By Angelia Sparrow
c2006, all rights reserved
This sample story may not be published or redistributed without permission
of the author.
Chris wasn't sure where he was. Midnight, he guessed by the moon, and
way out in the country.
He shouldered his backpack and looked along the highway: dim lights to his
left, blackness to his
right.
"Left it is," he muttered.
He walked, losing track of time. Eventually he could make out the sign
for the truck-stop. A semi
roared past him, and he saw it signal. He kept walking, and soon he
could see the door and the
interior.
Under the lights, he saw a rearing blue dragon on the side of the black Peterbilt.
Under the painting
was the legend "Dragonrider" in electric blue.
The first thing Chris saw of the driver were his boots: not polished, fancy
boots, or the kind the poseurs
at school wore, but a real cowboy's boots which had never seen polish.
The driver came around, tall and
thin, his jeans as worn as his boots, and the flannel shirt missing both
sleeves. His hair was as black as the
truck, held back in a pony-tail. A leather sleeve covered the end near
his waist.
Chris saw the tattoo that some men called "Las Tres Brujas:" three female
faces against a fall of black hair
on his forearm. The other bicep sported a Cherokee patterned armband.
The high-cheekboned face
glowered at him.
"Take a picture, kid, it'll last longer. Injun with steel pony."
He patted the hood as he lowered it. "Or steel
dragon, as the case may be."
"She's beautiful," Chris breathed. The driver relaxed at those words.
"Name's Chuck," he said, putting out his hand, "Handle's 'Dragonrider' for obvious reasons.
You need a ride?"
Chris just nodded.
"Hop in. I gotta check a few things and we'll go."
Chris climbed up in the cab and got comfortable. It was spare and neat: a
few clothes, a CD case, the bedding
on the double berth, a cooler under the bunk, a thermos painted with dragon
scales and nothing else. Even the
usual log book and paperwork were tucked away. He was sketching the
thermos when Chuck swung into the
cab and started the engine.
"Ok, kid, we're on our way. I'll take you as far as I'm going.
There's a stop about two hundred miles on down,
which is my next break. You can get out there or stay with me. You
got a name, kiddo?"
"Chris." He didn't offer more.
"You're welcome to ride up here, or kip out in the bunk. Hope you don't
mind sharing." He glanced at the sketch
pad. "You can keep the map light on and draw if you want." Chuck pulled
out and slotted a CD.
Somewhere in the endless songs about truck crashes, Chris rubbed his eyes,
closed his pad and crawled back into
the bunk. He woke up with Chuck shirtless beside him. He leaned
over the sleeping driver and peeked out the
privacy curtains. The sun was just setting. Chuck stirred a little.
Chris lay back down quickly.
"I'm up, kid."
Chris shot a glance Chuck's crotch, knowing it was time to pay for his ride.
Chuck rolled and sat up, seeming to
ignore this.
"Have I been out all day?" Chris asked.
"Yep," Chuck yawned. "Dead to the world. Let's roll. How
far you going?"
"New York?" Chris asked hopefully, looking over the dark skin, the hard-working
muscles. "Upstate, not the city."
"I've got a turnaround in Tulsa, but you can get a ride from there."
Chuck pulled his shirt on. "I see you lookin', kiddo.
Chris decided to brazen it out. "Gonna throw me out? Or pound
me first?"
"Naw." Chuck's amiable grin flashed at him in the gloom. "I'm
flexible, especially when I'm on the road. Got no
lady ‘cept my dragon. She's real jealous."
Chris leaned a little closer. "You must get lonely." He brushed
his lips over Chuck's, only to find himself seized and
kissed until he forgot to breathe. Chuck's big scarred
hands moved on his back with surprising delicacy.
Chuck let go. "Chris, kid, you may be in over your head. We'll
make Amarillo tonight then Tulsa tomorrow. The
Dragon flies straight, but she never gets in a big hurry."
Chris smiled. "I know the rules: nobody rides free. I'm broke
for gas money. You couldn't have any grass, even
if I had it. So that leaves my pale ass. You're welcome to it."
"You're a good kid. There's coffee in the thermos and some granola
bars under the seat. Get comfy." Chuck
fired up the truck without further comment on Chris's offer.
They rocked though the west Texas night, old country music on the CD.
The full moon streamed in and Chris
used it to sketch the night prairie. He turned on the map-light and
drew Chuck's tattoos and the dragon.
They pulled into a dry-wash about five o'clock. Chris closed his pad
and rubbed his eyes. He'd made some
good drawings of Chuck.
"This is it, kid. I'm out of hours." Chuck shut the truck down
and kicked off his boots. "There's a diner up on
the ridge. If you're feeling ambitious, run up there and get some food."
He dug a ten-spot out of his wallet.
"Take the thermos and get coffee too. Bring me one of Joe's ham and
egg biscuits."
Chris saw the diner about two hundred yards away. He kissed Chuck again.
"I'll pay up when I get back."
Chuck stripped off his shirt and sprawled out on the bunk. "Sure."
He waved Chris off.
Chris hesitated, torn between the promise of Chuck's bulging jeans and the
hope of fresh coffee. Coffee won.
He climbed out, his backpack on his shoulder, scaled the ridge and went to
the bathroom to wash his face
and hands.
In the diner, he set the thermos on the counter. “Fill ‘er up with
the freshest, hottest, blackest coffee you got,
and I need two of Joe’s hm and egg biscuits to go.”
The waitress dropped the thick china mug and stared at the thermos like it
was a snake. She got pale and finally
yelled, “Joe! Got another one!”
The cook came out from the kitchen, a big man with a tattoo of a cigar-chewing
bulldog and the words “Semper
Fi” under it on his forearm. He stared at the thermos then at Chris,
going as pale as his crew-cut blond hair.
“Caught a lift with the Dragonrider, did you?”
Chris nodded. “Chuck picked me up. He’s waiting for his coffee.”
He laid the ten on the counter next to his
backpack and sketch pad.
Joe shook his head. “Chuck’s gonna wait for that coffee until Judgement
Day, kid. Betcha he parked the Dragon
down the arroyo, didn’t he?”
The only other customer set his cup down. “It won’t be there now.”
Chris looked between them confused. “I didn’t hear it start up.”
“Better show him, Frank.”
Frank took Chris out to where his own flatbed was parked. “Chuck Cornsilk
ran the Dragon between Flagstaff
and Tulsa for ten years. He always stopped here at Joe’s, and ol’ Sally back
there was sweet on him. Couple
years ago, we had a lot of rain upstate, but Chuck never listened to weather.”
“Why are you talking in past tense?” Chris demanded.
Frank tossed back the tarp on his load. Only the blue dragon was recognizable
in the faded, filthy battered tractor.
“Chuck parked in the arroyo and crashed for the day. Flash flood came
through. Took him and the Dragon. Just
found her last week. Chuck... It wasn’t pretty. But he’s
in the morgue now, gonna get a proper burial. Maybe he’ll
stop picking up hitchhikers and stay decently dead.”
Chris wasn’t listening. He had charged down the side of the wash, yelling
for Chuck. The cries stopped and Frank
went back in for his coffee, figuring the kid would be in soon. He
was on his downtime. Sally was better company
than the TV.
The sun came up and Chris didn’t come back. Sally set the thermos on
the shelf, knowing it would vanish by sunset.
It always did. Lee staggered in at nine, almost three hours late.
Sally took one look at him and laced his coffee with brandy. “You wait
an hour before driving now, you hear?
I already saw one ghost this morning, don’t need you telling me you’re another.”
“Naw, just a dead kid. Had a flat about two miles from the Blue Wolf,
and found a kid laying in the ditch.”
“Oh honey,” Sally said. “What happened?”
“The cops figured snakebite. Had a knapsack just like that one.”
He pointed at where Chris’s backpack still sat
on a counter chair. “He was drawing a sleeping rattler, found him with
the pencil in his hand. Then I heard at the
Wolf that the Dragon had been through.”
Frank flipped through the sketchbook. “A sleeping rattler like this
one?” he asked, showing Chris’s sketch.
Lee dropped the coffee. Sally mopped it without a word.
Frank flipped further. “That’s Chuck Cornsilk. Pretty as he ever
was. Lot prettier than what I saw hauled off.”
He noted the turned-up corner, then flipped the page, expecting to find it
blank.
Instead, Chris lay in Chuck’s arms, smiling up at him, looking ready for
a kiss.
Sally smiled softly. “Reckon Chuck’s got himself a permanent passenger
for that last big run.”
