By George Tate © 2011
Pinto beans are the Mexican equivalent of the staple of life. Breath is the staple of life. Being able to focus and enjoy the simplicity of everyday things is the joy of living. You’re asking yourself where this bullshit is headed. I believe there is a Zen return to the Art of making a pot of beans. Breathe deeply and pour a fine glass of wine. Savor it and its flavor for the moment. Drink it down and take a breath. Find the bean crock, spoon, and jalapeno, two cups of pinto beans, onion, minced garlic, seasoning, and chorizo (Mexican sausage). This is simplicity. Take a breath.
Wash the beans in a bowl. Do this gently as the wine takes its effect. Watch the water as it turns from brown to amber and then clear. Turn off the water, take a breath, and pour another glass. Reach in the bowl with both hands and squeeze the beans gently once or twice and pour out the water. Have another breath, savor the wine and fill the bowl with water again. Repeat the complete process while continuing to breathe deeply and savoring the wine.
Heat a pan of water, pour the beans in the crock and add minced garlic and seasoning to your taste. Have a breath and a glass while the pan of water comes to a boil. Cover the beans with the hot water to four inches above the top of the contents, put the top on the crock and breathe deeply in meditation for about 12 hours.
Find the wine and a glass, take a breath and one more, pour the wine and savor it. Find your cutting surface, a good knife, onion, jalapeno, and chorizo. Mince the onion into very fine pieces. Take the seeds from a large jalapeño and dice it into very fine pieces. Wash your hands with soap or your meditation will be on the pain in your eye for the next thirty minutes.
Take a breath, pour another glass and find the comal (or frying pan) and chop the chorizo into fine parts. Simmer the meat slowly in the pan until it gravies and turns brown. Take a breath, move the crock to a medium flame and add water to cover the beans at least two inches and put the top on the crock. Savor the wine and the kitchen aroma for a few minutes while breathing. When the pot is boiling, take the flame lower until you find a simmer point.
Add all the ingredients at this time and cover the pot.
Pinto beans let you know when they are done. After four or five hours check the pot and stir it gently. Breathe in the aroma and look for different colors that rise as you stir. Cooked pintos caramelize and throw off their sugars into the water making it a milky brown. When the beans are done turn off the fire and allow them to cool in the pot. Set a place at the table and pour a glass of wine. Enjoy the flavors of the wine and pintos slowly, breathe in and meditate on chewing.
Clean your table and wash the dishes. Sit and meditate for a while, breathe out, BUT don’t breathe in.
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
Showing posts with label George Tate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label George Tate. Show all posts
June 01, 2011
January 12, 2010
Down the Upward Staircase
By George Tate © 2009
Everybody knew Jules "Bebop" Martin from coast to coast. You knew him by the faded gray fenders on that bright red old '86 Kenworth he drove. It had a center punched front bumper with the multicolored gang tagged reefer in tow? The trailer was forever a testament to the love and adoration that some gangbanger named ABLE had for MARTINA, an affection covering 360 degrees of its lower half. That happened two years ago in March. The rig was parked on Washington Street in L.A. waiting for a chilled load of berries to hit the dock. Bebop was asleep inside, "never heard a thang," was his testimony to the dispatcher in Fort Worth. A glance at the trailer, anybody could figure out there was a shitpot load of spray can artists working like piss ants on those amorous graphics.
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
Everybody knew Jules "Bebop" Martin from coast to coast. You knew him by the faded gray fenders on that bright red old '86 Kenworth he drove. It had a center punched front bumper with the multicolored gang tagged reefer in tow? The trailer was forever a testament to the love and adoration that some gangbanger named ABLE had for MARTINA, an affection covering 360 degrees of its lower half. That happened two years ago in March. The rig was parked on Washington Street in L.A. waiting for a chilled load of berries to hit the dock. Bebop was asleep inside, "never heard a thang," was his testimony to the dispatcher in Fort Worth. A glance at the trailer, anybody could figure out there was a shitpot load of spray can artists working like piss ants on those amorous graphics.
The shoe prints left in paint on the truck's catwalk sealed it with the safety people. They had a gaggle of 8X10 color glossies with circles and arrows, complete with detailed descriptions of the crime, typed on the back of each picture. All the evidence was placed in a beautiful green folder with a yellow tag on top containing Bebop's name and driver number. On the back of one picture there was a line in bold letters, "Does he take sleeping pills?" "Had he been drinking?"
"Great, I'm guilty and there ain't no jury present", was his response to the petite girl behind the safety counter. She was indifferent and spun on her heal to re-file the damaging evidence.
Because the company leased him the trailer, he had to bite the bullet on the incident and pay the $4500 insurance deductible. As he told DaddyO, "Sonsabitches never cleaned up the trailer."
He also never got a new one to pull. The Big Boss told him if he saw him in his office for anything before the deductible was satisfied Bebop was hist-O-ry.
Indentured to the company for $200, taken from every other two week settlement check is where this tale of woe begins. Bebop was born in Falfurrias, Texas. His family had been trucking refrigerated stuff for years. Fruit, vegetables and butter from the Rio Grande valley to both coasts and everything under the sun for the return to Texas. Bebop had graduated from high school directly into the local garbage hauler. That got him driving experience in a six wheel truck. When he was twenty-one, DaddyO had moved him into his truck to double up on West Coast runs.
DaddyO's rig was the road's envy. It was the old style Pete classic with the long nose. Bebop had died and gone to heaven. Driving that truck into a truck stop was the joy of his life. It was shiny and bright, the chrome was everywhere. DaddyO let him drive it but they always switched just before the scales. After a few months, Bebop had his A-CDL and bought a truck with DaddyO as the co-signer. At driving he was a natural, but of course that was a few years back, 34 years to be exact.
The last nineteen months had been filled up with trouble. The company, Department of Transportation, and the insurance companies have a never ending file of information that makes driving a truck and getting ahead money-wise extremely hard. Running hard in the "truckin' bidness" will put scars on your butt and Bebop now had his share. Lately, he'd managed to stay ahead of safety by hiding several dings and scrapes on both the tractor and trailer. Bebop paid a driver $100 to not call his company safety department when he backed into his bumper at the Petro in West Memphis. Bebop got shed of two speeding tickets, paying Flossie the ticket lady $400, pleading guilty and accepting an adjudicated verdict. That woman's mouth was made of silk and she could talk judges and their court staff into anything. He still had the weight ticket in his hip pocket after getting stopped a week ago at the Port of entry in Arizona. He tipped the scale five hundred pound's over on his back axle. He figured on Flossie for that fix as well. The money to do it was another matter. He had made it for this long and in only two months the deductible was going to be satisfied and the incident would slide quietly off his company record.
Just before the first of the year Bebop took a load from the West Coast to a Navy Depot north of Memphis, Tennessee. He had run right up to Christmas and stopped at the house to exchange presents with DaddyO and his girlfriend Prissy. The old man took on Prissy after Bebop's Mother died of cancer a few years back. He'd found her hitching rides, she came home with him and never left. That was 15 years ago. DaddyO loved her, told his friends, he'd robbed the cradle. They were all jealous of the old fart. At the time he found her he was 56 and she was 23. A love made in heaven according to him.
Bebop had left the house on Christmas Day and got to the Navy yard the next evening. The chief on duty was a sight to behold. Bebop was impressed by her looks and special features and when she mounted the forklift he was extra impressed. They had a nice conversation. Talked about the load and driving to the coast. She was easy to talk to. She said she was about to leave the service and if she weren't married with children she said she would drive a truck.
"Too bad," he thought. "Woulda loved you on my team."
Bebop was one of those guys kind of handicapped in the girl department. He had been shy all his life and never a ladies man. He wasn't strange or picky. He always looked at the girls and when he couldn't go anymore would find his pick in a massage parlor or on his running board. He always had his hands on the steering wheel. He knew the road girls were useful, but not the kind you spend a lifetime with.
It began to rain mixed with snow. Bebop drove across town to old 78 filled his tanks and pulled into a nearby warehouse for the reload. It had three drops, Phoenix, and two in the L.A area. It was a load of house paint and it was heavy. He hated these loads they weren't reefer so he got no extra money or fuel for the load plus they were heavy, real heavy. The bill weights at this place were never right, it gave him the itch. He signed off on the load even though he had full tanks and when they closed the doors before he left the dock him he knew he'd bought it. The Cat scale put him at 81000. He knew if he could get into Texas without being stopped at the scale at Hope, Arkansas he had it made. He could run partial tanks after that and adjust the load
When he crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas it was snowing and raining cats and dogs. Running in those conditions from West Memphis to Little Rock is next to suicidal. The road is very narrow with a steep ledge on both sides. Right or left trailer tires will get sucked off the pavement and after that happens a couple of whips put you in the ditch with the greasy side up. His decision to stop was not what he wanted, but a pickle park was just ahead and he thought a nap might let the storm pass.
The park was full of others with the same thought, all wanted to give the storm a break.
"Shit," Bebop said aloud, "I'm going to have to move on, but where?"
About that time a wet blonde head appeared in his window. She had jumped on his running board, rolling at about three miles an hour he nearly threw her off the truck when he set the brakes.
"I'm wet and cold could I please get in?" He heard no sound but understood her desire.
He opened the door slid out of the seat, and allowed her the right seat, then sat back down. In the same motion, he put the truck in gear, pushed in the brakes, and began to try to find a spot to park at the end of the driveway on the exit ramp. Bebop pulled to the right on the ramp as far as he could. He knew he could go no further on the right because of the very steep drainage ditch next to his truck. He didn't like being on the dirt next to a ditch filled with rain. What else was his choice right now?
Her blonde hair was wet and stringy. She was cute, very slight, not busty but well proportioned.
The first words out of her mouth, “Want a date?” Bebop didn't know what to respond with. Whores didn't usually come packaged as nice looking as the one in his right seat. "Well, I'm not sure, first of all what are you doing here and where's your second and your suitcase?"
She came back without any hesitation, "I got no second, the bastard left me here and drove off with my damn suitcase." Bebop was glad of that, pimps could be painful. "Lock your door, don't worry the handle works when you want to leave. I've got no want for anyone else's company right now including your second. Where were you headed?" She turned and slapped the lock.
"Dallas, he had a load coming out of Atlanta with a drop in Nashville and Dallas," she replied. "Where you headed?"
"Phoenix and L.A.," then he took more than a casual look at her. From the head down her features were striking. She wasn't out of proportion anywhere. She was at the most 28 years old with tight jeans and a wet cotton shirt that showed slim lines.
She squared off in his eyes with a soft look that he knew was from the heart and said, "Do you mind if I get out of these wet clothes?"
"No not at all." She rose from the seat and he knew he'd better seal the deal. "What is your plan right now, I mean besides me, WHERE you goin'?" Both of them needed help and they knew it.
"I got no place, my people live in Texas, kind all over. It's been a while since I seen any of them. Let's work all this out in a bit. Come back here." Bebop's business head joined the rain and snow in the ditch and the other head took over as he moved from the driver's seat to the bunk.
He couldn't get to that beautiful body fast enough! The heat took over where the rain and snow left off and they both lapsed into ecstasy. They were too busy to see what the weather was doing outside. The ditch began to crumble as the rain increased in volume. About the time Bebop got his boots off, the trailer shifted ever so slightly towards the ditch. He shifted his gears as the trailer began to sink to the right. The paint began to shift its weight to the trailer wall. They shifted into third gear and the trailer went into overdrive in its rapid descent. It was moving so rapidly the fifth wheel began to creak and moan. It began its flip and along came the Kenworth behind it. This ditch was 11 feet deep and when the trailer came to rest on its side all this paint came to the roof with a boom. The momentum carried both the tractor and trailer half way over. Then the displaced water returned the trailer to its original position on its side like a dying elephant in the sand.
The inside of the truck began to fill with water. The driver door's weight made opening the door difficult. Bebop managed to find pants, she found a shirt, neither had anything on as they climbed out of the cab. They drew a nice crowd, everyone was helpful. A few found something to help them cover up. They had come through without a scratch.
This occurrence turned out to be both an ending and a beginning for Bebop. They stood on the side of that ditch in the rain and snow laughing and hugging each other, not having a clue to as to each other's name. At that moment both of them didn't care what happened, they agreed they had experienced the ride of their lives.
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
December 21, 2009
Absence of Fear
By George Tate © 2009
West to East on I-70 headed for Denver, Colorado is the most beautiful drive a person could ever imagine in their wildest dreams. The mountains and scenery are breathtaking. Living on the edge of death is the most fun a person experiences in life. People only dream of these scenes in their mind's eye before morning consciousness takes the thrill from them.
Hey, it's like that guy said at the table night before last in Vegas, "Don't play poker with me baby, I ain't 'fraid to lose." Sure enough he didn't lie. He couldn't lose. Sad faces left at 4 o'clock in the morning Pacific, but Mr. No Skeered was smiling all the way to the cashier.
As the beauty of the roadside went past, he took another sip of coffee, bitter shit that he paid too much for at that mud hole of a truck stop at Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Having gotten up late he had been on a dead run to deliver an overweight, oversize load to the yard in Denver by 12 noon. This load was a bitch from its beginning in Fontana, California. It was odd pieces of equipment in all shapes and sizes that had to be permitted by the traveled states because it was too heavy and a bit wide. A crane boom had to be loaded on its side and made the whole stinking mess shift and creak. It was unstable and the trouble was trying to get a secure chain and binder on the load, the web straps were much too light and the chains and binders had to be checked on a regular tick. What a pain.
For the most part the trip through California, Nevada, and Utah were gravy. The Vegas poker game was to relieve the tension of the load, including all his piled up anger and tension since her passing. Losing the $500 didn't help, but the drunk on the free liquor didn't hurt.
Now in Colorado it was going to be an uphill grind, upward through the Eisenhower tunnel and down, real down!
Gatlin Hughes was a Louisiana oil patcher, born in Shreveport and raised on crude and raw gas, Community coffee, and crawdads. When the oil business went bust in 1984 his unemployment benefits went far enough to send him to truck driving school. There he learned the in and out of driving, and he met Barbara Turnbull. Shapely, blond, and cute, she was to become the driving force of his life. She too had felt the pangs of the oil bust. At 38, her first marriage was long gone and her two children were grown and married. She was an unemployed land secretary searching for an avenue, preferably OUT.
As luck would have it they both graduated at the same time. After the ceremony the graduating group partied at a local Bossier City bar. It was there they decided to team up. Gatlin had an eye on Barbara from their first meeting. He knew he needed to make a move. He was a tall, thin drink of water with not too many rough edges for a 41 year old. He had never married. They both loved each other, the road and the life they shared. The pain that was coming, shouldn't have been, but was.
On the road she began to suffer. Returning home, the doctor had frightening news of an illness he deemed incurable. Soon her life was at an end and Gatlin was dead broke, running on empty, and aimless. The loneliness returned full force, with it was his doubt and dismay.
Gatlin drifted into thoughts about past runs through this area. Spring was always a nice time of year, the snow and ski crowd were gone and travel eastbound into the Johnson bore was light. Gatlin was glad because with a wider than usual load he spent a lot of mirror time keeping that crane elbow off the left wall. Going through the tunnel required him to take his half out of the middle which was very unpopular with people behind.
The bore is 1.7 miles from start to finish and two lanes wide. The straight pipes on Gatlin's old '90 classic Pete sang as the tunnel entrance went by. The old Pete was powered by a 550 Caterpillar Engine with a 15 speed transmission and brake saver. Barbara always loved how the jakes rumbled on the downside of the tunnel. Just a kid at heart she was always testing the wild side.
"PPPPSSSSSSSSSSSSSTT," that was an unfamiliar sound. Gatlin sat straight in the seat and gave his full attention to the truck. Any strange sound needed immediate attention, especially escaping air. Inside a tunnel sounds are amplified and this was not the usual sound that a brake air dryer makes during its drying cycle. Brakes were chief worry at this point, Gatlin was over two miles up and loaded to 89000 pounds. He didn't hear it again but decided to stop at the Colorado Chicken Koop at the bottom of the hill and check for a problem. In a minute or so he would know how BAD his call was on this decision.
The rumble of the pipes was gone at the tunnel exit and Gatlin began grabbing gears for the downhill run. The uphill climb worked out fine today and the old Pete didn't miss a beat. He was glad because he was late and he needed to get to town. He wouldn't have to sweat getting up speed it was all downhill from here to Denver. The jakes and brake saver were on and he was set to roll downhill in 5 low, a gear he believed would not extend the RPM's beyond range. Staying off the brakes was critically important as brake fires on this side of the tunnel were common. He began a slow descent to the first turn, stabbing his brakes to keep the RPM's out of the red.
Gatlin thought about the time, 39 minutes to the CDOT koop and one and a quarter hours from the tunnel to Downtown Denver. He could make it. This was a very steep grade which turned into a wooly run after the koop at Dumont, Colorado. The first part was a cake walk compared to the 6% grade yet to come. Winding his way down the hill he began to work the brakes a little harder and noticed that he wasn't slowing down. The old Cat could take the pressure and the jakes and retarder were working, engine oil pressure and oil temperature were ok and the brake saver was working, but the truck was not slowing like it should during his brake stabs.
"PPPPPPPSSSSSSSSSST."
"What the hell," he thought. He just kept on stabbing the brakes shortly he looked in the left mirror during one of his stabs and saw the telltale smoke coming off the trailer. It wasn't going to be long before this little cloud of smoke was gonna blaze. He had to stop “PPPPSSSSSSSSSSSTTTT” this truck, NOW.
Coming to the reality stopping this weight with marginal braking was like pissing in the wind, Gatlin started checking his options, he was over revving and the engine and oil temp had begun their rise because of both engine and brake saver stress. The brake saver uses engine oil as a mechanism working against the engine RPM's to slow the drive train. The spent hot oil returns to the engine to be cooled. In this case cooling is impossible. The Jakes use engine compression to do the same job but the over revving produces engine heat and breaks down the oils lubrication ability. To make a long story short, because of continued over revving everything is HOT and going to BOIL. Oil Temperature is at 200 degrees and water is the same.
"So far ok but not so good," were words from Gatlin's mouth that no one heard.
Stopping on a downhill with little breakdown room was dangerous and Gatlin went over all the options. He made the choice to go up one gear and begin to drift the turns, the speed would pick up but the brake use might be less. The shift came smooth and the speed came up, Fifty-four miles per hour topped out his comfort zone and he begin doing the switchbacks using the whole road while braking in the turns to slow down. He was still seeing more smoke off the rears and the "PSST" became louder. He had made it a little over half way to Dumont in a pretty short amount of time, the engine heat and oil temperature were rising rapidly now close to 212 degrees. Trying to slow the wagon below the REDLINE became impossible and he had no brake pedal to mash. At this point, he knew all he had were the trailer's brake system controlled by the "trolley valve" on the right of his steering wheel. His trailer brakes were already hot and trying to stop the vehicle using only those brakes was a fire looking for a-happening.
Sharp turns were becoming harder to maneuver and the use of the trolley valve became less effective and produced more smoke from the trailer tires. The whole system was getting to the end of its rope. Suddenly engine oil temperature and water temperature shot up, the speed of the truck did the same, and during one of the turns Gatlin noticed a streak of liquid on the road that was now following his travel path. The brake saver seal had blown out because of heating and Gatlin was now in a free fall while losing engine oil, there was no way the Pete's compression brake alone could ever slow him at this speed.
Gatlin was at the end of his wits. He began to think about Barbara's death and how he wished at the funeral he could join her. His mind flashed a picture of the truck falling off a steep ravine. "At least it would be quick," was his afterthought. From deep inside came a primal urge that began at the small of his being and exploded when it hit his mouth.
"YAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!"
He was now filled with adrenaline. His fear was tossed to the side of I-70 and in its place was a feeling of immortality.
"Let's ride!!!!!!"
He began to take full corners catching oncoming rails like a stock car pro. He had now lost all his primary air and the trolley valve was getting weaker on each use. Smoke was everywhere in the cab and trailing for as far as he could see behind him. The Dumont scales were coming fast, he past the overhead sensor and a quarter mile later left the koop in a cloud of smoke that drifted into the pines. Barbara was present, he felt her, and he felt assured, he wasn't afraid.
Air brakes, without air, lock down against the hubs. This is fine for stopping a truck at slow speed but not at sixty five miles per hour with 89000 of weight on board. The binders lock down and then BURN UP. The fire on the trailer became very visible; flame shot from the hubs along with sparks from the metal calipers.
"TURN IT OFF."
Words came from the blue of Gatlin's mind. They were real he heard them. He had to jiggle his head because of non-belief but he knew it was Barbara.
"It won't be long now, baby," Gatlin screamed at the windshield.
The next turn loomed ahead and right before it was a sign marked "6% GRADE" with a picture of a truck on a rapid descent. "Whoa WE are gonna ROLL now, YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!"
Gatlin was on a rampage in a truck with three axles on fire doing in excess of 70 miles per hour.
"Turn it off," the words were quiet and serene in an environment of chaos. The truck began to drop into a snakes trail. The turns became hard to handle and Gatlin knew it wouldn't take much to be over a guard rail and down the side on his back, load, tractor, and all. He suddenly cleared his mind and focused on the words, "Turn off the engine, that's it."
Reaching for the key he switched off the engine and the motor suddenly went dead. The truck was slowing but not stopping and the fire was really raging. The truck was in gear and with the brakes locked down the speedo was still reading 55 miles per hour while laying down a smoke trail thick enough to cut with a knife. On this turn Gatlin scraped the rock wall on the left of the trailer while narrowly missing a car that moved into his travel lane to avoid hitting the back of the trailer. Gatlin began to sweat.
A long straight descent came up with another grade marker at 6%, "Well let's get it," Gatlin screamed. He was beyond caring, just wanting the ordeal over one way or the other. The hand he was dealt didn't make a difference, all he wanted was the result. If he died he would be in her arms again. He wished for the negative outcome. "SOON," came again from the blue of Gatlin's mind. It was her voice clear as day. At almost the same time a large turn loomed ahead, Gatlin swung the truck to the left taking all the turn and missed another tractor by inches then the turn switched back to the right and in the hairpin he saw his trailer tires clear a foot of ground.
He saw his saving grace; at the bottom of this hill was an emergency turnout. That was the most beautiful sign he had seen today. Behind him his front driver side trailer tires exploded from the heat and took the rears with them in an eighth of a mile he was on the rims going 40 mph. He was half a mile from the sandy grave where all of this would be over and could see the grooves his rims were etching in the highway. Entering the sand was the best feeling of all as the whole truck began to bounce and sink as though being covered in quicksand. The fires were out but the dead truck was a smoking hulk wallowing in the beach sand that stretched one quarter of a mile up the side of the mountain.
He jumped from the top step into the sand and walked the few yards to pavement. He felt surprisingly alive, calm and collected. Lighting a cigarette, he spotted the Colorado DOT's blue lights in the hazy smoke. He took a deep breath and sighed, "Well baby, can ya save me from the paperwork too?"
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
West to East on I-70 headed for Denver, Colorado is the most beautiful drive a person could ever imagine in their wildest dreams. The mountains and scenery are breathtaking. Living on the edge of death is the most fun a person experiences in life. People only dream of these scenes in their mind's eye before morning consciousness takes the thrill from them.
Hey, it's like that guy said at the table night before last in Vegas, "Don't play poker with me baby, I ain't 'fraid to lose." Sure enough he didn't lie. He couldn't lose. Sad faces left at 4 o'clock in the morning Pacific, but Mr. No Skeered was smiling all the way to the cashier.
As the beauty of the roadside went past, he took another sip of coffee, bitter shit that he paid too much for at that mud hole of a truck stop at Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Having gotten up late he had been on a dead run to deliver an overweight, oversize load to the yard in Denver by 12 noon. This load was a bitch from its beginning in Fontana, California. It was odd pieces of equipment in all shapes and sizes that had to be permitted by the traveled states because it was too heavy and a bit wide. A crane boom had to be loaded on its side and made the whole stinking mess shift and creak. It was unstable and the trouble was trying to get a secure chain and binder on the load, the web straps were much too light and the chains and binders had to be checked on a regular tick. What a pain.
For the most part the trip through California, Nevada, and Utah were gravy. The Vegas poker game was to relieve the tension of the load, including all his piled up anger and tension since her passing. Losing the $500 didn't help, but the drunk on the free liquor didn't hurt.
Now in Colorado it was going to be an uphill grind, upward through the Eisenhower tunnel and down, real down!
Gatlin Hughes was a Louisiana oil patcher, born in Shreveport and raised on crude and raw gas, Community coffee, and crawdads. When the oil business went bust in 1984 his unemployment benefits went far enough to send him to truck driving school. There he learned the in and out of driving, and he met Barbara Turnbull. Shapely, blond, and cute, she was to become the driving force of his life. She too had felt the pangs of the oil bust. At 38, her first marriage was long gone and her two children were grown and married. She was an unemployed land secretary searching for an avenue, preferably OUT.
As luck would have it they both graduated at the same time. After the ceremony the graduating group partied at a local Bossier City bar. It was there they decided to team up. Gatlin had an eye on Barbara from their first meeting. He knew he needed to make a move. He was a tall, thin drink of water with not too many rough edges for a 41 year old. He had never married. They both loved each other, the road and the life they shared. The pain that was coming, shouldn't have been, but was.
On the road she began to suffer. Returning home, the doctor had frightening news of an illness he deemed incurable. Soon her life was at an end and Gatlin was dead broke, running on empty, and aimless. The loneliness returned full force, with it was his doubt and dismay.
Gatlin drifted into thoughts about past runs through this area. Spring was always a nice time of year, the snow and ski crowd were gone and travel eastbound into the Johnson bore was light. Gatlin was glad because with a wider than usual load he spent a lot of mirror time keeping that crane elbow off the left wall. Going through the tunnel required him to take his half out of the middle which was very unpopular with people behind.
The bore is 1.7 miles from start to finish and two lanes wide. The straight pipes on Gatlin's old '90 classic Pete sang as the tunnel entrance went by. The old Pete was powered by a 550 Caterpillar Engine with a 15 speed transmission and brake saver. Barbara always loved how the jakes rumbled on the downside of the tunnel. Just a kid at heart she was always testing the wild side.
"PPPPSSSSSSSSSSSSSTT," that was an unfamiliar sound. Gatlin sat straight in the seat and gave his full attention to the truck. Any strange sound needed immediate attention, especially escaping air. Inside a tunnel sounds are amplified and this was not the usual sound that a brake air dryer makes during its drying cycle. Brakes were chief worry at this point, Gatlin was over two miles up and loaded to 89000 pounds. He didn't hear it again but decided to stop at the Colorado Chicken Koop at the bottom of the hill and check for a problem. In a minute or so he would know how BAD his call was on this decision.
The rumble of the pipes was gone at the tunnel exit and Gatlin began grabbing gears for the downhill run. The uphill climb worked out fine today and the old Pete didn't miss a beat. He was glad because he was late and he needed to get to town. He wouldn't have to sweat getting up speed it was all downhill from here to Denver. The jakes and brake saver were on and he was set to roll downhill in 5 low, a gear he believed would not extend the RPM's beyond range. Staying off the brakes was critically important as brake fires on this side of the tunnel were common. He began a slow descent to the first turn, stabbing his brakes to keep the RPM's out of the red.
Gatlin thought about the time, 39 minutes to the CDOT koop and one and a quarter hours from the tunnel to Downtown Denver. He could make it. This was a very steep grade which turned into a wooly run after the koop at Dumont, Colorado. The first part was a cake walk compared to the 6% grade yet to come. Winding his way down the hill he began to work the brakes a little harder and noticed that he wasn't slowing down. The old Cat could take the pressure and the jakes and retarder were working, engine oil pressure and oil temperature were ok and the brake saver was working, but the truck was not slowing like it should during his brake stabs.
"PPPPPPPSSSSSSSSSST."
"What the hell," he thought. He just kept on stabbing the brakes shortly he looked in the left mirror during one of his stabs and saw the telltale smoke coming off the trailer. It wasn't going to be long before this little cloud of smoke was gonna blaze. He had to stop “PPPPSSSSSSSSSSSTTTT” this truck, NOW.
Coming to the reality stopping this weight with marginal braking was like pissing in the wind, Gatlin started checking his options, he was over revving and the engine and oil temp had begun their rise because of both engine and brake saver stress. The brake saver uses engine oil as a mechanism working against the engine RPM's to slow the drive train. The spent hot oil returns to the engine to be cooled. In this case cooling is impossible. The Jakes use engine compression to do the same job but the over revving produces engine heat and breaks down the oils lubrication ability. To make a long story short, because of continued over revving everything is HOT and going to BOIL. Oil Temperature is at 200 degrees and water is the same.
"So far ok but not so good," were words from Gatlin's mouth that no one heard.
Stopping on a downhill with little breakdown room was dangerous and Gatlin went over all the options. He made the choice to go up one gear and begin to drift the turns, the speed would pick up but the brake use might be less. The shift came smooth and the speed came up, Fifty-four miles per hour topped out his comfort zone and he begin doing the switchbacks using the whole road while braking in the turns to slow down. He was still seeing more smoke off the rears and the "PSST" became louder. He had made it a little over half way to Dumont in a pretty short amount of time, the engine heat and oil temperature were rising rapidly now close to 212 degrees. Trying to slow the wagon below the REDLINE became impossible and he had no brake pedal to mash. At this point, he knew all he had were the trailer's brake system controlled by the "trolley valve" on the right of his steering wheel. His trailer brakes were already hot and trying to stop the vehicle using only those brakes was a fire looking for a-happening.
Sharp turns were becoming harder to maneuver and the use of the trolley valve became less effective and produced more smoke from the trailer tires. The whole system was getting to the end of its rope. Suddenly engine oil temperature and water temperature shot up, the speed of the truck did the same, and during one of the turns Gatlin noticed a streak of liquid on the road that was now following his travel path. The brake saver seal had blown out because of heating and Gatlin was now in a free fall while losing engine oil, there was no way the Pete's compression brake alone could ever slow him at this speed.
Gatlin was at the end of his wits. He began to think about Barbara's death and how he wished at the funeral he could join her. His mind flashed a picture of the truck falling off a steep ravine. "At least it would be quick," was his afterthought. From deep inside came a primal urge that began at the small of his being and exploded when it hit his mouth.
"YAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!"
He was now filled with adrenaline. His fear was tossed to the side of I-70 and in its place was a feeling of immortality.
"Let's ride!!!!!!"
He began to take full corners catching oncoming rails like a stock car pro. He had now lost all his primary air and the trolley valve was getting weaker on each use. Smoke was everywhere in the cab and trailing for as far as he could see behind him. The Dumont scales were coming fast, he past the overhead sensor and a quarter mile later left the koop in a cloud of smoke that drifted into the pines. Barbara was present, he felt her, and he felt assured, he wasn't afraid.
Air brakes, without air, lock down against the hubs. This is fine for stopping a truck at slow speed but not at sixty five miles per hour with 89000 of weight on board. The binders lock down and then BURN UP. The fire on the trailer became very visible; flame shot from the hubs along with sparks from the metal calipers.
"TURN IT OFF."
Words came from the blue of Gatlin's mind. They were real he heard them. He had to jiggle his head because of non-belief but he knew it was Barbara.
"It won't be long now, baby," Gatlin screamed at the windshield.
The next turn loomed ahead and right before it was a sign marked "6% GRADE" with a picture of a truck on a rapid descent. "Whoa WE are gonna ROLL now, YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!"
Gatlin was on a rampage in a truck with three axles on fire doing in excess of 70 miles per hour.
"Turn it off," the words were quiet and serene in an environment of chaos. The truck began to drop into a snakes trail. The turns became hard to handle and Gatlin knew it wouldn't take much to be over a guard rail and down the side on his back, load, tractor, and all. He suddenly cleared his mind and focused on the words, "Turn off the engine, that's it."
Reaching for the key he switched off the engine and the motor suddenly went dead. The truck was slowing but not stopping and the fire was really raging. The truck was in gear and with the brakes locked down the speedo was still reading 55 miles per hour while laying down a smoke trail thick enough to cut with a knife. On this turn Gatlin scraped the rock wall on the left of the trailer while narrowly missing a car that moved into his travel lane to avoid hitting the back of the trailer. Gatlin began to sweat.
A long straight descent came up with another grade marker at 6%, "Well let's get it," Gatlin screamed. He was beyond caring, just wanting the ordeal over one way or the other. The hand he was dealt didn't make a difference, all he wanted was the result. If he died he would be in her arms again. He wished for the negative outcome. "SOON," came again from the blue of Gatlin's mind. It was her voice clear as day. At almost the same time a large turn loomed ahead, Gatlin swung the truck to the left taking all the turn and missed another tractor by inches then the turn switched back to the right and in the hairpin he saw his trailer tires clear a foot of ground.
He saw his saving grace; at the bottom of this hill was an emergency turnout. That was the most beautiful sign he had seen today. Behind him his front driver side trailer tires exploded from the heat and took the rears with them in an eighth of a mile he was on the rims going 40 mph. He was half a mile from the sandy grave where all of this would be over and could see the grooves his rims were etching in the highway. Entering the sand was the best feeling of all as the whole truck began to bounce and sink as though being covered in quicksand. The fires were out but the dead truck was a smoking hulk wallowing in the beach sand that stretched one quarter of a mile up the side of the mountain.
He jumped from the top step into the sand and walked the few yards to pavement. He felt surprisingly alive, calm and collected. Lighting a cigarette, he spotted the Colorado DOT's blue lights in the hazy smoke. He took a deep breath and sighed, "Well baby, can ya save me from the paperwork too?"
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
November 04, 2009
The Ride
By George Tate © 2009
The doors creaked closed on the near 76000 pounds of junk the freight manager stuffed in trailer #10953. Handpicked crap from all over the United States assembled on a half mile of truck dock just east of the stadium in Dallas.
"The load was late getting here. Sorry," said the forklift operator.
Morgan Hanfield had heard the bullshit before, leaving four hours late pissed him to no end. The manager at the other end had put a label on him the last time he pulled in late. He was lucky this time, his delivery in Vegas would be his only drop and there was no schedule after that. That was at 4:30am this morning, he'd been driving fifteen hours and was buzzing. Pouring a fresh cup of coffee Morgan found one of the bottles of toothpicks in the cubbyhole on his dashboard. They were soaked in "giddyap" formula, That was RichieMac McGuire's name for the Mexican horse liniment used to power you down the road at the speed of light.
Morgan and Rich had known each other for years, dating back to Able Air Express of Austin, Texas in the 80's. RichieMac and "Hemorrhoid" had left Able together to run bull wagons for a West Texas outfit. Bull haulers were renegades then and now. The rules didn't apply and they knew their way around DOT scales the jackrabbits wouldn't take. Rich had turned Morgan onto giddyaps, said, "If they don't work put the toothpicks under your eyelids and just keep drivin'."
Morgan wiped his face with his handkerchief, downshifted for the first hill in Texas Canyon, Arizona. The old Peterbilt came to life at the beginning of the climb. It was 7:30 pm Central, the sun was setting and Morgan decided it was break time. Texas Canyon is an eerie spot in the middle of the desert going west towards Phoenix from the New Mexico line. The rocks are stacked one on top of another and are found in all shapes and sizes. They resemble a child‘s toy blocks, but oddly shaped, and at this time of night they throw strange shadows across Interstate 10.
The day was wearin' heavy and he needed a fever reliever to get rid of his late afternoon jitters. His jaw hurt from chewing gum for fourteen hours. Pulling into the "pickle park" Morgan was surprised at the vacancy. This place has room for fifty trucks with 53' trailers. There is parking space to the north of the trucks for the same amount of cars and sidewalks and restrooms. This scenario is repeated on the south side of I-10 if you are eastbound. Usually the place was full to the brim forcing you to drive to Benson and stay at the truck stop. Tonight the place was bare. Morgan was positive, "Aww fuckin right, and I get the spot in front of the shitter."
He saw one truck parked two hundred feet down the hill. On the opposite side was an old hippie VW microbus with all the makings of a 1968 Grateful Dead Hump Van. This thing was painted sky blue with stars on the lower body, including a see through plastic dome attached to the roof. He couldn't help but look at the van, "that thing is smokin'" was his initial thought, no flames, just a hazy smoke that rose from the rear of the bus.
Morgan's cell rings. It's RichieMac.
"Hyah BUUUUUDY. Where are you?" Morgan reached in the fridge behind the drivers chair for the fever reliever, "Texas Canyon, Hang on a minute.:
It takes two hands to twist the cap on a cold MGD and two more to twist the cap on a cold pint of Sauza silver, the drinking requires two hand s as well. "Oh yeah, Mucho Bedda, where you at, Vato?"
"I'm leaving Phoenix and I have to fuel and break in Eloy. Wanna get up early and meet me for breakfast?"
Richard McGuire at 400 pounds was never far from a meal or beer. Richie could eat. Morgan watched him in a tamale eating contest in an Austin Bar one winter night. Rapidly devouring fifty he was awarded the prize, the contents of the cash register. A side $359 dollar bet that Morgan propped the bartender with secured the drink tab for the rest of the evening. The bet was on the bartender's assumption that when he finished all fifty tamales Richie couldn't make it out the front door with the one hundred fifty pound cash register in tow, before pukin'. Fucker made it, just barely.
The phone fat got chewed for thirty minutes, old news, new news, who was getting' screwed and who was doing to whom the screwing. All the while, Morgan is sucking his beer and tequila while watching the microbus SMOKE. Morgan couldn't figure it out have they blown the motor in that relic, or is there a fire smoldering in that thing? "Ok Rich, I got to go, but you can count on me at breakfast. I'll meet you at eight o'clock Central," and hung up. "Damn, it's really smoking now," and sucked down the last of his long neck looking for a target. He missed his trash can an inch. The half empty tequila pint he placed on his dash. He opens the left door of the truck and stepped out, down one step and planted both feet on the ground. "Got to piss," Morgan thought. When he turned toward the bathroom he immediately found himself face to face with a woman screaming at the top of her lungs. Morgan couldn't understand her, she was just screaming, the rant wasn't anything he understood and he was really confused by how loud she was. It startled him. She pulled a quick 180 degree turn, running for the back of his trailer. Morgan followed, thinking he should have jumped in the truck and left.
At the rear of his trailer he rounded the corner to find the microbus fully engulfed in flame. She was still screaming, running in a tie-dyed flame red dress with blue and yellow streaks in a huge sun radiating off her back. It was as though the pattern PULSED. Morgan, as he ran, grew more and more confused... "Child, child," was all Morgan understood, then it changed to "My Child, my child!!!"
Twenty feet from the van Morgan caught the first wave of heat. He was amazed to watch the pulsing image open the van side doors and leap inside. The van was fully covered by flame and the woman's screams were in his ears. He stopped short of the van not believing any of what he was enduring and began to run back to the truck. He looked back one time at the van, it exploded, and when his head returned to his direction of travel he was fully awake. At that moment, he was driving past a sign that said Eloy 15, Phoenix 60. His clock overhead said 12pm central. Ten minutes travel and he was in the Flying J taking on fuel.
There was a long discussion the next morning between friends old and new in the coffee shop.
A lot of old tales came out of the wood work. Rich said Morgan should give up the Sauza on the road. Some of the old bull haulers said it was the effects of the Mexican snake oil mixed with the Sauza. Others said it was Highway hypnosis and Morgan became lost in thought for four and one half hours. Morgan was having a hard time believing anything that day. Arriving in Vegas, he docked his trailer and gambled that night, reloading on the following day he headed for a drop in L.A., stayed two days then reloaded again and started for Dallas.
Leaving California, Morgan's head had come out of the ether and he was feeling better to some degree but still horribly puzzled by the events that had shaped his thoughts. He couldn't shake it! Quartzite was his next stop for fuel a strange town of a couple of hundred people during summer heat but thousands of snow birds flock there in the winter for the free parking on government land and the never ending flea market. The fuel stop was crowded and it took Morgan an hour to get fuel. While fueling he noticed a young long hair in a robe and sandals looking much like a scriptural disciple who had begun to walk across the I-10 bridge then down the east bound ramp towards Phoenix.
Morgan finished fueling and began driving east towards Dallas, after twenty miles he remembered the character in the robe and sandals.
"Where did that sumbitch go I wonder?" His assumption was he was hitching and caught a ride.
In Tucson there is a truck stop on the east end called the Triple T. Morgan took his break there. While fueling the next morning, RichieMac called from Abilene, Texas. He had made his four hooved drops in New Mexico and Texas and was headed home to Paris. "Hey I want you to know something, I did a flip into that west bound pickle park at Texas Canyon day before yesterday and there aint no signs of a burn, scorch or even a boil in that parking lot... nada, nothing, you were fuckin' dreaming man.” Morgan confirmed that was probably it, just so the matter would come to rest where Rich was concerned. Morgan wanted the matter over, he hurt enough from mental trails and the what-ifs now. They made the usual promises to get together again soon and then hung up.
Fuel was paid, key was turned and the engine came to life. The truck was out of the parking lot and left under the bridge headed east on another days work down I-10. Just after making the left, there he was, "the disciple." Morgan had a thousand thoughts roll through his head that landed on, "What the hell." He was not a ride giver, but had an itch he had to scratch. The guy was in the truck when it stopped and they were moving in short order. It was very surprising to Morgan, road people usually stank but this guy had the strong smell of Patchouli oil. And his hands and feet were clean with no road grime that he had observed on others in the past.
Morgan felt compelled to talk, "I just left L.A. gotta be in Dallas tomorrow night to unload. I saw you at Quartzite, then you disappeared and I couldn't give you a ride. Where are you headed?"
"Lordsburg, New Mexico, I am walking to the cathedral there to pay a penance, confess, and give communion."
"That's a walk from where I picked you up," said Morgan. "Where are you from?"
His reply was strange in tone, "I haven't anyplace, NOW."
Morgan felt there was nothing to add and continued driving past Eloy and Benson. The closer to Texas Canyon he got the stranger the patchouli oil scent on the man's robe became. It changed to a musty smell, then the unmistakable odor of smoke, not wood smoke, oil smoke. The young man began fidgeting in his seat and the smell grew stronger. Abruptly the man sits straight up in his seat and demands that Morgan stop the truck. "STOP" the word resonates in the inner creases of Morgan's head so loudly it pierces behind his eyes and into his brain. The disciple keeps repeating it, forcing Morgan to set the brakes on the huge tractor and bring it to a stop. In slow motion two things happen Morgan looks to his left across the jersey barrier in the west bound parking lot, something is burning . Next he is conscious of the right door being open but "the disciple" is not in the right seat.
Traffic is backed up in the highway and the vehicles behind Morgan come around, some passing judgment at his quick stop with a single finger. He checks his mirrors, no disciple. He starts the stalled truck and pulls in the east bound pickle park. As he stops people are gathering watching the fire trucks and emergency equipment enter the west bound pickle park. An Arizona state trooper parks next to Morgan.
"You OK? Damn that was a break check deluxe, you sure locked it up."
Morgan was dazed but came to and replied, "Yes sir, all is well here, scared the shit out of the guy in front of me." Then he lied, "Glad I missed him."
The cruiser's police radio crackled a few numbers of identification, "Three dead, all burned up real bad, a woman, she's burned so bad we can't move he, so is a baby, There's this guy in a robe with sandals on. This witness says he was trying to get them out when that old van blew up."
Morgan was at that rest stop for a long time. It was the same microbus he'd seen in whatever that dream or vision was. Paint was the same but there was the charred melted remains of the rooftop plastic bubble. He was shaking when he walked back west to where his lockup started. The tire marks began at the bottom of the hill. The disciple would have had to cross a five foot jersey barrier then run UPHILL almost a half mile just to make the rest stop exit. The van was 100 yards further. Morgan could see the flames of the burning bus when he set the brakes. As he returned to his truck, he just couldn't stop repeating, "No way."
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
The doors creaked closed on the near 76000 pounds of junk the freight manager stuffed in trailer #10953. Handpicked crap from all over the United States assembled on a half mile of truck dock just east of the stadium in Dallas.
"The load was late getting here. Sorry," said the forklift operator.
Morgan Hanfield had heard the bullshit before, leaving four hours late pissed him to no end. The manager at the other end had put a label on him the last time he pulled in late. He was lucky this time, his delivery in Vegas would be his only drop and there was no schedule after that. That was at 4:30am this morning, he'd been driving fifteen hours and was buzzing. Pouring a fresh cup of coffee Morgan found one of the bottles of toothpicks in the cubbyhole on his dashboard. They were soaked in "giddyap" formula, That was RichieMac McGuire's name for the Mexican horse liniment used to power you down the road at the speed of light.
Morgan and Rich had known each other for years, dating back to Able Air Express of Austin, Texas in the 80's. RichieMac and "Hemorrhoid" had left Able together to run bull wagons for a West Texas outfit. Bull haulers were renegades then and now. The rules didn't apply and they knew their way around DOT scales the jackrabbits wouldn't take. Rich had turned Morgan onto giddyaps, said, "If they don't work put the toothpicks under your eyelids and just keep drivin'."
Morgan wiped his face with his handkerchief, downshifted for the first hill in Texas Canyon, Arizona. The old Peterbilt came to life at the beginning of the climb. It was 7:30 pm Central, the sun was setting and Morgan decided it was break time. Texas Canyon is an eerie spot in the middle of the desert going west towards Phoenix from the New Mexico line. The rocks are stacked one on top of another and are found in all shapes and sizes. They resemble a child‘s toy blocks, but oddly shaped, and at this time of night they throw strange shadows across Interstate 10.
The day was wearin' heavy and he needed a fever reliever to get rid of his late afternoon jitters. His jaw hurt from chewing gum for fourteen hours. Pulling into the "pickle park" Morgan was surprised at the vacancy. This place has room for fifty trucks with 53' trailers. There is parking space to the north of the trucks for the same amount of cars and sidewalks and restrooms. This scenario is repeated on the south side of I-10 if you are eastbound. Usually the place was full to the brim forcing you to drive to Benson and stay at the truck stop. Tonight the place was bare. Morgan was positive, "Aww fuckin right, and I get the spot in front of the shitter."
He saw one truck parked two hundred feet down the hill. On the opposite side was an old hippie VW microbus with all the makings of a 1968 Grateful Dead Hump Van. This thing was painted sky blue with stars on the lower body, including a see through plastic dome attached to the roof. He couldn't help but look at the van, "that thing is smokin'" was his initial thought, no flames, just a hazy smoke that rose from the rear of the bus.
Morgan's cell rings. It's RichieMac.
"Hyah BUUUUUDY. Where are you?" Morgan reached in the fridge behind the drivers chair for the fever reliever, "Texas Canyon, Hang on a minute.:
It takes two hands to twist the cap on a cold MGD and two more to twist the cap on a cold pint of Sauza silver, the drinking requires two hand s as well. "Oh yeah, Mucho Bedda, where you at, Vato?"
"I'm leaving Phoenix and I have to fuel and break in Eloy. Wanna get up early and meet me for breakfast?"
Richard McGuire at 400 pounds was never far from a meal or beer. Richie could eat. Morgan watched him in a tamale eating contest in an Austin Bar one winter night. Rapidly devouring fifty he was awarded the prize, the contents of the cash register. A side $359 dollar bet that Morgan propped the bartender with secured the drink tab for the rest of the evening. The bet was on the bartender's assumption that when he finished all fifty tamales Richie couldn't make it out the front door with the one hundred fifty pound cash register in tow, before pukin'. Fucker made it, just barely.
The phone fat got chewed for thirty minutes, old news, new news, who was getting' screwed and who was doing to whom the screwing. All the while, Morgan is sucking his beer and tequila while watching the microbus SMOKE. Morgan couldn't figure it out have they blown the motor in that relic, or is there a fire smoldering in that thing? "Ok Rich, I got to go, but you can count on me at breakfast. I'll meet you at eight o'clock Central," and hung up. "Damn, it's really smoking now," and sucked down the last of his long neck looking for a target. He missed his trash can an inch. The half empty tequila pint he placed on his dash. He opens the left door of the truck and stepped out, down one step and planted both feet on the ground. "Got to piss," Morgan thought. When he turned toward the bathroom he immediately found himself face to face with a woman screaming at the top of her lungs. Morgan couldn't understand her, she was just screaming, the rant wasn't anything he understood and he was really confused by how loud she was. It startled him. She pulled a quick 180 degree turn, running for the back of his trailer. Morgan followed, thinking he should have jumped in the truck and left.
At the rear of his trailer he rounded the corner to find the microbus fully engulfed in flame. She was still screaming, running in a tie-dyed flame red dress with blue and yellow streaks in a huge sun radiating off her back. It was as though the pattern PULSED. Morgan, as he ran, grew more and more confused... "Child, child," was all Morgan understood, then it changed to "My Child, my child!!!"
Twenty feet from the van Morgan caught the first wave of heat. He was amazed to watch the pulsing image open the van side doors and leap inside. The van was fully covered by flame and the woman's screams were in his ears. He stopped short of the van not believing any of what he was enduring and began to run back to the truck. He looked back one time at the van, it exploded, and when his head returned to his direction of travel he was fully awake. At that moment, he was driving past a sign that said Eloy 15, Phoenix 60. His clock overhead said 12pm central. Ten minutes travel and he was in the Flying J taking on fuel.
There was a long discussion the next morning between friends old and new in the coffee shop.
A lot of old tales came out of the wood work. Rich said Morgan should give up the Sauza on the road. Some of the old bull haulers said it was the effects of the Mexican snake oil mixed with the Sauza. Others said it was Highway hypnosis and Morgan became lost in thought for four and one half hours. Morgan was having a hard time believing anything that day. Arriving in Vegas, he docked his trailer and gambled that night, reloading on the following day he headed for a drop in L.A., stayed two days then reloaded again and started for Dallas.
Leaving California, Morgan's head had come out of the ether and he was feeling better to some degree but still horribly puzzled by the events that had shaped his thoughts. He couldn't shake it! Quartzite was his next stop for fuel a strange town of a couple of hundred people during summer heat but thousands of snow birds flock there in the winter for the free parking on government land and the never ending flea market. The fuel stop was crowded and it took Morgan an hour to get fuel. While fueling he noticed a young long hair in a robe and sandals looking much like a scriptural disciple who had begun to walk across the I-10 bridge then down the east bound ramp towards Phoenix.
Morgan finished fueling and began driving east towards Dallas, after twenty miles he remembered the character in the robe and sandals.
"Where did that sumbitch go I wonder?" His assumption was he was hitching and caught a ride.
In Tucson there is a truck stop on the east end called the Triple T. Morgan took his break there. While fueling the next morning, RichieMac called from Abilene, Texas. He had made his four hooved drops in New Mexico and Texas and was headed home to Paris. "Hey I want you to know something, I did a flip into that west bound pickle park at Texas Canyon day before yesterday and there aint no signs of a burn, scorch or even a boil in that parking lot... nada, nothing, you were fuckin' dreaming man.” Morgan confirmed that was probably it, just so the matter would come to rest where Rich was concerned. Morgan wanted the matter over, he hurt enough from mental trails and the what-ifs now. They made the usual promises to get together again soon and then hung up.
Fuel was paid, key was turned and the engine came to life. The truck was out of the parking lot and left under the bridge headed east on another days work down I-10. Just after making the left, there he was, "the disciple." Morgan had a thousand thoughts roll through his head that landed on, "What the hell." He was not a ride giver, but had an itch he had to scratch. The guy was in the truck when it stopped and they were moving in short order. It was very surprising to Morgan, road people usually stank but this guy had the strong smell of Patchouli oil. And his hands and feet were clean with no road grime that he had observed on others in the past.
Morgan felt compelled to talk, "I just left L.A. gotta be in Dallas tomorrow night to unload. I saw you at Quartzite, then you disappeared and I couldn't give you a ride. Where are you headed?"
"Lordsburg, New Mexico, I am walking to the cathedral there to pay a penance, confess, and give communion."
"That's a walk from where I picked you up," said Morgan. "Where are you from?"
His reply was strange in tone, "I haven't anyplace, NOW."
Morgan felt there was nothing to add and continued driving past Eloy and Benson. The closer to Texas Canyon he got the stranger the patchouli oil scent on the man's robe became. It changed to a musty smell, then the unmistakable odor of smoke, not wood smoke, oil smoke. The young man began fidgeting in his seat and the smell grew stronger. Abruptly the man sits straight up in his seat and demands that Morgan stop the truck. "STOP" the word resonates in the inner creases of Morgan's head so loudly it pierces behind his eyes and into his brain. The disciple keeps repeating it, forcing Morgan to set the brakes on the huge tractor and bring it to a stop. In slow motion two things happen Morgan looks to his left across the jersey barrier in the west bound parking lot, something is burning . Next he is conscious of the right door being open but "the disciple" is not in the right seat.
Traffic is backed up in the highway and the vehicles behind Morgan come around, some passing judgment at his quick stop with a single finger. He checks his mirrors, no disciple. He starts the stalled truck and pulls in the east bound pickle park. As he stops people are gathering watching the fire trucks and emergency equipment enter the west bound pickle park. An Arizona state trooper parks next to Morgan.
"You OK? Damn that was a break check deluxe, you sure locked it up."
Morgan was dazed but came to and replied, "Yes sir, all is well here, scared the shit out of the guy in front of me." Then he lied, "Glad I missed him."
The cruiser's police radio crackled a few numbers of identification, "Three dead, all burned up real bad, a woman, she's burned so bad we can't move he, so is a baby, There's this guy in a robe with sandals on. This witness says he was trying to get them out when that old van blew up."
Morgan was at that rest stop for a long time. It was the same microbus he'd seen in whatever that dream or vision was. Paint was the same but there was the charred melted remains of the rooftop plastic bubble. He was shaking when he walked back west to where his lockup started. The tire marks began at the bottom of the hill. The disciple would have had to cross a five foot jersey barrier then run UPHILL almost a half mile just to make the rest stop exit. The van was 100 yards further. Morgan could see the flames of the burning bus when he set the brakes. As he returned to his truck, he just couldn't stop repeating, "No way."
George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.
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