valarltd | A Halloween treat from me to you

Since I am a lazy celebrant (bought all the costumes, don't have a porch light, skipped the pumpkin and am now stealing taffy out of my kids' party bags from school), I decided to do one thing.

A Halloween treat, from me, to you.

Night Run

Chris wasn't sure where he was. Midnight, he guessed by the moon, and way out in the country. He shouldered his backpack and looked along the highway: dim lights to his left, blackness to his right.

"Left it is," he muttered.

He walked, losing track of time. Eventually he could make out the sign for the truck-stop. A semi roared past him, and he saw it signal. He kept walking, and soon he could see the door and the interior.

Under the lights, he saw a rearing blue dragon on the side of the black Peterbilt. Under the painting was the legend "Dragonrider" in electric blue.

The first thing Chris saw of the driver were his boots: not polished, fancy boots, or the kind the poseurs at school wore, but a real cowboy's boots which had never seen polish. The driver came around, tall and thin, his jeans as worn as his boots, and the flannel shirt missing both sleeves. His hair was as black as the truck, held back in a pony-tail. A leather sleeve covered the end near his waist.

Chris saw the tattoo that some men called "Las Tres Brujas:" three female faces against a fall of black hair on his forearm. The other bicep sported a Cherokee patterned armband. The high-cheekboned face glowered at him.

"Take a picture, kid, it'll last longer. Injun with steel pony." He patted the hood as he lowered it. "Or steel dragon, as the case may be."

"She's beautiful," Chris breathed. The driver relaxed at those words.

"Name's Chuck," he said, putting out his hand, "Dragonrider for obvious reasons. You need a ride?"

Chris just nodded.

"Hop in. I gotta check a few things and we'll go."

Chris climbed up in the cab and got comfortable. It was spare and neat: a few clothes, a CD case, the bedding on the double berth, a cooler under the bunk, a thermos painted with dragon scales and nothing else. Even the usual log book and paperwork were tucked away. He was sketching the thermos when Chuck swung into the cab and started the engine.

"Ok, kid, we're on our way. I'll take you as far as I'm going. There's a stop about two hundred miles on down, which is my next break. You can get out there or stay with me. You got a name, kiddo?"

"Chris." He didn't offer more.

"You're welcome to ride up here, or kip out in the bunk. Hope you don't mind sharing." He glanced at the sketch pad. "You can keep the map light on and draw if you want." Chuck pulled out and slotted a CD.

Somewhere in the endless songs about truck crashes, Chris rubbed his eyes closed his pad and crawled back into the bunk. He woke up with Chuck shirtless beside him. He leaned over the sleeping driver and peeked out the privacy curtains. The sun was just setting. Chuck stirred a little. Chris lay back down quickly.

"I'm up, kid."

Chris shot a glance Chuck's crotch, knowing it was time to pay for his ride. Chuck rolled and sat up, seeming to ignore this.

"Have I been out all day?" Chris asked.

"Yep," Chuck yawned. "Dead to the world. Let's roll. How far you going?"

"New York?" Chris asked hopefully, looking over the dark skin, the hard-working muscles. "Upstate, not the city."

"I've got a turnaround in Tulsa, but you can get a ride from there." Chuck pulled his shirt on. "I see you lookin', kiddo.

Chris decided to brazen it out. "Gonna throw me out? Or pound me first?"

"Naw." Chuck's amiable grin flashed at him in the gloom. "I'm flexible, especially when I'm on the road. Got no lady ‘cept my dragon. She's real jealous."

Chris leaned a little closer. "You must get lonely." He brushed his lips over Chuck's, only to find himself seized and kissed until he forgot to breathe. Chuck's big scarred hands moved on his back with surprising delicacy.

Chuck let go. "Chris, kid, you may be in over your head. We'll make Amarillo tonight then Tulsa tomorrow. The Dragon flies straight, but she never gets in a big hurry."

Chris smiled. "I know the rules: nobody rides free. I'm broke for gas money. You couldn't have any grass, even if I had it. So that leaves my pale ass. You're welcome to it."

"You're a good kid. There's coffee in the thermos and some granola bars under the seat. Get comfy." Chuck fired up the truck without further comment on Chris's offer.

They rocked though the west Texas night, old country music on the CD. The full moon streamed in and Chris used it to sketch the night prairie. He turned on the map-light and drew Chuck's tattoos and the dragon.

They pulled into a dry-wash about five o'clock. Chris closed his pad and rubbed his eyes. He'd made some good drawings of Chuck.

"This is it, kid. I'm out of hours." Chuck shut the truck down and kicked off his boots. "There's a diner up on the ridge. If you're feeling ambitious, run up there and get some food." He dug a ten-spot out of his wallet. "Take the thermos and get coffee too. Bring me one of Joe's ham and egg biscuits."

Chris saw the diner about two hundred yards away. He kissed Chuck again. "I'll pay up when I get back."

Chuck stripped off his shirt and sprawled out on the bunk. "Sure." He waved Chris off.

Chris hesitated, torn between the promise of Chuck's bulging jeans and the hope of fresh coffee. Coffee won. He climbed out, his backpack on his shoulder, scaled the ridge and went to the bathroom to wash his face and hands.

In the diner, he set the thermos on the counter. “Fill ‘er up with the freshest, hottest, blackest coffee you got, and I need two of Joe’s hm and egg biscuits to go.”

The waitress dropped the thick china mug and stared at the thermos like it was a snake. She got pale and finally yelled, “Joe! Got another one!”

The cook came out from the kitchen, a big man with a tattoo of a cigar-chewing bulldog and the words “Semper Fi” under it on his forearm. He stared at the thermos then at Chris, going as pale as his crew-cut blond hair.

“Caught a lift with the Dragonrider, did you?”

Chris nodded. “Chuck picked me up. He’s waiting for his coffee.” He laid the ten on the counter next to his backpack and sketch pad.

Joe shook his head. “Chuck’s gonna wait for that coffee until Judgement Day, kid. Betcha he parked the Dragon down the arroyo, didn’t he?”

The only other customer set his cup down. “It won’t be there now.”

Chris looked between them confused. “I didn’t hear it start up.”

“Better show him, Frank.”
Frank took Chris out to where his own flatbed was parked. “Chuck Cornsilk ran the Dragon between Flagstaff and Tulsa for ten years. He always stopped here at Joe’s, and ol’ Sally back there was sweet on him. Couple years ago, we had a lot of rain upstate, but Chuck never listened to weather.”

“Why are you talking in past tense?” Chris demanded.

Frank tossed back the tarp on his load. Only the blue dragon was recognizable in the faded, filthy battered tractor. “Chuck parked in the arroyo and crashed for the day. Flash flood came through. Took him and the Dragon. Just found her last week. Chuck... It wasn’t pretty. But he’s in the morgue now, gonna get a proper burial. Maybe he’ll stop picking up hitchhikers and stay decently dead.”

Chris wasn’t listening. He had charged down the side of the wash, yelling for Chuck. The cries stopped and Frank went back in for his coffee, figuring the kid would be in soon. He was on his downtime. Sally was better company than the TV.

The sun came up and Chris didn’t come back. Sally set the thermos on the shelf, knowing it would vanish by sunset. It always did. Lee staggered in at nine, almost three hours late.

Sally took one look at him and laced his coffee with brandy. “You wait an hour before driving now, you hear? I already saw one ghost this morning, don’t need you telling me you’re another.”

“Naw, just a dead kid. Had a flat about two miles from the Blue Wolf, and found a kid laying in the ditch.”

“Oh honey,” Sally said. “What happened?”

“The cops figured snakebite. Had a knapsack just like that one.” He pointed at where Chris’s backpack still sat on a counter chair. “He was drawing a sleeping rattler, found him with the pencil in his hand. Then I heard at the Wolf that the Dragon had been through.”

Frank flipped through the sketchbook. “A sleeping rattler like this one?” he asked, showing Chris’s sketch.

Lee dropped the coffee. Sally mopped it without a word.

Frank flipped further. “That’s Chuck Cornsilk. Pretty as he ever was. Lot prettier than what I saw hauled off.” He noted the turned-up corner, then flipped the page, expecting to find it blank.

Instead, Chris lay in Chuck’s arms, smiling up at him, looking ready for a kiss.

Sally smiled softly. “Reckon Chuck’s got himself a permanent passenger for that last big run.”