“Name’s Kenny.”
“Sherry. This here’s my son, Joe.”
“Nice to meet you, Sherry.”
They get into the cab. Kenny slides into first gear, the rig pulls onto the highway. Joe tucks the other, dry, end of his handkerchief into his mouth. Sherry tucks it further in. “Sweetie Pie, go play your instrument. Show Kenny how good you are.”
Joe climbs into the sleeper compartment and plays the saw.
“Where you two going?”
“South from Wichita. To Austin. You going through Wichita?”
“Yeah. Prob’ly.” Kenny is transfixed by Joe’s saw-playing mastery. “Jesus, I didn’t know a saw could do that.”
Sherry strokes Joe’s head. “He’s a genius. We’ll do okay in Austin. My confidence level is sky-high. I’m gonna be his manager….” She has a sip of schnapps. “Nice truck. What’re you hauling?”
“Coffins.”
“Coffins?”
Joe stops playing and looks anxiously toward the back of the rig.
Kenny says, “They’re empty, don’t worry.”
Sherry pops a stick of gum into her mouth.
Kenny turns on the radio, tries to dial in a station, but gets only static or stations too weak to hear.
Joe says, “Marconi.”
Kenny says, “Huh?”
“Guglielmo Marconi. Invented the wireless telegraph.”
“I thought that was Samuel Morse? The Morse code.”
“Morse’s telegraph needed wires. Marconi’s didn’t. It was known as radio. He died in nineteen thirty-seven, right after he discovered how to turn seawater into gold. Too bad he died with the secret.”
Sherry says, “I don’t know where he learns all this stuff. He got straight F’s at school. Till he quit going. He thinks he’s too smart for school.”
Joe waxes his bow. “I got abducted. That’s why I quit. They took me somewhere. It seemed like forever, but it all happened in about three seconds.”
Sherry reaches back and gently places her hand over Joe’s mouth. “Joey, don’t get into all that. You know it didn’t happen. Kenny’ll think you’re crazy.”
But Kenny wants to hear more. “You got abducted by aliens? What kind of aliens? Where were they from?”
“I don’t remember. It’s foggy in my mind.” He goes back to playing the saw.
Sherry pops another stick of gum. “He watches the Sci-Fi Channel twenty hours a day.” She holds out the pint of schnapps. “You want some, Kenny?”
“Nah. Never drink when I drive.”
She produces a joint. “Wanna smoke a doobie?”
“I don’t smoke either. But go ahead.”
Sherry lights up and has a drag. “Who owns the truck, you?”
“A bank in Denver. I’m up to my ass in hock.”
Sherry passes the joint to Joe. He spits out the handkerchief and takes a deep hit.
Moe’s in his black pickup, his jaw set, teeth bared, still in his scorched safety gear. He drives like a bat out of hell. Lighting one cigarette from the stub of another, he grips the wheel, punches in radio stations — pork futures, weather news, religious spew. None of it satisfies him. He puts in a Black Sabbath tape, takes a Baretta 9mm from the glove compartment, sets it on the seat between his legs. “Tomorrow, one less killer bitch on the planet.”
In the rig’s cab, Joe plays “Old Man River” on the saw. Sherry listens, her hands clasped in her lap, thumbs twirling.
“You got anybody?” Kenny asks. “Husband? Boyfriend?”
Sherry shakes her head. “Not right now. You?” She messes with her bra, trying to position it better.
“This truck’s my only partner right now.”
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Maybe.”
“A girl needs to ask these things sometimes. For her own good.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you now, or have you ever been, queer? It’s hard to tell anymore.”
Kenny chuckles, “I’m a breeder all the way. I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
Sherry struggles with her bra. “This bra’s killing me.” She unhooks it and pulls it out from under her T-shirt. “I’m gonna have to charge, you know. We’re mostly broke.”
“How much?”
“Usually a hundred. But considering gas and all, seventy-five.”
Back to Moe, speeding down the highway, going at least a hundred, Metallica’s “Kill ‘Em All” at full volume. The pickup’s engine misfires on a couple of cylinders, blue smoke pours from the tailpipe.
With lightning streaking across the western sky, Kenny’s rig pulls off onto a desolate dirt road and stops. When the engine dies, Joe hops out, walks far out into the shrubland, sits on a rock and plays his saw in the storm-threatening darkness, while Kenny and Sherry get it on in the truck’s sleeper.
When they’re finished, Kenny steps out of the truck to piss. Joe approaches him. “What’s your name again?”
“Kenny.”
“Kenny. You’re a real motherfucker. I don’t like it. It makes me feed bad.”
“It was her call, man.”
“Don’t do it within a mile of me, okay? It hurts.”
“Okay, okay.” Kenny walks toward the cab. “Come on, let’s go. There’s bodies waiting for those coffins.” Joe falls in behind him. They get into the cab. Sherry is smoking a joint and sipping schnapps in the sleeper. Joe sits in the passenger’s seat. The rig rolls out onto the highway. Rain falls.
Joe suddenly groans, bends forward, holding his abdomen, and lets go a thunderous fart.
Sherry says, “Oh my Lord. Prepare for the worst.”
Kenny waves his hand in front of his face. “Jesus, that’s foul.” He cracks his window. Rain pours in. He closes it.
“It’s been this way since the surgery,” Joe says.
Sherry shakes her head. “He thinks the aliens took a bunch of his intestines.”
“They did, Mother, with no anesthetic.”
The 66 Diner. In the parking lot a neon sign blinks: The 66…Diner. The sign shorts out in the rain, leaving only the word “Diner” blinking.
There are no cars in the parking lot, no customers inside. A sleazy-looking fry cook cleans the griddle. A waitress finishes filling plastic ketchup bottles and salt shakers, then turns on a radio behind the checkout counter: “The National Weather Service at Topeka has issued a severe thunderstorm warning, and a tornado watch is in effect for the entire listening area. These storms contain lightning, hail, and damaging winds, with gusts to fifty miles an hour. Stay tuned to KJFK for further weather information. To repeat…the National Weather Service…” She turns off the radio. “Let’s close up and go home.” She looks out the front window at the rain falling in sheets. “Shit. A truck’s pulling in.”
Kenny’s rig pulls up.
As Moe’s truck continues running roughly and spewing smoke, rain pours, treetops swirl in a strong wind. The only windshield wiper working is on the passenger’s side. Moe sits in the middle of the seat, trying to keep the road in sight. He turns on the radio: “The National Weather Service office in Topeka has issued a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch is in effect until ten p.m. for the entire listening area. These storms contain lightning, hail and damaging winds, with gusts to fifty miles an hour. A funnel cone has been sighted three miles north of Wichita, Kansas.”
He squints to make out the diner sign, sees Kenny’s rig in the lot and slows down.
Inside, Kenny and Sherry sit in a booth looking at menus. Joe can be overheard in the nearby bathroom grunting and moaning, as if in pain.
Kenny says, “Maybe it’s his appendix. It could burst.”
“It’s all in his head. I asked him, I said, ‘All right, if they did surgery, if they took out some intestine, where’s the scar?’ He says they pulled them through his rectum. No scar that way. He says they also cut off one of his testicles. But he never would show me. Besides being a terrible liar, he’s a very modest boy.”