| General Fiction posted October 15, 2024 | Chapters: |
...9 10 -11- 12... 
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The left lane is for passing only
A chapter in the book Truckin
Truckin, Ch 11
by Wayne Fowler
In the last part Clyde tested and proved out his ray gun. He noticed that some trucks were escorted by guardian vehicles. He picked up his pace of avenging Jane Ann, albeit with greater care.
Chapter 11
Clyde was on I-95, northbound, arguably the busiest freeway in the nation. One factor in truckers’ favor was that with such dense traffic, cutting people off, or unnecessarily lording it in the passing lane was infrequent. But when a trucker managed to commit such an offense, it was most often impossible for Clyde to isolate the offender to put him out of commission.
A trucker several cars ahead suddenly veered left into the passing lane. Unfortunately, that lane was occupied by two cars at the time. The leading car panic braked, causing the one behind him to jerk into the left breakdown lane, barely avoiding a collision. The trucker jerked back into his own lane, more than likely awakened from sleep, or at least drowsy-driving, awakened by the raised, lane markers. Unbelievably to Clyde, the trucker put on his left blinker, eventually passing another truck by cutting off a third car, making that driver hit his brakes.
Clyde focused on the offending trucker.
Within a few miles, Clyde was able to slip in front of the obviously independent trucker, a trucker who owned his own tractor and picked up loads as he could at depots. Without actually brake-checking him, Clyde slowed to sixty, then fifty, and then forty-five. Traffic was heavy enough that the trucker had no opportunity to squeeze into the passing lane. Eventually Clyde sped back up, leaving the trucker to waste fuel regaining speed.
After taking the next exit and waiting for his target to drive by, Clyde repeated his slowing the trucker down action. This time, Clyde lowered his window and shook his fist at the trucker. Clyde was prepared to repeat his routine as long as necessary. But this time, the trucker followed Clyde onto the off-ramp, murder and mayhem in his expression. Once he came to a full stop, Clyde jetted across the intersection, figuring that at this point the trucker probably exited his cab with a Glock nine.
Driving at the speed limit, Clyde reached the next exit seven miles further on without sighting Big Chartreuse, the truck of his project. Clyde only had to wait a couple minutes before he appeared, nearly as a blur, barreling by from beneath the underpass. He trailed from as far behind as he could and still keep the truck in sight. A hundred and forty-six miles and another state beyond, he followed the truck into a TransAmerica truck stop. It was a truck stop where truckers could get showers and valet service for their trucks.
As quickly as he could, Clyde donned a baseball cap and a jacket that served as a disguise. He hoped that, along with the absence of sunglasses would be enough.
Clyde lingered in the store area until his trucker friend was served his hamburger and fries lunch.
"Hey," Clyde said, sitting down two bar stools away. Clyde had seen that his friend ignored a group of truckers seated at a long table on the other side of the room. The trucker didn't respond.
"Tough one, huh?" Still the trucker did not respond.
"Yeah, me too. Some fool cut me off, nearly jack-knifed me. I thought I was gonna be writin' a check for the farm."
His head initiated a glance, stopped by his stiffened neck.
"Anyway… safety first," Clyde said with a joke in his voice as he repeated the universal management mantra.
Clyde left him still stewing in his juices.
"The chartreuse Mack," the trucker told the cashier as he gave her his tag number. "I need to pay for the fuel."
"Oh, it's paid for, hon. $382.41. He said to tell you he was the white Ford 150. He said you'd know. You know, the one who sat by you."
Clyde was pretty sure he saw a tear well up as the man choked back a non-response. Hidden by the Little Debbie pastry rack, Clyde saw him swipe at both eyes as he cinched down his camo ballcap.
+++
Sooner or later, as much time as Clyde spent on the highway, it was bound to happen: a crash between a truck and four-wheelers just in front of him. Clyde couldn’t see the actual initial impact, but what happened was obvious enough: a road-raging auto pulled in front of a trucker and brake-checked him. Only this time, the auto driver either miscalculated the trucker’s ability, or misjudged the trucker’s inclination to avoid ramming him, spinning him sideways and then catapulting the car into other traffic. The several-car pile-up was calamitous. Clyde only suffered a blown tire, unable to avoid debris.
With people scrambling and dashing from one car to another, Clyde saw no value he could add to aiding folks actually involved. He busied himself changing his ruined tire as quickly as he could.
“I’m Trooper McClean,” the police officer said, approaching just as Clyde was attempting to secure the blown tire behind his ray gun array. Clyde quickly pulled the tire back off the tailgate, closing it as casually as he could.
“Dale,” Clyde said, using his middle name as he touched the bill of his cap in a faux salute.
“Were you involved in the crash? You can get your tire covered by their insurance.”
“Nah. I have hazard insurance on the tire. I’ll save the hassle. Thanks, though.” Clyde hoped the officer was busy enough to accept his word and move on.
“Did you see what happened? Give me a statement?”
“Not really. Happened kinda quick, know what I mean?”
The Trooper nodded. Having all the statements he needed, he told Clyde that he was welcome to change his mind, just to call the state headquarters, give them the date, location, and his license number and he could make a claim.
“We’ll have a lane opened up in a bit. Just work your way to the left and we’ll get you in. Have a good day.”
Clyde’s restrained sigh of relief became an anxious choke of fear as the trooper noted Clyde’s license number in a pocket-sized notebook.
Clyde wedged the tire and wheel onto the passenger seat, preventing nosy eyes from peering into the bed of his pick-up. He spent the rest of the day considering that his license plate would be associated with a truck crash.
In the last part Clyde tested and proved out his ray gun. He noticed that some trucks were escorted by guardian vehicles. He picked up his pace of avenging Jane Ann, albeit with greater care.
Chapter 11
Clyde was on I-95, northbound, arguably the busiest freeway in the nation. One factor in truckers’ favor was that with such dense traffic, cutting people off, or unnecessarily lording it in the passing lane was infrequent. But when a trucker managed to commit such an offense, it was most often impossible for Clyde to isolate the offender to put him out of commission.
A trucker several cars ahead suddenly veered left into the passing lane. Unfortunately, that lane was occupied by two cars at the time. The leading car panic braked, causing the one behind him to jerk into the left breakdown lane, barely avoiding a collision. The trucker jerked back into his own lane, more than likely awakened from sleep, or at least drowsy-driving, awakened by the raised, lane markers. Unbelievably to Clyde, the trucker put on his left blinker, eventually passing another truck by cutting off a third car, making that driver hit his brakes.
Clyde focused on the offending trucker.
Within a few miles, Clyde was able to slip in front of the obviously independent trucker, a trucker who owned his own tractor and picked up loads as he could at depots. Without actually brake-checking him, Clyde slowed to sixty, then fifty, and then forty-five. Traffic was heavy enough that the trucker had no opportunity to squeeze into the passing lane. Eventually Clyde sped back up, leaving the trucker to waste fuel regaining speed.
After taking the next exit and waiting for his target to drive by, Clyde repeated his slowing the trucker down action. This time, Clyde lowered his window and shook his fist at the trucker. Clyde was prepared to repeat his routine as long as necessary. But this time, the trucker followed Clyde onto the off-ramp, murder and mayhem in his expression. Once he came to a full stop, Clyde jetted across the intersection, figuring that at this point the trucker probably exited his cab with a Glock nine.
Driving at the speed limit, Clyde reached the next exit seven miles further on without sighting Big Chartreuse, the truck of his project. Clyde only had to wait a couple minutes before he appeared, nearly as a blur, barreling by from beneath the underpass. He trailed from as far behind as he could and still keep the truck in sight. A hundred and forty-six miles and another state beyond, he followed the truck into a TransAmerica truck stop. It was a truck stop where truckers could get showers and valet service for their trucks.
As quickly as he could, Clyde donned a baseball cap and a jacket that served as a disguise. He hoped that, along with the absence of sunglasses would be enough.
Clyde lingered in the store area until his trucker friend was served his hamburger and fries lunch.
"Hey," Clyde said, sitting down two bar stools away. Clyde had seen that his friend ignored a group of truckers seated at a long table on the other side of the room. The trucker didn't respond.
"Tough one, huh?" Still the trucker did not respond.
"Yeah, me too. Some fool cut me off, nearly jack-knifed me. I thought I was gonna be writin' a check for the farm."
His head initiated a glance, stopped by his stiffened neck.
"Anyway… safety first," Clyde said with a joke in his voice as he repeated the universal management mantra.
Clyde left him still stewing in his juices.
"The chartreuse Mack," the trucker told the cashier as he gave her his tag number. "I need to pay for the fuel."
"Oh, it's paid for, hon. $382.41. He said to tell you he was the white Ford 150. He said you'd know. You know, the one who sat by you."
Clyde was pretty sure he saw a tear well up as the man choked back a non-response. Hidden by the Little Debbie pastry rack, Clyde saw him swipe at both eyes as he cinched down his camo ballcap.
+++
Sooner or later, as much time as Clyde spent on the highway, it was bound to happen: a crash between a truck and four-wheelers just in front of him. Clyde couldn’t see the actual initial impact, but what happened was obvious enough: a road-raging auto pulled in front of a trucker and brake-checked him. Only this time, the auto driver either miscalculated the trucker’s ability, or misjudged the trucker’s inclination to avoid ramming him, spinning him sideways and then catapulting the car into other traffic. The several-car pile-up was calamitous. Clyde only suffered a blown tire, unable to avoid debris.
With people scrambling and dashing from one car to another, Clyde saw no value he could add to aiding folks actually involved. He busied himself changing his ruined tire as quickly as he could.
“I’m Trooper McClean,” the police officer said, approaching just as Clyde was attempting to secure the blown tire behind his ray gun array. Clyde quickly pulled the tire back off the tailgate, closing it as casually as he could.
“Dale,” Clyde said, using his middle name as he touched the bill of his cap in a faux salute.
“Were you involved in the crash? You can get your tire covered by their insurance.”
“Nah. I have hazard insurance on the tire. I’ll save the hassle. Thanks, though.” Clyde hoped the officer was busy enough to accept his word and move on.
“Did you see what happened? Give me a statement?”
“Not really. Happened kinda quick, know what I mean?”
The Trooper nodded. Having all the statements he needed, he told Clyde that he was welcome to change his mind, just to call the state headquarters, give them the date, location, and his license number and he could make a claim.
“We’ll have a lane opened up in a bit. Just work your way to the left and we’ll get you in. Have a good day.”
Clyde’s restrained sigh of relief became an anxious choke of fear as the trooper noted Clyde’s license number in a pocket-sized notebook.
Clyde wedged the tire and wheel onto the passenger seat, preventing nosy eyes from peering into the bed of his pick-up. He spent the rest of the day considering that his license plate would be associated with a truck crash.
Clyde: A retiree whose wife, Jane Ann, died as a direct result of a truck driver's action
Jane Ann: Clyde's deceased wife, dead by the action of a trucker (Santa Claus)
Santa Claus: the name Clyde gave the Xavious Trucking driver responsible for Jane Ann's death
Thurmon: a middle-aged truck driver
Sara: Thurmon's wife
Nate: Thurmon's 12 y.o. son
Susan: Thurmon's 7 y.o. daughter
Corine: Clyde's grown daughter
Rick: Clyde's grown son
photo courtesy FanArtReview 'Don't drink and drive' by cleo85
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Jane Ann: Clyde's deceased wife, dead by the action of a trucker (Santa Claus)
Santa Claus: the name Clyde gave the Xavious Trucking driver responsible for Jane Ann's death
Thurmon: a middle-aged truck driver
Sara: Thurmon's wife
Nate: Thurmon's 12 y.o. son
Susan: Thurmon's 7 y.o. daughter
Corine: Clyde's grown daughter
Rick: Clyde's grown son
photo courtesy FanArtReview 'Don't drink and drive' by cleo85
Artwork by cleo85 at FanArtReview.com
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