50. The road branched up ahead. . . .
The road branched up ahead, one highway leading southeast toward Omaha and the other continuing east toward Sioux City; Marion was already gearing down for the weigh station that was positioned to catch traffic on both routes. One truck sat on the platform, and another waited at the scalehouse. “Where I went to grade school, in Honolulu, the kids were really tough,” he said. “I spent my time after school making model airplanes. I didn’t want any trouble with those Jap and Hawaiian kids.”
“Would you like me to drive the next stretch?” I asked him.
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it,” he said. “My darn foot hurts.”
“How’d you happen to break your foot right at Christmas?”
“Dropped a stick of firewood on it,” he said, and grinned. “‘Tis the season to be jolly. Guess I got a little too jolly.” He pulled in behind the second semi and set the brakes. “Ah, hell,” he said, “it’s just my luck anyway.”
The scale boss was a small man in a sharply-creased gray uniform. He had a fair-skinned, boyish face; only his wrinkled neck and corded wrists betrayed his age. Notwithstanding his resemblance to an aged Hansel, he’d been in his job too long and had grown nasty. “Where’s your license?” was all he said when Marion handed him the logbook. Then we had to wait while he weighed the truck ahead of us. “Pull ahead,” he finally said to the other driver, speaking crisply into a microphone. “You’re clear.” He handed Marion back his documents. “Let’s see your license,” he said to me.
Wordlessly I handed him my Texas driver’s license. “Smith,” he said. “That right?” I nodded. “You’re George Smith’s son.” I nodded again. “Where’s your Class C endorsement?” he asked.
“I let it expire,” I told him.
“Are you living in Nebraska?”
“Nope. Just visiting.”
“This address current?”
“Yep.” I hadn’t lived there in about three years.
He put the license on the counter in front of him, picked up the telephone, and dialed a long-distance number. “Warren, DMV, State of Nebraska,” he said into the receiver. “Do you have anything on a Jonas F. Smith—” he read off a number— “Laredo, Texas?” He studied me coldly as he listened. “Thanks,” he said, and replaced the receiver. “If you’re in the state more than sixty days, you need to get yourself a Nebraska license,” he informed me as he returned the laminated card. “You’re aware that you can’t drive legally without a licensed supervisor in the cab.”
“I’m aware of it,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “Pull on. Both of you stay in the cab while I weigh you.”
“What do you think?” I said to Marion once we were out the door.
“We’re under,” he said. “Way under.”
“I think it’s going to be close,” I said. “Those steers look pretty big to me.”
“Doesn’t feel heavy,” he said. “It’s been pulling pretty good.”
I climbed up on the driver’s side and palmed the shift lever. Pulling a loaded trailer is different from pulling an empty one, especially if it’s cattle; I ground the transmission into the lowest gear and eased the clutch out carefully. When we rolled onto the platform and I hit the brakes, we felt a sort of wave-action as the cattle lurched in the trailer behind us.
“Pull ahead.” The statey’s voice sounded even more clipped and unpleasant coming through the speakers. “You’re clear.”
Once we were trucking again, Marion Saunders propped his casted foot up on the dash and lit something. “Jesus Christ,” I said. I glanced over at him; the joint was a thin one, hand-rolled.
He sucked in his breath, held it, and grinned. “Want a hit?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to drive this thing, and I’m a little out of practice.”
“This is mellow. It won’t bother your driving,” he said.
I took the joint from him and helped myself to a lungful; I had to cough violently, and nearly ran us off the road. “Jeez,” I said again, my eyes streaming, and handed it back. “Where’d you get this shit?” Grinning, he took another whiff and put the rest away. One-toke dope. I’d seen it a few times. Expensive stuff.
With the THC filtering into my brain, I relaxed and began to enjoy driving. The charm of the music of an engine came back to me powerfully, the low, masculine drone of the cylinders, the slight continuous clatter of combustion, the crisp singing of the tires along the road. I could isolate the whistle of the wind in each distinct crack in the cab, could detect the squeak of metal in the frame at every dip in the pavement. I was like a child again, excited to be above the traffic, everything new and fine. I drove watchfully, tenderly. I was aware of tiny clods of dirt on the road, of patches of tar in the cracks of the asphalt.
“Slow down,” Marion Saunders said. “Farm tractor up ahead.”
“Oh,” I said, hitting the brakes. “I guess I got lost thinking about how alert I’d been thinking I’d been when I really hadn’t been being that alert, when I should have been being more alert.”
“Right. You can pull around him now,” Marion Saunders said. “There’s nobody coming.”
“Right,” I said. I hit the throttle, but the truck only juddered and shook and crawled along instead of accelerating. I’d forgotten to change gears. I looked at the speedometer, revved the engine, and tried to guess which gear I’d ought to go for. Every slot I tried ground miserably. Eventually I got it in one of them and started to swing out, when a deep BOOP BOOP in my left ear made me jump. A Peterbilt pulling a tanker rig was passing us in the other lane. “Fuck,” I said.
“No sweat,” Marion said. “That’s Dinkins out of Greeley. He would’ve gone around us anyway. You’re doing all right. We’ll get there.”
“You do this all the time?” I asked. “Drive truck when you’re smoking weed?”
“Weed keeps me steady. I wouldn’t leave home without it.”