ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom is a poet from Devon in the UK and has been published in Punk Noir, Bristol Noir and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
I had insomnia even before I started long-haul freighting, now I take speed because it helps in other ways. It helps with the nights out there; it helps answer the questions in here and with the things that are being hauled behind me. I have been described as the lonely type by the few people, mainly ex-girlfriends, that have known me. Being this way, and not knowing how or why people “settle down”, I answered an ad for long haul freight driving. I have been on the road now non-stop for eight years. All of the jobs blur into the meaningless, just how, and, when by? Except some, like this one I’m hauling up deep into the country, this one I know is a bad one. This one came with an NDA and has to do with one of the intelligence agencies no doubt. But on a clear, cold and star filled night out on these plains, it’s better not to let the mind run too far ahead.
“Com in Cactus, this is Tom and Jerry, do you copy?” It was Jerry and his cat Tom, a fellow freighter who I’d gotten to know over the last few nights.
“This is Cactus, coming in clear, good to hear you, over.”
“Ah good to hear you too Cactus my man, we are just letting you know there’s a chicken coop up here, a hundred miles south of the ravine with a fine burger joint next to it, over.”
“Thanks Jerry, I appreciate the tip as always, over.”
“No problem, my man, and say hello to Charlene for me, ha ha, over and out.”
Any contact out here was appreciated, and these tips provided some hope of all a man really needs; a thought of a woman, no matter how imaginary, ahead. Being alone out here can be both beautiful and overwhelmingly depressing. Picking up woman on the way is something a lot of us do, is it right? I think it’s only the people who don’t know, that ask these types of questions. Driving at speed down this straight road, the bugs lighting up briefly like snow, and the deer that run out into the road, sometimes they make it, sometimes they don’t. When they don’t I feel bad, in this 18 there’s barely a sound, little blood, and the body left for the wild dogs.
This must be the place Jerry was talking about up ahead. Weighting in is all automated now, all goes off to where ever it goes, to whoever needs it. The burger joint is thankfully still run by people, probably from around a town nearby. Coming here is like going to church or something, getting to meet people, maybe tell people something and hear the sins of another.
“Good evening darl, what can I get for you?”
“I’ll have the big boy burger and fries, thank you, and the number for Charlene.”
“Sure thing sugar, be right with you.”
This is how some places worked, the woman would give a cut to the waitresses for passing on their numbers, this way the waitress would get a good look at the person who would be with the girl, Charlene. Sitting at the booth, the hearing senses, when you have been alone for a long time, is hyper sensitive to other voices. People talk about everything except the truth though; happy marriages, taxes by the government, deaths, births, illnesses, lottery wins, all wrapped up in a expectable sounding stories, that have been told over and over since men wrote on walls. Music played, people smiled because they thought they had too, and I smiled back, because it was better than the other option.
On finishing my food, I saw a women walk up by the window and heard the ding of the bells as the door open and then walk towards me, she had long brunette hair and a full body, dressed in a fake fur coat and skin tight jeans and cowboy boots. She had eyes like pirates jewels and a smile that evaporated all other noise around me.
“Hi I’m Charlene, pleased to meet you, and you are?”
“Hi, I’m Frank, pleased to meet you too... Charlene, you are very pretty.”
Talking with a woman in these circumstances can be awkward, but I’ve mostly found that the more human you are the easier the talking is. And that it’s often the man who is the insecure one of the deal. The one who’s hiding.
“Want to get out of here Frank?”
“YES.”
My cabin was kept clean, this was difficult on long journeys, but there are laundry mats along the way, and no reason not to have clean sheets. And as she walked across the lot in the moon light and phosphorus she glowed. The smell of perfume leaving a trail in the nights air.
“How far are we going Frank baby?”
“Want to come south with me?”
“Sure, I’d like that honey.”
She climbed into the cabins back and onto the bed, and I followed, now on the bed she took off her coat and boots one by one, then her jumper, jeans, until she had just her purple bra and pants left. Climbing onto the bed and onto her knees she began to unbuckle my belt, pull down my jeans and took out my penis and licked, and began to suck and lick, she worked the whole of me whilst I felt inside of her bra and took her breast out, with the other holding her hair back. I came inside her mouth and as if from a waiting room of hell, a feeling of loneliness came behind. All I wanted to do was regain the feeling of excitement and to hold onto her and to have life flow again.
“Thanks for that Frank baby, be good.”
She was out again in 10 minutes, into the cold air, leaving behind her perfume like spoil, no point trying to make it something it’s not.
On the road again, with the smell still on the sheets and on my clothes, nostalgia moving in, the truck pulled at the diesel hard, as it gradually got back up to speed. The trees became black marshes again and whatever was in the back was on its way again to hell. Visions of what I’d lost in life began to poor in; family BBQs, watching sports with a son, community, a sense of belonging somewhere. The inky slick road began to hum under the wheels, the foot becoming heavy, like liquid gold, filling from the boots up the leg, warm and bright. Men who have it all and complain, children who follow the man, not content, into society that ignorantly wishes for things other than what they have. A scared people who build on fear, new ways to destroy it all. I didn’t choose this, this loneliness, I move in a hostile environment of hunters from birth, and I don’t understand it. The speed and the sound of screaming coming from the wheels.
“Caution: Ravine 2 miles ahead, begin to slow.”
On and on and on, no one around to see, the flames, the mess, the energy, the choice.
The ravine lit up like hell.