The Ride

4-06-2003

It's going to be a great day, Jeeter chided inside as he swung open the heavy glass door of the tiny, crowded diner and headed out into the bright morning sunshine. The sudden glare outdoors caused Jeeter to fumble in his faded Levi's jacket until he located the imitation RayBans and snapped them on like a movie star exiting his limo at an afternoon awards show. With a swagger of confidence he hoisted his backpack over his shoulder and started walking the few blocks to the Interstate 5 onramp.
Hitchiking had its tolls. For one, the state troopers didn't always pass hitchhikers without stopping to harass the unwanted wanderers. Cops wanted you gone, but didn't want you polluting the local scenery doing it. In Washington State, for example, the State Troopers were thorough enough that one could drive all day without seeing a single sole with thumb outstretched. Jeeter had been extra careful to stay clear of the police in Washington. Now in California, Jeeter walked briskly down the deserted sidewalk of Yreka, a nowhere stop on the latest leg of his journey carrying him to Mexico.
Breakfast had been the treat of a wary trucker bound for Sacramento. Jeeter had ridden with him from Portland in blissful silence. Most rides wanted, no, demanded a little compensation in the form of bullshit conversation, and Jeeter reluctantly obliged. But this guy was different. He seemed to be troubled by deep, dark thoughts, and Jeeter was glad to ride for hours in muted peace. He was dreaming happily of his new life in Mexico before the halted stillness of the ride awoke him. The trucker motioned for him to come inside and they sat and ate without exchanging a word. Jeeter had begun to wonder if the trucker could speak at all when the guy sprang up mid-meal, handed the waitress a ten for the two breakfasts and coffees, and started for the door. Jeeter got up to follow, but the driver spun around and held up a hand. "I'm sorry, but I gotta go the rest of the way on my own."
Jeeter's mouth dropped open in bewilderment, but the stocky trucker spun back around and was seated in his truck, motor running, before he could protest. Jeeter shrugged his shoulders and sat back down to finish the rest of his eggs and bacon. No sense in letting a good meal go to waste, Jeeter thought between heaping bites.
Food had been scarce since starting out in Florida seven weeks earlier. His journey had taken him up to Maine, across to Minnesota, down to Texas, and finally through the Pacific Northwest. Now he had four days to make it to Mexico. Ensenada to be exact.
There had never been any money to take on the trip and Jeeter was not one to work, opting instead for the infrequent handouts of kind drivers, and the occasional Soup Kitchen when he could find one. He had tried to stick to main thoroughfares and populated places where social programs were in greater supply. Portland had been a traveling man's paradise with the plethora of free food downtown, but Jeeter had run into some trouble and had to flee last night even though he had arrived only two days prior. He had made the mistake of crawling into Waterfront Park one evening looking for a place to sleep. After walking past a half-dozen occupied benches he finally spotted an open one and proceeded to unroll his pad and layout his thin blanket. Jeeter would have never traveled in the harsh winter, and a thin blanket was all that was needed for the occasional chill of the summertime nights. Just as Jeeter had laid his head down and snuggled in for the luxurious sleep of a freeman, he was approached by a ragged looking old guy with a long-white beard and a tattered shopping cart obviously containing the old man's only belongings.
"You're lying in my spot." The old man had demanded. Jeeter feigned sleep hoping the old man would go away, but he didn't.
"I said you're lying in my spot." The old guy was persistent. He reached down and pulled the blanket from Jeeter's still body with a single swoop like a magician. "Get up and find your own place. This one's mine." The old man was adamant. Jeeter bolted upright with a look that startled the old guy. He backed off dropping the blanket on the ground.
"I don't see a sign with your name on it." Jeeter retorted. "No, sir. I sure don't." He turned his head from side-to-side as if he were closely inspecting the wooden bench for a name carved into it. "Looks like this bench is open. Now why don't you run along and find yourself another bed. This one is full for the evening." Jeeter reached up and violently jerked the blanket back over him dusting off the dead grass that stuck to the thin wool. "Scat, you old bag of bones before I get mad and hurt you." Jeeter wasn't going to be intimidated by some rickety old man that could barely push his overloaded shopping cart down the asphalt trail that snaked along Waterfront Park. He'd kick the old guy's ass if he tried to bother him again.
The old man didn't say anything, but walked off leaving the rusty cart next to Jeeter's bench. "Don't forget your cart." Jeeter yelled after him, but the old man just kept walking. "Old bastard." Jeeter muttered loudly to himself and turned on his side waiting patiently for sleep to overtake him.
A few minutes later Jeeter was entering the peaceful segue between consciousness and dreaming when he felt the presence of someone staring at him. His subconscious tried to fight off the feeling, but it loomed louder and louder until Jeeter relented and opened his eyes. There was a group of homeless men and women encircling the bench. He stopped counting dirty faces at eight.
"What do you guys want?" Jeeter asked terrified by the large number of piercing eyes watching him. The old man slipped between arms and appeared in Jeeter's face. The stench of cheap wine billowing from beneath the shaggy white beard made Jeeter recoil. "Whoa, back off old man, or at least try some mouth wash."
The old guy didn't laugh. "These are my friends and we think you better find a new place to sleep. None of us wants you around here." Jeeter thought he saw the glint from a knife blade in someone's hand but the branches overhead filtered most of the park's sodium light.
"Hey, I don't want no trouble. I'm just trying to get some shuteye." Jeeter was a pro at using his mouth both to get in and out of trouble. This time was going to be different though and Jeeter could feel it.
"You come around here disrespecting my friend, and we gonna teach you a lesson." A voice came from his left side. Jeeter turned and looked up into the face of a large bald black man. The man looked serious.
"I said I don't want no trouble." Jeeter was petrified becoming with fear. He silently prayed that he would make it out unscathed. "I'll just be getting my things together and going, I guess." His hands trembled as he folded the thin blanket and packed it away in the worn, suede backpack. None of the grimy faces had backed off. He slowly spun sideways keeping his eyes locked in place. No one made a move to oblige his exit. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you around." Jeeter squeaked. He stood up and with the last of his waning courage pushed gently between what appeared to be a weak spot between a frail old lady and a midget. Luckily, they relented and allowed Jeeter to slip through the perimeter of the group.
Jeeter walked, slowly at first, but then faster as distance increased his courage. He wouldn't have looked back even if someone had shouted "you dropped your wallet." Hell, there wasn't anything in his wallet accept a Florida ID Card, and a small list of telephone numbers on a folded slip of binder paper.
He heard the whistling of it through the air a split-second before it hit him in the back. There hadn't been any time to react. The impact felt like a hard kick with a heavy work boot right in the center of Jeeter's spine. His lungs collapsed with a whoosh, and he dropped to one knee. A roar of pain spread across Jeeter's shoulder muscles like melted butter over a beach ball. Lying next to him was a torn brown paper bag with an empty 40 oz. Malt Liquor bottle half-protruding from the bottom. Someone had thrown a damn bottle at him! He creaked his neck further around and saw the old man laughing hysterically. His white beard floating up and down with each fit resembling a blanket waving goodbye.
"Get out of here!" The old guy screamed. Jeeter puffed heavily to his knees and resumed his course toward the Burnside Bridge. He silently mumbled a prayer. Please Lord, let me make it out of here. His legs kept moving forward. Each step accompanied with a tense cringe awaiting the impact of another blow, or the screamed charge of twenty homeless bums stampeding toward him. The street bordering the park on one side was looming closer. With each footstep he felt like he might make it. Surely they were too far off to reach him with another bottle? But he had the uneasy feeling they might be silently following him only a few steps behind. He was too scared to turn around and look. His skinny quadriceps propelled him forward on autopilot. I'll be glad if I never step foot in this city again. Jeeter spoke aloud when he was too far for either the street or the park to hear him.
He'd hitch an all-nighter through Oregon and into California with one of the many trucks that were still thick on the Interstate at this time of night. Many were searching for a place to grab a few minutes sleep, but there were always those chemically ready to endure the lonely dark hours.
Jeeter tried to look cool as he approached the lit street where several passersby turned to look at his shape emerging from the shadows of the park. He pretended like nothing had happened a few minutes ago. As his feet left the grass and touched the sidewalk he turned to make sure he wasn't being followed. He could barely make out the group dispersing from the bench.
He soon found a ride with a gloomy trucker who nodded affirmatively when Jeeter asked if he was driving straight through to California. His back ached for a few hours as he rode in muted silence, but he was soon fast asleep.

And now back in Yreka the next morning, Jeeter's injury was nothing more than a bruise and a memory. If he hadn't been so tired last night, he would have kicked some butt. He would have shown those scumbags not to mess with Jeeter Maggoon. The sleepy Yreka street was empty spare a few idle cars filled with pigtailed children and mothers busy with shopping and errands.
Jeeter made the few blocks to the busy interstate in less than fifteen minutes. The stretch of Interstate 5 to Redding snaked between rock-choked walls and followed the river into Lake Shasta. Trucks were bogged down by the sharp curves and abruptly changing hills. Here where Jeeter stood, the Interstate had straight stretches where truckers could make up time. It would be difficult to convince a driver to waste all that speed just to pick up a hitchhiker. Jeeter glanced behind for any sign of a truck entering the onramp, and he thought he saw something to his left at the truck stop. It was the glare from a windshield or a truck door being closed. In a few seconds the thick plume of black diesel exhaust billowed from the chrome stack. It was the same truck he had gotten a ride in last night. Evidently the guy had to stop for some fuel before he finished the trip. What luck.
The truck slowly snaked out of the parking lot and turned onto the street with a loud running through of gears. Jeeter held out his thumb in anticipation. Maybe the guy had changed his mind and would stop. Suddenly Jeeter remembered the driver's words as he left the diner, "I gotta go the rest of the way on my own." That sounded creepy. What did the trucker mean? He didn't have time to work it out as the truck pulled behind him and with a great whoosh of the Jake Brake rolled to a stop.
Great, he'd make it to Sacramento by mid-afternoon. From there, a ride to Los Angeles, and another to the Mexican border. Three days tops. He stepped up on the truck and grabbed the door. "Thanks," he remarked sitting comfortably in the truck's seat. It felt like riding on top of the world. He noticed in his first truck ride, a few weeks ago, that he could see down the tops of women's blouses. At least the few riding in convertibles or with open sunroofs. One trucker told him that some women liked the attention and even gave a 'trucker's show' occasionally. He hadn't explained what that meant.
"Looks like were headed in the same direction," the trucker remarked. Jeeter noticed the same dark tone in the stocky wheel-turner, but now the guy wasn't silent. Jeeter preferred the peace and quiet of the night before. Everyone had an opinion on something and they weren't shy about expressing it to anyone within earshot.
"Yea, looks like it." Jeeter answered meekly. He didn't want to lose this ride and upset his plans.
They rode in silence for the next hour and Jeeter was on the verge of relaxing his earlier worry when the trucker spoke again. "Where are you headed?"
"San Diego," Jeeter lied. Strangers didn't need to know his business.
"Nice down there," the driver said.
"Yea, I guess so. Never been." Jeeter replied.
"Had an uncle used to visit down there; Balboa area I think. Can't remember things so well these days." The trucker looked like he was lost in some long forgotten memories. Jeeter didn't bother keeping the conversation engaged, and the stocky guy kept his eyes bored straight ahead. They were entering the more treacherous part of the journey through the windy mountain road.
A few sharp corners later the man spoke again. "Got something I want you to read seeing as we are in this together now." The suddenness of his words startled Jeeter. What did he mean by in this together now?
"What do you mean?" Jeeter queried.
"I mean I got something I want you to read. Something I think will explain everything to you." The driver was still staring ahead. His hands guiding the steering wheel effortlessly through the corners.
"No, what do you mean by 'in this together now'?" Jeeter corrected.
"Just read the letter in a manila envelope there in the glove compartment." Jeeter reached forward and pushed the heavy chrome button releasing the glove compartment door. It opened spilling a disheveled stack of papers on the floor in an explosion of falling parchment.
"Now you did it," the trucker laughed, but in a way that sent chills through your loin. "Rifle through that stack," the guy ordered, "it's in there someplace." Jeeter obeyed and found a thick envelope addressed 'Doris and the kids' it had the address and stamps ready to mail.
"What's this?" Jeeter asked holding the manila envelope up.
"Do like I said and read it." The driver commanded.
Jeeter undid the clasp and opened the envelope. Inside were several blank white pages. He pulled the pages out and held them up to the driver. "How can I read these? They're blank."
"It's in there. You're only looking for a single sheet. I'm not a man of many words." The driver never once turned in Jeeter's direction. His voice had taken on a menacing tone that grew stronger with each mile. Jeeter shuffled through the papers. Almost dead center was a handwritten note. He carefully removed the note and replaced the blank sheets in the envelope.
"Read it aloud." The stocky man barked. Jeeter felt the sudden rush to tell him what to do with his orders, but those stocky forearms were as thick as a softball bat. He decided to bide his time in compliance. It wasn't that much farther to Sacramento. He would be leaving this guy's company in no time.
"Dear Doris and boys," Jeeter began. "How many kids do you have?" Jeeter asked.
"Just keep reading," the bulky man replied.
"Dear Doris and boys: As your husband and father of some twenty-five years you all know me to be a man who only speaks when he has something to say." Jeeter took a deep breath to recover. "I have never been a gambling man. Never fooled around except during the war, and we always attended church Sundays as a family." Jeeter stopped for a second to digest what he had just read. What kind of note was this? Jesus, it sounded like a suicide note. Was this guy planning on killing himself?
"Keep on reading," the driver commanded in growing irritation.
"The past few years have been hard on us as a family, but this latest turn is too much." Jeeter's lips continued on while his brain rationalized the message. It was a suicide note. Jeeter suddenly felt scared. More scared than he felt the night before at Waterfront Park. More afraid than when he walked an extra mile home from school to avoid the neighborhood bully.
"…I don't see any other choice." Jeeter continued reading aloud. "It might seem crazy at first, but I'm hoping you will understand in time. There isn't any other way." Jeeter froze as he read these words. Was this lunatic planning on killing them both? The words jumbled together in his memory started stretching themselves out in a legible line. I've gotta go the rest of the way on my own, and we're in this together now made sense. This wacko was bent on killing himself, and somehow Jeeter had stumbled right into the middle of it.
"By the time you read this it will be over. It won't do any good asking yourselves why. I had to take a stand. Someone in this mixed up world has to take a stand." Jeeter ignored the earlier commands and stopped reading for a second. "It sounds like you're planning on killing yourself." He burst out.
"That's right." The man answered. "There's no sense trying to talk me out of it." He added.
"Why?" Jeeter inquired.
"Because I'm set on carrying it out," the driver retorted. They were nearing Lake Shasta and Jeeter began seeing signs for boat launches.
"No, why do you want to kill yourself?" Jeeter tried once more.
"A lot of reasons," he answered. "I guess a man would have to have more than one reason to kill himself." The trucker seemed to fall back in a trance. His eyes were still fixed straight ahead.
"I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. I believe it's a man's free right to choose to die, but I'm a little worried you're thinking of taking me with you." Jeeter said.
"That wasn't my plan at first, but it looks like fate has stuck us together." The man stated. "I can't sit here and think out the possible reasons for you to die, but I'll trust that it's deserved for some reason and leave it at that." The man announced.
"I think you better pull over and let me out." Jeeter demanded.
"Can't do that. I've got a trailer load of fertilizer with a few sticks of dynamite set to go off in…" he looks to his watch, "two-hours and thirty-seven minutes."
Jeeter gulped back in fright. This crazy bastard was set to kill more than the two of them, and he didn't want to go down in history as an accomplice to this. "Why don't you just pull over and let me go. I won't tell anyone and you can head down your merry way without me." He pleaded.
"Nope. Can't take any chances. I've come too far for this to go wrong." His thick hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as if in unconscious anticipation of Jeeter's attack. "Keep reading the letter."
"Alright… The SoCal trucking company will get what they deserve for all of their lying and stealing. I just hope that asshole Branson is in his office when the trailer goes off." Jeeter looks up for a minute. "Whose Branson, your old boss or something?"
"He's the owner of the company and the lying asshole that laid me off last year." The trucker snorted. "There's plenty of lying assholes that will be meeting the devil today."
"But I'm not a part of this. I haven't done anything to you." Jeeter cried.
"I told you that I'm not going to try and justify these things. Fate has put you here with me today and I'm not one to turn away from that." The driver retorted. "Why are you headed to San Diego, anyway?" He asked.
Jeeter no longer cared if the man knew his plans. He felt numb and powerless to do anything. Yes, he could try and jump out of the speeding truck, but the thought of being crushed by skidding tires was as unappealing as exploding to bits. "I'm really heading to Ensenada, Mexico." Jeeter said.
"Mexico, huh. What are you running from?" The heavy man questioned.
"What makes you think I'm running from something?" Jeeter asked.
"No one goes to Mexico who isn't running from something. Most likely the law." The man replied.
"I'm starting a new life down there." Jeeter stated.
"Wife and kids, huh?" The guy queried. "Alimony and child support, eh?"
The apparently dim-witted driver had been right on the spot. "Yeah, but worse than that." Jeeter started explaining. "A wife, four kids, a mistress, and her newborn. They were bleeding me dry."
"The divorce courts know how to drain a man. Seen it happen to many of my friends, but that's no reason to abandon your family. You should have stayed and stood up to your responsibility. I told you fate can't be ignored. Now look at you." The driver's mouth took on a sinister grin at the apparent justification of Jeeter's death. "Thought you would just hop on down to Mexico, maybe get yourself a little senorita, and live off whatever money you stole from the mouths of your children?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Sounds like a good plan, alright. Except for one small thing. You're leaving those women to take the full weight of caring and feeding for those kids. I hope you got life insurance, buddy, because that's the only way you're going to help out the families you left behind."
"Screw you!" Jeeter screamed and lunged for the driver's hands. They wrestled for control for a few seconds almost sending the truck flying off the edge of the long bridge spanning Lake Shasta. The driver's strength won out and he flung Jeeter hard into the passenger door. When Jeeter came back for more he was met with a calloused open palm that sent his head into the passenger window again.
"Don't make me do this here." The driver yelled. Jeeter couldn't stop. He flung himself at the driver again. This time his raised fists struck the side of the trucker's head several times. The blows sent the head bouncing like a punching bag only to snap back before the next one struck. It was having no affect on the burly man.
"Have to do it the hard way." The trucker announced. He reached up with a powerful hand grabbing Jeeter by the neck. Jeeter tried desperately to claw the strong grip from his throat. He yanked with a loud huff and tore a few fingernails full of hand skin, but the grip only tightened. Blackness overcame Jeeter and he slumped to the seat.
The man pressed hard on the accelerator pedal and the truck engine revved to a roar. The chrome rig with the counterfeit "Wal-Mart" painted on the lone trailer split the straight interstate and passed through the city of Redding. The burly man was careful not to break the speed limit. He reached up and scatched the wiry stubble of his chin. SoCal trucking was in for a big surprise. He smiled at the thought of all those assholes being ripped to shreds by the blast. He had no fear of his own death. Some things were a lot bigger than one man's puny little life. He looks down at a freckled-faced kid no older than his seven-year old daughter and grins. The kid grins back and then she pumps her fist up and down several times giggling hysterically. They all wanted the same thing.
He reaches up and tugs the short nylon rope above his door. The air horn exhales through the road silence like a metallic dragon bellowing unspoken dreams.

THE END