“Truck Run Tuesday”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Retirement life.

Since leaving the workforce in 2016, I have maintained an unpredictable schedule at the Icehouse. Writing projects often coalesce after midnight, accompanied by coffee and P. B. Toast. I generally sleep in shifts. These episodes may occur at any time throughout the day. I sometimes liken them to a ‘nap attack’ of the sort experienced by Garfield the cartoon cat.

In disability, I have channeled a bit of my inner Jim Davis.

A recent afternoon demonstrated this living-on-the-fly routine with great clarity. My friend B. A. called after an extended period of radio silence. He had planned to vanish for a day due to a family wedding on his social calendar. An event he seemed to dread because of the need to dress in formal attire. But this day out of circulation stretched into two, then three, then four and finally, I found myself completely disconnected.

It was a familiar happening.

B. A. has often been described as “the older brother I never had.” Though in terms of chronology, he is younger by a few years. With varied interests including cars, motorcycles, travel, music and home cooking, he reflects a similar back-story to my own. And his appearance, tall, stocky and gruff, projects an image like my own sibling.

To claim him as my kin has never seemed out of bounds.

After a long weekend, with Monday included, I sat in my chair eating a late breakfast. The hour was half past ESPN, or in other words, 10:30 a.m. and 30 minutes into the broadcast of ‘First Take’ with Steven A. Smith and Max Kellerman. I took lazy bites of fried potatoes and eggs, while listening to their sports banter. But then, my telephone began to ring.

Via my cellular screen, the face of B. A. appeared. His isolation was at an end.

“Rod!” he cheered, with a voice trained on cartons of cigarettes and gallons of energy drinks. “What’re you doing today?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Well, nothing. I do nothing every day.” Not literally true, but my fib fit the appearance of being unemployed.

“What a life!” he exclaimed. “Wish I could get paid for doing nothing all day!” My friend was the head of maintenance for a pair of local retail stores.

“It’s a fair exchange,” I observed. “Wish I could walk like a normal human being. We all want something...”

“You want to take a ride to Kingstown?” he wondered aloud. “I’ll buy you lunch, brotha!”

My stomach was already full, and I had Chicken & Potato Stew bubbling away in the Crock Pot. Yet the offer provided a welcome diversion. And I knew he would insist long after I had run out of plausible excuses.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Looking at a car, or a piece of business equipment?”

He turned sour. “I got a traffic ticket last night! The intersection wasn’t marked. I need to go back there and take another look. Dang their small town!”

“Haven’t been out that way in years,” I confessed.

“I’m at the Madison exit,” he explained. “Can you be ready in a couple minutes?”

My eyes were still groggy. “No problem,” I lied.

“Find your cane!” he cheered again. “We’re going on a road trip!”

I located a pair of regular pants, a hoodie, and my Cleveland Indians cap before he arrived. Dinner could cook away in my absence. But my Black Lab needed to go outside. I walked him in the yard until B. A. arrived. His truck, a weathered 1985 Chevrolet S-10, was overloaded with gear. Suddenly, I realized the true purpose of his visit.

“You drive, buddy!” he said. “I need to see about this ticket, hit the company storage space, and pick up an employee to help with a project. How’s that sound for a day?”

I laughed out loud. He was a skilled hustler.

“A good story is worth the drive,” I answered. “Anything for a story.”

We headed north to the freeway, then east to the Kingstown exit. Each mile seemed to clear my memory with familiar sights. Not much had changed since visiting the area, around a dozen years before.

When we pulled up at the intersection of Main Street and the state route, B.A. began to testify. “Do you see that??” he shouted. “No right on red here. That is what the local cop said. He spun around in his cruiser and followed me to the light. But look up there. Can you read the sign?”

It had been flipped around backwards, possibly by a gust of wind. The other side was completely blank. On a far pole, another, smaller sign barely peeked out for daylight.

“You can’t read that, can you?” he bellowed, scratching his white stubble of beard.

My response made him bounce in the seat. “No, I can’t.”

“I should fight this ticket,” he growled. “But there ain’t enough time...”

“So, what is your plan?” I asked.

“Turn here,” he gestured. “We have to find the municipal center. It’s in an old tavern. A brick shithouse from years ago. Right on Main Street.”

After a short drive, I saw the building. A festive hovel, constructed with rocky, red chunks, laid out in a warped pattern. Lots of mortar filled gaps between the bricks. The old bar’s moniker remained just below a roof peak, out front and to the left. It had been set with white stones for contrast.

“This is the police station?” I grinned.

“Police, tax assessor, and courthouse,” B. A. explained.

“This is actually sort of cool,” I said. As we drove around the structure, I saw a military-issue Humvee parked out back. It had been repainted with police colors and an official logo.

“It ain’t cool!” my friend thundered. “They’re taking my money!”

As we walked inside, I silently prayed that his mood would soften.

A clerk waved to us as we looked from room to room. “May I help you?” She appeared quite relaxed and civillian-ish, not what I had expected. Long, dark hair and doe eyes.

“I need to pay a ticket,” B. A. groused. “But I gotta say that this ain’t fair. No right on red uptown there, I was told, but nothing is marked!”

“There is a sign by the traffic light,” she said, unemotionally.

“Turned around so you can’t read it!” he barked.

“There is another sign on a telephone pole across the intersection,” she added.

I could tell that this situation had been brought up by other travelers through the village. The clerk seemed very familiar with each detail. Carefully rehearsed. She did not flinch when my friend groaned and griped.

“One hundred and sixty dollars, please,” she said.

B. A. looked like a sick mule. “Really? Really??” He counted out bills from his wallet. “This just don’t seem fair to me...”

I wanted to leave, before being tagged as disruptive in this public venue. But as we turned to go, I noticed magnetic stickers that said “Look Out For Motorcycles.” The safety-yellow design was similar to one I’d had on my previous pickup truck.

“Are these free, ma’am?” I inquired with humility.

The pretty clerk nodded her head. “Help yourself!”

A few minutes later, we were at Bob Evans. I ordered a giant biscuit-bowl with sausage gravy. My friend opted for a version with sriracha sauce.

“Well, at least we got free bumper stickers out of this deal,” I uttered in jest.

“Damned expensive ones, at that!” he yowled. “But, at least you got your story!”

My writing discipline was fully intact. The adventure was one guaranteed to yield a worthwhile prose project. I had already begun to compose paragraphs of creative text, in my head.

“Yes... I did!”

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