Crimson Highway by David Wickenhauser (brene brown rising strong TXT) 📗

be a long day unless his rider improved his social skills in a hurry.

Hugh put mile after mile under his truck and semi-trailer rig’s eighteen wheels. The drone of the big diesel engine was the only sound, as silence lay heavily between them.

Then Hugh began to notice something. An earthy, musty, unwashed kind of stale odor wafted over from where the hitchhiker was seated. His rider obviously hadn’t had use of a shower in some time.

Hugh hadn’t had a lot of experience with itinerant people … none in fact … so he figured that was just the way it was with them. Perhaps it was not to be unexpected in a homeless person caught way out there in the boondocks, far away from any kind of bathing facility.

Hugh thought that maybe he could get him to a shower at the next large travel center. But, at best, it was going to be a long day before that happened. He cracked his side window a couple of inches, hoping that would help.

After awhile, Hugh’s large lunchtime coffee demanded that he pull over for a jug break. He watched for a wide spot on the shoulder, and then took the first opening that came up.

“I’ll just be a minute here to take care of some business,” Hugh said.

Thinking about his rider, he figured it had probably been some time since he’d had use of a facility. “Hey, I’ve got a spare jug if you need to use one.”

Still looking out the side window, the rider merely shook his head.

Hugh stood up in his sleeper, turned his back to the rider, uncapped his jug, and got rid of his lunchtime coffee. Capping the jug, he got back into his seat.

“That’s a relief,” he said. “Just let me know if you need to use a jug. There’s no facility to stop at along here, so it’s the jug or nothing.”

Hugh pulled back onto the highway.

Silence from the rider.

The mile markers passed by their truck—one to the minute. To pass the time, and in an attempt to thaw his unsocial rider, Hugh decided to tell a story from his early years of being a truck driver.

“I’ve seen quite a few accidents,” he started his story, not caring if his rider was listening or not. “There was this one time recently; I was on Highway 395 in far northern California, heading south about twenty miles from the nearest town. It was a two-lane road. Very icy. A storm had just passed through, and there was a lot of snow on both shoulders, and in the ditches alongside the road.

“Next thing I knew, I was forced to stop when I came upon a big-rig truck on its side, completely blocking the highway. The tractor’s nose was in the ditch on one side, and the trailer’s rear end was in the ditch on the other side.

“The accident must have just happened. There were no other vehicles there. I saw the driver standing outside his flipped-over tractor. He appeared to be OK, and he was talking to someone on his cell phone. Then the highway patrol showed up. And a little later, a couple of tow trucks arrived from town.

“The problem was that the tow trucks needed to be on the other side of the flipped truck—the side that I was on—but they couldn’t get around it. One tow truck driver tried, but he got stuck in the ditch.

“Here’s what’s funny,” Hugh said, glancing at his passenger to see if he was paying attention. “The tow truck driver then walked over to me, and asked if I could pull his vehicle out of the ditch. Of course I said OK. He then hooked a chain to my front bumper pull hooks, I backed up to put tension on the chain, and then pulled him out.

“I’ve always thought that it was hilarious that a tow-truck driver had to get a tow from me.

“He then hooked up to the other tow truck to pull him around the end of the trailer in the ditch.

“It took several hours, but they finally put the truck and trailer wheels down, and pulled over to the side of the road. By that time, I was completely out of legal driving hours. I had to have a highway patrol officer escort me to town so I could find a place to park for the night.”

 “I’ve got more stories. Do you want me to go on?” Hugh asked, not expecting an answer.

“No. I’m good,” the rider surprised Hugh by answering. He had obviously decided that giving up some talk himself was preferable to listening to another of Hugh’s rambling stories.

Progress, at least he talks. Hugh noticed that not only was this rider slightly built, but that he didn’t have a particularly deep voice. Could be a youngster.

“You ready to tell me your name?” Hugh asked.

Silence.

“OK. Don’t,” Hugh said. “No problem. I’m thinking of another story.”

There was a shorter period of silence this time.

Then, “Jenny.”

“Jenny? That’s kind of a strange name for a ... Oh, no. You’ve got to be kidding!”

The rider then looked directly at Hugh, pushed up the knit cap, and pulled his ... rather, her ... hair from around her face.

She was indeed a “Jenny.” A rather cute Jenny, in fact, Hugh decided, making allowance for the dirty face, slovenly dress, and unkempt hair.

Then Hugh began thinking how badly that complicates things. He was in no way prepared for a female rider.

Then his face reddened all the way to the roots of his short-cropped, sandy-colored hair, as he suddenly recalled the recent jug episode.

Spare jug. He couldn’t believe he’d said that to a girl.

She noticed his flushed face. “Not so cocky now, are you, big guy. Don’t worry, I didn’t see anything. Nothing to write home about anyway.”

“You’re