FLASH FICTION

One for the Road

Childhood memories

As kids, we loved the sight of the 18 wheelers as they roared past us on our little highway.

We’d stand by the road, with our fists in the air, pretending to pull the big air horn, as they thundered on past.

Most truckers would pull the horn, sending us into howls of laughter and chasing after the truck — jumping and bounding with joy. Some didn’t see us — such is life.

Life was easy then, playing games, climbing trees, the smell of mom’s apple pies luring us home before dark.

It all changed one spring Thursday evening. We’d had school, as usual. Boring, except for recess. We got to play baseball. Now that’s what we should do all day. Baseball when it’s warm enough. Hockey when it ain’t.

The evening was beautiful — not too hot, not too cold. I was with lil’ joe (named after his favorite cowboy, of course), Danny, Red (’cause he had red hair), and Bobbie.

We were the gang, the troublemakers, the ne’er-do-wells as old Mrs. Krieger would call us, as we stole apples from her tree.

Lil’joe liked cowboys. He lived cowboys. He was headed to Wyoming to become a cowboy when he got big enough to ride a horse (instead of short enough to walk under one).

Red was the smart one. He knew all the facts, just like an encyclopedia, and loved to make us squirm when we had to write an exposition or recite a poem. He loved that shit — ate it right up. Not the rest of us, though. We thought that school was for sissies.

Dannie was a large boy- they called him “big for his age” or “big-boned,” but he was just big. Dumb as an ox and just as strong. That’s all his pa needed, out there on the farm.

Me? I guess I’m just the good ol’boy. Too dumb for college, but with a back as broad as a barn, I was destined to end up working in the mills — just like my daddie and his daddie before him.

Bobbie was a scrapper — if there were a fight to be had, she’d have it. That’s what happens when you grow up with three mean older brothers, I guess. You either fight, or you bleed. And she didn’t want to bleed.

That evening started like all the others. We played some baseball in the empty lot across from my place. After we got bored of that, we headed to the highway to spot out-of-state plates and to get the big rigs to blow their horn.

It was a quiet night, with few trucks out. The ones that were out all blew their horns for us. For us kids, this was a great night — perhaps our last great night. But like all great things, this one ended with dusk, and our mom’s calling us in for dinner.

We all went our own ways, home to have pot roast, mashed potatoes, and a big chunk of apple pie with some sharp cheddar—others to their destinies.

As we were waving goodbye and heading home, I saw one of the trucks slow down and stop beside Bobbie. I was too intent on getting home to see what happened, but it turns out, I should have.

I wish I had paid attention to what was going on with Bobbie and the truck. We would have avoided so much sadness and pain. So much anguish. So little closure.

Our town became famous, but not in a good way. We were all over the local, the state, the national, even the international news. Even years later, the mystery and the pain remain. I suppose that they always will.

Despite the state-wide search and all of the alerts, we never saw Bobbie again. But the 18 wheeler was found, with the trucker’s remains inside. The details of exactly what happened were never released, but the stories told late at night say that it was gruesome. Bobbie was a scrapper, after all.

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all.

This story was originally in response to the prompt below.

But grew beyond it and became much too dark for the original intent. The story below was submitted for the writing prompt, and this one kept on truckin’.

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