Trucker Speed

by William Dinneen

Laura,

It’s 4 a.m. A long lonely night and I miss you. Tomorrow I’ll be in Kansas City. Then I can sleep. Started in Oregon, but the truck’s empty. Heard there was some work down south. Tryna be home soon. I love you and I’m sorry.

All My Love,

Owen

Under the dim light of the rearview mirror, Owen had trouble directing his tongue toward the sticky part of the envelope. His hands trembled as he held the five-inch strip at an angle under the lightbulb. He was tired. Owen was parked at a gas station in Fort Collins, Colorado. After hauling it over the Rockies it was time for a rest stop. Three other trucks were parked in the lot. Their lights were off. Must be asleep. The station itself was illuminated, a twenty-four-hour type of location. Hot coffee and cold soda. Just enough to get Owen through the next ten hours. He’d been driving for twenty already. But with an empty truck, there was no time to lose. Without a load, Owen had no income. Without a load, Owen had no reason to drive.

He sealed the envelope and threw it across the dashboard. He’d send it out in Kansas. Hopefully, she’d see it. How many had he sent since he’d left? Ten? More? Probably. At this point, the address was as familiar as his own name: Laura Donaldson, 3945 East Lake Avenue, Houston, Texas, 22034. One day, he promised himself, he’d park his semi-truck along that suburban block and let it rot while he stayed home and loved her until she was so sick of it that she took up yoga as an excuse to escape the house.

Owen opened his door and carefully climbed down from the driver’s seat. His body, tired and sore, took a moment to realize it was no longer sitting. He walked to the gas station. Inside, it was quiet except for the sickening buzz of the fluorescent overhead lights. He entered the bathroom and took a long piss. This godforsaken gas station bathroom; the blue, detergent-scented piss-pucks, half dissolved in the urinal; this was familiar; this was Owen’s life.

Leaving the bathroom, he sneered at the rows of candy bars on display to entice him. When taken to the extreme, a lack of sleep makes food seem silly. He nodded to the man at the counter and turned toward the refrigerated doors. First, Coca-Cola, an easy choice. But nowadays, there were so many damn coffee brands. Owen decided on the sweet-looking Dunkin’ Donuts drink. With both bottles in hand, he went to the register. “Thanks,” he said.

As he climbed back into his truck, he sighed. No different than before. No use delaying. Owen pulled out of the lot. As he merged onto the empty highway, he took a deep breath and prepared himself for the hours ahead.

The sun rose over the highway. It ignited the clouds, turning them into orange slime trails, as if left behind by heavenly slugs. But Owen was focused on the concrete wall between him and a car crash, and his eyelids were heavy. After driving for two hours his coffee was gone.

Reaching into his glove box, Owen pulled out two small plastic bags. Percocets, amphetamines. Benzos and Percs. He took two pills out of each bag, set them on the dashboard, then put the plastic baggies back in the compartment. He’d done this, it seemed, a hundred times. Stabilizing the truck’s steering wheel with his knees, he used the Coca-Cola bottle to crush the tablets into smaller pieces, then, with a folded napkin, he funneled the fragments into the bottle, holding it between his thighs.

It tasted sweet, like normal Coke but with extra bubbles. He enjoyed the taste of the dissolved prescriptions. He smiled at the relief that washed across his body. Suddenly, the vibrations of the road weren’t so oppressive. In fact, it seemed to Owen as if the wheels of his truck were wings, and he floated along the shortgrass prairie without touching the ground. The leather steering wheel felt comfortable in his hands. Its bumpy texture reminded him of a desert: rough, dry, and full of rocks.

He blinked and was in Kansas. Rows of corn stretched for miles on either side, and Owen flew by them like a crow. He smiled, imagining what life might be like as a stalk of corn; he and Laura, sitting together in a field forever. He grinned.

The green expanse accelerated in his peripheral, until, suddenly, the city was before him. Owen glanced at the letter sitting on his dashboard. Laura Donaldson, 3945 East Lake Avenue, Houston, Texas, 22034. Indistinct memories bled through his mind, like overly wet watercolor pooling onto a paper page. One day, he thought, he would park this truck.

As he pulled up to the Kansas City post office, Owen felt hollow and numb. After thirty hours of driving, he had arrived, but the drugs and the lack of sleep had dried his emotional reservoirs. He left his truck, walked over to the building, and slipped his note into the blue metal mailbox outside.

Mechanically, he checked to see if he’d received any mail. Nothing. No surprise. Laura hadn’t written to him in years. In fact, he didn’t even know if she still lived in Houston. What did it matter? Laura? Life? So what? She may be gone, but he kept on writing; his truck may be empty, but he kept on driving. What else was there for him to do?

Owen turned away from the post office and let his mind return to his truck. The front wheel seemed flat, didn’t it? He checked into the DoubleTree Inn next door, collapsed onto the plastic bed, and dreamed of nothing.