January 2008, Vol. 7, Issue 1

1. The Squirter by Paul McGuire
Joey was the cream of the crop circa 1992. But now her looks have started to fade and she's slumming in the afternoon shift. The booze perked her up a bit and she told me the horror stories about the last few days. Cowboys in town for the rodeo didn't tip and took up all the seats. They liked to look but not pay... More

2. Blackouts by Garth Elliot
Once or twice a month I experience another blackout. Usually I wake to find myself lying on my bed, still in the clothes I went out in, shoes and all. Other times I've woken up curled up in some park somewhere. More than once I have come to on a beach, usually when I am on vacation. On the rare occasion I wake up in a stranger's bed... More

3. The Ring by Johnny Hughes
Cody was a hero in the fifties. A perfect bopper. Heavy greased ducktails. The Chevy. Sandy Kay. Football. Cody peroxided his hair for the Gold Team. Cody Slaton was a James Dean impersonator long before the hoard of Elvis impersonators sought to clone the King... More

4. Vaguely Moving by Andy Harbuck
I spent precious minutes of wakefulness in the dirty restroom, contemplating buying the studded condoms for added sensation. When I got to the car and mentioned the close call to my girlfriend, she looked relieved. I'm not sure if it's the studs that scare her, or just me wanting sex... More

5. Vegas Virgin by Kajagugu
I just picked up the dice and threw them to the other side of the table. One bounce. Hit the wall. Roll back and stop. That bead of sweat now rolled right into my eye and blurred my vision. I tried to wipe my eye clean but all I could hear was a huge burst of applause and screaming and before I knew it the Texan was lifting me up in the air in a huge bear hug... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Another new year and another new issue of Truckin'. The first issue of 2008 features three new writers in Garth Elliot, Andy Harbuck, and Kajagugu, who are all making their respective Truckin' debuts. The legendary Johnny Hughes makes another appearance in this issue. And lastly, I wrote another installment of Existentialist Conversations with Strippers.

Please tell your friends and family about your favorite stories. It takes only a few seconds to pass along Truckin'. The writers certainly appreciate your support.

Also, feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again to everyone for wasting your precious time month after month with Truckin'. And many thanks to the writers who exposed their souls to the world and spilled blood to make art. And, they did it for free. Thanks for inspiring me and taking that leap of faith with me.

Happy New Year,
McG

"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." - Leo Tolstoy

Blackouts

By Garth Elliot © 2006

I suffer from blackouts. The first one I can remember having was when I was eighteen years old. A bunch of friends and I gate-crashed the birthday party of some guy one of us knew distantly. They had a keg on tap, and we proceeded to drink as much as we could. The last thing I remember was running down his back porch as I went to puke in the bushes. The next thing I recall was someone putting a blanket over me; apparently I had remained upright for quite some time, drinking and carrying on like nothing had happened until someone decided it was time to put me to bed. I woke up on the floor of a friend's house, completely disoriented, as I thought I was still at the house where the party had been held. It was a strange feeling.

Once or twice a month I experience another blackout. Usually I wake to find myself lying on my bed, still in the clothes I went out in, shoes and all. Other times I've woken up curled up in some park somewhere. More than once I have come to on a beach, usually when I am on vacation. On the rare occasion I wake up in a stranger's bed. In every case I experience the same moment of disorientation, though I have learned to try and get over that fast. The next step is to work out where I am, and how I can get home as quickly as possible. After all, I'm probably expected at work a couple of hours after I regain consciousness.

Nothing bad has really happened to me when I've been in this state. Sure, I’ve occasionally woken up with less money than I would have expected in my wallet, or a few bumps and scrapes. One Tuesday morning I woke up to find that I had two dislocated fingers, but that's as bad as I have suffered. Maybe I've been lucky. Maybe I was just unlucky. Some people get angrier and surlier as they get drunker. I've known more than one person who goes from happy-go-lucky to psychopathic in the time it takes to drain a handle of Jack Daniels, but not me. No, I'm the happy drunk, the guy who is happy to chat to anyone and everyone, but who is also happy to sit at the end of the bar and contemplate everyone through the bottom of a glass.

Because I like to drink. A lot. Now and then I might meet someone who likes to boast about how much they drink, but trust me, they are amateurs. Not that I boast about how much I drink, far from it, but I know this to be the case. Most people I know are aware that I am a heavy drinker, and I am happy to leave it at that. If most people discovered my normal consumption of the stuff they would probably fear for my safety.

They are probably right. I hold no illusions about what I euphemistically call "my lifestyle decision."

The World Health Organization has a screening test used to "identify persons with hazardous and harmful patterns of alcohol consumption". It is comprised of ten questions which, based upon your answer, gives you a score of zero to four. The questions are things like "How often do you have a drink containing alcohol?" and "Have you or someone else been injured because of your drinking?". The WHO suggest that a score of 0-7 merits "Alcohol Education", a score of 8-15 "Simple Advice", 16-19 "Simple Advice plus Brief Counseling and Continued Monitoring", and 20+ "Referral to Specialist for Diagnostic Evaluation and Treatment". I score a 34. And that's mainly because I usually don't feel guilty about my drinking, or else it could be higher.

I don't feel guilty because I regard my drinking as part of who I am. If you read the literature, and trust me I have, you are meant to think of alcoholism as an illness, a condition. I don't, I consider it part of what makes me me.

And have you ever actually looked at the Twelve Steps that Alcoholics Anonymous uses? Seriously, have a look some time. It's all about looking to a "higher power", and admitting that your life has become unmanageable. Complete bullshit, and that's without delving into the whole religious thing (they try and say that it's not necessarily religious so they don't turn off atheists like me, but they aren't very convincing). Sure, there's some good stuff in there. I mean, wouldn't you benefit from "making a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself," or "making a list of all persons you had harmed, and become willing to make amend to them all?" Well, unless you're a politician I guess, in which case you're screwed and going to hell anyway.

My point is that even though I recognize that my life pretty much revolves around drinking, I'm comfortable with it. I still hold down a good job, I'm not penniless, I don't kick puppies. So I'm an alcoholic. We all have our problems. What are yours?


Garth Elliot is a poker player and writer originally from Australia.

Existentialist Conversations with Strippers: The Squirter

By Paul McGuire © 2007

"Let's try Seamless," said Grubby.

Grubby was an explorer in a past life. I'm almost 100% positive. He always likes to try new things hoping to find a gem hidden among the rough. Seamless was located just a couple of blocks away from the apartment that I had rented during the 2007 WSOP. In fact, on the way over there, we passed the Redneck Riviera where I lived during the 2005 WSOP.

"Did you hear about that big drug bust?" said Grubby as he pointed to my old housing complex. "Thirty people were arrested."

We arrived at Seamless just past noon and wandered inside. It was a lame scene so we quickly left. That's when I suggested The Rhino.

The Rhino is the Bellagio of strip clubs. It's always crowded on the weekends, but shortly before 1 PM on a Saturday, it was empty. As soon was we sat down, three strippers from the afternoon shift appeared from the shadows. Two of them jumped up onto the laps of Grubby and Bad Blood as a waitress took our drink order. Red Bull and vodka. Breakfast of champions.

A tall blonde stripper sat down next to me.

"I'm Joey," she said.

"That's funny, because my name is Pacey," blurted out Bad Blood.

Blood knew about my morbid addiction to Dawson's Creek. I'd spent too many hours ripping bonghits and watching reruns of the Creek on TBS. I had an odd fascination with Katie Holmes (before she got brainwashed by Scientology).

"What do you do Pacey?" the stripper asked.

"I'm a hot air balloon pilot," Bad Blood quickly responded.

"Wow! That's so cool," she cooed. "And what do you do, Pauly?"

"I'm a striking Hollywood writer," I said.

"Wow! That's so cool. What have you written?"

"Daddy Daycare 2," I said with a straight face as the waitress handed me a drink.

"Daddy Daycare 2? That's my kid's favorite movie. Wow! That's so cool!"

Grubby quickly left with his girl to get a couple of lap dances and soon after Bad Blood disappeared. Grubby left his car keys and his drink. My stripper, Joey, was an admitted alcoholic and asked me if she could have a sip of Grubby's drink. I said yes, then worried that she might be giving him Hepatitis B.

Joey was the cream of the crop circa 1992. But now her looks have started to fade and she's slumming in the afternoon shift. The booze perked her up a bit and she told me the horror stories about the last few days. Cowboys in town for the rodeo didn't tip and took up all the seats. They liked to look but not pay. The Brits in town for the Ricky Hatton fight were a rowdy bunch.

"I can't tell you how many of them tried to stick their fingers up my cooch and in my ass," she said as Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones blasted on the sound system. "British people are supposed to be polite, but they were animals."

During my lap dance, we chatted about a few things like the most recent famous person who she had danced for.

"Do you know basketball?" she asked. "Wally Szczerbiak was here. He was such a nice guy. Very shy. He's so tall too. I asked him if he wanted a dance and he said yes. That's when I felt his dick. Ohmygod! He had the biggest dick I had felt in years. I kept calling my girlfriends over and screaming, 'Ohmygod! You gotta feel Wally's dick!' He was such a nice guy with such a big dick."

That's when someone walked into the VIP lounge and said, "Heya Pauly!"

The last time I was at the Rhino in Melbourne, Australia, I was recognized by a fan. Ah, but this time it was just The Mark, another member of the G-Vegas crew who arrived a little late.

I got my five songs for the price of three since I negotiated a better deal. It was the afternoon shift, and you can barter with the girls especially when it’s empty.

Grubby finally appeared out of the shadows with his stripper. I gave him the car keys and pointed to Joey who had stolen his drink. He didn't mind. His stripper excused herself. That's when Grubby pulled me aside.

"She squirted all over my chest," he explained.

"What?"

"She was grinding me in her favorite position," said Grubby. "I heard her moaning really loud. Then she quickly shifted. She apologized and explained that she and her sister were the only squirters that she knew of. She wet herself. Then she pulled up my shirt and sat on my chest. It was all warm and wet. She squirted on me."

Wally Szczerbiak might have a big dick, but Grubby brought a Las Vegas stripper to a climax during a lap dance. That's talent. I was more than impressed. I was in awe.

As we left the Rhino, a faint trail of cheap stripper perfume followed behind as the harsh sunlight burned our sensitive eyes.


Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.

The Ring

By Johnny Hughes © 2007

It wasn't freezing, but it was too cold for the signature red jacket, part of the James Dean outfit that Cody Slaton had worn most of the time for eight slow years. The strong wind messed with his pompadour, but he was determined to see if anyone he knew was in Broadway Drug. He joined the circle of mostly older men at the horseshoe-shaped counter. They were sipping coffee and speaking with great confidence about the recent assassination.

"A hawk flies up high," Jack Davis, the boot store owner, said. "Hawk flies alone. Acts alone."

A chorus disagreed.

"Remember Sandy Kay, Mr. Carson?" Cody asked. "She ever come around?"

"Around Christmas or Homecoming, lots of old customers drop by. Haven't seen her. Everybody in Lubbock has heard she’s planning about the fanciest, most expensive wedding in Lubbock history."

It was all Cody could do to make it back to the one true Chevy parked on College Avenue. Cody was in shock, denial, disbelief. Cody had known with certainty that his overpowering obsession, the long sought eternal reunion with Sandy Kay was often delayed as dreams vanished like smoke, but always remained a distant reality.

"She can't just marry somebody else," Cody cried loudly. The wind howled back louder.

Again, for the millionth time, Cody went over the "list" in his head. We wore each other's rings. She wore my letter jacket. We were the best dancers. We both were virgins. We made love here—right here—in the one true Chevy. Sandy was a cheerleader. Cody was nearly All-District halfback. He nearly got a scholarship to Tech. They shared golden times. "Rough as hell. Sweet as heaven. Senior class of fifty-seven."

Cody was a hero in the fifties. A perfect bopper. Heavy greased ducktails. The Chevy. Sandy Kay. Football. Cody peroxided his hair for the Gold Team. Cody Slaton was a James Dean impersonator long before the hoard of Elvis impersonators sought to clone the King. Somewhere deep down in his peanut-sized brain, Cody was forever trapped inside the teenage world of Rebel Without a Cause. He asked people if Sandy Kay didn't favor Natalie Wood. She didn't.

Dressing like James Dean for all those years didn’t seem odd to Cody but marked him as crazy, even in Lubbock. Some whispered that the constant red jacket had political overtones. The fifties had faded away just like almost everyone Cody knew who left for college, the army, Dallas, or Austin.

"Cody and Sandy. Sandy and Cody." The words bounced around inside Cody's head like the steel balls in a pinball machine, leaving his brain in a permanent tilt condition. Cody always thought he'd lost Sandy over one ill-advised temper outburst at Buffalo Lakes in 1959, when he'd thrown her Monterey High senior ring in the lake. That was also the last time he'd seen her. Actually, he'd been slowly, and with great certainty, losing Sandy the whole five years they’d been together. She had been successfully navigating the traps and pitfalls of the maturation process. He was frozen in time.

She was sitting at the Hi-D-Ho in Jane's Cadillac, sipping a cherry-lime, when a cruising pickup load of Arnett-Benson rowdies yelled, "There’s James Dean's girlfriend!" That did it.

That night at Buffalo Lakes, Sandy gave Cody his ring back. He threw her ring in the lake. Now, four years later, he drove out to Buffalo Lakes, to the same spot. The wind was making small whitecaps on the lake. The sky was beige. A towheaded boy about eleven was fishing for carp on a cane pole using dough balls for bait.

I'll get her back, Cody thought, I’ll talk to her. I'll appeal to her.

The young boy split open a half-pound carp with his small pocket knife. Cody immediately recognized the shape and shine of a ring in the carp's belly. The boy polished and shined the ring with his red bandanna.

"Let me see that," Cody said, rolling the ring around in his hands.

It was a woman's Monterey High School senior ring with a bright blue stone. Cody read the face of the ring, then turned it toward the masked sun to read the engraving on the inside. "Carol Jo. 1962." Wrong ring.


Johnny Hughes is the author of the novel Texas Poker Wisdom.

Vaguely Moving

By Andy Harbuck © 2007

Shit. I jump at the bright yellow flash in front of me. What the fuc.....oh...right... It's just the blinker of the small midget car passing me. I glance at my speedometer to find I've slowed to a snail's pace of 70mph.

Sonofamotherlessfuckfest.

My current hobby is that of mixing curse terms to make new ones, a hobby anyone with a maturity level near mine is familiar with. (around that of a 15 year old, in case you wonder.) I press my foot to the floor, hoping I'm not pushing my '94 Buick over the edge. The car's not that old, but very finicky, and actually the reason I'm on my way to Texas. My girlfriend and I were on a road trip up the west coast when various pieces of this car started failing. the repairs effectively drained our budget, and cut our trip short. Now we're on a 30 hour drive from Portland, OR, to Dallas, TX. and I'm doing all the driving.

So far we've been on this highway for 13 hours, and it's nearing 2 am. I'm tired. I wanted to drive as far as I could tonight, but I need sleep. I decide the next rest stop is my destination. Why the hell does my 'random' settings on iTunes always play the soft songs when I'm trying to stay awake? I hate this thing. Someone wrote a law that says this will happen, though. I forget the name.... Newman's? No.... I can't remember if that's the one about gravity or evil postmen that fuck with your mail. Maybe both...

Clusterfuckinnggoatshit.

In my musings I've missed the exit for the rest stop, and as we're nearing Salt Lake City, UT, the next one will most likely be the other side of the city. An hour and a half at least. I should find a different place to stop, but I already know I won't. I said a rest stop, and I'm sleeping at a rest stop. The car behind me apparently thinks that this highway is his own twisted version of bumper cars, as he taps my Buick's ass as he passes. I'm back down to 68 mph. Goodgodalmighty, at this rate I'll be back in Oregon before I get to Texas.

I think back to the last fuel stop, where I spent precious minutes of wakefulness in the dirty restroom, contemplating buying the studded condoms for added sensation. When I got to the car and mentioned the close call to my girlfriend, she looked relieved. I'm not sure if it's the studs that scare her, or just me wanting sex. I'll give my ego a boost and say it's the studs. If it's the sex then I can always mention exit 68, where there are blowjobs on the right side of the highway, if I stop and tap my brakes. I doubt I'll resort to that, though, it's kinda risky. The note on the bathroom stall didn't mention if it was a female or a male... I don't really swing the other way, even desperate...

Almost 3 am now, and it's mostly just myself and the truckers. I dislike driving at night, can't see the cops. Less traffic of course. Problem is, I can't see what I'm driving through. Missing the scenery. Oh well, it's probably good I suppose. Some of these states (Kansas) are nothing anyway. On the off chance that I am missing something, I can come back after I'm done exploring the world and see what these states look like in the daylight. I'm saving their beauty for a time I can actually enjoy it.

Finally. It's nearing 3:40 am and yet another blue sign telling me there's something helpful ahead. Rest stops always make me think of families, with small kids and picnic lunches. In truth, it's always truckers, and occasionally lonely men in minivans. And myself. But then, I'm only here at early hours of the morning. And this morning, loud families or old men, I don't care. I'm done.


Andy Harbuck is a vagabond from Texas.

Vegas Virgin

By Kajagugu © 2007

I had been to Las Vegas several times in my life, but never like this.

I remember the first time my parents dragged the family through the west coast national park tour and we stopped in Sin City for a night or two. I'm talking late 70's, early 80's, so the only place kids could really enter at that time was Circus Circus. I dragged my kid sister around playing Defender and Ms. Pacman video games along with a bunch of whack-a-mole carnival games that they had on the upper level of the casino. Kids were obviously not allowed on the casino floor so every time we needed to re-load our stash of quarters we would go half way down the circular staircase and yell for my mom to come over with her bucket. It seemed like that bucket was self-replenishing. Mom, the luckbox, was apparently cleaning out the slot machines.

The next times I ended up in Vegas were during national park tours with either a girlfriend or a buddy who came out to visit me while I lived in LA. My uncle showed up once and we couldn't figure what to do in LA so we drove out to Vegas for the night. But all I did when I was of legal gambling age was play low-limit blackjack, roulette and Caribbean stud. What did I even know about gambling back then?

No, the first time I 'really' popped my Vegas cherry was a few years later. I had taken up a job as the night-teller at a 24 hour pawn shop owned by a distant family member and located in the heart of Pico Blvd in LA. Not the nicest part of town to work a graveyard shift. Especially with all the crack-whores and gay-boys hanging around trying to find a piece of gold-junk to pawn for a five dollar fix. It was a good thing that I was behind four inches of bullet proof glass. There were a lot of dead hours between visits from these night ghosts so I eventually got one of the laptops in the store to work well enough to where I could run some casino simulator and practice my new craps betting strategy. I was going to perfect my system and hit Vegas for all it's worth.

One morning, I got back home from an all-nighter and after a short nap woke up to see that a family member had decided to borrow my truck to go fishing. He had left his sport Jaguar for a couple of days and told me to have fun. Just my luck, I was off for the next couple of days, so it was time to hit the road. I made it to the state line in record time and parked at the first casino I saw in Nevada. They had a craps table open and the betting minimum was one dollar. I needed some live practice before I hit the big city so this was a perfect place to practice. All I remember is that I pretty much broke even. At least I was not losing money, which was a nice change. I was off to Vegas for some real action.

The first place I stopped at was the MGM Grand. But I pussied out and sat at a blackjack table instead of hitting the craps pits. I quickly went through my extremely small bankroll and was left with a measly $2. This could have turned out to be one of the shortest Vegas trips of my career. I had only been in town for about 20 minutes and I was almost broke. I asked the dealer what I could do with two bucks and he pointed to a wall of slots behind the blackjack area. I went to the first machine I saw, inserted my last two dollars and pulled the lever. Ding. Ding. Ding. I have no idea what came up but the machine started spitting out a bunch of dollar coins. I lucked into a 100-to-1 payout. Maybe my mom had passed some luckbox DNA my way.

I headed out of the MGM and down to Fremont Street in downtown Vegas. I knew the old casinos were eager to accommodate the old-timers and spread some very low craps games. I walked into Binion's Horseshoe because I think I had heard of it somewhere before. I walked right past the poker room and stopped for a few minutes to try to understand why these people were sitting around and playing against each other instead of trying to take the casino's money. It made no sense.

Binion's was a real dump back then. The carpet was filthy and the entire place smelled like a urinal filled with cigarettes and disgusting moldy walls. I figured this was the standard for downtown Vegas and made my way to the only open craps table. There was only one other player at the table, a giant Texan who looked like a caricature of a typical Texas gambler. Big cowboy hat, handlebar mustache, denim button down shirt with a string tie, big gold star buckle and some fine leather boots. His chips filled up about half the rail and the table and when I got closer I noticed that he was betting $1,000 chips. Lots of chips. This immediately put me on massive craps tilt, because all I could buy-in for was the $200 I just won at the MGM. I bought in anyway.

Part of my brilliant strategy was to always bet a dollar on the hardways, snake-eyes and two sixes. I am sure this is a pretty easy way to lose a lot of money but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I got the dice and started shooting everything. I rolled those dice for almost 45 minutes straight and the big Texan was racking up those chips faster than he knew what to do with them. He was a big happy guy and kept hooting and hollering with every roll of the dice. Even though it was just the two of us we sure did make quite a scene.

And then it happened. The roll. I hit the snake-eyes for a 30-to-1 payout. Then I hit it a second time in a row. The giant Texan belted out a huge "HOLD IT" that made every octogenarian in the casino freeze in their place. "Son, if you do that one more time I will give you five grand", he said and placed five of those pretty chips on the snake-eyes next to my puny one dollar bet. It seemed like a thousand eyes were on me now. The dice were shoved back in my direction as I felt a bead of sweat start to form on the edge of my eyebrow. I didn't want to think about it too much or I would lose my nerve. I just picked up the dice and threw them to the other side of the table. One bounce. Hit the wall. Roll back and stop. That bead of sweat now rolled right into my eye and blurred my vision. I tried to wipe my eye clean but all I could hear was a huge burst of applause and screaming and before I knew it the Texan was lifting me up in the air in a huge bear hug.

Casino security was called to validate the tapes and check the dice. It seemed like the prefect setup for a couple of cons to pull a fast one on old Benny Binion. But it was totally legit. The Texan made $150,000 one my roll and happily handed me my cut of the profits. I made a 5000-to-1 roll on a craps table. I was done. Or so I thought. It wasn't even 5 pm yet. The Texan then arranged for everything you can think of when you've just won 150K in Vegas, from limos, to booze, to girls, to VIP seats at Siegfried and Roy's show, to the best clubs and best strippers in town. It was a night long bender that lasted for a solid 12 hours.

I found myself at 5 am outside Binion's with no hotel reservation and no other plans. I had torn up the town just as I had planned to do. I jumped in my Jag and headed back to LA with the sunrise at my back. I was no longer a Vegas virgin.


Kajagugu is a wannabe poker player and veteran world traveler who now lives in Atlanta.