Man Wanted by Landon Dixon

Author:Landon Dixon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2011-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Owner-Operator

I wiped the sweat from my brow, secured the ball cap back on my head and drifted through the gates of Northern Roads Trucking. I headed for the double-wide trailer that had an “Office” sign stuck to its side. It was 95 degrees, just warming up, and this sun-baked trucking yard was the last place I wanted to be. But economic necessity and a chequered driving record drove me on.

I plodded up the wobbly wooden steps, grabbed the heated brass knob and twisted and pulled. Nothing. I pulled harder. Still nothing. I yanked, and the door flew open and the knob slipped out of my hand and I tumbled ass-backwards onto the hot asphalt. So much for making a good first impression.

‘Help ya!?’ a leathery broad with an orange dye job barked at me, as I ducked inside the office/oven. She looked like an unmade bed in a fleabag motel. She was parked behind a dented grey metal desk, a smouldering cigarette hanging limp as a soft-on from between her cracked lips.

I tried to shut the door, couldn’t, gave it up. ‘I’m looking for a job driving a rig,’ I stated.

‘Uh-huh.’ She pulled the cigarette out of her pruned kisser with a pair of walnut-coloured and textured fingers, and blew smoke in my face.

We glared at each other, her watery eyes only slightly more bloodshot than mine.

‘Got some forms for me to fill out or something?’ I finally asked, wiping my hands on my jeans.

She blew exhaust out of one side of her mouth, used the other to holler, ‘Hey, Crud! We takin’ on any new drivers?’

Something creaked in the room behind the scarred receptionist and fake-wood panelling, and then a heavy tread shook the NRT corporate offices. A man filled the doorway, all six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-twenty rugged, rangy pounds of him. He had steel-grey hair and a lined, sun-browned face, a pair of pale blue eyes. He looked like the roll call sergeant from Hill Street Blues, except this guy’s uniform was a denim shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans.

He looked me over, a frown on his thick lips. ‘Get in here,’ he growled.

I followed him into his office, Miss Wonderful shooting me a cackle as I passed, ash hanging off her cigarette like trunk off an elephant. The nameplate on the man’s cluttered desk read, Karl Crudler, President.

He planted himself in a shiny, black leather chair and gestured at me to park it in the lawn chair set up in front of his desk. He grunted, ‘Let’s see your paperwork.’

I handed him my licence, driver’s transcript, one-page work record, and he briefly ran his eyes over them, then snarled, ‘Owner-operator for ten years, eh? What makes you suddenly wanna be an employee?’ He spat out that last word.

‘I don’t,’ I replied frankly. ‘But I wrecked my truck a couple of months back and I haven’t got the cash for a new one. And my credit rating’s lower than General Motors’ right now. And my driving record is a little bumpy.

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