by Wade Harris
I’m thumbing through the GreenPages and see an ad for a 1987 Freightliner FLA cabover. The price was way right. The only catch was the location.
I call up my nephew Wade.
“Alright son, pack ya bag we goin’ on the road to New York City.”
“Aww man that hell hole?”
“Yep. Lookin at a truck. Cummins Big Cam III. 9 speed. Good shit. Pick you up at 4am. Be ready, we taking a flatbed unloaded. We prolly do it in two days if you drive some. ”
“Goddamnit Uncle Jim I don’t have a CDL.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Pack a case of Bud and that bag, hoss!”
One day that boy gonna learn, when you grow to be 6’8”, you truly and utterly do not give a fuck.
Now my main truck—Earlene—is an ‘88 Peterbilt 379. 5 million miles on the frame these days. Yep, she’s got a CAT 3406B that Wade did something to and pushes 500hp. I reckon it’s the 3rd or 4th engine. She’s cherry red, maroon Z-stripes, nothing but chicken lights and chrome. Eight inch stacks and sweet maroon leather on the inside with shag carpet. Hard to beat. But I needed something else to dump another driver in and expand business.
The next day I’m driving Earlene up to Wade’s trailer at 3:59am. He told me her CAT engine always rattles the Elvis plates off the wall in the kitchen, so I always make sure to kick on the high idle when I pick him up. Dammit. This time he’s waiting outside smoking a cigarette with his leather jacket, duffle bag, three cases of Matco tools, and CAT diesel hat on. We load up and this sumbitch hands me a tape—Big Time by Little Texas.
“The hell is this, and when you gonna cut that long hair.”
“C’mon Uncle Jim put it on, I have a new song to show you. It’s like you, man.”
“Bullshit, you do it, I’m driving goddamnit.”
Just as we turned on to I-45N out of Houston, Earlene’s CAT 3406 screaming, her 6x9 speakers started bleeding "God Blessed Texas." Have to admit, kinda like this new country song. That slide guitar reminded me of Billy Gibbons.
Well after about a dozen stops, one overnight in Nashville, Arby’s at Love’s, 12 Budweisers and 7 of Wade’s country cassette tapes, 3 of which were Dwight Yoakam, we had reached NYC. Wade wanted to see ground zero but we were on a mission and I didn’t feel like getting sad for my country.
Soon we got to the auction yard and found my new truck. This goddamn Freightshaker was a good lookin’ sumbitch. Red with a blue stripe. Wade said it was kinda like Optimus Prime. He’s always on about fancy words and what not so I told him that truck driving ain’t fancy college learning and the only prime directive I had was for his ass to load this goddamn truck up on the trailer as I did the paperwork with this Mickey Mouse salesman looking fucker in a striped suit.
This fuckin’ salesman even sounded like Mickey, high pitch, weird lotiony hands, with a yamulke. But hey, he cut me a pretty decent deal, I’ll give him that. I handed over the $23,000 in cash and I swear he got turned on. Booked it outta there, title in hand.
Just as I come out from getting away from this weirdo I hear an engine revved up, followed by squealing tires, and a huge crash. There a yellow Caprice taxi crumpled right into the front of Earlene. Her chrome bumper was dented in fierce and the radiator was jammed up in the engine bay. Sirens were already starting, people gawking, Wade throwing wrenches and cussing, I hadn’t been so stunned as the first time jumping out of a Huey in Vietnam. Then my senses came back.
I ran up to the taxi and screamed, “THE HELL WRONG WITH YOU SUMBITCH YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THIS GODDAMN TRUCK IS WORTH MOTHERFUCKER.”
He was either too fucked up, drunk, or didn’t speak English. I didn’t care either way. But the goddamn taxi was pissing gasoline all over the interior.
“BOY GET EARLENE BACKED UP RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”
As Wade jumped into Earlene, I tried the door of the Caprice. It was jammed.
I kicked that motherfucker with my size 15 boot and it finally gave way. What can I say they don’t call me Big Jim for nothing. I yanked this limp yankee sumbitch out and carried him in my arms to the sidewalk. Choking, spitting, bloody and delirious. Thank god EMS showed up then because I wasn’t about to give him CPR. Right then, the taxi went up in flames.
This asshole had a heart attack, which sucks for him, but this put a huge wrench in our plans. This meant a police report, a fight with insurance, and me trusting this new rig to tow Earlene home on the flatbed. The whole debacle took 6 goddamn hours, 6 asshole NYC cops, 6 EMS freaks trying to explain I needed oxygen and to ‘calm down sir’, 3 firetrucks, dickhead taxi rep, and bystanders pushing into us. I had enough, let me tell you. At least the salesman said we could keep the two trucks in his lot overnight and get loaded up in the morning.
Wade was flipping his shit worrying about the new truck being able to tow the trailer and Earlene back so I told him, “Goddamnit boy, I’ve seen worse in ‘nam. What we gonna do is get some dinner at a diner and then switch up the trucks. Glad this Freightshaker has a bunk at least. We each gonna have a bed tonight. C’mon use that damn tourist map and find us something.”
So he pulls it out and finds us something, we walk over to one of those coke can looking slick diners and have club sandwiches, french fries, and I think three Miller High Lifes. Well, we might have had 2 or 3 beers at the Irish pub next door too. Wade was on about some German beer or whatever, I told him as long as it’s yellow and not that pine tree hipster bullshit I’ll drink it.
Drunk on the way out in an alley, having to hold Wade up straight, we stopped to take a piss and something caught my eye. In the dim neon shadows we happened to see a burlap bag thrashing around a shallow dumpster. Oh hell no. A garbage truck was driving up and set down its hooks. The orange strobe lights cast a nasty glow.
“Now what in the fuck is this, I’ve had enough today.”
“Jesus Christ I don’t know Jim, I hate this place can we hurry up and get back to Earlene in the lot. I wanna get to bed. There’s probably a baby or some sick shit in there, don’t touch it. Let’s get out of this dude's way.”
“Dammit, we gotta look, you sick sumbitch. What if it is a damn baby.”
The garbage truck driver yelled at us, “GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU BUMS!”
Then I heard muffled cries from the bag, so I pulled out my Swiss Army Knife and cut it open, yelled back, “FUCK YOU!”
It was a baby.
A little puppy Rottweiler.
Poor shivering little thing, even made my heart hurt.
“What kind of bastard does this.”
“The same kind as down south.”
“Pricks.”
We took her with us.
In the morning we managed to unhook Earlene, get her on the trailer, and hook up my new Freightliner. Just as I was running through the last of our pre-departure checklist a taxi cab rolled up and the driver who crashed yesterday hobbled out in an arm sling and bandages.
“Ayy yous guys. I sure am glad I caught yous I cahn’t thank yous enough for pulling me out ah…”
Just then the little Rottweiler growled and ran right at the man. Biting him on the ankle.
“OW OW OW! GODDAMNIT YAS GUYS ARE CRAZY GET THIS FUCKING CRAZY BITCH OFF ME!!”
Wade started laughing.
I started laughing.
We jumped up in the cab of the big Freightshaker with that little Rottweiler. Wade punched in a tape and "Smokey Mountain Rain" by Ronnie Milsap crackled over the speakers.
Never knew she’d grow to be 126lbs. Hell, that’s just truck drivin’ sometimes.
Goddamn cabover made it back to Texas without a hiccup. We stopped at Cade’s Cove too, took a few Polaroids—still on my refrigerator.
Hell, I gave that truck to Wade when I retired—tape deck still working.
Earlene is in the yard, CAT still sings when I want her to.
Man, this was years ago. Wade stops by sometimes, but that dog went with me everywhere. She did 2 million miles without a complaint.
She’s buried out by the Pecan grove.
But from that day on—she was called Bitch.
______
Wade Harris
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