Sean Jackson sat watching the steady flow of traffic wondering how much his company would bank for the day. If his struggling company could keep its current pace for the next few months, they would pay off the very truck he was driving. One down, two more to go.
The business of car towing was cutthroat, with others attempting to hone in on your territory. Even with a signed contract awarded by the State, the Gypsy trucks were oblivious. The Gypsy trucks stole business wherever, whenever, they could. Due to this, Sean developed a good reputation with the State Troopers who patrolled the State Highway, calling in the illegal trucks as he spotted them. As far as he was concerned, they were robbing money from his family. Money he needed to survive.
Sean neared the end of a hectic 12-hour shift, patrolling Maryland State Highway 50 for his fledgling towing company—Action Jackson Towing. The Action in Action Jackson a toast to his nickname while playing football for the University of Maryland. A running back for the Terps top 10-ranked team until his leg decided to go one-way and his body the other. Until that last game, Pro scouts drooled over his quickness and pass receiving skills, a sure first round pick in everyone’s playbook.
With three late model trucks now on the road, Sean made the best of a Maryland State road contract awarded to him less than a year earlier. Leading the nation in rushing for two years straight while at the University of Maryland still had some benefits. Once awarded, he quickly secured a bank loan based on the expected workload and bought an additional two trucks to handle the new business. This shrewd maneuver enabled him to hire his two brothers and essentially keep his business in the family.
Without fail, every time he worked the overnight shift his mind would drift back to his playing days. Dreaming the what if scenarios. The multi-million dollar salary, the first class accommodations, the ability to hawk his autograph to the middle aged yuppies on QVC.
Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you dreamed.
Since 1am, Sean had removed six disabled vehicles; assisted three motorists who run out of gas and even replaced an older woman’s fan belt. With another day in the can, he looked forward to popping open a nice a cold beer back in the office.
Only three miles from the Route 495 intersection and his regular turn around point, he realized he had to check in with his wife. God forbid if he missed a call. She would raise hell for days on end. It had to be like clockwork. At least five times a day, sometimes even on the hour, wanting to know his whereabouts. His wife wanted him to know that safety lay only a phone call away. He never told her but he actually enjoyed checking in.
With 99 % of vehicle breakdowns occurring in the emergency lane, Sean hung in the right-hand lane for his highway drives, making it easier for him to pull behind someone in need of his company’s particular service.
Leaning over to pick up his CB, Sean checked the frequency for his office. “Action Jackson home base come in, this is AJ1 talking to you.” He hoped his wife was in a good mood after another long 12-hour day of working the office. He wanted to hire some additional office staff when they broke even later in the year.
Sissy Jackson met Sean in his senior year of college, and they were inseparable ever since. Sissy even nursed him back from his career ending injury, both mentally and physically. After graduation, with no real prospects on the horizon, it was her idea that they start a business of their own. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it depended on which one you talked to; the only business available for those with a limited amount of money happened to be a towing franchise. Sissy’s father took a loan against his pension to provide Sean with the money to get started.
“Come in AT-1, I have a cold one waiting for you when you get back,” Sissy cooed.
“Sissy, I should be back in the office in about 20 minutes. I’m nearing my usual turnaround point now,” Sean said, before noticing a pick-up truck parked on the side of the road a couple of hundred feet ahead. “Scratch that Sissy, I have a broke,” squinting as he pulled up behind the vehicle. “Looks to be a Black, Ford F-150. Let me give you the plate number in case he’s a runner.” It wouldn’t be the first. Earlier in the morning, he filled a car with 2 gallons of gas only to have the driver take off without paying. “It’s a New Jersey Plate; five, nine, eight, zero, one.” Sean paused, staring at the man on the side of the road. “Baby, you’re not going to believe this, he’s praying on the side of the road, right here on Highway 50! This guy’s got to be nuts!”
Sissy didn’t like the sound of his potential customer, calling him right back. “Sean, just come back to the office, let one of the gypsy’s handle him,” her voice quivering. Something deep inside told her the situation was dangerous. “Do you hear me, Sean?”
Sean eyed the man for a few seconds more before responding back. “Sissy, he looks harmless enough. You know we need the money baby. Every job counts. I’ll get back to you after I find out his problem.” He put the mike down before keying it one more time. “And don’t forget to keep my beer cold!”
“Sean, you take care, you hear me?”
Sean reached down for his trusty Swiss Army knife, placing it in his overall’s pocket. It was the one tool he found to come in handy for everything but the large jobs, saving him countless time from routing around for the right tools in the back of his truck. He waited until the traffic subsided enough to enable him to open his driver side door, jumping out of his truck and sprinting across the front. He reached the grass as a big rig blew past.
Sean walked to within a few feet of where Peter kneeled in prayer, waiting to see if he would turn around in response.
“Hey buddy you need some help or something,” Sean said. “I’m the authorized service provider for this section of the road.”
Kneeling beside the truck to hide from passing traffic, Sean had surprised Peter. He was getting ready to rise and continue on with his journey before being rudely interrupted by this heathen. Nobody in his own country would have dared interrupt someone deep in prayer. They would have waited patiently until one completed their prayer before even uttering a word.
“What do you want?” Peter shouted, feeling his waistband for his 9mm before realizing he left his weapon in the truck.
Raised on the mean streets of Baltimore, Sean realized the man was looking for his piece. Wanting no part of this crazy scene, Sean started to casually back up with his hands in the air. This was the one time Sean wished he carried his own piece. His wife told him on numerous occasions to carry a colt 45 her father had given her, but he refused, thinking it would only lead to more serious trouble.
“I don’t mean to interrupt you my man,” Sean said. “I just thought maybe your truck broke down. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” He kept walking backwards as he talked, a smile gracing his face as to not alarm the man. Upon reaching the passenger side of his truck he quickly flung the door open and jumped inside, sliding over to the driver’s side of the truck. The flat bed revved up with no problem, producing a heavy, black cloud of diesel smoke as evidence.
Springing up from his kneeling position, Peter reached through the open passenger side window for his 9mm, seeing it was no longer there. He calmly but quickly opened the door, searching the trucks floor, finding it where it evidently fell when he had braked to avoid a careless driver a few miles back.
Peter now pointed the weapon at Sean as he sat in his truck.