This is the first story I wrote using the present tense. The opening line came from a the website for The First Line magazine.

 

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. Most truckers are honest family men, but a fair share ease the loneliness and boredom with hookers and drugs.

 

My daddy often sat with me on our porch and pointed at the trucks speeding by on U.S. 80, sixty feet from our front door. He dreamed of driving cross-country in a big rig, but a bum right leg, thanks to President Johnson’s war in Southeast Asia, never let the dream reach reality. I was born eleven months after he got home. When I was twelve life grew too heavy for him so he ate a bullet from his Dirty Harry .44 Magnum.

Six years later disease ripped my mom from me. She never went to the doctor until the malignancy had spread from her lungs to her liver and pancreas. Two weeks after my high school graduation I faced my future without either parent.

 

The house and $5,000 in life insurance are my inheritance. When the money dwindles to $1,500 I figure I’d best consider the future. My grades passed muster in high school, but I can’t see myself going to college. My buddies who don’t go the college route opt either for the military or low paying jobs as roofers or workers in the town’s cigar plant. None of those options appeal to me.

And every day, sitting on the porch, I see the trucks go by, keeping a running count for hours at a time. Where do they go? What are they hauling? Enough of my dad sticks in me that I imagine running from coast to coast, seeing the country on someone else’s nickel, eating at places the other truckers suggest. Not much of a dream by some people’s standards, but I don’t care.

I start hanging out two miles down the highway at the Crossroads Truck Stop. Crossroads had been my dad’s favorite place to eat; anything to be around trucks and truckers. A few months after high school I become more observant on my trips there, especially after dark. As I sit in my car admiring the rigs I notice things that didn’t capture my eye as I grew up. Things like truck drivers hurrying a slutty looking woman into the spacious cab of their trucks, only to see her leave a few minutes or maybe up to an hour later, adjusting her hot pants or tube top. Or someone wandering the lot, looking over his shoulder every few seconds, and going up to drivers. Money changes hands and the drivers slip back to their rigs with small bags they purchase from the wanderer. I realize money can be made at Crossroads.

Crossroads boasts itself as the finest truck stop in a fifty miles radius. As the only full service truck stop in a sixty mile radius, that’s a fair assessment. Plenty of pumps for diesel as well as some for gasoline, a twenty-four hour restaurant, shower facilities, as well as other amenities truckers seek. The large parking lot behind and to the left of the main building parks over 150 rigs. U.S. 80 traffic could almost compete with an interstate.

 

I’d smoked pot occasionally during high school. Pigwell is a small town but it’s only twenty miles from Grason, an even smaller town –with three airstrips. It’s rumored to be a major drug hub for the region. At least two people in my class of thirty-eight are known dealers.

Five months after graduation I call Randy Deavers.

“Randy, this is Stu.”

“How’s it goin’? Ain’t heard from you since graduation.”

“Makin’ it, I guess. I need to know if you can do something for me. I need a few ounces of, uh, merchandise.”

He doesn’t reply for several seconds. “So why you callin’ me about it?”

“To see if you could hook me up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randy says flatly.

“If you can’t do it for me can you point to someone who can?”

“I’ll call back in two days.” Click.

I spend that evening at Crossroads, noticing the illegal activity more than ever. No wonder this place stays so busy. These guys talk to each other and word spreads. I grin. And I ain’t seen a cop all night.

The next couple of days I sit by the phone waiting for the call. I just know I’ll be sitting on a gold mine if I can sell pot to the truckers. The phone rings and I jerk it off the cradle.

“Meet me in front of the Zippy Mart in ten minutes if you’re serious.”

“Who is this?” I ask. It sure isn’t Randy.

“Ten minutes. Now or never.”

The Zippy Mart stands as the lone convenience store within in Pigwell not on U.S. 80. After dark it’s frequented by less than savory characters.  I know I have to man up and go there.

At a quarter after nine I ease into a parking place in front of the store and am the only Caucasian in sight. A nervous tremor hits me as I cut the engine. Two other cars sit in the lot and I force myself to not look. This is no time to be inquisitive.

A large man steps out of the store and comes to my car, motioning for me to roll down the window.

“You Randy’s friend?” He’s easily 300 pounds; several gold chains dangle around his thick neck.

I nod.

“Unlock the passenger door.”

I follow instructions, not wanting to piss off this behemoth. He gets in the car and looks straight ahead. “Drive.”

“Where to?”

“Just drive.”

I go toward Crossroads.

“Let me tell you somethin’,” the stranger says, “if you even think about turning me in to the cops, I’ll mess you up. You got that?”

“Yeah.” Fear and excitement surge through me.

“If you want several ounces you’re plannin’ on dealin.’ Where you gonna do it?”

I drive by Crossroads a few seconds later and point. “Right over there. To the truckers.”

“So you’ve got it all figured out?”

I shrug. “Guess so.”

“Man, you don’t know nothin’.” He shakes his head and then faces me. “Listen up, Opie, keep drivin’ and I’ll give you a quick lesson in how it’s done. How much cash you got on you?”

I glance out of the corner of my eye at my new mentor. “What for?”

“Because I don’t give credit to nobody. And you cain’t sell what you ain’t got. You got some cash or am I wastin’ my time?”

“Three hundred. I’ve got three hundred dollars on me.” I hope he doesn’t notice the quiver in my voice.

“Okay then, let’s talk.”

I receive a crash course on pot sales. How to approach someone, how to spot a cop, how to stay in control. Thirty minutes later as the man gets out of my car I ask his name.

“Big G. And don’t forget, if you try to give me up to the cops, I’ll turn you inside out.” He smiles. “But stay cool. You fit in better around there than a brother. Don’t screw it up.”

 

The next night I arrive at Crossroads at seven and scout around for potential customers. After two and a half hours I still haven’t worked up the nerve to approach anyone.

I sit in my car, scanning the truckers walking around the lot and going in and out of the restaurant. A man with shoulder-length stringy hair jutting from under his baseball cap strolls toward my car, glancing over his shoulder a couple of times. I roll down my window.

“Evenin,’” he says.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, suspicious of him.

“I was talkin’ to the clean-up guy inside. He pointed to your car and said you could help me out. Can ya?”

I’m flabbergasted. Who the hell is the guy inside and how does he know what I’m up to?

“Depends. What’cha lookin’ for?”

“Tryin’ to score a little weed.” He smells like he’s downed a six-pack.

I try to remain calm and not act like a girl scout who has just sold a case of cookies to one customer.

“Thanks, man,” he says. He takes a few steps then turns to face me again. “Almost forgot. The dude inside wants to see you. He said he’ll be in the bathroom for a few minutes.”

I get out and make my way to the men’s room, wary of who I’ll meet.

“You want to see me?” I ask the young black man replacing paper towel rolls.

He bends down and looks under the stalls. “Big G said you might need a little help. You woulda’ sat there all night, wouldn’t you?”

“No. Would’ve driven off pretty soon.”

“Here’s how it works. Till you learn the ropes, you give me five bucks everytime I send somebody to you. I’ll take the first five now.” He holds out his hand.

“The guy only bought a quarter ounce. Five would be most of what I made.”

“That’s the price of doin’ business, my brotha’. I sure ain’t sendin’ guys out to you if there’s nothin’ in it for me. If you want more money, go out there to the trucks. That last dude’ll be talkin’ to his buddies pretty soon. Consider the five bucks a way to prime the pump.”

My first client is nowhere in sight when I step to the bevy of eighteen-wheelers. I admire the first long row of trucks. I still might give long-haul trucking a try. I’ve drooled over rigs like these since my dad brought me here. After a few minutes a middle-aged man motions for me.

“I hear you can fix me up with somethin’ to relax me a little.”

Word has spread. As soon as one trucker has what he needs another approaches. There is never more than one person in my field of vision at once, but I’m not alone for more than a half minute at a time. Fifteen minutes later, I’m out of pot. I realize this can be a lucrative business. I am asked for painkillers, speed, and cocaine, also. Three drivers ask if I know any women who might need a date. My mind races. Hell, I might need to branch out.

I leave Big G a voice mail to double the amount of merchandise for my next trip to Crossroads.

This time I don’t need the guy from the restaurant. I just walk among the trucks and an hour later I’m on my way home with my pockets full of cash and clean of any pot. The names of other drugs keep popping up. And I have seen two women climb into the cabs of trucks.

I try to double the amount of product I buy from Big G again. I am becoming a regular at the Zippy Mart.

“No way, man.” He raises his sunglasses in the night. “You get caught with too much o’this stuff and they’ll put your ass away for a long time. The cops around here look the other way most of the time, but don’t push your luck. I might could turn you on to some Vicodin, though. Maybe a little bit of this and that. But if you get busted, you’ve never heard of me. We clear on that, chief?”

I nod. “Clear.”

For the next three weeks I work Crossroads four or five nights a week. I make over four hundred bucks a week for less than twelve hours work. Not bad.

On a hot Friday night I am making my first sale of the evening. As the driver hands me his money something moves in the corner of my eye. I look and see a deputy sheriff, gun drawn, stepping toward me. Another one comes from the other direction.

The first one motions to my customer with his gun. “Get lost. If we see you buyin’again you’ll be goin’ down, too.” The trucker disappears. The man holding the gun on me is a big white guy, thirty something. He probably runs six-four and two-fifty. His partner is a black guy, six feet and pushing three hundred pounds.

“C’mon, son, we’ve got a little trip to take.” They cuff me and put me in the back of their cruiser. Fifteen minutes later we pull to the county sheriff’s office, conveniently located in the complex of the Central Alabama Correctional Facility.

We park in the rear of the building. They walk me past some of the prisoners in their cramped cells. Several of them whistle at me and talk smack that scares the crap out of me. Every horror story of prison rape I’ve ever heard races through my mind. If they stick me back here I won’t make it through the night.

We come to the sheriff’s suite of offices. I can’t get my thoughts together. They lead me into a room with a wooden table and a few metal folding chairs.

“Sheriff Daniels will be in to see you in a minute,” the white deputy says. He takes the cuffs off of me and points at a chair. I take a seat.

Forty-five minutes later the door behind me swings open. Pete Daniels, the long-time sheriff of Pratt County walks in. Practically everyone in the area knows him as an old-time hard-ass. Charges of impropriety never stick and the voters put him back in office every four years. A stout white man in his fifties, he could pass for an easy going working stiff.

He shakes his head as he looks in a manila folder. “Son, we’ve got a problem here. A big problem. I see here you just graduated high school a few months ago. I’ve got a niece who was in that class. You know Peggy Sellers?”

“Y-yes sir.”

He nods. “Of course you know her. Less than fifty in a graduating class, you’re bound to know everyone.”

He sits at the table across from me. “Lost your mom recently, too. Lost your dad a good while back. I knew him. Good man. Vietnam messed him up, though.” He looks down and shakes his head. “Did my deputies walk you through the prison, son?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you think it looked like a place you’d like to be stuck in for ten to fifteen years?”

I shake my head. “No sir.”

“That’s what I thought. I like you, Stu. I think you’re a bright kid who thought he saw a way to make easy money. I’ll tell you what,” he puts down the folder, “have you ever heard the phrase ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?”

“Yes sir.”

“Of course you have. All of us have. I’m gonna let you walk out the front door in just a few minutes.”

My ears perk up as my gaze shoots to him.

“That’s right,” says he. “All you have to do is tell me where you get your drugs.”

I close my eyes and slink down.

“I…I can’t.”

“You what? You haven’t come down with amnesia have you?”

I sit motionless.

“Let me guess. Your supplier told you if you mention his name, he’d do things to you that you’d rather not think about. Am I warm?”

I nod.

“I keep a close eye on this county so I already have a good idea who you’ve been getting your pot and pills from. Big G is about the stupidest son of a bitch around.”

My eyes give me away.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “Tomorrow morning you’re gonna get in touch with him and tell him you won’t need any more drugs.”

“Yes, sir, I sure will. I’ll never touch drugs again. I’ve learned my lesson.” I can’t believe my freedom will be secured so easily. I stand to shake his hand.

“Not so fast there, son.” He motions me to take my seat again. “I’ve scratched your back. Now let’s talk about how you’re gonna scratch mine. You’re still gonna be workin’ the truckers at Crossroads.” Confusion rips my thoughts. Daniels smiles. “You’re gonna have a new place to get your merchandise from, though. You’ll also be setting up the truckers with female companionship. You’ll send all the money back here with a deputy every night. You’ll make five to six hundred a week after the county gets its share.”

Corruption at its finest.

“And if you even think about ratting me out to the state officials, you’ll have a trip to general population in the back of the building where you came in. We straight?”

“As an arrow, sir.”

He stands. “Good. Now get the hell out of my jail. Someone will be in touch with you in a few days. We’ll keep an eye on you. Don’t try anything cute.”

The same deputies take me back to my car. As I leave them I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be happy for not being in jail or terrified of what Sheriff Daniels can do if I don’t do what he says. For the time being, I’ll live with both happiness and terror, and continue counting the trucks rumbling through Pigwell.