Sparky clicked on channel 19 with a soft vibrato.
If I gave you my
love
I tell you what
I do-ooo-oo-oooo
I’d expect a
whole lot of love out of you
Ha
20 miles out of Chattanooga, he tugged backwards at the coiled CB chord
and waited for a voice lost in the soft noise. Third overnighter this week, his
coffee sloshed over into the half-opened bag of mixed nuts. Gretta, the Mrs.,
was concerned about his health, so he promised to eat better on the road. Typical
trucker wife, sad and soft spoken woman, concerned with worries of lifestyle choices
and faithfulness.
Have I ever given you reason to
doubt me? He had.
No. Yes, he had.
Then why the hell do you get on
my case like this? She just doesn't know.
I just don’t know Mel, it’s the
industry, and you hear all these stories of… I mean, I hardly ever see you
anymore. I feel like I don’t know you. These are things for the asphalt and
long hauls.
Fucking mixed nuts, he scoffed as he palmed the package at the
check-out counter. With a skeptical look, he tossed it in with the rest of his
purchases: two packs of Marb Reds, two ready-made microwave burritos, a large
coffee, and a package of mixed nuts.
Fuzzy silence enveloped Sesame Street and poured into his truck, drowning
pictures of his wife and family in the midnight heat. Two sons in soccer
uniforms, taking a knee and beaming with pride. Gretta and his daughter
swallowed by snowsuits in the Porcupine Mountains. A family Christmas portrait
taped overhead. It had been a week and a half since he’d seen them, long haul
from Michigan to Louisiana and back to Ohio. Then a voice clicked on.
That you Sparky?
Sleepy Jo: he’s been moving a load from Choo Choo up north. Younger
fellah, one of the good guys who don’t like to ruffle feathers. The new guys
never know how to speak CB without stumbling on something or another. They
always go on full force, saying shit that no one says anymore, botching their
codes, a bunch of morons. Sleepy Jo is one of the few newbies in the industry.
He’s one of the even fewer that’s careful about where he walks.
S’me Jo. What’s
your 20?
10 out of
Athens. Keep it comin’ Spark
Even more of a rarity, Jo was one of the only guys who liked Sparky’s
voice. Said it had that calming sensation, helped him stay inside the zipper
when he was feeling weak. Said it reminded him of his brother who would sing to
Jo whenever he was sick as a kid. Said it kept him alive on these long hauls. Mel
smiled. Finding company like this helps the hours slip away. He picked up the
mic.
You got to be
good to me
I’m gonna be
good to you-ooo-ooo-oo-oooo
There’s a whole
lotta thangs you and I could do
Huh, hea hea
Oooh, babe,
yeaaa
His voice trailed out and weakened into a violent cough. These hot
nights were shit air, all muggy and thick. Got him sick every time. His doctor
says he’s gotta quit smoking but he said, Doc, a man can’t rip everything from home
away from him all at once. Feeling over to the cold passenger seat he felt the
half-smoked carton of Reds, and then thought twice about it. Better wait for a
stop, he was due a break anyway.
Can it Spark, I
don’t need your sissy shit tonight.
Hey, where’d
that sexy side voice uh yours go?
Big Blue: a trucker from Nebraska who picked up the same north-south
route two years ago. Crude man, like most of these guys. Gets off to the sight
of anything with tits. Not a shred of respect for any woman, not even for his grandma.
He’s talking about Leslie again.
You scare her
off Spark?
Couldn’t give it
to her like a man right? Right Spark?
She didn’t like
them sissy songs uh yours huh?
Blue spoke too close to the mic every time, fucking licking the thing,
so most of what he said came out all mangled. It was for the best either way
since the boy was always talking shit.
Let
it go Blue, not like you’ve seen any tail
Not
that he didn’t pay for at least
Mel tuned his squelch way up to drown out the trucker chatter. These
guys – what a bunch of assholes. Every one thinkin’ they’re better than the
rest, handles plastered on the side of the car and tattooed on their biceps. Think
they’re more entitled or some bullshit like that; like they earned something.
Their voices shrunk away, leaving Mel alone with his song and thoughts of
Leslie. It had been about a month ago when he picked her up. Young tanned girl
with legs from her toes to her chin. Her calves were shaped something
spectacular. Looked like she’d walked straight outta the birth canal and just
kept going, thumbing her way around since before she could shit sitting upright.
Her bag was a dirty blue-green, streaked with oil and dirt, toppling overhead.
And strapped on the back was a lined piece of paper reading CINCINNATI in bold block letters.
She never stuck a thumb out. Instead they just dangled, pointed
slightly inwards to her fantastic thighs, striding down the emergency lane as
the sun began to rise. Mel saw her from a mile and a half down – images of
tear-streaked cheeks and ripped clothes filled his brain. She’s gotta be
running. She’s gotta be shit out of luck. I should pick her up, take her
somewhere, get her a bite to eat. It’s the right thing to do. I have to. Glancing up at the glossy
picture of his family all seated around a cozy couch, Mel paused, then exhaled,
then ripped the picture off the roof and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He
tugged on his horn softly and flipped on the four-ways, sliding off the road.
“Need a lift?” Mel asked, leaning against the restraint of his
seatbelt. He hated the thing, all grayed and smelling of his own sweat. But
some habits are hard to kick. She wasn’t crying. Fine, in fact, smiling as she
tugged on the straps of her bag.
“You heading north? I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”
“Straight to Ohio,” Mel smirked and then immediately tucked it away,
fingering the edges of the family photograph in his pocket. She ripped at the
passenger handle and was settled before Mel could clear the burger wrappers
from the seat.
“Leslie,” she said, extending her right hand as her left reached over
and buckled herself in. The girl smelled like grass and cigarettes and a hint
of laundry detergent. Clothes hung off her body in the peculiar way that
Christmas lights droop off an awning, clinging desperately to some spots and
escaping others at an even spread. Her feet lost the sandals and nestled
quickly into the crux of her bag, hiding curled toes in the canvas. As she
squirmed them deeper in, her calf muscles flexed and turned, making the dirt
marks on them dance like tattoos on cartoon characters. She puffed out a hard
breath and looked back at Mel. “And yours is?”
“Sorry?”
“Your name,” she stared straight at Mel’s face without a hint of
analytical thought.
“Oh, sorry, Sparky. Well, Mel, but Sparky’s my handle, that’s what the
boys call me.”
“Right, she said and wriggled down to face forward, “trucker shit.
You’re gonna have to fill me in, I’m not exactly acclimated to the world of the
motorvehicle. So is this lovely piece of machinery your ride Sparky? Proud
owner?” smacking her hand on the passenger side door.
“Huh? Oh yeah, yep this is me. Call me Mel actually.” He didn’t know
why he said that. Mel was reserved for family and stationary things. His mother
called him Mel, his wife and her cribbage friends too. Postal addresses and
cold callers and the ladies at the pharmacy but not here. Here, in this hot
metal tank, he had always been Sparky.
Leslie ran her hands along the window to the dash, sweeping fingers up
and inspecting them for dust or grime, and then with a quick curious sniff, she
gave them a lick and an approving nod.
“Alright, Mel.”
It took him a couple of seconds to gather himself together, the lick
was disarming to say the least. But after several blinks he dropped his hand to
the stick and shifted back onto the road. The voices started piping out of the
speakers, warning the crew nearby about a Bear in the woods, followed by a
string of explicatives foul enough to make your cream curdle. Embarrassed, Mel
fingered the volume to turn it down when Leslie's hand stopped him, resting her
palm on his rough skin. His shoulders prickled and tensed up.
“Wait,” she laughed, “keep it on. What did they say? What’s a ‘Bear in
the woods’?”
“Oh, that just means there’s a cop car waiting on the side of the road.
We use this to warn other drivers, mostly truckers, you know, about speed traps
and traffic and stuff.” His throat was wet, soaked in fact, drowning in his own
spit. Usually nervousness dries him out quick, but this morning was washed out by
a cascade of saliva. He tapped a cigarette out of the carton and put it to his
lips without thinking. Then he looked up and over at her to ask if she’d mind.
It felt strange, how cautiously he had to go about his own habits with company
in the car. It’s his truck for Christ’s sake. But here he was, tiptoeing around
his own fucking living room afraid to wake the stray pup drooling on his sofa.
Leslie however didn’t seem to notice and had already grabbed a cigarette from
his pack. She pulled out a light, cupping the flame and reaching over to light
him up. He took a drag and rolled down the window, letting smoke trail out into
the early morning air.
Wind grabbed at her hair violently and whipped it into a tornado of
red-brown like an Arizona dust storm atop her scalp. Leslie hung a thin arm out
the window, using fingers as a sail to direct her hand every which way.
Elongated pauses thrashed in and out of the truck until Mel couldn't stand it
any longer.
“So what do you do?” Mel asked. Leslie let her head tip to the side and
reeled her arm back in, slipping knuckles just above her ear to support the
weight.
“I move, I guess. But I haven’t always. Before this I was working as a
check out girl at the HEB in Fort Worth…” She seemed terrifically bored with
the topic of her own identity but had clearly rehearsed these answers before. Youngest
of four brothers, spittin image of her old man, mom passed when she was seven
but she and her step-mom get along just fine. She finished high school barely
passing all her classes except English Lit and Carpentry in which she was a “fucking
rockstar”. She showed Mel her palms, speckled with tiny fragmented scars from
splinters and a couple heavy machinery wounds. Mel set up all the appropriate conversational
milestones, following the strict narrative of two strangers meeting, and Leslie
answered dutifully, never once breaking eye contact with the solid white line
of the emergency lane.
Her left hand rolled the half-smoked cigarette in between two fingers
and smoke lingered around her lips as she spoke. She was in no rush to finish
the thing, unlike Mel who suddenly realized that he was burning his fingertips
and abruptly flicked the butt out the window. He brought his middle finger to
his lips and sucked on the rapidly forming blister.
Leslie’s attention was broken and she surveyed the car, fixating on a
glossy cover peeking out from under the stereo. Several pictures of Mel’s
family that he had forgotten about. Shit
he thought, although he didn't quite know why. His shoulders prickled again and
he stretched his neck left and right to ease the ache.
“This your family,” she asked. Or rather, stated, knowing the answer
“Yeah. That there’s Ryan, and the little guy is Chris. He’s pretty good
on the field, fast as all hell. And there’s Julie, she’s 15 now, going through
that mess of teenage girl years, you know.” He’s voice descended an octave. “How
old are you?”
“20,” said Leslie without regard to the significance of the number, “but ain't it all wildly conditional?”
Mel looked at her not understanding.
“Like,” her eyes rolled up and she puffed at a rogue strand of hair
hanging over her nose, “sometimes I’m sure I must be 32. With all the
qualifications that 32 gives you. The travel alone, right? Alaska to New
Hampshire to California and everywhere in between. And the dating, and the
eating, and drinking and drugs. Plus let’s not forget about the aging effects of
all those classic stupid mistakes. The only difference is I’m not old enough to
know they’re stupid yet.” She cracked a left-heavy smile and dragged her eyes
back to the pictures, folding the others under the image of his daughter. Her
middle finger traced her tiny figure engulfed by mountains.
“But, of course, I’m not 32. I’m
not even 20 in terms of my commitment or dedication or feeling of
responsibility. I’m sure my mom would give me a good old talking to if I had
one. I haven’t been in the same city for over 3 weeks since I was 17, you see.
So people, places, jobs, hobbies, all disappear into the fucking wind, right? I
mean, don’t get me wrong, I color it freedom or learning or adventure whenever I
fill my glass half full. But I’m still running. And you want to know the shitty
thing Mel? You ready for the kicker? I don’t have anything to be running from.
Or to.”
Fingerprints smudged the photos cupped in her torn hands, swirling oil
marks accenting odd spots on his daughter’s and wife’s faces. The CB was still
singing a garbled mess of chatter and codes in the background. Mel turned it up
to check the upcoming traffic.
“Do you ever dick around on this thing?” asked Leslie twirling the
cord.
Mel smiled, relieved that her investigation of the family photos was
over and produced no worrisome results.
“Sometimes at night, I sing.”
Leslie laughed, accidentally whipping the mic from its hook. “Will you
do it? Now?”
He asked for a request. “Should I toss you a quarter? Anything in there
by Al Green?”
Slipping the mic out of her hand, warm and rough with undisturbed
splinters, Mel cleared his throat and clicked on.
If I gave you my
love
I tell you what
I do-ooo-oo-oooo
I’d expect a
whole lot of love out of you
Ha
Laughing, Leslie pulled on the edge of the car, lifting her whole top
half out the window and picked up howling where he left off.
You got to be good to me
I’m gonna be
good to you-ooo-ooo-oo-oooo
There’s a whole lotta thangs you and I could
do
Huh, hea hea
Oooh, babe, yeaaa
Her thin frame pressed unwaveringly against the rush of wind and the counterweight
of the locked seatbelt and Mel couldn't help but devour her body for a couple
of generous seconds. It could happen again, just like it had months before. A
side-road bar, a girl with one too many drinks under her belt, a motel room, a
silent morning without goodbyes, and a long shower at the nearest truck stop.
But he scanned her, laughing atop her carved calves, a girl erected from dates
and drinks and the interest of a thousand other men. This road triples in
loneliness when you’re on the run. For several hours, the girl was home. Mel
glanced at the finger printed photos scattered across the floor. What would she
look like all bundled in winter clothes, he wondered. The Porcupines would suck
her in, drawn by the magic of a woman in snow. He pulled her back in by a belt
loop.
“You’ll fall right outta here if you’re not careful.”
Rolling up the window, Mel tossed her the CB mic and toggled the volume
up so they could hear.
“We use code on the road, to protect each other, let each other know
the conditions, keep each other company. Truckers can get a bad rep, always
away from home. Some of these guys are vulgar men, but lots of us are just guys
on the road. Christian men, family men, dads, brothers, you know. It’s hard
being away for so long. So we keep each other company.”
He tossed her the mic and she looked at him nervously. With one firm
nod he turned his head back to the road. The mic wavered in her hands,
switching left to right as she eyed it curiously. Then she clicked on and asked
about traffic conditions.
Men shot on to the sound of a female voice, hooting and hissing in
their derogatory code. Mel tried his best to contain his frustration and
concern. From miles away people tuned in, listening to Leslie grin into channel
19, flooding the band wave with a world of shameless curiosity prevalent in
rough-skinned women. She brushed off the approaches and passed cryptic answers
back into hundreds of trucks moving north-south across middle-America. And the
two sailed north.
Sparky shook his head and focused back on the road. He had put a couple
hundred miles of pavement behind him since he let his mind wander with thoughts
of Leslie. Avoiding the temptation of a fruitless wonder where is she now? he pushed down on the accelerator and passed a slow
moving trailer. The late night voices of men alone piped softly through his
stereo, keeping each other company.
What about the
way you love me, huh
And the way you
squeeze me, yeah, heyey
Simply
beautiful, yeah yeah
Beautiful,
yeahhh
It’s a different view from Sesame Street, all transient and encoded. No
homes lining the edges of the road, no rest stop, no establishments. Nothing
stays on CB, just floods in and sails out, disappearing out the windows of other
people moving through the world.
