| General Fiction posted September 14, 2024 | Chapters: |
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The left lane, at least in the U.S., is for passing only
A chapter in the book Truckin
Truckin
by Wayne Fowler
Read the 1st chapter of "Ol' Silver and Red" at the end of this 'Truckin" chapter.
This is a deviation from both Ohmie, and Ben Persons. You might call it a descriptive rant born of driving frustrations.
1
“All I can say, Dude, is to get on some of the forums and then check out, you know, whoever seems like they could do it. But good luck. But I think you should just move. Like to the country, or somethin’, away from your noisy neighborhood.”
Clyde left the Dr. Geek shop no more disappointed than after his several other unsuccessful attempts to find an innovative electronic wiz, someone who could put together spare parts to come up with a device capable of stopping a truck, and simultaneously any of a trucker’s communication devices. He'd been using a fake story of wanting to shut down a neighbor's noise.
“Not possible, Man.” “No way, Dude.” “Too much movies.” The responses from the electronic shops had become predictable.
By the time Clyde decided that the forum suggestion was his best hope, he’d realized how stupid he’d been, in any case. Any one of the geeks could probably describe him. “Yes, Officer, he was about sixty, maybe sixty-five. Five foot nine, or so, about a hunnerd and sixty pounds, brown hair, no make that mostly gray, but a lot of forehead. Glasses… Oh, he looked a bit like Steven Spielberg.”
Yeah. Nothing to do about that now, except to figure out a disguise and to be more careful. But first, to do as much research as possible. And then to find someone through a network forum.
His goal – to lay up diesel trucks as efficiently as possible with the least peripheral or collateral damage as possible. How to ray gun, or stun gun in the more modern vernacular, and also to be able to drive away clean. He didn’t want to blow them up, or to cause collisions, just to disable them long enough to really, really aggravate the driver and his boss. He would take out his revenge against the entire industry. And Jane Ann would be avenged.
Another consideration of equal import was that the device not also incapacitate his own vehicle. That would be awkward.
2
“Retired, Darlin’,” Clyde said over the sixties rock-n-roll song playing on their favorite satellite radio station.
Clyde and his wife, Jane Ann were on one of their many road trips, jaunts to famous hiking places, or simply unique adventures. It was months previous to Clyde’s search for a ray gun.
Jane Ann’s smile said everything. Turning off the music, she turned to him, “I love you!”
His smile said everything. After the briefest pause, he exclaimed, “Rocky Mountains in ten hours. Only one hour at seven hundred miles an hour.”
Jane Ann gave him one of her locally famous, within their nine-year marriage, in any event, straight-faced emoticon expressions and then replied, “You know, this whole last year, I didn’t really feel retired until you sold that trailer park.”
Clyde glanced at her, allowing her thoughts to develop.
“I know it had meant a lot to you. Your baby, and all, but…”
“It was stressful, I’ll admit.” He well knew that it was not the reason Jane Ann had married him, almost being a deal-breaker. But she never pressed him to sell, even helped out as she could. Selling was his idea, putting it on the market the moment an unsolicited buyer made inquiries and then backed out. Getting so close to an offer teased visions of retirement travel with his late-in-life marriage to Jane Ann, a dream he’d never dared harbor.
Jane Ann had awaited Clyde’s response. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you were hoping. I’ll make it up to you by never asking for diamonds, or ordering anything but the dollar menu, or the child’s plate.” Her eyes conveyed both humor and sincerity.
“I love you, my beautiful bride!”
“You’re the cute one.” Her customary, but heartfelt retort. “But I know you took the offer because of me. You’d still own it if not for me.”
“I’d rather have you. And have you happy.” After a pause, he added, “That didn’t sound just right. Not the way I mean. The trailer park served its purpose. We’re ready to move on. And the way we live, waterfall hikes for entertainment, free hotel breakfasts, popcorn suppers and kisses for dessert, we’ll be fine.”
Jane Ann knew that they would be.
Colorado was their dream, not a dream but more like their plan, their ever-on-the-top-of-the-bucket-list item. They’d both seen Colorado before, in their past lives, but they wanted very much to share the grandeur, hike the trails, and see the sights. And before the week was out, they had – mountain peaks and ranges, wild mountain streams and waterfalls, elk, moose, deer, even a bear and mountain lions, creatures they’d only dreamed of witnessing in the wild.
Their drive home was punctuated with singing along with their favorite tunes and making plans for their next adventure. Once home long enough to see family, attend to aging Mom’s needs, and tend to the house for chores and such, it would be off to a VRBO, a vacation rental on the beach. Beachfront living nearly tied for first place favorite destinations. It would be Clyde’s first VRBO/resort experience, previously always traveling more on the cheap. Jane Ann booked the beachfront property regularly favored by her extended family, knowing that it would suit her and her Prince Charming. It did.
That next winter, they luxuriated in a hot tub on the deck of a rented Ozark Mountain cabin, the snow on their heads alternating with the splendor of a star-filled sky, nearly competing with the majesty of the New Mexico and Colorado starscapes. Clyde and Jane Ann were in love, in love with one another, and in love with adventures, but mostly with one another, since even the most simple of activities solicited opportunities for expressions of their love and affection.
After a few winter months at home, the time spent largely editing photos for their many albums, and each working on their various writing projects: short stories, self-published, or never-published novels, or contest entries of which they’d both scored occasional wins. Their love waned not the slightest. Clyde wrote corny faux sonnets that delighted Jane Ann who kept her true criticisms to herself. One such, They Met at the Salad Bar, was a tribute to their whirlwind romance and marriage within five minutes of introduction. Well, that’s another thing – they both reveled in hyperbole.
Another trip to the west – Clyde’s project, the fulfillment of a bucket list to see the Rockies in all their glorious jeweled splendor – crowned and covered in snow.
On one of the first long, up-hill climbs just inside the state of New Mexico on I-40, Clyde was the first to extoll “Truckers’ Prison”, assigning the bad-driving trucker to the netherworld prison that Clyde and Jane Ann concocted as a means to deal with the many misbehaving truck drivers they’d encountered over the miles of their touring. They were in full agreement that the old Knights-of-the-Road were creatures of the past – extinct. The modern breed of trucker, as far as they could tell, were inconsiderate to say the least, and dangerous at worst. Clyde had, over the years, as had most every other four-wheeler driver, as referred to by truckers, learned to expect the worst. He’d learned to expect that they would cut a car off, pulling in front of it at the last moment to attempt a six-county-long pass of another truck traveling a half-a-mile-per-hour slower, sometimes not slower at all once hitting the previously blocked headwind. This trucker well deserved his stint in Clyde and Jane Ann’s Truckers’ Prison, not only taking an exorbitant time to pass but then taking forever to pull back into the right lane. Finally, presuming that the trucker’s goal was to remain in the passing lane to pass another, far-distant truck or motorhome, Clyde signaled and turned into the right lane, intending to pass on the right. Determining that the truck was, indeed, bent on remaining in the passing lane, another truck ahead about a half mile in the right lane, Clyde accelerated to pass.
This particular truck was designed with a low window at the front bottom of the passenger door. Clyde glimpsed through the window at the driver, Santa Claus without the red suit or spectacles, his beard a dirty gray instead of shining white, a baseball cap instead of a red, fur-lined, and ribbed hat. The trucker suddenly swerved to the right, a shocked look in his eyes as his head turned to the window a half-second after his hands had turned the steering wheel. Jerking to the right, slamming on his breaks, correcting, re-hitting his brakes, Clyde avoided a major collision. The first truck that both Clyde and Santa Claus passed was able to change lanes left and miss both Clyde and Jane Ann and the wayward trucker, who eventually stopped a quarter mile on, a day late deciding not to simply keep driving. (hyperbole here)
Clyde’s evasive action prevented a wreck, other than two flat tires that is, but Jane Ann fared not so well, striking the side of her head of the side window, cracking her skull, and causing massive brain bleeding. She never regained consciousness, breathing her last even before being unbuckled, despite Clyde’s desperate attempts to revive her. The trucker never left his vehicle, simply sitting in his seat, concocting his story for the police of a crazy four-wheeler passing him on the right just after he made a pass himself. He was a thousand miles and states away before Clyde even began to come to himself, unsure who that self even was without Jane Ann.
Read the 1st chapter of "Ol' Silver and Red" at the end of this 'Truckin" chapter.
This is a deviation from both Ohmie, and Ben Persons. You might call it a descriptive rant born of driving frustrations.
1
“All I can say, Dude, is to get on some of the forums and then check out, you know, whoever seems like they could do it. But good luck. But I think you should just move. Like to the country, or somethin’, away from your noisy neighborhood.”
Clyde left the Dr. Geek shop no more disappointed than after his several other unsuccessful attempts to find an innovative electronic wiz, someone who could put together spare parts to come up with a device capable of stopping a truck, and simultaneously any of a trucker’s communication devices. He'd been using a fake story of wanting to shut down a neighbor's noise.
“Not possible, Man.” “No way, Dude.” “Too much movies.” The responses from the electronic shops had become predictable.
By the time Clyde decided that the forum suggestion was his best hope, he’d realized how stupid he’d been, in any case. Any one of the geeks could probably describe him. “Yes, Officer, he was about sixty, maybe sixty-five. Five foot nine, or so, about a hunnerd and sixty pounds, brown hair, no make that mostly gray, but a lot of forehead. Glasses… Oh, he looked a bit like Steven Spielberg.”
Yeah. Nothing to do about that now, except to figure out a disguise and to be more careful. But first, to do as much research as possible. And then to find someone through a network forum.
His goal – to lay up diesel trucks as efficiently as possible with the least peripheral or collateral damage as possible. How to ray gun, or stun gun in the more modern vernacular, and also to be able to drive away clean. He didn’t want to blow them up, or to cause collisions, just to disable them long enough to really, really aggravate the driver and his boss. He would take out his revenge against the entire industry. And Jane Ann would be avenged.
Another consideration of equal import was that the device not also incapacitate his own vehicle. That would be awkward.
2
“Retired, Darlin’,” Clyde said over the sixties rock-n-roll song playing on their favorite satellite radio station.
Clyde and his wife, Jane Ann were on one of their many road trips, jaunts to famous hiking places, or simply unique adventures. It was months previous to Clyde’s search for a ray gun.
Jane Ann’s smile said everything. Turning off the music, she turned to him, “I love you!”
His smile said everything. After the briefest pause, he exclaimed, “Rocky Mountains in ten hours. Only one hour at seven hundred miles an hour.”
Jane Ann gave him one of her locally famous, within their nine-year marriage, in any event, straight-faced emoticon expressions and then replied, “You know, this whole last year, I didn’t really feel retired until you sold that trailer park.”
Clyde glanced at her, allowing her thoughts to develop.
“I know it had meant a lot to you. Your baby, and all, but…”
“It was stressful, I’ll admit.” He well knew that it was not the reason Jane Ann had married him, almost being a deal-breaker. But she never pressed him to sell, even helped out as she could. Selling was his idea, putting it on the market the moment an unsolicited buyer made inquiries and then backed out. Getting so close to an offer teased visions of retirement travel with his late-in-life marriage to Jane Ann, a dream he’d never dared harbor.
Jane Ann had awaited Clyde’s response. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you were hoping. I’ll make it up to you by never asking for diamonds, or ordering anything but the dollar menu, or the child’s plate.” Her eyes conveyed both humor and sincerity.
“I love you, my beautiful bride!”
“You’re the cute one.” Her customary, but heartfelt retort. “But I know you took the offer because of me. You’d still own it if not for me.”
“I’d rather have you. And have you happy.” After a pause, he added, “That didn’t sound just right. Not the way I mean. The trailer park served its purpose. We’re ready to move on. And the way we live, waterfall hikes for entertainment, free hotel breakfasts, popcorn suppers and kisses for dessert, we’ll be fine.”
Jane Ann knew that they would be.
Colorado was their dream, not a dream but more like their plan, their ever-on-the-top-of-the-bucket-list item. They’d both seen Colorado before, in their past lives, but they wanted very much to share the grandeur, hike the trails, and see the sights. And before the week was out, they had – mountain peaks and ranges, wild mountain streams and waterfalls, elk, moose, deer, even a bear and mountain lions, creatures they’d only dreamed of witnessing in the wild.
Their drive home was punctuated with singing along with their favorite tunes and making plans for their next adventure. Once home long enough to see family, attend to aging Mom’s needs, and tend to the house for chores and such, it would be off to a VRBO, a vacation rental on the beach. Beachfront living nearly tied for first place favorite destinations. It would be Clyde’s first VRBO/resort experience, previously always traveling more on the cheap. Jane Ann booked the beachfront property regularly favored by her extended family, knowing that it would suit her and her Prince Charming. It did.
That next winter, they luxuriated in a hot tub on the deck of a rented Ozark Mountain cabin, the snow on their heads alternating with the splendor of a star-filled sky, nearly competing with the majesty of the New Mexico and Colorado starscapes. Clyde and Jane Ann were in love, in love with one another, and in love with adventures, but mostly with one another, since even the most simple of activities solicited opportunities for expressions of their love and affection.
After a few winter months at home, the time spent largely editing photos for their many albums, and each working on their various writing projects: short stories, self-published, or never-published novels, or contest entries of which they’d both scored occasional wins. Their love waned not the slightest. Clyde wrote corny faux sonnets that delighted Jane Ann who kept her true criticisms to herself. One such, They Met at the Salad Bar, was a tribute to their whirlwind romance and marriage within five minutes of introduction. Well, that’s another thing – they both reveled in hyperbole.
Another trip to the west – Clyde’s project, the fulfillment of a bucket list to see the Rockies in all their glorious jeweled splendor – crowned and covered in snow.
On one of the first long, up-hill climbs just inside the state of New Mexico on I-40, Clyde was the first to extoll “Truckers’ Prison”, assigning the bad-driving trucker to the netherworld prison that Clyde and Jane Ann concocted as a means to deal with the many misbehaving truck drivers they’d encountered over the miles of their touring. They were in full agreement that the old Knights-of-the-Road were creatures of the past – extinct. The modern breed of trucker, as far as they could tell, were inconsiderate to say the least, and dangerous at worst. Clyde had, over the years, as had most every other four-wheeler driver, as referred to by truckers, learned to expect the worst. He’d learned to expect that they would cut a car off, pulling in front of it at the last moment to attempt a six-county-long pass of another truck traveling a half-a-mile-per-hour slower, sometimes not slower at all once hitting the previously blocked headwind. This trucker well deserved his stint in Clyde and Jane Ann’s Truckers’ Prison, not only taking an exorbitant time to pass but then taking forever to pull back into the right lane. Finally, presuming that the trucker’s goal was to remain in the passing lane to pass another, far-distant truck or motorhome, Clyde signaled and turned into the right lane, intending to pass on the right. Determining that the truck was, indeed, bent on remaining in the passing lane, another truck ahead about a half mile in the right lane, Clyde accelerated to pass.
This particular truck was designed with a low window at the front bottom of the passenger door. Clyde glimpsed through the window at the driver, Santa Claus without the red suit or spectacles, his beard a dirty gray instead of shining white, a baseball cap instead of a red, fur-lined, and ribbed hat. The trucker suddenly swerved to the right, a shocked look in his eyes as his head turned to the window a half-second after his hands had turned the steering wheel. Jerking to the right, slamming on his breaks, correcting, re-hitting his brakes, Clyde avoided a major collision. The first truck that both Clyde and Santa Claus passed was able to change lanes left and miss both Clyde and Jane Ann and the wayward trucker, who eventually stopped a quarter mile on, a day late deciding not to simply keep driving. (hyperbole here)
Clyde’s evasive action prevented a wreck, other than two flat tires that is, but Jane Ann fared not so well, striking the side of her head of the side window, cracking her skull, and causing massive brain bleeding. She never regained consciousness, breathing her last even before being unbuckled, despite Clyde’s desperate attempts to revive her. The trucker never left his vehicle, simply sitting in his seat, concocting his story for the police of a crazy four-wheeler passing him on the right just after he made a pass himself. He was a thousand miles and states away before Clyde even began to come to himself, unsure who that self even was without Jane Ann.
No one was hurt in the formation of this 15K-word story.
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