Eric turned off the single-side band radio. The White Freightliner didn’t like the downgrade; Eric didn’t like the “squirrelly” feel of her steering. 40,000 pounds of vegetables obeyed the insistent pull of gravity and refused to be jerked around the bends without a struggle.

Eric put his seat fully upright. He bumped the wipers one notch; peering intently, he could make out the white lines and double-yellow center stripes. Grabbing the gear shift, double-clutching, he shoved her “down in the hole.” A sign jumped up through the misty drizzle:

Escape Ramp Ahead 6/10ths Mile

“Anna Banana, we gots us a sit-chee-ashun,” Eric spoke to the truck. I’m down to my last granny gear, clocking thirty-eight miles per hour, and I ain’t seen the bottom of this gorge yet.”

Escape Ramp Ahead On Right

Eric noticed the sign at the same moment he heard the air line blow.

“Cripes, Anna–you had to do that now?”

He felt the brakes drop out as the air gushed from the pneumatic-hydraulic system. His attention focused on the feel of the steering wheel and the lines on the road. Then the mist deprived him of the lines. He fingered the “jake brake” knowing he had to make up his mind quickly. He was sitting in a runaway truck, gaining speed, and without air brakes.

If he “blew” the jake brake, all the wheels of the truck tractor and forty-foot trailer would lock up, sending the truck into an uncontrolled skid. If he didn’t, he stood a good chance of missing a turn.

Ice and fire ripped through his consciousness; icy, glacial calm guided his hands and feet as he smoothly turned the steering wheel from side to side. He ranged across the pavement, seeking clues. Lightning-quick, his brain fired burning fears; tongues terror licked at the edges of thought….

Eric fired the jake-brake at the instant he saw the silver ribbon of the traffic barrier. He marveled as the tractor brushed it aside; he saw the right front tire fly through it’s chrome and yellow fender. “I always wondered what flying was like,” he pondered. Eric decided there was nothing left to do, but sail over the evergreens.

* * * * *

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Huh?”

“‘Express,’ or ‘Just Browsing?’ C’mon. You’re holding up the line.”

Eric didn’t see a line. He saw an impatient bureaucrat. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Your choice of Deity, of course.” Programmed exasperation flooded the features of the tubby, squinted and pinched face. Eric was reminded of the Internal Revenue Service, for some reason. The petty official continued, “If you already have a religion you go into the Express Line. If you haven’t picked your form of afterlife, you’re Just Browsing.”

Eric pondered. “Well shoot. I dunno. I’ve always left that stuff to the Holy Joes.”

“Well, you must be a ‘Browser’ then. Go stand on the pearly line. When you know what you want to be, come back to this queue. Next!”

The whole episode was enough to make a man into an atheist, Eric thought. He was about to say he wasn’t going to budge until he understood the system, when he heard the rattle of a diesel engine in the distance. He turned toward the sound and was rewarded with the faintest smell of diesel smoke. A distant sign was visible:

Freighter’s Gravy Bowl
Free Coffee
Special Today: Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy
Free Parking For Long Haulers

“Say, I’ll go over there and think about this.” Eric began walking toward the sign. He continued, “I’ll be back after while….”

With an expression of smug satisfaction, the bureaucrat pronounced, “No you won’t…. Next! Express or Just Browsing?”

Copyright © 2000-2008 Robert Marcom
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Robert Marcom is the moderator for Net Author Online Writers’ Community. He is the publisher of E2K – a Journal for the New Literary Paradigm. Robert has written for publication since 1989 and he is widely published on the Internet.

Freighter’s Gravy is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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