Traveling man

                                     Traveling Man

                                       1989

The man is dog tired and looking haggard having driven for over six hours. His tanned angular face is showing signs of fatigue. The whites of his dark brown eyes are turning a shade of red, and his short cropped brown hair is mussy. He is a touring businessman on his way home from Bishop, driving south on I-395 through the Mojave Desert. The hypnotic hum of the tires against the asphalt, and the steady rhythmic flashing of the broken white center lines, are hypnotic and taking a toll on him. He yawns, then notices the billboard advertising a restaurant just ahead. The large letters claim it is no more than ten minutes away, probably like 15 more since the sign is old the speed limit was probably 70 miles per hour when erected and has since been lowered to 55 miles per hour. It also guarantees great food, what a bonus.

         “Great!” he thinks, “Just what I need!”

         12 minutes later he slows his car after spotting the restaurant. He pulls the car onto the gravel parking lot, the gravel crunching underneath his tires and rising up a grayish dust that whiffs away in the evening breeze. He finds an empty spot in front of the restaurant and parks. He shuts off the engine and gets out of the car, stretches and walks towards front door of the establishment, noting it has an old wooden screen door.

         “Haven’t seen one of these in a long time.” he chuckles to himself, “Just like Mom’s home cooking.”

         He steps up onto the porch, opens the creaking screen door and goes inside.

         As he enters, the woman behind the counter looks up from what she is doing and eyes him askance and a smile breaks across her face.

         “Good evening, sir. Coffee?” she asks in a soft raspy voice, as he ambles to the counter.

         “Yes, thank you.” he replies, placing himself upon a stool at the counter. He removes his jacket then checks the counter for excess water before placing his elbows on it. Leaning onto the worn green linoleum counter he rubs his tired face and weary eyes with his hands. The woman approaches and places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and inquires if he is hungry while holding a menu out for him. He sits up and drops his hands from his face, smiles and takes the menu from the woman, thanking her. He looks at the menu for few seconds, a reflex, as he always orders the same thing in every restaurant he visits on the road. Country ham, two eggs over easy, home fries, toast, orange juice and a large glass of milk. He lays the menu down and the woman is still there with pencil and pad in hand. He places his order, and the woman writes it all down, tears off the top sheet of paper and sticks it on a rotating wheel for the cook to see... She also says something to the cook about dead birds and pigs, or something to that extent, then goes about her chores.

         The man never understood why it was that waitresses always wrote down the small order for a single meal. Why didn’t they just tell the cook, seems like it would be easy to remember? He watches as the cook snatches the paper of the wheel, causing it to turn and sees the cook staring at him, making him uncomfortable enough he averts his gaze.

         Sipping his coffee, he scans the restaurant and catches the eye of a man sitting alone in a booth who is staring at him. The man at the counter gives a little nod of acknowledgement and takes another sip of coffee.

         After a few minutes the woman brings his food, which he devours hungrily.

         During his entire meal he feels as if he is being watched but is afraid if he looks everyone will be staring at him.

         He finishes his meal; wipes his mouth with his napkin then stands and walks over to the cashier station. As he is removing his wallet from his jacket, the woman comes over to take his check.

         “Great meal.” The man says, then chuckles, “Just like Mom used to make.”

         The woman just stares at him until he feels like a grinning fool. 

“That’ll be five dollars and 32 cents please.” The woman tells him.

He gives the woman a ten-dollar bill and lays his wallet on the counter next to the jar of candy, so he can get into his jacket. He reaches in the jar and removes a piece, unwraps it and pops it in his mouth. The woman hands him the change which he struggles to take while trying to put his coat back on. In somewhat of a bind, he takes the change and puts it in his pockets while sliding his arm into the jacket sleeve. Finally, he gets himself situated and looks towards the kitchen where he sees the cook watching him. He inwardly shivers and makes his way towards the exit.

         “Oh, shit, almost forgot.” he says, turning back around to face the woman. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulls out a couple of dollars and hands it to the woman, “Almost forgot to leave a tip.” She looks at the money with no expression and thanks him.

         Once outside he breathes in the cooling night desert air. He shakes his head incredulity, and heads for his car, whistling the theme from the “Twilight Zone.” He gets into his car and drives onto the highway for the final lap home, all thoughts of the restaurant are gone.

He’s about three miles away from the restaurant when he comes upon a hauler, an 18-wheeler, creeping along at a steady law abiding 55 mile per hour. The man snorts, then speeds up to pass the big rig. As the man begins his pass the 18-wheeler begin to speed up, matching the cars speed, not allowing him to pass. The man looks over at the rig wondering what the hell the trucker is doing. Not being able to pass him safely, the man slows back down and moves his car behind the big diesel. The 18-wheeler then slows back down to 55 miles per hour.

Frustrated the man slaps his hand on his steering wheel and decides to try again. Just as he is about to swing around he sees headlights of another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction heading straight for him. His eyes widen as he sees the vehicle and in a panic hits his brakes and swerves erratically back into his own lane, again behind the 18-wheeler, “Shit, shit, shit!” he exclaimed aloud. His vehicle swerves as he fights for control. It fishtails right, then the man turns the wheel making the vehicle come under his control. The other vehicle flashes by with horn blowing and the man can hear it as it hits a crescendo passing him then fades to nothing as his vehicle whisks by, disappearing over the crest of a hill. The man breathes a sigh of relief, tries to settle his nerves and stays behind the big rig for a few minutes.

The man knows he is tired but just wants to get off the road, out of this car and be home. Not wanting to waste any more time, he pulls his car to the left of the rig to ensure the lane is clear. Seeing he has room this time he stomps on the accelerator and passes the long trailer. As he passes by the cab the man blows his car horn and raises his right arm, palm up, in a “What the hell” gesture towards the truck driver. After passing he settles down as pleasantly as he can, turns on the radio, and sets the cruise control to a police-safe 70 miles per hour.

About 15 minutes later he looks into his rearview mirror and sees the headlights of another vehicle approaching at a high rate of speed. He looks down at his speedometer to assure he is still traveling at 70 MPH. Seeing that he is he chuckles to himself and glances in the rearview mirror again.

“Must be in some hurry, and here I am thinking I was.” he to himself. The man brings his attention back to the road for a couple of minutes forgetting about the lights.

        Seemingly out of nowhere bright lights reflect harshly in his rearview mirrors and a loud air horn blares. The man nearly jumps out of his skin.

         “Jesus!” he swears, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, trying to get me killed?”

         The man guesses the trucker wants to pass him back, so he releases the cruise control and decelerates down to 55 miles per hour. The truck decelerates along with him, continuing to blare the horn and flash its lights. The man rolls his window down and using his left-hand signals for the truck to pass. The truck stays right behind the man’s car not making any attempt to pass.

         “What kind of chicken shit game is this?” the man mutters, “I pass you, so now you’re on my ass. Why doesn’t he pass me?” he continues grumbling angrily. “Hell, this is almost like…” The man suddenly realizes what this reminds him of. He remembers seeing this happen in a television movie, years ago. Dennis Weaver is playing a man driving home in the desert when he passes a truck. The rest of the entire movie revolves around a game of cat and mouse between the truck and Dennis Weaver’s car. The trucker keeps trying to kill Dennis Weaver every chance he gets by running him off the road.

In a slight panic, the man looks into his rearview mirror and exclaims out loud, “Not me you’re not, you son of a bitch.” He applies pressure to the gas pedal and accelerates quickly, leaving the 18-wheeler behind. The man laughs as the flashing headlights behind him diminish and the noise of the horn fades into the night air.

The man drives a few more miles and decides he has placed enough distance between himself and the truck, no use getting a ticket. He hasn’t gone five miles when he looks into his review mirror. His eyes widen as the sight sends a chill up his spine, causing him to sit up straighter. The 18-wheeler is still behind him and moving up fast, flash flashing. Though the distance is still too great, the man imagines he can hear the noise of the air horn as it blares. He speeds up again when he sees in the distance the lights of a gas station. The diesel is closing fast.

The man glances into the mirror again, “Ha, ha, you SOB, gotcha now.” He speaks to himself as he applies the brakes and moves off the side of the road heading towards the gas station. The man is driving too fast as his car goes from asphalt to the gravel spread along the side of the road. The car is not responding as it should as if it has a mind of its own. It turns into a slide, the right side of the car heading straight for the island containing the gas pumps. The man attempts to correct by turning the steering wheel to the left, then the right, all the while pressing both feet on the brakes pedal all to no avail, the car has taken over. The right rear quarter panel slams into the first pump, shearing it off at the base. Instantly a geyser of gasoline spews 20 feet into the night sky, the car continuing on its slide with the undercarriage caught up on the island. The man no longer has control of his fate or the car. The right rear door bashes into the second pump, but it doesn’t shear off. Instead the pump bends over, and giving just enough rebound, causes the car to turn on a 180 degrees axis and strike the support pole of the overhang. The support snaps like a large tinker toy in the hands of a giant. The support flies into the plate-glass window of the station, shattering the window then demolishing the interior. The overhang cascades down onto the island with the sound of twisting, tearing metal. The car continues to careen out of control until the rear end comes around a second time and crashes into the garage doors, caving them in like aluminum foil. The car finally stops moving and settles down with a sickening thump.

While the car is going through its aerobics, a spark from God know where, ignites the spreading pool of fuel. The flames followed along the expanding streams of gas, until they reach the pumps, erupting into a flaming ball of fire and triggering an explosion seen and heard for miles away. The man is groggy and disorientated, but conscious, suddenly aware he is in grave danger. He fumbles for the door latch, missing it, then having his finger slip on it. Finally, he gets the latch in his grasp and opens the door only to be held inside by the seatbelt. Panic starts to swell within him as he watches the flames expand. He releases the seatbelt and spills out onto the hard concrete. The flames are enormous and the heat scotching. The man tries to scramble to his feet, and for his efforts he is rewarded with scraped knees and hands.

He manages to half stagger and half crawl to a safe distance. There he collapses onto his back and barely raises his head to witness the carnage. Rising further up, he is able to sit on his butt, leaning back on his hands. He is breathing heavily as he stares in disbelief and shock watching the fire as it consumes the entire station, to include his car.

When the man’s car was wheeling wildly out of control through the gas station, the 18-wheeler is stopping just a short distance away, having pulled to a stop along the side of the highway. The driver’s side door opens and a lone figure hops down from the cab. Shielding his eyes from the light of the flames, he searches the area until he finds the other man’s half raised position on the ground not too far away, looking a total mess. The truck driver takes off in a run towards the man and slows as he closes within a few feet of him. He stops and looks down at the man who does not acknowledge his presence. Finally, the trucker speaks.

“Hey mister, you okay?”

The man on the ground sighs and slowly looks up towards where he hears the voice staring at the man without recognition. Then he looks passed the trucker and sees the 18-wheeler parked along the roadway. Now recognition sets in and the man straightens in alarm.

“Hey, now… now wait a minute, I didn’t mean to make you mad!” the man begins to babble, trying to back away from the truck driver at the same time. “You just leave me alone, haven’t you done enough? Just leave me alone, you hear me!” he shouts trying to distance himself from the other man by scooting back on his butt. The trucker just furrows his forehead and scratches the side of his bearded cheek,

“What in Sam’s Hill are you ranting about mister? I just asked if you were all right. That’s some damn accident if I ever did see one. You’re just lucky to be alive, and lucky the station was closed for the night.

The man stops babbling and stares at the trucker, then shakily stands. He takes a tentative step towards the trucker.

“Wasn’t… wasn’t that you, following me in the rig, flashing your lights and… blowing your horn?”

The trucker looks at the man and smiles, “Yup, that was me. Been trying to get you to stop for God knows how long.”

“But, but why?” the man stammers.

The trucker watches the roof of the station collapse inwards, sending a display of fireworks in the form of flames and sparks into the cool evening air. The trucker quickly comes out of his trance and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a wallet.

“Oh, yeah, almost forgot why I was chasing ya, what with the accident and all.” He says holding the wallet out for the man to see. “You left this on the counter at the restaurant. Waitress asked me since I was going in the same direction if’n I could get it back to you. Thinking you might be need’n it and all. Could have saved ya a hoop of trouble if’n you’d just stopped.”

The trucker takes a step towards the man to hand him the wallet. The man looks at it then slowly takes it from the trucker. The trucker watches the man for a second or two then turns and starts walking back towards his rig.

“Guess I call this in. Hope you’re insured.” he says over his shoulder as he departs. The man just stands there, staring at the wallet, then the trucker, then the fire, then back at the wallet. A couple of minutes later the 18-wheeler that the man in the car had passed earlier slowly drives by, rubber necking the carnage. The driver stops by the other rig to see if he can lend a hand.

“What the hell happened?” the second trucker asks. “Anyone hurt?” He looks at the burning car. “Jesus, that’s the idiot who tried to pass me earlier. He didn’t see an approaching car and would have hit him head on if I hadn’t sped up to keep him behind me. Jeez, some people have no business on the road.”

As the two truckers talk, they hear over the sounds of the roaring flames a loud hysterical laughter of someone gone mad.