Albuquerque. Get me some senoritas,” Rafie hooted.
“Where did that phone come from?” Eduardo asked, snatching the phone off the dashboard.
“The Irishman,” Rafie said innocently.
“Goddamnit,” Eduardo growled, his temper sparking like a live wire. “Who did you call?”
“Just Alita. To give her the good news.”
Eduardo smashed the phone against the steering wheel. Now they had her number. This was bad.
Joanne Finstedt jumped out of the parked sleeper cab, landing hard on the pavement, and dashed across the parking lot of Siminonson’s Food and Fuel. A fat, bald trucker in stocking feet and a sleeveless shirt gave chase. She grabbed onto the rear door handle of Eduardo’s car just as it started to roll out of the parking lot. Dumping her backpack on the floorboards, she jumped into the back seat and punched the door lock. The truck driver hopped along the side of the car, hammering the roof with his fist.
“Hey, man! Don’t be fucking with my car,” Eduardo yelled, jerking the steering wheel, throwing the trucker off balance.
“Gimme that log,” the truck driver yelled, trying to keep up with the rolling car.
“Drive. Get out of here. He’s crazy!” Joanne shouted at Eduardo.
“He sure is ugly.” Rafie strained to look at the trucker from his shot gun position.
As Eduardo sped off, Joanne rolled down the side window and tossed the trucker’s logbook onto the frozen pavement. She watched as he bent to pick it up and tossed her the middle finger.
Joanne was no stranger to the road. In her earlier days she had been one of the original Deadheads, traveling across the country in the wake of Jerry Garcia’s band. To survive, she braided hair, peddled LSD, bootlegged CDs, and sold tee-shirts. But the Grateful Dead were history and so were her hippie days.
Up until a year ago Joanne had worked as a receptionist at a veterinarian clinic and lived alone in a co-op high-rise in Minneapolis. A series of maddening headaches led to the diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor, which propelled her on an alternative healing quest. Waw-wah Jesus, a Paiute shaman, conducted nomadic healing journeys into the Smoke Creek Desert north of Reno, Nevada. After two months of schlepping around the desert in tents, losing fifteen pounds, and being left alone with the coyotes while Waw-wah slipped off to get drunk, Joanne called it quits. The ten thousand dollars she had spent on the endeavor had been her entire savings.
She managed a lift into Reno and hung out at a truck stop hoping to catch a ride east, home. A trucker hauling a refer rig was likewise looking for some company. He considered Joanne’s company an added stimulant in case the Red Bull with Benzedrine lost its edge—and it did. Joanne drove the rig over 350 miles while the trucker’s greasy head jiggled like a bobblehead doll in the passenger seat.
At the truck stop in Luverne, Minnesota, the trucker considered that she owed him something for the ride—a blow job would do for starters.
Eduardo, with his uninvited passenger in the back seat, sped out of the parking lot, onto the service road, and toward the Interstate 90 entrance ramp.
“You want to party?” Rafie opened a beer and extended it to the woman in the back seat wearing a woven stocking cap and tie-dye tee-shirt under a heavy woolen sweater. The earthy scent of the desert hung on her clothes.
“Knock it off.” Eduardo reached over and batted the back of Rafie’s head.
“Actually a beer sounds good,” Joanne said, exhaling, feeling irrationally comfortable with the two amigos. “Thanks for the help.” She removed her stocking cap and swept her flattened hair into a loose ponytail. “You can drop me at the next truck stop.”
“That trucker, he was like an ape-man pounding on the car. I shoulda kicked his ass.” Rafie handed a beer over the back seat. “You steal something from him?”
“I knew that retread would be trouble at some point. So I borrowed his logbook in
“Where did that phone come from?” Eduardo asked, snatching the phone off the dashboard.
“The Irishman,” Rafie said innocently.
“Goddamnit,” Eduardo growled, his temper sparking like a live wire. “Who did you call?”
“Just Alita. To give her the good news.”
Eduardo smashed the phone against the steering wheel. Now they had her number. This was bad.
Joanne Finstedt jumped out of the parked sleeper cab, landing hard on the pavement, and dashed across the parking lot of Siminonson’s Food and Fuel. A fat, bald trucker in stocking feet and a sleeveless shirt gave chase. She grabbed onto the rear door handle of Eduardo’s car just as it started to roll out of the parking lot. Dumping her backpack on the floorboards, she jumped into the back seat and punched the door lock. The truck driver hopped along the side of the car, hammering the roof with his fist.
“Hey, man! Don’t be fucking with my car,” Eduardo yelled, jerking the steering wheel, throwing the trucker off balance.
“Gimme that log,” the truck driver yelled, trying to keep up with the rolling car.
“Drive. Get out of here. He’s crazy!” Joanne shouted at Eduardo.
“He sure is ugly.” Rafie strained to look at the trucker from his shot gun position.
As Eduardo sped off, Joanne rolled down the side window and tossed the trucker’s logbook onto the frozen pavement. She watched as he bent to pick it up and tossed her the middle finger.
Joanne was no stranger to the road. In her earlier days she had been one of the original Deadheads, traveling across the country in the wake of Jerry Garcia’s band. To survive, she braided hair, peddled LSD, bootlegged CDs, and sold tee-shirts. But the Grateful Dead were history and so were her hippie days.
Up until a year ago Joanne had worked as a receptionist at a veterinarian clinic and lived alone in a co-op high-rise in Minneapolis. A series of maddening headaches led to the diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor, which propelled her on an alternative healing quest. Waw-wah Jesus, a Paiute shaman, conducted nomadic healing journeys into the Smoke Creek Desert north of Reno, Nevada. After two months of schlepping around the desert in tents, losing fifteen pounds, and being left alone with the coyotes while Waw-wah slipped off to get drunk, Joanne called it quits. The ten thousand dollars she had spent on the endeavor had been her entire savings.
She managed a lift into Reno and hung out at a truck stop hoping to catch a ride east, home. A trucker hauling a refer rig was likewise looking for some company. He considered Joanne’s company an added stimulant in case the Red Bull with Benzedrine lost its edge—and it did. Joanne drove the rig over 350 miles while the trucker’s greasy head jiggled like a bobblehead doll in the passenger seat.
At the truck stop in Luverne, Minnesota, the trucker considered that she owed him something for the ride—a blow job would do for starters.
Eduardo, with his uninvited passenger in the back seat, sped out of the parking lot, onto the service road, and toward the Interstate 90 entrance ramp.
“You want to party?” Rafie opened a beer and extended it to the woman in the back seat wearing a woven stocking cap and tie-dye tee-shirt under a heavy woolen sweater. The earthy scent of the desert hung on her clothes.
“Knock it off.” Eduardo reached over and batted the back of Rafie’s head.
“Actually a beer sounds good,” Joanne said, exhaling, feeling irrationally comfortable with the two amigos. “Thanks for the help.” She removed her stocking cap and swept her flattened hair into a loose ponytail. “You can drop me at the next truck stop.”
“That trucker, he was like an ape-man pounding on the car. I shoulda kicked his ass.” Rafie handed a beer over the back seat. “You steal something from him?”
“I knew that retread would be trouble at some point. So I borrowed his logbook in
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