FanStory.com - Truckin, Ch 14 (alt)by Wayne Fowler

In the last post, Clyde saw that ‘Santa Claus’, the trucker responsible for Jane Ann’s death had been in a crash and was apprehended. Troopers chased Clyde to his tragic end. What follows is an alternate ending beginning before Clyde sees Santa Claus.

Chapter 14 (alt)

Clyde made it to the coast, riding the ferry across the bay to Olympic National Park, a bucket list item for him and Jane Ann. He hiked a short distance on one of the rainforest trails in her honor, pointing things out to her along the way. He thought of the many photo and poem albums they’d assembled during their years together, vowing to linger in them when he got home.

Clyde drove the coast south, aiming to please Jane Ann with all the fabulous sights. He even stopped to take pictures with his phone, planning to make some new pages of the crashing waves that reminded him so much of the trip he and Jane Ann made to the famous seventeen-mile drive through the Pebble Beach Golf Course area. Clyde’s eyes teared up several times in those few days.

While driving US Highway 101, a major north/south route through California, the one he remembered as the main corridor before the construction of I-5 when he lived in San Jose, a lifetime ago, traffic came to a stop, obviously an accident ahead. He double-checked to see that the passenger window was down an inch to hide the gun barrel hole. The .22 had been broken down and stored in a sports bag for weeks. He made certain that the ray gun apparatus was not visible.

Clyde realized that he’d not stopped a single trucker since he’d last headed west. He wondered whether he’d grown weary, or if the industry had taken note.

After almost an hour, his lane finally began to move. Eventually, he made it past the wreck, a Xarious truck and two small cars. Clyde couldn’t stifle his tears, pinching his lips to quench a sob, sobs that he’d held back these many months since Jane Ann’s passing. Driving by, he noticed another wrecked car in the ditch to the right. A man was leaning back against the driver’s door, his arms hiding his face.

Several miles further, Clyde’s attention was drawn to a dilapidated billboard, most of the signage shredded. The words everyday is Sunday and then two scattered words farther and along were all that remained of the message. Clyde couldn’t believe his eyes. Farther Along was the last song he’d heard Jane Ann sing as a member of their church choir. Farther along we’ll know all about it. Farther along we’ll understand why.

He took the next exit and after a Herculean effort, returned to the stretch of highway where he’d seen the billboard. It was not there – standing where he was certain he’d seen it was a modern steel billboard advertising beef products. Clyde immediately set his sights homeward, a sudden sense of completion overwhelming him.

Only minutes from the exit toward his home, Clyde noticed the abandoned livestock auction facility that had closed some years past. For no reason he could determine, after exiting the freeway, he turned to enter the twenty or thirty-acre facility.

“’Bout ta give up on ya,” the aged, suspendered gent said as he climbed out of the three-quarter-ton pickup that Clyde parked beside. “Thought you’d not even show up. Like I said on the phone, place has a good well, but not fer no housing development.”

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout no housing development. My name’s Clyde. So you own the place?”

“What’s left of it. Twenty-seven acres. I can still hear bellerin’ beef. Name’s Slim. Not my name, but what I answer to. What c’n I do for ya, Clyde?”

“Well… I’m not sure I know.” Clyde stopped there, unwilling to put words to what he felt, but too unaccustomed to putting himself out there.

Slim studied Clyde a moment, allowing him to collect his thoughts. “Used ta come out here every Sunday and clean up after the Saturd’y sale. Course there was always some who didn’t collect their stock til Sunday. Now, every day’s Sunday. Since my wife passed on three year ago come fall, I come down here and keep her comp’ny. Seems like I feel her in there…” Slim gestured over his shoulder toward the building behind him. “She kept the books an’ did the cookin’ in the little cafe. I like ta keep it clean for her.”

“Every day’s Sunday, huh?” Clyde said, scanning the building front. “Would you… would you mind showin’ me around?”

“Happy to. Give me a chance ta look things over myself. Haven’t been ‘round back in a while.”

“Every day is Sunday by and by.” Clyde said it under his breath but loud enough for Slim to hear.

“Farther along that fence line,” Slim began, interrupted by Clyde.

“You said farther along?”

Slim stopped suddenly, looking square into Clyde’s eyes. “Why don’tchoo jus’ tell me what it is yer thinkin’, Clyde?”

Clyde cleared his throat and pinched his eyes shut, blinking away tears. “What I’m thinking is a truck parking lot. Free parking for truckers. And a church where you have the little indoor grandstand arena where we can have church services. And every day is Sunday.”

Slim stared at Clyde, testing to see his stamina and resolve. Finally, Slim said, “Clyde, the good lord blessed me with this place. It’s paid for, but I was wonderin’ how I was gonna keep a roof on it an’ keep it from fallin’ down. Reason I was willin’ to talk to that real-ator who never showed up. “How’s a dollar a year an’ you get the ‘lectric in your name, make all the modifications, an’ keep a lid on the place?”

Clyde stuck out his hand, smiling.

+++

“You’re what?” Clyde’s son, Rick, was on the phone. After hearing what his father had started, Rick declared, “I’m coming down. I’ll take my vacation and bring my tools. I wanna help!”

During the two weeks, Corine, Clyde’s daughter made it down for a long weekend to assist as she could. Between them and volunteers from the locals churches, remodeling cleaning had the place truck and trucker ready. They’d even converted the covered stock pens to an exercise yard and walking loop.

After meeting local preachers at one of their Ministers’ Alliance meetings, there were volunteers of every persuasion and skill level eager to feed, preach, or pray with truckers. Some of the local churches, in addition to providing volunteers, put Every Day on their regular missions giving register

A few months on and the Every Day Is Sunday truck stop was flourishing: daily church services, a coffee shop, a metal building set up with shower stalls, and a game room/lounge. Highway billboards advertised free showers and no sermons over twenty minutes – or your money back!

+++

A State Trooper followed Clyde into the Every Day Is Sunday parking lot. Clyde remained in his truck, wondering what might happen to the ministry.

“Clyde Fraze?”

“Yessir, Officer. That’s me.”

“Ran your tags.” The trooper briefly looked Clyde’s truck over and then turned his gaze to the nearly full parking area. “You file for your charitable license yet?”

“Yessir. A lawyer goes to the Big Church helped.”

The Trooper nodded. “The State would most likely help with gravel, help you expand the lot.”

Clyde involuntarily sighed in relief, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“You paint your truck yourself? Looks like it used to be white.” His gaze into Clyde’s eyes refroze him.

Clyde didn’t respond.

“It’s a good thing… you’re doin’ here, Clyde.” The Trooper tapped a knuckle on the truck door beside Clyde. “Might want to retire the truck, though.”

With that, the Trooper showed the slightest hint of a winking grin and turned to go back to his vehicle. Over his shoulder he said, “Call the road department. Tell ‘em who you are. Might be some grant money made available.”

Clyde smiled to himself, wondering if the Trooper meant that he should tell them that he was the Turnpike Terrorist, or just his name.

+++

Clyde was interviewing a prospective employee when a knock on his office door preceded a man’s entry. “Oh, sorry,” the man said. “I was told the owner was in here.”

“No, come in. This is Amanda. She’s gonna start…”

The young woman grinned hugely. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Clyde repeated, shaking Amanda’s hand. Clyde turned to the man, obviously a truck driver. “You look familiar. I feel like I know you. Wha’d you wanna talk about?”

“My name’s Thurmon and...”