Sesame Street

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.