As Soon As Possible

Leo sat in the big rig, a blue Peterbilt that had seen better days. The owner-operator was in the line at the Wendy's that was situated at a trucker’s rest stop just off of I-40 about 75 miles from Nashville. 

He had been standing near the highway entrance ramp down the road with his thumb out and his expectations low. It was about four in the afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. The heat rising from the asphalt pavement made him wonder if hell had sprung a leak. He was drenched in sweat and his long brown hair was soaked when the long-haul driver, pulling a fifty-three foot trailer, took pity on him and gave him a lift. He’d lost his Ray-Ban sunglasses somewhere in Pennsylvania.

The driver got back to the rig and handed him a bag that contained a double bacon cheeseburger and a large order of fries. “How much do I owe you?" Leo asked.

"How much do you have?"

Leo pulled out his well-worn, faux leather wallet and opened it, knowing that, aside from his hidden two-dollar bill, there wasn’t much in there. "Two dollars." Talking more to himself, he added, "Not enough even to pay for the fries." The food smelled delicious, but he offered the bag back to the driver. His stomach groaned. 

"My treat, young man," the driver said. 

"I'm grateful."

The driver nodded. They sat at the rest stop and ate. The driver ate slowly, savoring every bite. Leo was so hungry he was taking huge bites and barely chewing his beef and bacon. 
Watching him, the driver tapped his wrist. "Slow down. The road just might get bumpy and I don't want refunds.  Not in my truck, understand?"

Leo slowed down, forcing himself to taste what he was eating. 

"So, is that a guitar, or a rifle, in your carrying case?"

"It's a guitar. I'm a singer-songwriter."

The driver nodded, collected the wrappers and cardboard containers and put them in the trash bag that was stored behind the passenger seat. “On your way to Music City to make your mark?"

Leo shrugged. He was a tall, young man, just 26, a good looking kid. "I don't know if I'm good enough, but I want to be a recording artist."

The driver pointed to the guitar. "Can I have a look?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Do you play too?"

The driver didn't answer. Pulling the instrument out of its case, she fingered the strings and started strumming some chords. Then, softly she started singing a Joni Mitchell ballad.

Leo hadn’t thought to look at the picture ID that was posted on the dash board. “Katherine T. Lane,” he said. “Didn’t you have a hit record maybe about ten years ago? I remember. You were on the country charts.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds. “It was called, ‘As Soon as Possible,’ right?” He looked a bit closer at her now. She still had longish blond hair, but he could see she was older than he thought. She’d added a few wrinkles, but she was still a pretty lady.

She smiled. “Yep! All the way to number seven. That’s how I bought this rig.” She put the guitar back in the case.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you stop singing,” Leo said.

“No worries. Time to hit the road. I gotta deliver these oranges before the orange wears off.”

Leo laughed. “What do you mean?”

Katherine pulled out onto I-40, gradually picking up speed as she insinuated her rig into the flow of traffic. “Well, oranges stop ripening once they’re picked. Dye is usually used to give the that UT Vols orange color before customers actually buy them.”

“Wow!”  Leo was quiet for a while. “You mind if I strum while you drive?”

“Nope. We have another hour or so before we hit Nashville.”

Leo plucked a few strings. “Maybe I can write a hit song about oranges before we get there. Call it the Green-Orange Road.”

“Good luck. I wrote my song in a nursing home, sitting beside my grandmother. I used to sneak her cigarettes.” She laughed. “The nurses didn’t care.”

Leo tried to find a melody. He liked to start with the music and add the lyrics later. By the time they were approaching Nashville, he had it down. “Pretty good little tune, Leo,” she said.

“Thanks, Katherine. Can I ask you something?”

“Can I stop you?”

He shrugged. “I guess not. Why’d you give me a lift?”

“That’s a good question. I hardly ever do that. I guess the guitar case got to me. I saw an eager looking, handsome young fella, who just looked like he was in search of a break, maybe even more than a ride.”

“You weren’t afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Well, you never know these days, right?” He offered a shy smile.

Just then, they hit a pothole. It shook her Peterbilt pretty good. “Oh damn! I’m going to pull over and check that right front tire. The steering doesn’t feel quite right.” She gently pulled the rig onto the shoulder. She took a bag she had stashed behind her seat and jumped out. “Be right back.”

Twenty seconds later, his door opened. There was Katherine with a snub nosed .38 pointed at him. “Get out.”

“What? What happened?” His face was contorted, not in fear, but surprise.

“You heard me, Mister. Get out of my truck.” She took a step back and watched him closely as he stepped out. “Start walking,” she said.

“My guitar and my backpack.”

“When I think you’ve walked far enough away, I’ll drop them right here. You can come back and get them.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“The last time a guy said, ‘You never know,’ it didn’t turn out so good for me.” She looked at him and waved her gun at him, signaling him to start walking. He complied, frowning now. When he was about 50 yards away, she hopped back into her rig and locked the doors. Grabbing his backpack, she opened it and found exactly what she was afraid she would find, a loaded nine-millimeter pistol. She saw his wallet and decided to take a quick photo of his driver’s license with her smartphone.  

She looked and saw he had started edging his way back to the Peterbilt. She shook her head and got the rig moving, driving past him a good half mile before she pulled over again. She quickly tossed his backpack, minus the gun, out the passenger window and drove another quarter mile. Then she carefully dropped the guitar onto the roadside. She decided not to leave the gun.

She had a good friend on the Nashville Police Department who would check him out. Actually, he did seem like a good guy. She wasn’t about to take chances though. If the kid was all right, she’d ask her friend to return the gun. The last she saw of him, he was walking, his head bobbing up and down, with his thumb out.

As she pulled into the distribution center, she caught herself humming the tune Leo had written. It wasn’t bad at all. If the kid checked out, assuming he had a sense of humor, maybe they could do something with it together. If not, well, she could write lyrics better than she drove. And, truth be told, she would need a new rig as soon as possible.