Saturday, February 20, 2010


I was drivin' a beat-up, White cab-over diesel tractor.
Maybe it was 1990...I don't remember.
I was haulin' construction equipment for my friend Bob.
I had everything chained down nice and tight on the lowboy.
I was headed for Easley, South Carolina.
I left the damned Chicago snow.
I had a purpose.
I was good.
I had goals.
In reality, I had nothing.
Nothing but callouses on my hands...
A mortgage and credit card debt.
This was a long run, that always ended up bad.
I gassed up in Indiana, near the Kentucky border.
I hate Indiana.
Too many god-damn cops...countie mounties, we called em'.
Shit taverns and greasy spoons...bleak...flat land...
I looked forward to meeting Bob, my old, best friend.
We worked Deep Tunnel in Chicago together.
He was a man's man...rough and tumble...Good lookin', loved the ladies.
He loved to drink.
He was dyslexic..but smart...ace mechanic...brilliant guy.
He could build anything without blueprints...
He ended up owning a large construction biz.
Nine hours on the road, and I was beat.
I ended up bunking in a shit truck stop in a musty motel room in Tennessee.
I was just outside the Smoky Mountain area.
A man don't want to face the road here, without rest.
Too dangerous...especially with freezing rain.
Next day, I pull into Bob's construction yard.
I drop off my load.
He takes me to a mansion, he and his wife Joan built with their own hands.
We sat at the kitchen table, drinking Jack Daniels, and talking and laughing about old times.
Then Bob takes me to some rebel bar with a Dixie flag on the wall.
I'm drunk and braging about the Union up North.
We end up gettin' in a fight.
We whup the 'rebs' good.
We go to another bar, where Bob has set up a lap dance for me.
She is a beautiful redhead...We laugh and I really enjoy this.
I am so drunk that I throw up in my bed that night.
Bob and Joan forgive me.
Last I heard, Bob left Joan and five kids, for some biker bitch in Florida.
He buys her a Harley Davidson and one for himself.
She is ten years younger than him.
He never called me again.
Joan changed her phone number.
There is no end to this story.
I miss 'em both.
I just keep on with my life.
Another rig, or bulldozer...Another job.
Traveling on the road in America.
Most of these memories are sad.
I had purpose.
I had goals.
I had dreams.
All gone now.
All I own are my memories of the road.

1 comment:

  1. Yes, in reality we are all just left with memories. Brilliantly, written!!!!