January 2010, Vol. 9, Issue 1

New year. New issue of Truckin'. Let's kick of 2010 with two new faces.

1. Tubes Under Sand by Paul McGuire
The massive and elaborate tunnel system was cluttered with insane Vietnam vets eating black widow spiders, heroin addicts shooting up in the darkness, and methheads cooking up a new batch of Nazi crank... More

2. No Era Mi Intención (I Meant No Harm) by Sean T. Kelly
We weren't the only local wildlife in that town, population 237. Hawks circled overhead hunting for prey. Iguanas scurried aimlessly across the sidewalks heading for the security of the underbrush... More

3. Unpublished by Anonymous
He could look away from the noose he's woven. He could find something else into which he can comfortably slip. He has the power and he's done it before... More

4. Down the Upward Staircase by George Tate
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... More

5. Dispatches from Miami: The Lot by Paul McGuire
Deviant derelicts crawl out of the shadows and invading the parade of freaks. That's when the inmates eventually take over the asylum... More

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

From the Editor's Laptop:

We're kicking off 2010 with a little mystery because I'm publishing the first anonymous submission in the history of this breezy e-zine. The January issue also marks the debut of Sean T. Kelly. I'm pleased to say that George Tate is back with another trucking tale and I shared not one, but two stories for this issue including a taste of fiction and thoughts on a flavorful trip to Miami.

The scribes write at Truckin' for free and you'll be doing us huge favor by helping spread the word about your favorite stories. Tell your Facebook friends. Tweet your favorite story. Print up an entire issue and leave it in the bathroom at home or at work. You never know when you're in need of reading material. Do what you can to help out with publicity! We appreciate all of your help.

If anyone is interested in being added to the mailing list or writing for a future issue, then please to contact us.

As always, I sincerely writers for sharing their bloodwork and taking a leap of faith with me. And lastly, thanks to the readers for your unwavering support.

Happy holidays,
McG

"Not only must we be good, but we must also be good for something." - Henry David Thoreau

Tubes Under Sand

By Paul McGuire © 2009

In 2006, Vince held a good job with an insurance company. He had matching 401K, a four-week paid vacation, and drove around in a company car. He also owned a house in the Las Vegas suburbs with a pool, two car garage, and a accompanying family of four. His life seemed almost too perfect until he caught the bug. Once it flowed through his blood stream, he was never the same.

His house, his car, and his two kids slid through his fingers in one disastrous run at the Mirage Casino. Vince lost $345,000 in less than six weeks gambling at the sportsbook. That was his entire life savings and then some. He ran up debts with different loan sharks including one of the members of the Tataglia crew. When one of the goons sliced the tires on his wife's car, she finally kicked him out of the house. She filed for divorce the next day.

Vince had no place to go and ended up in the labyrinth of storm drains beneath Sin City. He once read a story in the newspaper about a group of homeless junkies who lived in the 250-mile drain system. The massive and elaborate tunnel system was cluttered with insane Vietnam vets eating black widow spiders, heroin addicts shooting up in the darkness, and methheads cooking up a new batch of Nazi crank.

When the housing bubble burst, more and more everyday people flocked to the drains to escape the searing heat. When the summer months arrived, entire families evacuated the make-shift tent cities that sprang up around the city. They moved underground into the drainage areas and a few of the more savvy folks rigged up electricity. Vince had no need for those luxuries. He simply wanted a space where he could be left alone and sleep without being beaten down by a bunch of junkies.

Vince slept in the drains. That was his home for a couple of years. He had reduced his entire life to a camper's backpack, a sleeping mat, and a light bag. He hid those items in one of the runoff drains underneath the Sahara casino. He would spend his days sitting inside the air conditioned sportsbook at different casinos. He showered using the sinks in the bathrooms. He would sometimes scam free drinks from the cocktail waitresses. He frequently scored a couple of free buffet coupons each week and panhandled for enough change at stoplights near the highway exits for a couple of more. Sometimes he didn't eat in between buffet trips. When he was broke, he resorted to snagging leftover fast food from different food courts in the casinos. He befriended the crew who worked the graveyard shift at a Krispy Kreme and they gave him boxes of old donuts.

Vince was muscled out of his hideout by a group of homeless tweakers who used the drains to stash stolen items that they acquired during break-ins at condos near the Strip. Vince thought he found a better and more secluded spot and set up his camp. However, mother nature was not on his side when he did failed to predict a high volume of water that rushed through the drain system after a series of rapid forming thunderstorms that dumped several inches of rain on the Las Vegas Valley.

A river quickly formed with water rushing through at 35 mph. The current was too strong and Vince was unable to remain stationary. The water swept away his sleeping gear and limited possessions. He nearly drowned and he suffered a couple of broken ribs and a nasty concussion.

Vince had kept only one picture of his children (taken on Christmas morning several years earlier) which sat inside an old wallet that he hid inside his backpack. He rarely looked at the photo but it was sufficient enough for him to know that he had it somewhere safe. He often wandered what they were up to and if they had a good day at school that day or if they were angry and disappointed on how their father almost ruined their lives. He wondered if they still lived in Nevada or if they returned to California with their mother. He was convinced that she was already remarried and he wondered if the loved their stepfather more than him and called him Dad instead of Rick, or Jim, or Frank.

Vince desperately tried to find his bag which contained the only picture of his children. He eventually gave up hope after searching the drains for five days and nights. The only link to his past vanished. Those memories washed away with the storm. Vince had absolutely nothing except the clothes on his back. He had only one alternative... rob a tourist.

Vince created a shank out of an old butter knife. He wrapped a piece of cloth around the end to create a larger handle. He hid the shank inside his pants pocket. He waited until it got dark and hid out inside the parking lot of Ellis Island until he spotted his mark -- an elderly couple with Arizona plates that looked like they might have a few hundred dollars on them.

Vince wasn't looking for much. He just wanted to be able to buy a new headlamp, a sleeping bag and a sleeping mat at the Army/Navy store downtown. Whatever he had left, he would spend half at the sportsbook and try to roll up a stake. The rest of his money he would invest in a batch of crystal meth and flip it to the kids who worked the valets or illegal Mexican construction workers.

Vince walked over to the 60-something year old couple from Arizona and pretended to ask for directions. The old woman wore an ugly lime-colored track suit and she carried a purse. Vince punched the old man in the face and grabbed the purse but the old woman put up an unexpected struggle. Her husband clamped down on his arm. He was stronger than Vince anticipated. It was evident that Vince was losing the fight against the couple as the woman screamed "Help! Help! Help! Police!"

Vince ended the battle for the purse and resorted to his advanced homemade weaponry. He yanked the shank out his his pocket and didn't hesitate to inflict damage. He lunged at the old man's abdomen and quickly poked him twice. On the third thrust, Vince twisted the shank as blood sprayed all over his hands. The old man finally fell back onto a parked car. Vince whirled around and waved the bloody shank at the old woman. She collapsed to her knees and her purse fell to the ground. Vince rummaged the pockets of the old man and removed his wallet and a cell phone. He picked up the purse and sprinted towards the alley as the sobs of the old woman echoed in the dimness of the parking deck.


Paul McGuire is the author of Lost Vegas.

No Era Mi Intención (I Meant No Harm)

By Sean T. Kelly © 2009

The persistent humidity settled in as heavily as liquid hand soap into the lungs. Although rain poured each afternoon in full, pregnant drops from a broad sieve that filled the thick Mayan scrub with long shadows, it gave way to the piercing eye of the stubborn sun. Moisture lifted in steamy circles off the tarring roads and from the engine hoods of other passing cars.

We were hot, to understate it, and after only a few days, we were the color of cocoa, and still as unused to the thick air as we were to the pace of life here. Unlike the locals, who never really seemed to awake from their nightly sleep and daily siestas, we had been moving through this stretch with a speed acutely unfamiliar to these lands.

Farmers scowled at us as they scattered to move their carts off the road and into the brush. We threw empty Victoria beer and tequila bottles at their feet and laughed uproariously as we buzzed by them up highway 180 toward Oxkintoc, then back down the two-lanes of 261, toward the Puuc ruins of Uxmal, Kabah, Labnah, Xlapak, and Sayil.

This had the promise of a quiet, rejuvenating vacation, and we had considered that approach--for five hours, at most. And that was well before we hit the border. I remember Billy having said around then, “I can’t stand this fucking silence.” Neither could I, so that was the end of it right there. Of course, then we raced south like a pair of coked up gazelles on roller skates. Nonstop. Music blaring out into the wild along with our voices, which, by then were mixing Barry Manilow lyrics with Santana’s Oye Como Va: “Co-co-CA-BA-NA/oh-WEE-oh/co-co-CA-BA-NA/ba-NA.”

If respect comes with age, we weren’t acting ours. The last time we stopped at a Pemex to refuel, Billy was drunk enough to piss right on the trunk (and his shoes) while I sniffed lines off the dashboard. Then Billy, in his only display of any focus, spent 15 minutes collecting worthless Pesetas from his pockets and the floor mats to pay the entire fuel charge.

We weren’t the only local wildlife in that town, population 237. Hawks circled overhead hunting for prey. Iguanas scurried aimlessly across the sidewalks heading for the security of the underbrush. Chickens and pigs lazily paced their stone-fenced confines, while famined dogs and cats roamed freely around the ramshackle houses. The dogs in particular had become a fascination for us. No matter how much high-speed swerving about we did along the narrow streets that connected one unnamed town to the next, dogs often slept unbothered on their side right in the middle of the road.

Billy appealed to me several times to run one over. “They’re pretty much dead anyway,” he’d say. But I could never bring myself to do it. Sometimes he’d even try to grab the wheel and we’d come close, but I’d sharply give him an elbow. Everyone has their limits.

As was true with pretty much every other town we passed, in this one we saw dark-skinned children who wore the sad look of impoverished experience sitting in the shade, holding out carved masks and Mayan calendars to any passers-by, even though there were so few. The older children sat in the sun, nearer their bicycles, carving the masks themselves. Resources are few here. Everything is for sale and usually it’s a kid who’s selling it. It was one of these children, an older one I’d guess was 15, who inadvertently forced us off the road and into a shack selling overripe plantains.

For William Francis, Jr., a native mother, and two young local girls—friends I think—that day became el Dia de los Muertos. As for me, I simply felt cold. I mean a kind of cold that never leaves. That kind of to-the-bone ultra-freeze is what told me I’d never return home. I figure if they aren’t able to go back, why should I?


Sean T. Kelly is a writer of many styles living in the San Francisco Bay Area. No animals or people were actually harmed in this production.

Unpublished

By Anonymous © 2009

There is not a long enough rope to satisfy a man who paints a noose on the mirror every morning.

Look at him. His eyes are literally bleeding in their whites and he doesn't know why. Worse, he doesn't care. He's studying the gray bags on either side of his crooked nose and trying to figure out if his gut is bigger or smaller than the day before. He's a vain self-fucker and the fact that his right eye is about to fall out of its orbit is academic.

He could look away from the noose he's woven. He could find something else into which he can comfortably slip. He has the power and he's done it before.

It's easier than most people realize. If he sufficiently lubricates himself, he can forget he hates himself. He can turn off the darkness and live like a confident, smart, Mad Man of the 21st century. It's not real, but it's possible. And in the 21st century, real isn't real, anyway, so he takes some heart.

But, no, this guy, this hollow-eyed fuck needs to fully realize the root of his self-loathing before he can truly accept himself for what he is. And "realize" here is not intended as most people say it. It doesn't mean "recognize." It's all about "making it real." It's only when he finally reaches the gutter that he says, "Well, it's about time."

It's a tricky walk, the hopscotch of a man who has everything and is sure he's still fucking it up somehow. The drunken waltz is long periods of relative calm cluster-bombed by intermittent periods of maniacal recklessness. The calm is uncomfortable, like a new suit on an ex-con. He keeps it clean and pressed for months at a time, but he knows it's a little too snug in the shoulders and a little too long in the legs. Wearing the suit is a job.

The only time he doesn't feel like he's faking it is when he's slipping into a hole, when he's being himself, that smiling, back-slapping, willing-to-sing-if-you-ask-jolly-jolly-man. Each little bomb on its own is of no real consequence. When they get together, though, they are dangerous in such a wonderful, cock-sucking way that he literally spends weeks at a time wondering how he can make it happen again.

Because, listen, the cluster bombs are not really what he's living for. When he's slipping, it's just part of that fumbling reach for the real goal. He's not living for the moment he smiles. He's living for that one second that he rolls over and recognizes he's so far gone that he doesn't remember where he started.

He won't admit that, of course, so don't ask him. Under the lights, he'll say he's sorry for the mess he's made, that he won't do it again, that it was but a brief stumble in an otherwise well-considered plan. The smart people will see through him and make their decisions accordingly. Everyone else will tell him he's righteous. This guy's tragic flaw is that he can't believe either side. In his heart, he is neither the hero nor the villain. In his heart, he knows the hero and the villain have a place, have worth, have meaning.

This guy's place is in the middle of the struggle, that shameful climb back to the real world. That's what it's all about. It's all about finding that soft edge and dry-humping it until he lets loose all over its thigh. It's contrived, unsatisfying, and ultimately humiliating. It makes him a mental wreck and ruins almost anything he conceives. There is no pride in it, but he long ago realized that, when presented with pride, he does everything he can to destroy it. The pride is manufactured.

The humiliation, that's what's so fucking real that it can't be ignored. That's the thing—fuck the play.


Submitted by Anonymous, who resides in Anytown, USA.

Dispatches from Miami: The Lot

By Paul McGuire © 2010

Downtown Miami. For four days, the parking lots around the American Airlines Arena (where the Miami Heat play their home games and Phish played their four concerts to close out 2009) were a haven for drug fiends. The area is normally surrounded by homeless people living in cardboard boxes along the side streets in the shadows of the monorail. Many of them wandered in and out of the psychedelic carnival of Phish fans who came from all over the country, while local drug dealers pushing South Florida's finest Colombian imports competed with the traveling dealers pushing their hippie party favors. Undercover cops were scattered about. It was easy to pick them out from the average Phishead, but a few wasted kids and noobs failed to recognize the fuzz and they got thrown into jail for blatantly obvious offenses. The local federales made their daily quota on the amateurs while the rest of the illicit sales went undetected.

I was offered so many pills that I lost count. I even came across a few things that I had never heard of -- which I declined to purchase but wrote down the names so I could do my own research. It hasn't been since the final Phish shows in Coventry, VT in 2004 when I saw that many powders, nitrous, local produce, fungi, liquid sunshine, opiates, and pharmaceuticals. It was sort of a farmer's market of illegal drugs.

Random unleashed dogs roamed free while the molly slingers darted in and out of the crowd. Extra tickets were going for $20-30. One scruffy-looking kid with a thick Boston accent sold me mushroom chocolates. The nitrous tanks were out in full force. Hissing sounds filled the air and salesmen were walking through the row of cars waving $5 balloons. The black guys were yelling "Whip its! Whip its!"

Benjo was inexperienced with the nitrous scene and curious about the affects. He watched in amazement as people lost their mud sucking and huffing on balloons like they were infants sucking on their momma's boobies.

The light disappears quickly at the end of December and the darkness descends around 5 o'clock and that's when things become sketchier in the lots. Deviant derelicts crawl out of the shadows and invading the parade of freaks. That's when the inmates eventually take over the asylum.

Homeless guys drenched in urine stand on the corner hawking bicycle wheels that they obviously pilfered. One local dealer pushed hard drugs to pay for a new pair of Jordans. But they were angels compared to hostile the thugs with the nitrous tanks. All you had to do was wander around the lots and look at the ground. The residual effects of our wasted generation were thousands of multi-colored used balloons that cluttered the pavement and sidewalks.

Rats the size of armadillos ran rampant in the weeds in the back lots. You had to bring a large stick with you when you pissed as protection so one of those nasty fuckers doesn't rip your pecker off in mid-stream.

As our time in Miami passed, the crew stayed up later and later like famished vampires, which meant that we saw less and less of the Florida sun. Seems like everyone had product to move and I was bombarded with offers to buy an encyclopedia of pharmacopoeia and other illicit wares. Roxys. Morphine. Klonapin. Headies. Fingerhash. And enough Yay to keep Akron lit for a month. One strung out whiskey tango chick loved the one of the Joker's LOST shirts that he was selling. She didn't have any money but offered to trade her methadone for a shirt. The Joker declined because he couldn't get stoned off methadone.

Paul McGuire is the author of Lost Vegas.

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.

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.