The Undertaker

Uncle Ike's parking lot was the size of several football fields. Seventy or eighty 18-wheelers were parked three-deep, filling the lot, plus twenty more sitting around the perimeter and out on the exit road leading back to the Interstate. Most were big, fully equipped, over the road rigs. Like the pioneers out west who circled their wagons in Indian country, they used these big truck stops to keep an eye out for each other at night. Having them all in one place was a whole lot more efficient for the hookers, fences, bookies, and drug dealers. If there was strength in numbers, there were discounts for volume, too.

I started at the exit, figuring I'd catch the ones leaving early and work my way back. Four big rigs rolled past me, but they didn't stop despite a thumb and my best smile. I walked back up the ramp, but the first three I passed that were parked were dark. Their drivers must be asleep. The next guy was awake, but that guy completely ignored me. The one after that at least leaned out and asked where I was going. When I said Chicago, he said, “Sorry, I'm peeling off on I-80 and going west.”

With the fifth truck, I got a break. The driver of, a big White long-haul rig, motioned me over for a closer look. “We ain't supposed to pick nobody up,” he said.

“I know, but I really need a ride.”

“Yeah, you look like you do,” he said as he eyed me up and down. “Okay, hop in, son,” he pointed at the passenger side door. I didn't wait. I ran around and climbed up before he could change his mind. Even in the dim light from the dashboard, I could see he was a big man, maybe in his late-fifties, with muscular forearms from wrestling with steering wheels for too many years to think about. He wore a plaid, flannel shirt like I did, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Under the shirt, I saw a set of long johns, which I suspected he wore summer, winter, spring, and fall, along with the pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots and the greasy Boston Red Socks baseball cap. With a beer gut that hung out over his belt, he was a classic.

“I'm George, George Deevers,” I told him.

“Marty Sims,” he answered as he dropped the big White into gear and steered it down the long ramp toward the Interstate.

I looked around the cab, surprised at how spacious it was. It even had a built-in sleeping compartment up behind the front seats. “This is nice in here, Marty. You could almost rent out rooms.”

“Yeah, but when you're in here all day long except for meals, for maybe a couple of weeks on-end, it don't seem big at all.” He looked over and studied me for a moment. “Where you goin’, Son?”

“There's a wedding in Chicago I've got to be at.”

“Yeah? Looks like you're travelin’ light. No suitcase? No bag? I had to do that myself a couple of times, travel light and fast, and staying one step ahead of the cops.”

“You were a bad guy, Marty?

“I wouldn't say bad exactly, but I shot a man once.”

I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I didn't try. I sat back in the seat and tried to relax as the truck picked up speed. The cab was plush, with nice seats, all leather, and a laptop computer and a CB radio on brackets fastened to the dashboard.

“A laptop?” I asked. “You've got to be kidding. ”

“A driver's worst problem used to be a bad disk in his back or hemorrhoids. Now it's a bad disk in his computer and viruses in his e-mail. Most truck stops have Wi-Fi now and our “paper work” is all electronic. I have to check in every night to get new pick-up orders, routings, bills of lading, all the rest of that crap.”

“And a CB? What's happening out there?” I asked.

“Not much. A couple of accidents, some come-ons from the hookers back in Indy, and warnings about where the bears got their radar set up. The usual stuff.”

“The usual stuff, huh?” I said, relieved.

“Now, there was a lot of commotion about two or three hours ago back in Ohio. Some sheriff went missing up in Campbell County, north of Columbus. Him and his car.”

“No kidding?”

“Name was Dannmeyer, and all the little bears are tearing up the woods trying to find Papa.” I saw a sly grin cross his lips. “Funny thing, at least a half-dozen truckers called in sayin’ they'd go the bail for whoever it was put that big prick down.”

“Really! A hard ass, huh?”

“Last year he beat up a couple of truckers in that cracker-box jail of his. Word is he does even worse to women.”

“Maybe he got what he had coming.”

“You know, maybe he did. Maybe he did, at that.” Marty said with a twinkle in his eye as he looked across at me again.