The Gypsy's Address
“I need a good snore already,” Strange agreed.
“It’s faster to send goods by rail and swim there to meet them,”
explained the trucker. But it gets worse: Hunt, Swift and Cursed [CRST
to four wheelers] have formed an evil axis with ATA, DOT and insurance
companies. Thousands are in the streets,” nodding his head in the
direction of the tumult. “I worked for Covenant. Yeah, yeah, I know. But
I had no choice. Now I’m in flight for sake of dear life, just as I knew
I would be. I can’t take struggling to keep my eyes open in a mobile
prison. But they won’t let you drive. So good riddance.” “Though in ways dangerous, it’s for safety,” said Strange, to be
ironic, adding, “or so’s the word that’s heard. Good fuel mileage,
though, proves what’s heard to be a turd. My name’s Strange,” offering
her hand. “I’m sure. What is it?” the man inquired, shaking her hand. “What is what?” “Your name.” “Strange.” “Did I miss something?” the man wondered to Penny. “Right in front of you. Something Strange.” The man bobbed his head left and right, looking over Something’s
shoulders to see what Penny was talking about: “What?” “You’re gonna swim off with the trout while it’s snowing?” Penny
replied to change the subject. “Why ask what you’re already knowing?” “You could end up in cold storage,” responded Something, concerned. “May be, if that’s where they keep the driver shortage. I’m sick to
death of this crap.” “That’s true. Penurious may be no worse than injurious,” knowing what
truckers endured, no one curious as to all they daily fought to do
without voice or voicing. “Why don’t you swim in the buff?” Strange asked. “Could prevent you
from drowning if you don’t freeze to death.” “You mean naked?” “Yes, if clothing to exclude means nude.” “It is smartless to be so artless, lady. Besides, if I left my
clothes here what would I wear when I got there?” Penny and Strange
smiled as they gave each other a look. “You’re a trucker, all right,” Old Penny affirmed, knowing trucking’s
certain “mind” set. “Better believe it,” the man smiled. Adding a Southern “I’m stupid”
accent: “Had I a brain I’d think more quickly. But for a brain I ain’t
heartsickly. Now, if you’ll excuse, I’ll be off.” “Sure,” Penny offering his hand. “Say ‘hello’ for us to everyone you
greet.” “Add ‘bye’ to it and a round conversation we’ll have with all you
meet,” Strange combined, also shaking the trucker’s hand. “If I see any beauties I’ll add half a blink,” the trucker told
Penny, “which comes, as I measure, to one full wink.” “Great! Thank you. That shows thrift. When it comes to flirting
you’ve got the gift.” “As to Lake Michigan, I think I’ll now pursue it,” the man backing
off, waving farewell. “I guess that’s what they mean when they say ‘Just do it’,” Strange
thought aloud, a smile showing she was perplexed as she watched their
latest acquaintance run to the water’s edge and do a bit of splashing
before front stroking off over the deep. “In another million years how tell a trucker from an otter?” Penny
wondered in return. “As for his trucking brain, I hope he ain’t forgot
her,” with just a touch of twang. Now toward the boisterous crowds they walked progressive, though,
compared to our world, their gait seemed regressive, ‘cause in the lull
where they were, if I may be so expressive, our breakneck strolling is
excessive. A large banner reading ‘TRUCK RACE’ now offered suggestion to
what Penny and Strange too long thought a question. Though it would
sound to us like sloths in distress the drowsy roar of the crowds did
some excitement profess, only at the tick tock of a clock somewhat less. “Excuse me,” Penny contributed to the noise of the hundreds of truck
racing fans as he led Strange through the crowd of bustling people
toward a set of bleachers. Once they reached a good height they could
see the powerful trucks below, hooked to trailers, lined up across the
track. There was much lively revving of engines. Penny assumed the
drivers were anticipating, any “instant” now, the dropping of the flag.
An orange Schneider, its heroic driver in a helmet, was a little out
front of the rest. Penny could see that one of its sponsors was
‘SOMINEX’ in big letters alongside the trailer. “So when does the race start?” Penny shouted to an enthusiastic man
standing to his right, shaking his fist in the air, its motion rubbery
to Something’s perception. “What?” the fan answered, perhaps unable to hear over the roar of the
crowds which sounded, to us, like a 45 record played at album speed. “The race!” Strange clarified. “When does the race start?” “It’s clear that your brain has no power! They’ve been racing for
more than an hour!” the man shouted back. Penny and Strange gave each
other a smiling sidelong glance. For it appeared that the racing trucks
were moving not at all. “Slow world!” Penny remarked to her, noting the accomplishment of the
world he’d described while in the hole. “Schneider’s winning!” Strange again raised her voice to the man to
Penny’s right. “No ma’am! He’s losing! He’s a good ten feet ahead of the competition
and nearly at the finish!” “Who gets there last, wins!” Penny and Strange yelled at each other
at the same time. Which explained why the track was only twenty feet
long, the end of the driver’s 53’s never entering the race. From a box above Penny’s head he could hear the voice of a radio
sportscaster: “This is, indeed, a grueling event! We’re getting reports
of Swift driving in his sleep! Covenant, as well, has reclined to better
fall behind! . . What’s that? . . No! He’s reading a magazine! This same
driver was disqualified from last year’s event for doing things obscene!
Lack of action is leading to distraction for the drivers here today,
folks! What a race! Always a great event! Whoa! What’s this? Werner so
far in the lead it appears he’s nearly stalled! He’s been flagged!
That’s it for Werner, folks! You’ve got to keep those wheels rolling to
stay in this race! That leaves Hunt in the lead, now so fatigued it’s
scaring even to me! They’re going for broke, folks! . .” Though in the world where Strange and Penny found themselves such a
race could blow the mind, just watching Hunt go down the freeway could
be a burden and grind. Penny had had enough when he inquired of Strange,
“Think that avalanche stopped them?” “Let’s get back to the trucks! I don’t see how they could have made
it here! But the more distance we make the less we have to fear! Every
crime Earth knows to the Punctuator owes! Let’s not chance it!” With that, Penny followed Strange down the bleachers. As they pushed
through the crowd Penny bumped into his double: “Well, hi there!” Penny tipping the brim his hat, then offering his
hand. His double jerked back his head, frowning in astonishment, but
shook his own hand before Penny continued on his way. Once they were
free of the crowd, now walking along a row of Schneider babies – orange
construction barrels to four wheelers – they were approached by a
phalanx of officers bearing rifles who presently circled them. “Halt!” shouted a voice, which Penny and Something did, high and dry
with a moat of air twenty feet wide between them and the rifles
surrounding them, aiming at their heads. “Introduce yourselves!”
commanded the leader who was a dwarf, looking incredibly like the Punc
but for his uniform and mustache. “Old Penny!” “Something Strange!” “If earn my disfavor, lady, the lashing you’ll get you’ll not savor!
Your name!” “Something Strange!” “Little makes me more inimical than identity too cryptical! With your
name be more bold ‘fore I become uncontrolled!” The midget commander
then cocked his rifle, pointing it at her head. “If say it a third he still won’t get the word,” Penny whispered. “Be
creative.” “Alice!” “You are under arrest, Alice!” After which Penny and Strange were
seized and bound in manacles. “For what?” Old Penny naturally inquired. “Speeding! I have you on radar at four miles per hour.” “That’s ridiculous!” Strange said, aghast. “We’re not even driving!” “It is posted very clear,” obliged the commander, pointing to a sign
which read ‘2 MPH’. “Two miles per hour. I’ve a BOSE stereo to pay
off, which means, period.” “That’s absurd!” Penny exclaimed, now recognizing the Punctuator’s
double, but for the mustache, and being, nigh unbelievably, on the safer
side of the law. “Stool!” the midget ordered, pointing to the ground. An officer
rushed up, placed a portable stool before Penny’s feet, and pulled out
its two steps. The uniformed menace ascended and coldly squinted into
Penny’s eyes but three inches away, the brims of their hats touching:
“Were I you,” the commander quietly spoke in a grainy voice meant to rub
a raw wound, “I would quell the inspiration to lend me information. I am
the law. You will find that it doesn’t assist to be a conversationalist.
. . Take them!” shouting with a wave of his arm. Now two officers to each side of both Penny and Strange marched them
to a building several hundred feet away. Whence occurred one of the most
beautiful melodies composed by Danny Elfman. For so slowly did they go,
so gray the day, so solemn, that they may as well have been in a funeral
procession. It seemed forever for them to reach the building where they
were escorted inside, then down a winding stairwell into a dark dungeon
lit with torches. “S . . . l . . . o . . . w,” Strange remarked to herself, observing
the medieval ambience. There were noises of wailing and the stench of
feces. Water from Lake Michigan trickled down the crusty brick walls.
Once at the bottom of the rock stairway, Penny and Strange were lead
between two rows of cells of iron bars. They stopped. An officer in
front jangled a ring of old bow and shank keys with simple bits and
opened a cell. Our guests to this old new world were then shoved inside,
the iron gate summarily clanked shut behind them. They stood to wipe
themselves off as they looked about the dim atmosphere. There were
perhaps thirty others in the cell with them, as many as in the other
cells which lined the walls of the dungeon. A man screamed from deeper
in the bowels. “The rack,” said a voice familiar, but nigh invisible in the dark.
Penny followed it and, behold, the Punctuator smiled up at him from a
wooden plank for a seat. Strange felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned
and looked up to see Makin’ with “Kill” in a grimace worse than any
tyrannosaur that had ever looked down on an herbivore caught unaware.
“We haven’t been here ten minutes,” continued the Punc. “I’m glad I waited,” Makin’ added, not taking her glare off Strange.
“I was gettin’ ready to tear this cage down.” Meanwhile there was a great commotion outside in the streets.
Ambassadors of Swift and Hunt stepped out onto the fourth-story balcony
of the same building with the dungeon beneath. Representatives from
other trucking companies sat behind them. They waved triumphantly to the
crowds below. Great banners hung from the walls to either side of the
balconies. Planes in formation flew above to show the brute power of
insurance companies. The balcony below Swift was occupied by the ATA,
the DOT and various law enforcement officials, most of which had little
notion as to trucking . Below them sat various brokers, dispatchers and
shippers who used truck drivers to their convenience, making them the
fall guys and whipping boys to their greater profit. All were
anticipating the great ball they would attend that evening as Hunt held
up his hands to quiet the multitude of truck drivers out in the streets: “The coup is victorious!” he shouted out to the booing crowd. Now
Hunt was joined by the governor of Illinois as they wrapped arms. There
was, meanwhile, a great parade of mighty trucks on the avenue below.
These were not work trucks. They had been gelded, being only just able
to do the job, to the purpose of greater profits, and to please
manipulative insurance company morons who knew nothing about trucking.
The truck driver, doing an average fifteen-hour workday, would take up
the slack: Last to the truck stop. No parking left. Looks like another ramp
tonight. Can’t change the logs to keep from having to drive like a
corpse. But I’ll lie to make sure the company gets all the work it can
out of me. Got to. I’m sixty miles short each day and it takes ten to do
it. After the shipper diddling me around for five hours, the DOT another
two – which was expensive for no fault of mine – another hour fueling
and trying to slide tandems that won’t budge after every trick in the
book. Another four getting the truck repaired. Now it’s 3 in the
morning. Started at 7 AM. Guess I’ll start that time again. Company
doesn’t like to change appointments. Barely climb the hills tomorrow. Do
500 miles of straight road in the middle of nowhere at 68 MPH, half
conscious, half alive, giving half a damn. Try not to wind the engine
going down. Avoid a head-on collision by two hundred feet ‘cause I’ve
got no muscle to pass some leisure tour. Someone flip me off because it
takes three miles of left lane to get past some senior See the USA. DOT
says I’m illegal. I call it getting the job done with everyone and
everything making it as difficult as they can. Hope I’ve got heat and
lights when I get home. Forgot to pay the bill before I left last month.
Guess that birthday card will be late, too. Damn. I couldn’t believe
they asked me what truck color I wanted when I was so desperate that I
took this job. I couldn’t care less about the stereo. Elementals first:
a truck that’s a truck. Sure would make it easier. Might even give a
damn if I was alive. Then they’ve got me dragging around a trailer with
recruiting advertisements to make appear what’s not – what is
left mum – to a lot of dupes.
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