Grave Digger II

He called himself a bastard, and I agreed with him.  Anybody big as Lacey, commands attention.  Lacey not only demanded attention, he dictated ruthlessly like a big bully brother.  My feelings mixed about what sort of beast lived within his shell.  One can never read the personal interior existing beneath reflections of a rugged exterior.  My reactions sometimes exacerbated complications of our trade, to illicit completely the unexpected.

There are copious quantities of venomous serpents, mostly existing quintessentially within the loose confines of eight million acres.  My travels only give me experience with three.  Being born in the heart of copperhead country, that snake I most fear – its bite renders certain death – there is no escape.  I know that feeling, having died so many times within.   More than a few brave men got lost in Maine’s Haynesville woods to succumb to copperhead lethal injections, never found, their graves resting where they lay breathing last straining breaths.  Usually you never notice copperhead snakes until too close.

Rattlesnakes are no kinder than nature.  They are keenly alert and intelligent when compared to copperhead reflexes.   I would run from a rattler, if given my preference.  Snakes are driven by olfactory, tracking and sensing fear.  Carefully they stock from shadows, skimming across and just beneath desert sands, witnessed seldom by a solemn few. 

Copperheads act instinctively affronting anything coldblooded or warm-blooded.  Rattlesnakes are slightly more reserved, taking time to reason and sometimes drawn into the warmth of a hearth, sometimes at the mercy of suburbia. 

I characterized Lacey as a copperhead.  In my circumstance, it was too late to react within the cusp of a giant crevasse.  They say there is no way out of hell and we were encapsulating within the confines of the sun.  Look up to see black with only fire everywhere.  Few people have eyes I have not met.  He was one.    The man built of brick towered over my limited frame.  Either I faced right or left; otherwise, a wall was before me, that of command.  Always, I could feel his eyes, the coals of Hades upon my back. 

We only had a day to reach our destination and I wasted half of it, some with unnecessary sleep.  It took a half hour to enter an artery leading us from the city.  Sixteen forward speeds worked better by designed for country traffic.  Another hour was lost driving through suburbs. 

Lacey was perched on top my trailer with his truck bumper inches from the reaches of my trailer.  Sometimes I could barely observe the back of his trailer in my side-mirrors, bobbing and weaving through traffic as maniacs, me running, him chasing.  He said we lost time and it was up to me to make it up for Boss.  Traffic was heavy.  I was struggling to keep an average speed of fifty-five and dared not push the final gear, fearing logically that would set me back even further as downshifting penalizes.

My duffle bag was set on the passenger seat, unzipped and open.  I reached in to retain a radar jammer that fit handily on the dashboard, invisible to watchful eyes, owing to its low profile frame.  Now we were riding in country.  Ahead of me into the horizon was highway unhampered, devoid of rush hour traffic. 

I reached to my far right and released the secondary gear into neutral.  With my left arm crooked within the low side of the steering wheel rim, simultaneously I released the primary; quickly grabbing at the wheel in hand, I shifted the primary into second; then, taking the secondary shift into my right hand, coaxed it back into final fourth.

The rearview mirror revealed a large trailer separating from my cabin side view.  I could see the front end of Lacey’s truck coming into view, whereas, it had previously lurked at the rear end of my trailer.  The tachometer revealed twenty-one and I finally reckoned with top end.  Lacey’s big Mack was vanishing in a distance.  I even passed a few cars.  That ultimately got us into a bit of trouble, first him, then me. 

We were doing fine and I was driving in a straight line.  Far down the road somewhere, Lacey’s foot was hard set on the metal pedal.  If he could have pushed harder, his foot would have gone through the floor while his temper exited the roof. 

After driving several hours and virtually no sight of my mate, I was feeling more relaxed and set the cruise control at sixty-five.  That act worked favorable for me.  Just about one mile up the road, prior to a weigh-station, it seemed they had a speed trap set.  I caught it from about one mile away, in time to check my speed to the normal fifty-five limit. We were OK.  It was good for me.  The station needed addressing.  Our weights were perfect and we carefully rode over the scales. 

It takes a long time to get a sixteen-speed diesel cruising on the highway.  It was after noon.  We needed our loads delivered before sundown.  As I was pulling out from the driveway ramp (some refer to it as a runway), I detected smoke in the background.  It was too early for sunset, leading my intuition to assume some type of inferno transpiring at a distant past.

I did not waste time.  With Lacey somewhere hard on my tail, I was assuming that perhaps my ingress to the next location should be prompt as possible.  There was no speculation about a previous miscalculation.  Ubiquitous traffic jams and traffic cops.  I was sweating.  It was cool outside the cab while engine heat barely raised the temperature to sixty-five degrees – not warm enough for comfort.   There was no time to waste when I pulled into the yard, not long before day’s end.

Somehow, I reached my destination without incident.  It was a matter of time and patience to wait upon Lacey.  For me it was early now, haven gotten done my days chore.  I crawled into the sleeper for a nap, while Misiu begrudgingly took his place at the steering helm while waiting for my deep slumber to end.

You could hear him at a distance, the horn blowing like a frantic train whistle; only it was pulling into the main yard, not far from where I parked.  He was angry and arrogant, acting as owning eternity.  The clock struck five on a dime, with the tractor-trailer barely on time.  That timely decision influenced by a tired crew and tirade of miscommunication led the foreman to calling it a day.  He could have walked away, except for one bad word he had to say.  One never called Lacey lazy, followed by another infarction to produce spontaneous reaction.  Everybody froze.  The earth lapsed in silence.  Lacey bounced onto the dock and with one hand; he grabbed the man’s throat, physically lifting him about one foot off ground zero, smashing into his temple with the fist of the other mitt.      

 The man wilted where he once stood.  To interpret what I saw, I thought the bastard had killed somebody.  Instinctively I reacted to what I once witnessed, first aid.  Quickly, I ran to an ice chest residing on the dock and grabbed an ice bucket, carefully carrying the load and depositing at location, the victims crown.  I was not sure; however, the foreman appeared to have a concave cavity alongside his head, indicative of a fractured skull.

He sprung to life where he’d appeared lifeless, saying, “I’m OK.  I’m OK,” all the while grasping his head.  Then, “Guys, unload the man.”  He sat down.  You could tell he was in pain.  They unload quickly and without incident.