling at the Love's early in the afternoon the next day. I suppose it's instinctive, but when you drive a route more than once, truckers remember the details of a run, especially where to get cheap fuel and the best food.

“There is a Love's quick stop ahead in Elk City. I'll stop there to fuel up. They have a nice kitchen. You can buy any number of hot meals. They're surprisingly good. I favor the burritos. A couple of burritos can feed me all day. They have a big selections of drinks and snacks. That would be for later. If you get something hot now, and some snacks for later, we'll stop for dinner at a Mexican restaurant in New Mexico. They have great food, and I catch a couple of hours of sleep there.”

“You know where you're going to eat dinner. We haven't had lunch yet,” Cass said.

“Yesterday, when I backed up under this trailer. I knew I'd be fueling here this afternoon,” I said.

“You did not,” Cass objected. “You're making that up, and I'm not exactly swimming in money, you know. Restaurants are out for me, but don't change what you do because of me. I'm just riding along.”

“Which brings us to range rules. When someone gets on my truck, I feed them. You don't have to do anything but sit there and make a noise every once in a while. For that you get fed. If you want a more secure arrangement, I need a helper. Often, a guy I pick up wants to work. Put a little money in his pocket. It's not required, just available, if you're interested.”

Cass was looking at me again. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

“You're offering me a job? I left home yesterday not knowing where I was going or what I'd do once I got there. Yes, I want to work, and you'll buy my food?”

“That comes with the seat. I understand that most hitchhikers aren't flush with cash, so I buy their food.”

“You want to pinch me. I'm sure I'm dreaming,” he said.

“I'm not dreaming, so you can't be,” I said.

Cass watched me for a while.

“And just how far is Long Beach from where you stop for fuel,” Cass asked, keeping his eyes on me.

“You don't really want to know that,” I said.

“Yes, I do. Come on smart guy. You don't know, do you?”

“It's fifteen hundred miles from OK City to Long Beach, and it's a hundred miles from OK City to Elk City. That would make it fourteen hundred miles from Elk Cit to Long Beach.”

“You made that up,” Cass said.

I smiled, shaking my head. I reached back under my bunk's mattress, pulling out a road atlas.

“There's a distance guide between major cities in the front of this. If you check Oklahoma City to Los Angeles, it's fifteen hundred miles, give or take a few miles,' I said, depending on where you're going in relationship to L.A.”

“It's actually easier on me to have someone in the second seat,” I said. “If I like them, I want them to stay for as long as possible. That's why I buy your food.”

“Second seat?” Cass asked.

“Passenger seat. It becomes the second seat, when I have a helper. I'm in the first seat, and my helper is in the second seat. Having someone with me, helps make the miles go faster. Keeps me more alert,” I said.

“Cool. I'm glad I'm not just taking up space,” he said, sounding happy not to just be taking up space. “That must mean you like me.”

“That's a loaded question,” I said.

“It wasn't a question. According to your comment, “If I like them, I want them to stay for as long as possible. That's why I buy your food.”” Cass said, looking at my face.

“Did I say that. What I meant was, if I like them, I want them to stay,” I said, taking time to look at his face.

“Can I put my gym bag behind the seat?” he asked.

“Toss it on the bunk. That leather curtain keeps the light out and the bunk stays clean. Brush the bottom off completely, before putting it on the bedspread. I don't let anything out here go on my bunk. The sheets stay clean that way. Clean sheets are a luxury I look forward to while I'm on the road.”

Cass did as I asked, moving the curtain to place his gym bag on top of the bunk.

“You always make your bed?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, I do. My sheets stay clean that way.”

“If you don't want anything from up here back on your bunk. Why did you let me put my gym bad on it?” he asked.

“I never think to clean behind the seats,” I said.

“Makes sense,” Cass said.

“When I'm going across the country, I don't spend much time in my bunk. I strip down before I get into it, keeping my dirty clothes up here. I fall asleep a lot faster if my sheets are cool and clean. Climbing into a dirty bunk, feeling dirt on my bare butt is no fun. You'd think so too.”

“I understand. I caught a ride near Chicago with another trucker. He was going east on I-80, but he got me to I-55. His truck was filthy. His floor was filled with fast food containers. There was grease inside the cab,” he said.

“Just left the house yesterday. I start out clean,” I said. “I just don't end up that way. Truck stops have showers, when I have the time, I shower.”

“Elk City is where we're stopping?” he asked.

“Yeah. If you need to go, go there. We won't be making another stop until tonight. Once I fuel up, and we pick up some snacks. We'll be good to go, until we hit New Mexico.”

“You hungry?” I asked, as we closed in on Elk City.

“Actually, I am. I had a nice breakfast a couple of hours before you picked me up, but I haven't eaten much since I left home. The guy fed me last night and this morning, but I'm still hungry.”

“I won't bother asking you how far it is to the restaurant where you plan to eat dinner,” Cass said, giving me the evil eye.

“You have a good memory for details, Cass,” I said.

“If I listen to what someone says, I do,” he said. “My teachers might argue that point.”

After looking at me for a few miles, he said, “You know where you'll eat dinner. Where will you eat breakfast?”

“If I maintain the pace we're on, and if I don't sleep more than three or four hours, we should eat breakfast at Little America, Flagstaff, Arizona. They have an excellent restaurant. Great biscuits and gravy. The coffee isn't bad.”

“You keep all that in your head? You don't even take time to think,” Cass said.

“I don't need to think. It's knowledge that's inside my head. I'm a trucker. I need to know what I'm doing. I need to deliver on time. There are no excuses when you're hauling freight. When I deliver this new furniture to that building in Long Beach, they'll open their doors a day or two later. Thousands of dollars are riding on me delivering on time. People will be waiting to unload my truck at eight o'clock in the morning the day after tomorrow. I'll be there.”

“That is amazing,” he declared. “I drive from my parents house to school, when I'm starting a semester. I don't know when I'll get there,” Cass said. “I do know when I am there, though.”

He gave me an coy look. Cass was a keeper.

“I bet you do,” I said, with my coy smile.

“Did you go to college? How can you keep all that inside your brain?”

“I've never asked other truckers about it, but I imagine, after being out here a few years, the things that are present in our brain, come from experiencing it over and over again. Repetition does make an impression.”

“I'll take your word for it,” he said, unconvinced.

“It's my job, Cass. I need to know that I'm on schedule. Usually I want to get as many miles behind me as I can. Then, I can take time for myself,” I said. “The stops are built into my schedule.”

Cass listened to every word I said. He looked at my face while I spoke, and I felt like he was interested in hearing what I had to say, because of how he watched me.

“If we're hammer down for most of the night, we'll be in Flagstaff for breakfast. That's in the middle of Arizona.”

“What's hammer down?” Cass asked.

“Hammer down means pedal to the medal. I'm able to go into the mid sixties range. That keeps me out of trouble, most of the time. I could set my truck up to run at seventy or eighty, but this truck needs to last me.”

“Truckers who run fast, need to replace their trucks more often?” Cass asked.

“Yes. A diesel will run forever, if you take care of your equipment, but running it hard, with roads in the condition they're in, things will wear out faster. I don't need to go fast. I need to stay on schedule. I'm more relaxed, and my equipment is happier,” I said.

As I approached Elk City, I merged onto the ramp, shifting down, until I was at the stop sign across the street from the Love's station. I pulled into one of the empty islands, and jumped out to fuel. Cass was right behind me.

“Show me what to do, and I'll do it,” Cass said.

“Cool,” I said. “I get the windshield. Hold the lever down, and once this tank is full, that's plenty. I'll be three quarters full, and that'll get me to where I fuel up in New Mexico,” I said.

“The tanks equal out, after I fill this one?” Cass asked.

“Very good,” I said, climbing up on the front bumper to reach the entire windshield. “They'll equal out. Once we're done at the pump, we'll go get some food.”

“I'm ready,” Cass said, checking out the pumps and my left hand fuel tank that held a hundred gallons of fuel.

Once the tank was full, I watched Cass hang the nozzle back in place on the pump. We headed into Love's store.

“Pick out a couple of items. One to eat right away, and some kind of snacks for later. It'll be between eight and nine mountain time, when we reach the Mexican restaurant.”

“It's central time here?”

“Yes, we'll get an hour earlier in New Mexico. It'll be a good six hours before we stop again,” I said.

After I paid the bill for my fuel, I watched Cass coming out of the restroom. He was wiping his hands, as he stepped up to look at the hot meals that were ready to eat.

“You know what to do already. Any time you fuel the truck, make sure you wash your hands. You don't want the diesel smell or remnants to get inside the cab,” I said.

I got burritos. I'd get enchiladas for dinner, but the burritos filled my belly better than a hamburger or chicken. Cass got a hamburger and fries. He got a bag of pork rinds for later. He got root beer with his hot meal, and I told him to get an extra drink, because he'd be thirsty later on.

We spent twenty minutes at Loves, and I could eat the burrito and drive without difficulty, so I pulled away from the pump, and the ramp was right across the highway, and soon we were back on I-40, heading for the Texas Panhandle.

After Cass polished off his hamburger, he nibbled at his fries, sipping out of the gigantic soda cup.

“How far to Texas?” he asked.

“Fifteen or twenty minutes,” I said, and Cass got relaxed for the first time.

When we crossed into Texas, Cass was sleeping. It was a little over two hours to Amarillo, and we'd hit there at rush hour, but I-40 was wide, and the four-wheelers merged on and off from the right. By staying in the left lane, I could cruise through with little difficulty. Amarillo wasn't the kind of town where you got backed up in rush hour traffic.

I kept my speed at sixty-five, and the road was good, and there was no traffic an hour after fueling.

Not only did I enjoy a hot meal, but I felt lucky as well. Cass was more than a fine-looking college boy. He packed his jeans like he knew what he was doing, and judging by how tight they were, they were last year's jeans. He obviously intended to spend as little time on the side of the highway as possible.

The question on my mind, what was a good-looking boy like Cass doing on the road. It's a question I wouldn't ask, because interrogating a hitchhiker is a good way to run him off. If Cass was anything like most of the boys I picked up, the story would come out, when Cass decided to tell it.

The panhandle of Texas wasn't well-traveled. A car would go flying by every now and then, but besides other trucks, running at about the speed I was running, the highway was empty.

By late in the afternoon, the sun was shining straight into my face. I pulled my cowboy hat low, and I got out my best pair of sunglasses, to reduce the strain on my eyes.

It was straight, smooth, and without so much as a molehill on the horizon. A couple of hours after leaving the Love's, we were approaching Amarillo.

Thirty miles outside of Amarillo, Cass blinked awake.

Yawning, he asked, “Where are we,” as we passed a sign that said, 'Amarillo, 29 miles. “Oh! I slept that long.”

“Two hours more or less,” I said.

“I didn't sleep that well last night. I kept expecting the bedroom door to open. I didn't feel any danger. The guy was too nice, you know. I pegged him as being gay, but he gave me absolutely no proof of it.”

“Some people are simply nice. Maybe he had a son your age. Maybe he did what he'd want someone to do, if they picked his son up,” I said.

“If he has a son, he wasn't at his house, but than we get into a whole new story,” Cass said.

Small talk was good.

“Doesn't anything grow in Texas. There isn't even any grass out here,” he said.

Elk City was still in the grasslands. The further west you went, the less there was to see, except dirt and rocks.

Cass was wide awake, looking out over the range land. It was a barren stretch of highway. There were no animals, no farms, nothing but dirt as far as you could see.”

Chapter 3 - marillo Rush

“What's this place?” he asked, still slumped in the seat.

“We're twenty or thirty miles east of Amarillo,” I said.

“Doesn't anything grow out here? It's nothing but rocks and dirt,” he said.

“That's what grows here,” I said. “If the globe was a person, this would be the asshole.”

Cass laughed.

When we passed the Cadillac Ranch, he couldn't believe his eyes.

“What is that?” he asked, a delighted sound in his voice.

“Cadillacs grow like that, right out of the dirt in Amarillo. You didn't know this is where Cadillacs come from?”

He laughed, as we approached and passed the Cadillac Ranch, where the cars were planted nose first in Texas dirt.

“Those are Cadillacs?” he asked, looking at how the noses of each car was buried in the dirt, tail fins sticking straight up in the air.

“They are a variety of ages. I think from late 1940s to early 60s. Can you imagine cars over twenty feet long, and all the cars had huge fins, like that,” I said.

“How would you park a thing like that?” Cass asked.

“Very carefully,” I said.

It was hard to picture cars a third the size of big rigs. “Cars had big fins in the 50s. It was required. If it rained, and kept on raining, they'd have made nice boats,” I said. “If they could only float.”

“You don't have a car that size at home?”

“No, I don't have a car. It was get a car, or go to college, I decided that I needed to go to college,” he said.

“You're a far piece from college, Cass,” I said.

“Tell me about it. I'm traveling for my health,” he said.

“You're as healthy looking a stud as I've seen lately. I'll say again, most guys want to get school behind them, as in graduating.” I said.

“I was going to school. I had a job to pay the bills. My life was coming apart. I couldn't concentrate. I quit my job and dropped out of school,” he said. “Here I am, and I've got to tell you. I have a new appreciation for how beautiful Wisconsin is. Texas sucks.”

We were looking at each other, as Amarillo drew closer. Questions came to mind, but no answers crossed his lips. Since he'd started a conversation, I followed his lead.

“Just like that, you left it all behind. Not an uncommon story from most boys. I've picked up a lot of guys who told me similar stories.”

“Many college drop-outs?” Cass asked, looking my way.

“No! The road is full of stories, but no college drop-outs. Well, one now.”

This seemed to get Cass thinking. He looked away from my face. The panorama in front of us gathered his interest. A specter of him stewing in his own juices came to mind. With Amarillo dead ahead, I'd talk my way through the city.

“I've met plenty of high school drop-outs. It's the nature of the beast. I'm sure some of the boys hitchhiking are younger than they tell me,” I said. “Things are hard where they're from. They think about leaving. They find no reason to stay, and they hit the road,” I said, being careful with the words I used.

“And some of us end up on Joe's truck,” Cass said, proving he was listening to what I said. “Why?”

It was my turn to look at the Cass' face. He wasn't easy to read, but he was looking me over carefully.

“I know what hard is, Cass. I did hard for my first eighteen years. I stayed home, having no idea where to go. I see myself in some of the boys I pick up. I don't judge. If I can give them some feeling of worth, while they are with me. It could help them find their way. I'm no fool. I'm no psychologist, but if I'd had a few words of encouragement as a young boy, I might not be out here doing this,” I said, saying more than I usually did to a guy I didn't know.

“This is a rolling church,” Cass said.

“Far from it. I'm a guy who has been where a lot of guys find themselves. We don't and won't conform to what this society says. Once I was eighteen, my life belonged to me. I made up my mind, I'd stop listening to anything the assholes had to say. I began working my way to being a trucker. I call my own shots, and if I can help someone, while I'm out here, I do what I can.”

He kept and eye on me as I spoke. He was thinking.

“I'm out here every day, Cass. I spend a couple of weeks at home once every three months. The rest of the time I'm out here. The castoffs, misfits, lost and lonely stand on the side of those highways. I pickup the ones I can.”

This drew his attention back to my face. I'm not sure what Cass was looking for. He was a cut above boys who usually ended up in my second seat.

“Some guys want to talk. They tell me about leaving home. The stories have a similar ring. Other boys don't say much. I figure, no one has ever listened to them. That's the way they see the world. No one cares about what they have to say. Some are high school drop-outs, if they're in high school when they decide it's time to leave.”

Cass was making up his mind about me. If you want to learn about someone, first you've got to listen to them.

“I take guys the way they come to me, Cass.”

“When they talk, you listen,” he said.

“I do. As you can tell, I have a lot of time on my hands, and miles ahead of me. Listening to the stories helps the miles go by faster. Once a guy become part of the rhythm of the truck, he might start talking, and I listen well, but now, I'm repeating myself.”

Cass looked away to watch the road ahead.

There wasn't much to see. The billboards for the Big Texan restaurant came more frequently. The free 72oz steak the come-on. The first the Big Texan billboards were back in Oklahoma. They got more plentiful the closer to Amarillo you drove.

The catch in the free 72oz steak, you had to eat it, and all the fixings, in an hour. That's four and a half pounds of beef in one hour. I'd never been tempted to try. I filled up on an 8oz steak, but they claim there are people who have done it, and I bet they were big fans of the Big Texan.

Living in Amarillo wasn't as exciting as it sounded. You couldn't watch the grass grow, but you could think up novel ways to get motorists to stop and spend their money. A string of truck stops, one after another, for miles, were stung out along the highway on the approach to the city. They offered truckers every reason to stop.

“There sure are a lot of truck stops,” Cass said, after we'd passed the first half dozen.

“How many have you seen, since I picked you up?”

“There was the Love's at Elk City,” Cass said.

“That's why I fuel up there. I can be in and out in less than a half hour. It's a quick stop. There's no parking there. These truck stops are all there is, until Tucumcari, New Mexico. That's hours away. By the time most truckers get here, their ready to eat, and their fuel tanks are getting too low to wait any longer to stop for fuel,” I said.

“But you don't stop,” Cass said.

“I don't stop. This is where I make my best time. I don't want to be sitting around a truck stop, flirting with waitresses, when I can put the hammer down, and get the miles behind me. It's still twelve-hundred-mile to Long Beach. I got no time to waste here.”

“You aren't like other truckers?” Cass asked.

“I make money while my wheels turn, Cass. This is my job. I don't waste time, until the miles are behind me. Than, if I have extra time before I'm scheduled to deliver, I play.”

“You never stop in Amarillo?” Cass asked as we passed two more truck stops, one on each side of the highway.

“When I was first driving a truck, in early January, before I'd been driving a year, my load delivered to Lubbock, Texas. An ice storm hit the panhandle of Texas. This was one of my first stops at Elk City. I liked its convenience, so that became one of my fuel stops, when I'm going west on I-40.”

“You remember where to get cheap fuel and good food,” Cass said.

“After I fueled there, I figured to be in Lubbock before dark, but in less than an hour, I began hitting ice. I hadn't quite made it to Texas. The sleet began picking up, and my windshield froze. The temperature had dropped from the upper 30s in Elk City to near zero.”

It was no run of the mill sleet storm that might drop a quarter of an inch to an inch of ice. It was a sleet storm, after a snow storm. The snow had been about six inches deep from the night before. As the temperatures warmed, the snow turned to slush. Messy, but no big deal to drive through, but by that afternoon, an arctic front had dropped down across the panhandle of Texas. The slush froze immediately, with all the ruts and crevices from vehicles driving through that slush. They were now ruts as hard as stone, and driving across it was like driving across the surfaces of a waffle iron. I couldn't go more than twenty- miles-an-hour. It took eight hours for me to get to Amarillo. It was normally two hours, once I was in Texas.”

“That sounds like an ordeal,” Cass said.

“Oh, the ordeal hadn't started yet. I had until the next day to deliver. Even getting to Amarillo at near dark, Lubbock was less than a two hour drive, normally. It was far from normal,” I said.

By the time we reached where the truck stops start appearing along the highway, a Texas Ranger stepped into the road to flag me down.

“You'll need to pull your rig over, Driver. You can't go any further tonight. The road is blocked in more places than I can count. On my way out here to stand in this mess, I counted nearly two thousand big rigs. They line the shoulder of the road for five miles. No one is moving. The truck stops are jammed. You can't get in. You can't get out, and if you got it, you couldn't go anywhere. You might say, hell has frozen over.”

“How far to the Union 76 from here?” I asked.

The Ranger looked toward Amarillo, and then he looked back at me.

“Five miles, give or take. Lots of you boys have been walking it. I've seen dozens go that way. None have come back. Why would they. You can be warm, out of this mess, and near plenty of food,” he said. “Leave yourself room to get out, once you park. No telling when some of these boys will venture back out to their trucks.”

“What happened?” Cass asked.

“My helper and I walked to the 76 truck stop. There were a couple before we got there, but by the looks of them, all the truckers had gone to the first truck stops they got to. The 76 wasn't as filled and there were only a couple of hundred truckers in the restaurant.”

“How long until you got out of there?” Cass asked.

“Three days. On the second day the sun came out, and the ice began to melt, and by the third day, they'd cleared all the jackknifed rigs, stalled four-wheelers, and work came that we could go back to our trucks. It took two hours to get back to the truck. Traffic was moving but a hundred truckers were all walking back to their trucks, one they lifted the highway closure.”

“Did you make it to Lubbock?” Cass asked.

“Oh, yeah. I drove to Lubbock in about three hours. It had snowed there, but they didn't get the ice storm. What they got wasn't anything like Amarillo,” I said.

“What did they say?” Cass asked.

“Where you been, Boy? Get lost?”

“They didn't know about the ice storm?” Cass asked.

“Oh, they knew. They were just playing with me. Good-old-boys, don't you know. Later on I heard, twenty miles west of Amarillo, they didn't get any snow or ice. The storm we were in had been about two hundred miles wide. The panhandle of Texas on I-40 is one hundred and seventy-five miles across. It's just one of those things. In a decade that was the worst weather I've ever been in.”

“Lucky you,” Cass said, not sounding like he thought it was lucky at all. “And you don't stop in Amarillo these days.”

Cass said.

“You got that right. I'm happy when I see it appear, and I'm happy to wave goodbye,” I said. “You only needed to get stranded in a town once, and never again.”

“Sure are a lot of truck stops,” Cass said again.

“More these days,” I said. “More trucks, more traffic. More truck stops to stop at. They're all on the east side of Amarillo. On the west side, it's like you're in the middle of nowhere for the next two hundred miles. You'll see.”

This time of year it usually didn't snow, and the traffic was moving right along, but the memory of that deep freeze stayed with me. I'd never really liked Amarillo after that.

Cass watched ahead of us. His silence wasn't an indication of anything. He said what he wanted to say. Not everyone wanted to tell a trucker his problems. Not everyone wanted to talk about his life. It was all good.

As the far reaches of Amarillo began to appear, Cass was looking at my face again. He had something on his mind, but I wasn't a mind reader. We'd met each other that morning. It was late afternoon. It took time to get to know someone. Being on a truck, being so close for so many hours each day, could speed that up, but not always.

“I like the talkers,” I said. “They keep me more alert. If I learn something about them along the way, it can't hurt.”

“You aren't a man who wastes a lot of time,” Cass said.

“I'm working. If there's a reason to go into a truck stop, they are handy, and there's plenty of room to park. At one time they had the best food, and a reasonable price on fuel. I stop where the fuel is cheapest, and the food is outstanding, when I have time to get a good meal.”

“You might say, you're a captive audience,” he said. “No one said something that had you putting them out?”

Cass had been thinking about what I'd said.

“No. What would he say? I'm a truck driver. I've heard it all. There's little worth trying, I haven't tried. Truckers are the cowboys of the highway. Cowboys are free spirits. We like roaming the range. We aren't by the book guys, Cass. I'm out here to blaze my own trail.”

“Because you don't like most people,” Cass said.

“Because I don't like what most people do. I do it my way, and I do it alone. No one tells me what to do,” I said.

“You like having other misfits with you,” Cass said.

“You listen well. It's easier to have someone with me,” I said. “But I'm often alone. I don't ask anything of guys who ride along. I feed them. I give them work, if they want it, and if they want to talk, I listen, and if we like each other, we'll eventually tell out stories. It's all good.”

“You get along with everyone who gets on your truck?”

“No way. Some guys do the damnedest things, and some guys start talking, and don't know when to shut up. Some guys want to argue about everything. People are unpredictable. When I see a guy on the side of the road, I look for age, how he dresses. I want to see his face.”

“You like young good-looking guys,” Cass blurted.

“If that was true, you'd sure fit the bill. Once a guy gets into his mid-twenties, he should have no need to be on the road. It's a factor in who I stop for. If a guy dresses halfway decent, even if his clothes are dirty and he needs a shower, I'll stop for him,” I said. “It's instinct.”

“if he looks as if he has some pride, that's a factor. If he looks dangerous, or he looks wrong, I keep on moving. It's common sense,” I said.

Cass looked at me like he took in every word I said.

“You know what you're doing,” Cass said. “I've never met a man more comfortable in his own skin.”

“I've been at this for over ten years. I know what I'm doing. I'm not working a nine to five job, because I won't conform to someone else's idea of what work is. I am my own boss. My dispatcher knows what kind of loads I'll take. If he offers me loads I don't want, I get a new dispatcher,” I said. “I own my truck, and I go where I want to be. Life is too short to be miserable for half of each day. I love what I do, and I love to keep moving.”

“It shows. You are one of the good guys, Joe Buck,” Cass said, sounding like he believed that.

“I've heard it all. I've done most things worth doing. I think of my truck as a sanctuary for me, and for guys who are in between here and there. Some guys are looking for a place, where life isn't pressing in on them,” I said.

“If they want to talk, I don't repeat anything I hear, and when a guy says, 'Let me out here,' I let him out there. No one stays a minute longer than he wants to stay. Life is too short to spend it being disagreeable.”

Cass watched me talk, even when the traffic had picked up, and I kept my attention on the road.

“The best helpers get handed a card, before they leave. It says, To talk to Joe Buck, leave message at this number.”

“In case they need you?” Cass asked.

“Riding the roads gets old. Young men like being on the move, but they are looking to experience what life has to offer. Just because they get tired of riding, doesn't mean they won't miss it, or need it in the future,” I said. “Once I know them, and I like them, I hope they'll call, but if they don't call, I figure they're OK.”

“It also gives them someplace to go, if things aren't working out for them,” Cass said.

“It does,” I said.

“Any call that number?” Cass asked.

“All the time. I have four regulars. I'll hear from each about once a year. I take them on, even if I have a helper. If they call, they might need me. I won't let them down.”

Chapter 4 - Last Stop, Long Beach

Cass continued to watch my face, as I watched traffic.

“I've lost two helpers that way, but I can't turn one of my boys down if he needs me. The guys that left, didn't need me that much, if the presence of another guy had them wanting to bail out.”

“You bought me lunch. You offered me a job, which I want, by the way. How do you know you can trust me?” he asked. “I could be an ax murderer,” Cass said.

It was my turn to laugh.

“I didn't get as good a look at you as I might like, because of where you were standing, but my first reaction was, I liked your looks. I did get a chance to look you over, while we were in Love’s, and unless that thing running down your right leg is a club, I think I'm safe. Have you ever owned an ax?”

“No. Not even one. I do have a problem with constant erections. I can assure you, it isn't a club,” he said.

“It's difficult to hide anything, when you're on a truck,” I said. “It all comes out sooner or later.”

“That's an interesting concept,” Cass said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Certain things do keep coming up, while you live on a truck,” I said. “It's more apparent on some than on others.”

“I'm not bashful. When it gets hard, it gets hard. If guys want to look, it's a free world,” he said. “If that little bunk is where you sleep, where does your helper sleep?”

“Surprisingly, I've slept two in the bunk with no loss of comfort. In this culture, it's not surprising how many boys start out sleeping in the seat. After a few weeks, once we become comfortable with each other, most end up in the bunk. Nudity no longer bothering them. I'd like to think it's my winning personality, but that seat is hard on the butt.”

“Two naked dudes in a bunk can also be hard on the butt, if you know what you're doing,” Cass said with a smile.

“I've heard that,” I said.

I pulled my cowboy hat low on my forehead. With that and sunglasses, the glare wasn't too bad, but it wasn't unusual to fight the setting sun for four or five hours, as you traveled west this time of year.

I stayed in the outside lane. I wanted to give the four-wheelers all the room they needed, as they merged on, and then off the Interstate. Most cars didn't go far, but it was rush hour in Amarillo, and I needed to be alert.

“The cowboy hat keeps the sun out of your eyes,” Cass said. “That's smart.”

“Yep, and the cowboy boots elevate my heel. It's easier on my foot, and it lets me keep driving longer,” I said. “In athletic shoes, my instep gets sore. It's damn uncomfortable, when it does. I didn't wear cowboy boots for the first year, but I had guys tell me, 'You get yourself a pair of cowboy boots and get rid of those winnie shoes, you'll feel a hell of a lot better at the end of each day.' Most of what I wear has a purpose. The hat shields my eyes from the sun. The boots make driving easier. My jeans take a beating, but toss them into the washing machine, and you're ready to rock and roll.”

“I didn't notice you had boots on,” he said, leaning on the doghouse to look at my feet. “Cool. I like the color.”

Cass not only looked good, he smelled good. He took his time moving back into his seat. His smell lingered.

The traffic began to thin, and we left Amarillo behind. The long, smooth, straight stretch was left behind, as we dropped off the Oklahoma-Texas plateau, driving down into a new landscape that was New Mexico.

The brown Texas dirt gave way to black lava fields, red, and orangish hues glittering in the sunset. The sky was a clear blue, and the horizon looked pink, appearing as close as the horizon had been in hundreds of miles.

New Mexico closed in on us, and after stopping at the port of entry, and then, blowing past Tucumcari, it was an easy drive to the Mexican restaurant where we'd eat dinner. I'd catch a few hours of sleep, and then go through Albuquerque, once everyone was in bed.

The restaurant was on an exit that took us up and away from the Interstate. There was a secondary road that could have passed for a road to nowhere. There was a motel that looked deserted on the far side of the highway, and the restaurant was on the near side.

There was a huge gravel parking lot surrounding the restaurant, and there was plenty of room for big trucks, but I was the only truck, and there were only a couple cars. The restaurant wasn't crowded.

The food and service were excellent. The salsa was as good as I'd had anywhere in the country. The waitress had to refill it twice, before Cass and I got enough, which tickled Maria's, our waitress, fancy.

“You are really liking the salsa?” Maria asked.

“We are really liking it a lot,” I said, leaving a very nice tip, since the bill was much lower than a restaurant like that in the east.

I was using their parking lot as my bedroom for the next few hours. That had to be worth something. I was both fat and sassy before I got ready to go to bed. After a sit-down-meal, I was always sleepy after eating too much.

We were far enough away from the Interstate that we didn't hear the sounds of the passing traffic. There was no traffic on the nearby road. Sleeping would come easy.

Pulling off my boots, I put them in front of the steering wheel. My hat went on top. My shirt covered the steering wheel. By balancing my butt on the back of my seat, I pushed my jeans down, leaving them in the seat.

Cass immediately noticed that I didn't wear underwear.

which left my socks to toss at my boots, I slipped my butt back onto the bunk, going out of sight.

Cass watched each move I made. His eyes stayed on me, until I was in the bunk. At the time I last saw Cass, he'd begun to unbutton his shirt. I'd told him all he needed to know about sleeping options. I had no clue what he thought about it, because he didn't comment on what I told him.

He'd make up his mind where he wanted to sleep, and I'd said all I intended to say on the subject. I suppose I was as comfortable with Cass, as I'd been with any hitchhiker on the first day. He seemed like a guy who went with the flow. I didn't know if he'd flow into my bunk or not.

As hot as he was, I voted for him getting into the bunk, but what he did was up to him. Every hitchhiker was different, and I could not predict which ones would get into my bunk, or how long it might take them to decide to do it.

I moved the bedspread to the foot of the bed. It was still warm, because the engine had just begun to cool, and a certain amount of heat warmed the interior of a cabover truck.

The leather curtain stretched in front of the bunk, and I couldn't hear Cass. He'd had plenty of time to undress, and he was still in the seat. I left plenty of room. Closing my eyes, and being prone, made me drowsy.

I'd been on the road hours before sunrise, after a couple of hours sleep last night, and while I couldn't fall asleep behind the wheel, I could drop right off, once I hit that bunk, and thoughts of Cass couldn't keep me awake.

I was almost there, when I felt something moving into the bunk, and I was wide awake, as the leather curtain was held to one side, as Cass' smooth white butt moved into the spot I left for him.

Just for a moment he was on his back, his hand on my groin, but he quickly moved onto his side, and unfortunately, he moved his hand.

“Sorry about that. It wasn't a planned move. I'm a little new at this,”

“You're doing fine. I'm not at all traumatized, but I sleep here every night,” I said.

“I want to ask a favor?” he said, sounding serious.

I could hear him saying, 'Don't touch me,' in my head.

“There is a guy at school, Joe, and he got it into his head that I belonged to him. Well, I didn't, and I don't, but he's ruined me on Facebook. He's put the most disgusting things on the blogs. He and his friends are ruining my life. Once things get around, even my friends are wondering what is true and what isn't true. None of it is true, but how do I get the toothpaste back into the tube? I left.”

“I have never done social media. I know how devious and cruel people can be. For some people, getting a rise out of other people, makes their lives worthwhile. Needless to say, those are the people I make it a point to avoid. I don't care what anyone says about me. If you believe what people like that say, you're no better than they are.”

“That's why I'm out here. I decided I need to leave, and well, here I am.”

“That's crazy,” I said. “You have no way to tell your side of it. Tell people it's all a pack of lies.”

“You don't understand, Joe, if you don't use social media. People live their entire lives on-line. Once someone is spreading gossip about you, you can't stop it. It multiplies on itself. And people you don't know claim they know the same thing about you. They are saying terrible things.”

“Why would anyone want to participate in such destructive behavior? None of us is without sin. Giving people that kind of power over your life is dangerous. What do they get out of trashing other people?” I asked.

“I wonder too,” Cass said. “Are they so miserable, they wish there misery on others?”

“People connected on the world-wide-web aren't connected to anything. It's all an illusion, as far as I can see, Cass. What you said prove it. They create a fantasy world that the meanest among us control. Who gives that kind of power to to people you don't know you can trust? I don't know what else to say. I don't have much time for social media,” I said.

“It does sound crazy. It made me feel so dirty. Like someone threw a bucket of shit on me. I can't get it off. I couldn't stay at school. I couldn't stand the way people looked at me. I hit the road Monday. I'm not sure what I'll do. I couldn't stay there. My life there is over.”

“As I've said, you can stay as long as you want. You don't need to work as a helper. You're obviously over-qualified for the job. What else can I do for you?” I asked.

“I want the job. I want to be on your truck. I would like to help. It'll give me something to do to keep my mind off of what's going on at home. I believe you are a good guy, Joe Buck. I know you don't know me. I know I have no right to ask you for anything, but there's something I need right now, more than I've ever needed anything.”

“What is it, Cass. Whatever you need, if I can help you, just tell me what to do.”

“Put your arms around me, Joe,” Cass said. “Hold me. Please, hold me.”

I had nothing to say to that. I held him close.

I'm sure he cried for a long time. He thought his life was over, but it was only a bad stretch of rough road. The life he'd left would fade a little each day, until he didn't remember why he'd felt so hopeless.

Holding Cass was a pleasant thing to do, but I felt like I should do more for him. I wanted to do more. I wanted to remove the pain from his mind.

He drifted in to a sound sleep and I followed him. The comfort of having Cass in my arms had me as relaxed and comfortable as I could get. Sleep came easy.

I woke three and a half hours later. I did something I never do. I lingered there, enjoying the feel of Cass against me. I didn't want to disturb him, but I had work to do, and so I eased myself out of the bunk, without waking Cass.

I let the leather curtain move back in place. The noise would be muffled, and no light would wake him. I reversed last night’s disrobing, ending up slipping into my cowboy boots, and placing the cowboy hat on the doghouse, between the two front seats.

I hit the start button, and the engine purred to life. Shifting into first gear, I eased out of the lot and onto the road that took me back to I-40, moving down the ramp and onto an empty highway in both directions.

Once I reached the top of the hill that would take me into Albuquerque, I stop at an all-night fuel stop there, filling both tanks with cheap fuel.

The prices will only go higher the further west I go. It was less than a thousand miles to Long Beach now, and there would be plenty of places to get fuel the next time my tanks got below a quarter full.

Once I pulled back onto I-40, it was an easy drive off the high plains, and down, down, down, I drove into the Valley Of The Sun. Long sweeping black highway made driving comfortable. With no traffic ahead, or behind, I let my truck roll. Down, down, and down I go.

The first Albuquerque exits were few and far between, but rather quickly the lights of the city are visible. There is little traffic running along on the surface streets. I encounter a half dozen cars between the first Albuquerque exits and the bridge that took me over the Rio Grande.

As I'm approaching the river, I look to my right to see if early morning balloonist have gathered in the field there. It's where the balloon festival is hosted each autumn.

The telltale glow of the flame that fill the hot-air-balloons is absent. If there are balloons there, I can't tell.

I begin to climb, climb, downshift, climb, climb, downshifting a second time, and settling for thirty miles-per-hour until I arrive back on the high plains.

I shifted back into high gear, and put the pedal to the medal, driving into the darkness, Arizona is dead ahead.

Flagstaff was four hours away. The New Mexico miles sailed past. It was full daylight after I spent an hour on the high plains. Three hours to Flagstaff and a platter of the best biscuits and gravy this side of the mighty Mississippi.

Arizona was more brown, more rocky, but the road was good and the traffic remained nonexistent. I glanced back into the bunk, and Cass was dead to the world. The road was smooth. It made sleeping easy.

The new day was beginning. The sun was on the rise. The sky was blue, the day was clear.

An hour after daylight caught up with us, Cass slid into the seat. He sat naked for some time before he slowly put on his clothes. He hadn't looked at me. I'd been saving a smile for him, but neither of us spoke. I wasn't absolutely sure he was awake yet.

Then he looked at me. He kept looking. I kept driving.

“How far to Flagstaff?” he finally asked.

“Maybe forty-five minutes,” I said.

“Good. I'm starved,” he said with a big smile.

I gave him my best smile.

He leaned over the doghouse, brushing his lips against my cheek. I was a little startled by the move.

“Thanks,” he said. “You may have saved my life, but I'm betting it isn't the first life you've saved, Joe Buck.”

My mind had been on a platter of biscuits and gravy, until he kissed me, and now I found myself looking over at Cass, wondering how far we were going to go together.

Epilogue

The sausage and gravy over biscuits was piled high in front of me. Cass had ordered the same thing, and he sat staring at a mountain of food.

“I don't think I can eat all of this?” he said.

“Dive in. You might surprise yourself. As meals go, this is the meal I'll start my day with, if I have time to stop for it. I can go until dinner time, without eating again, but I won't. You can get that alarmed look off your face.”

Cass laughed, digging into the steaming hot feast.

Cass settled into his life as a big time trucker's helper. He was a big help to me, and he furnished intelligent conversation. I loved every mile he spent with me, and on that spring day, we made it to El Cajon Pass, a couple of hours west of Los Angeles and Long Beach.

We slept on top of the mountain, until I slipped into my seat at nearly three. I started the engine, heading for Long Beach. I delivered safely and on-time.

I always had a couple of days to spend in California, before I could expect a load going east. Many many truckers deliver their freight into California each day. Not so many get a load out in less than two or three days, but I loved being in California. I didn't mind the wait.

There were a thousand things to do there, and my company had a yard a mile from Disneyland. I parked there and we visited the Happiest Place On Earth. Cass had never been there, and he had a ball.

I loved every mile I drove with Cass. He turned out to be one of the warmest, most affection helpers I found. He seemed to enjoy being disconnected from all the difficulties that forced him onto America's highways.

I don't think he ever regretted getting on my truck, but I sure regretted seeing him go. He told me when it was time for him to go. I put him on a bus to go back home, where he needed to finish his education.

I hated to see Cass go, but he had my card if he needed me.

The End

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PS

Remember, all you four-wheelers out there, keep the shiny side up, and the dirty side down.

I'll be seeing you on the flip-flop.

Joe Buck, cross-country trucker, owner-operator

A Rick Beck Story - [email protected]