Willobee's World

by Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

  “Well, what if I do have a wife, kids, and even a girlfriend or two? You made it clear the other day that you just wanted us to be friends. I know I wanted things to be different, so I like the idea of at least havin’ your friendship. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but you did not answer my question.” She said while staring into his azure eyes.

  “Of course I’ve been ’round and done my thing, and I ’spect you’ve had some good times, too. Most men my age wanna have a wife and kids. I nearly got married twice, but my good sense took over. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. Since I’m not a preacher or a priest, when it comes to kids, I probably have one or two runnin’ ’round someplace, because the truth is, speakin’ plain; I’ve known at least a woman or two with spring-loaded legs. Does that clear things up a bit?”

  “Yeah, it does,” she said, looking down. “I’m a little embarrassed for pryin’ into your personal life, but golly you didn’t have to be quite so graphic.”

  “Sorry ’bout that, but I don’t pussyfoot around, and I don’t lie. The truth is I don’t like liars, but I’d like ta talk ’bout those circumstances, issues ya spoke about the other day. Like I said, I’m a good listener,” he said, looking deeply into her crystal blue eyes.

  “Trent, as things are now I don’t have the luxury of not having a job, and I thank God every day for what I do have. I went to the Mohave Community College M-C-C while I worked and earned my A-A—associate’s degree—but that was before…that was before, uh, my mother…had a stroke. Now, I’m about all she has. She needs and depends on me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not an invalid, and she’s able to get around with her cane, walker, and sometimes her wheelchair. The fact is she’s an independent cuss!”

  “Whada ’bout your dad? Can’t he help?”

  “Believe me; if he were still alive…momma would be taken care of like a queen, ’cause he was a great husband and father.”

  “What took him?”

  “A drunk driver on Highway ninety-five—head on collision.”

  “I, uh, really don’t know what ta say, but I’m awful sorry ta hear that kinda story. As a trucker, I see fatal accidents a lot. In fact, too often it’s not only drunks or druggies but people texting on their phones.”

  “Sorry, folks, it took so long to get your breakfasts, but we’ve been right busy today,” the waitress, Kortnie, said as she began delivering their meals.

  “Don’t worry about it, Kortnie, I’m a waitress, and I know how it gets sometimes,” a smiling Haylee replied.

  “I appreciate your understanding. If there’s anything else you need, just give a holler,” she said and headed back toward the kitchen.

  “Haylee, sweetheart, you know I’m an ole southern boy from Macon, Georgia, but you’ve never said where you hail from. Tell me a little ’bout yorself, Trent said.

  “Well, I was born in Bullhead City, Arizona where I graduated from Mohave High School. Not long after that, we moved to Oatman. Unlike you, I’ve not traveled all over the place. My mom was a stay at home mom, and dad worked as a house framer. He was a terrific carpenter. Guess ya might say I’ve lived a somewhat sheltered life. Dad, Mr. Harper, was pretty strict, so I didn’t date a lot. Though about a year before he died, he let up a little, and I did get serious about a former high school classmate, but that pretty much ended after dad was killed. Joel was a great guy. He joined the Marines a few years ago and was sent to the Middle East. While there, because of an I-E-D, he lost an arm and leg, and never returned to the area.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that ’bout Joel. I saw a lot of it myself. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m still all in one piece, thank the Lord.”

  Four years earlier…

  In the summer of 2012 Trent was reading the classified ads about trucks and trailers while he was holed up in his single-wide in Oatman. He came across a rather sad one about a woman trying to get someone to take over the payments of her deceased husband’s practically new rig. She only wanted $5,000. At that point, Trent had been driving truck since he got out of the Army, but he wanted his own cab and trailer. He liked the company for which he worked, but he wanted to be on his own. He was a saver. He even put a little money aside when he was on the rodeo circuit, and that was tough to do. While in the Army, he saved half of every penny he was paid, which included combat pay. In his opinion, there was nothing to do in Iraq or Afghanistan—nothing to spend money on. The locals weren’t beer drinkers, and he was not about to even consider trying to mess around with the women of the Middle East. As far as he was concerned, that was a no-no. As a Special Forces Soldier (SFS) he worked a lot with and around them, and he knew it was very dangerous. He was more interested in staying alive and having the backs of his brothers in arms. As far as he was concerned, the key to everything was staying focused.

  He made a quick phone call to Mrs. Zabrowski, and with ad in hand, he decided to check out the situation the lady described, so he fired up Rocket One and found his way to her place in Laughlin, Nevada. Trent walked up and rang the doorbell, as he looked around to get a gander at the cab and trailer. She greeted him and asked him in. After introductions, he had a seat and they discussed the rig.

  “Mr. Willobee, I’m in a bind, and I want to be right up front about it. Blaze, my husband, bought this truck and trailer new. He only made two over the road runs before he suffered a massive heart attack. He died right here in this house at age 52. That truck and trailer had been his dream for years, but now his dream has become my nightmare. I have no use for it, and I certainly can’t make those payments. I deal Blackjack here in Laughlin, so I’m not flush with cash. When he financed it, they only gave us 48 months to pay for it, but I don’t want the repo man to get it or ruin my credit. Since you’re a trucker you know that the only way for that thing to make money is for it to be on the road. It hurts me to have to do this, but I have no choice,” she said as her eyes welled with tears.

  “Ma’am, I ’preciate your honesty, and I can’t really tell you how bad I feel ’bout your husband’s passin’. That truck was a part of him, and now you have to even let that go. I know that’s gotta be hard.”

  “Yes…it’s like I’m not a dream weaver… I’m a dream killer,” she said, reaching for a tissue.

  “Gosh, ma’am, this has taken me a little by surprise. Can you tell me ’bout the truck?”

  “Yes, of course, it’s out back, and you can take a look at it. Blaze was really particular about what he bought. The cab’s a Kenworth with a seventy-three-inch sleeper, and the trailer is a fifty-three foot Wabash. He wanted to be able to haul refrigerated product anywhere in the United States, Mexico, and Canada.”

  They went outside, and Trent immediately fell in love with that outfit. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It really was a new truck and trailer. The cab was ruby red with white and blue flames painted down the side.

  “Ma’am, can we take her for a little ride?”

  “Of course, let me get the keys.”

  They took State Road 163 toward Las Vegas. He went through all fourteen gears like a kid playing with a new toy. The first 20 miles or so was an uphill climb on a very winding road. When he got to the first rest stop, he turned around and headed back. Upon their return, Trent raised the hood, checked all the fluids, and was impressed at the sparkling clean ISX Cummins engine.

  “Ms. Zabrowski, I really want that truck, but I don’t feel good ’bout takin’ it.”

  “If you don’t mind, call me Darcy, ’cause there’s somethin’ about you that makes me think Blaze would be pleased. I can’t explain it, but it’s something I feel.”

  “Darcy, you drive a hard bargain,” a smiling Trent said.

  A few days later and two visits to the bank, Trent became the owner of his new rig. It didn’t take long for him to pick up more business than he’d expected. Even though fuel prices skyrocketed during most of the
four years between 2012 and 2016, his business grew like a well-nourished field of Mojave Indian alfalfa.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was four in the morning in Oatman when Trent did his last walk-around of his rig. For him to get to Tijuana, Mexico on time, he knew he would have to leave by five. It was a nine-hour drive, plus fuel stops, but he would still be within the 11-hour federal rule which dictated a rest period. By the time he arrived and took on his load, it was getting late. Customarily, he decided to spend the night in Tijuana. He parked in a secured truck holding pen, called the shuttle at the Americana Inn, and spent the night before loading up and heading to his first stop, Phoenix, Arizona. There he unloaded the tomatoes and picked up a load of celery, which he delivered to his destination in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  By now he’d been on the road for nearly a week, so Trent was looking forward to a relaxing evening in Albuquerque. He’d been on the cheap all the way so he decided to treat himself. He parked about a half-mile away, not far from his hotel and the Sandia Peak Tramway which he took two miles up the mountain to the High Finance Restaurant & Tavern. Trent had made this trip many times, and he liked the experience, ambience, and food. When the sun began to set, the mountain glowed like a sunlit copper kettle. Trent made his way to the bar. He quickly checked the menu and ordered a Miller Lite. Shortly thereafter, a man wearing a dark blazer sat next to him.

  “What did you do with the guns?”

  A surprised Trent whipped around and quipped. “You talkin’ ta me?” What guns and who’re you anyways?”

  “You know what guns; stop playing games, Willobee.”

  “Seems like you ’head of me. You know mah name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “We could sit here and engage in verbal gymnastics all evening, but I’m sure you want to eat, drink, and take in the sights,” the stranger replied.

  “Mister, I gotta purdy good sense of humor, but it don’t pay to push me,” Trent said, looking him sternly in the eyes.

  “No reason to get hostile. My associates and I need your help, that’s all. How’d things go in Tijuana? He said as he sipped a glass of water.

  “You been doggin’ me from Tijuana?”

  “No, from Oatman. I was coming in for breakfast when you were leaving over a week ago.”

  “When you get back home in a few days…uh… I assume…as usual…you’ll be taking a load to Flagstaff. I know you see an empty truck as burning money. I’ll be in touch,” he said and got up to leave.

  Trent quickly got to his feet and grabbed the guy by his arm. “Wait, Mister, you got some more jawin’ ta do before you head back down that mountain.”

  “Look, big guy, I told you we’ll talk again in a few days, now I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wrinkle my jacket, or make a scene,” he said, looking down at Trent’s firm grasp.

  Trent let go and sat back down at the bar and watched as the stranger made his way out of the restaurant and onto the tram. He sat there flabbergasted and thinking: what in the hell’s this all about? Who’s this guy and his unseen associates? What do they want from me? How did he know about the guns? Okay, okay, I gotta calm down now and try to get somethin’ to eat. Welcome to Willobee’s world.

  “Sir, sir,” he waved to the server behind the bar, “please, let me have a medium-rare Porter House with all the trimmin’s, and another beer would really be ’preciated.”

  Even a good meal and spectacular view wouldn’t shake the encounter Trent had with the stranger. All he could think about the rest of the evening was who was following him and why. When he got back to his truck, he checked to see if his .380 was still under the dashboard. He took it with him to the hotel for the night, which was restless and uneasy.

  The next morning, he picked up a load of lettuce bound for Flagstaff, Arizona. He took I-40 west and slowed to a crawl at Exit 207. He reached for his CB mike to see if he could find out the problem.

  “Ya’ll out there, this is Rodeo Man, goin’ west what’s hapnin’ up front? I’m ’bout 30 miles outta Flagstaff.”

  “This’s Slinger, Rodeo Man,” the radio crackled, “long time no see. Just passed one helluva wreck, a jackknife involvin’ some cars. I’m at Exit 198. Gonna take you awhile. Gotta gas up at the next Love’s. Pull in for a howdy.”

  “Thanks, Slinger, good to hear from ya, I’ll do that. Over’n out.”

  Trent continued creeping along and listening to the radio chatter about the situation. During that slow-down, again, he began thinking about the character in the restaurant the night before. He was very perplexed and disturbed about it all.

  “Slinger to Rodeo Man, how ya doin’? Over.”

  “Things are pick’n up. We’re beginn’ to move a little. Should be there in ’bout twenty minutes, over’n out.”

  “Ten-four.”

  It didn’t take long before the truck stop came into view, and Trent pulled up to the pumps. Slinger’s rig was about 100 yards off to the side. By the time Trent had inserted the pump nozzle, Slinger had walked up, and they shook hands.

  “It’s gotta be more’n a year since we last saw each other,” Trent said with a big smile.

  “I think it’s been longer’n that,” Slinger replied with a grin.

  “Got time for a cup of coffee?” Trent asked.

  “Yeah, anyway I need to get a sandwich for the road. I’m gonna catch a few winks at the next rest stop.”

  Trent pulled his truck up near Slinger’s, and they strolled into the truck stop restaurant. Ordinarily, they would have just sat at the counter, but they thought a booth would be better. They were barely seated before Zesty, the waitress, was pouring coffee. She was a busty middle age woman and fairly attractive for her age.

  “Haven’t seen either of ya two boys in a while.”

  “We truckers gotta work, right Slinger?”

  “Yep, that’s a fact!” He replied with a big grin.

  “You need to put some meat on those bones,” she said, smiling at Slinger.

  “Are you sayin’ I’m too skinny, Zesty?”

  “Like I been sayin’ for years, you need to put on a few pounds. That means you gotta eat more. How about a slice of hot apple pie?”

  “Okay, just for you, bring me a slice and also get me a corn-beef sandwich to go.”

  “What about you, big boy, want a slice?” She asked, turning to Trent.

  “Yeah…what ta hell…why not?” He said, looking up at her.

  “I want let those cups get empty, be back in a minute,” she said with a smile.

  “It’s real good to see ya again, Slinger, ’member when we first met in that truck stop in Deetroit?”

  “Yeah, I was slingin’ hash, and we got to talkin’ about drivin’ truck,” he said as a smile crept across his face. “I still recall you comin’ in that old hash house ever few weeks.”

  “That was back when I was makin’ that Deetroit run for Ametar Truckin’…before I got my own rig,” Trent quickly added.

  “You know, you’re the one who got me interested in drivin’ truck. In fact, you gave me my CB handle—Slinger. On one of your visits where I was cookin’ you told me that when I became a truck driver, I should use the handle Slinger, ’cause I was such a good short order cook, and could really sling some hash!”

  “That seems like such a long time ago, now.” Trent replied, looking down at the table.

  “I guess so, but it’s only been five or six years past.”

  Zesty brought their pies in one hand and more coffee in the other, and she told Slinger he could pick up his sandwich at the register. The two of them ate the pie and were drinking more coffee when Slinger began staring over Trent’s shoulder out the front window.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Trent asked.

  “Rodeo Man, I see two guys in suits checking out your rig.”

  “What?!”

  �
��I’m tellin’ ya there’s two guys meanderin’ ’round your truck.”

  “I’ll be back!” He said, jumping to his feet.

  Trent darted out the door only to see a black SUV speeding out of the parking lot. “Dammit!”

  Slinger soon joined him out front. Reluctantly, Trent told him about things which had been occurring over the past couple of weeks.

  “Ya mean you really don’t have a clue about this stuff?”

  “Nope, sure don’t, but this crap’s beginnin’ to spook me.”

  “If there’s anything I can do I’ll—”

  Trent interrupted, “Thanks, but this is weird and I’m just gonna have to deal with it.”

  Trent and Slinger climbed back in their respective rigs and off they went. Trent headed west on I-40 toward Kingman, Arizona, and Slinger’s destination was Barstow, California. Trent dialed in KAFF 930 AM out of Flagstaff on the truck radio. He tended to prefer country music and stars like Taylor Swift, Carrie Underwood, Alan Jackson, Toby Keith, and Trace Adkins. Since he grew up in the south, there was no way he didn’t care for some of the old guys and gals. People like Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Crystal Gale, Merle Haggard, Conway Twitty, and even the man he thought was the King of Country—Hank Williams, Sr., and when he wanted to hear some country classics, he switched over to KAFF FM 92.9. As a boy, those old-timers were a staple in his family’s household. It wasn’t that he didn’t like rock n roll, because he did like some southern rock. He grew up only a few miles away in Macon from where the Allman Brothers had lived. His favorite song of theirs was Ramblin’ Man. He also got a kick out of other southern rockers like Lynyrd Skynyrd and Joe South. Though Elvis had died years before he was even born, he was taken with a number of country and religious tunes by him, but he considered Elvis to be the King of Rock and Roll.

  Trent left the Interstate at Kingman and found his way to old Route 66. It seemed as though he was creeping back into Oatman before he knew it. An occasional burro would bring him nearly to halt, because those creatures would just stand in the middle of the road and look at him.