Chapter 19

Hawk

The rain poured down in sheets. Looking up into the sky, I watched the long lines of precipitation catching the streetlights and the security lighting that lit up the truckstop. I darted around the idling trucks and made a beeline across the reflective wetness of the parking area. Everything was casting wet light back onto the puddled, oil-sheened blacktop surfaces and a blaze of color melted and merged, displaying this influence or that bouncing display. By the time I made it to shelter from my idling truck I was drenched.

I was unsettled with nothing to do. Bored. All the calls had been made. The paperwork current. The logs in order. I had eaten. Dallas was at home. I finally I made my way upstairs to the drivers' lounge. Maybe something was on the old tube.

The flickering light from the big screen television cast a light glow across the drivers' room. Shallow hues flickered and spun, casting distorted images around the room. I stood in the entrance way to the Boise Flying J Drivers' lounge and waited for my eyes to adjust to the semi darkness. I immediately became aware that sprawled across the first chair next to the entrance was an attractive but rough looking young man whom I had seen earlier from the sheltered perch of a phone booth. He was young and I was unsure whether he was another driver or a rider. His eyes met mine and they were hard. I held his gaze then looked down. I surveyed the rest of the smoke filled room and retraced my vision back towards the young man. He was still watching me.

All the chairs close to entrance were taken. Rather than make my way across the room, I decided to slide down against the wall and take a place on the floor. I felt his gaze return to the screen but I was unable to concentrate on the Disney-like film on the giant screen. I watched the movie but my mind was occupied with the man next to me. I felt an intensity in him that was disturbing and deeply touching all at the same time. I resolved to myself, 'Tim do not get involved in this one. Just let It go.'

The next time I looked up he was studying me again. My resolve to put him out of my mind was a lost cause. I stood up and looked out a bank of windows facing over the truckstop and watched the trucks below fueling. If only someone I knew would pull in and I could find distraction. A driver that I could pass the time with swapping lies and pretending to know all things about all trucks. If nothing else I could fake it; they wouldn't know that I didn't know what I was talking about. Cummins versus Cat's, Petes versus KWs, to be an 18 speed or not to be. I had done it before.

No one I knew was out there. I looked down out of the corner of my eye. He was still watching me. I resumed my position on the floor. He stayed in his post above me. I gave up on the movie and began instead to consider him. In my mind I studied what I knew of him from my earlier observations, fascinated but leery.

On the floor beneath his feet was a small white plastic garbage bag. It was full of what looked to me to be clothing. I originally thought it was just his clean laundry but after studying him I concluded that it was probably everything he owned. I noticed that his 'gang banger' jeans were oversized and that his hair was cropped short. Dirty blonde and nearly straight, it was matted. From the looks of things it had been a while since he had showered. 'Just leave it alone' l told myself.

Eventually the movie ended and the contents of the room shuffled out to their waiting rigs. I stayed and so did he. In the darkness I could hear him breathing and I could feel him as he would turn around and study the fuel islands over his shoulder. Then he shifted his gaze back to me. I met his stare finally and he looked at me hard. That hadn't changed. Once again, I diverted my eyes first and again tried to find something to look at. It was a silent challenge. He was baiting me to speak first. I could feel it.

Finally, he got up, grabbed the bag and descended down the stairs with heavy thuds. As I listened I thought: 'A man who people could hear coming from a mile away. Impressive.' And intimidating. I waited for ten minutes watching the remains of Nightline and finally gave up on becoming engaged in the latest issue. I quietly made my way down the stairs and sought out the quickest way back to my truck.

He stood there leaning against the building, propping it up with sheer youthful intensity. The rain came cascading down around him. In spite of the shelter provided by the awning, I watched as streams of water would occasionally take flight into the wind and then blow against his face. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He just stared at me and his gaze followed me until I disappeared around the comer. Once free of the shelter provided by the awning I ran at a sprint back to my rig. When I got to the truck I was drenched.

I was in an argument with myself and trying desperately not to lose. This man was really no more than a kid. He wasn't a driver. He was a rider. A hitchhiker who wasn't asking for a ride. He was waiting to be asked.

No riders. No hitchhikers. It was posted all over the truckstop. 'It's none of your business' I told myself 'It's just some solitary person standing in the rain in the middle of the night passing the time with nowhere to go while awaiting his ticket to ride to places that he wanted to be. And he wants to be standing there. Leave it alone!'

Yet, I knew he was staring right through that building corner, eyeballing me, in my warm rig and asking through the silence rhythms of the downpour, 'Why didn't you ask ... How could you leave me out here in the rain'. Once again I was caught in the middle between the kids' stare and Dallas sitting me down several years ago and forcing me to watch 'the Hitchhiker'. A slasher movie about the consequences of what happens to people who pick up riders. I too was in no mans land. I was hoping that he would be gone in the morning. Someone would offer him a ride.

The next morning he wasn't gone. No one gave him that ride. He was sitting in the drivers lounge. When I peeked in, he caught my gaze again. Still that same hard, challenging look. I spun around and headed back down the stairs perplexed. I delivered my load and went back to the truckstop to wait for the next dispatch. I just knew he would be gone when I returned. And I just knew that he wouldn't. This tug of war was exhausting and as one side of my brain scolded me for not letting him at least sleep in the upper bunk of the truck, my conscience repeatedly replayed the image of him standing cold and defiantly alone in the pouring rain.

'You'd be dead now if you'd let him inside the truck while you slept last night,' the other side of my brain scolded.

When I got back to the truckstop he was still there. After more 'stare' tag in the drivers lounge I finally walked up and asked him if he needed a ride. He did. I asked him where he was going. I knew it would be someplace obscure. Someplace distant, Someplace I wasn't going. Some direction that I wasn't even going towards. I was bound for home. It was winter. No one would be heading towards Spokane. Especially not a hitchhiker. He was.

Whatever silent battle that had been going on in my head turned into war. Dallas was the general on one front. The kid was on another. And I was the conscientious objector down for the count.

Introducing myself, I told him I was on my way to Spokane and that he should stay put. He had his ride if he wanted it. He did.

After showing him the truck, I told him I'd be right back just as soon as I was loaded. As we stood facing each other in the parking lot, I asked him if he had a problem with me being gay. I wasn't going to let either he or myself be uncomfortable. Not for a nine hour ride. He said no. Then as I turned to jump into the truck he tapped me on the shoulder. As I turned back towards him he grabbed my hand and shook it. "My name is Hawk", he said. Then he smiled. I smiled back and said "You just be ready for me when I get back. I don't want to have to hunt you down."

"I'll be in the drivers lounge," he responded. I already knew that.

Several hours later I returned. My trailer was loaded and the truck was fueled. Hawk was in the drivers lounge. Just as I sat down next to him the manager of the truckstop approached us. "Are you drivers?" He asked. I said yes and he looked at me. "I don't believe you. You both have to leave. Now!"

I stood up and showed him my scale ticket, my fuel receipt and my CDL. "And he is with me." I pointed towards Hawk. "I'll I accept your apology now or we can talk to corporate. It's your choice."

He apologized and as Hawk and I walked towards my truck he said thanks. "Not a problem," I said. We passed the same manager that had just confronted us. He stopped and watched as I jumped into my truck. I wished him a good evening and he smiled one of those fake smiles that people sometimes give you when they'd just as soon kill you.

Hawk was silent for the first few minutes as we fought traffic out of Boise. All the transplanted Californians still hadn't learned to drive in the rain and there were several close calls. Finally Hawk spoke. "You really gay?".He asked. "Yep," I responded.

"Cool," he replied. I looked over at him and this time when I looked at him the hardness was gone. His smile was genuine. I relaxed. The conversation began to flow in gentle torrents and rushes.

He was going to Spokane to get his CDL. He had driven unofficially since he was thirteen. Taking over for his stepfather as they ran team across the country, he would drive while his father napped. Illegal as hell.

Hawk never completed school but taught himself while jumping state lines from the sleeper. Educated early in the art of running scales and the harsh realities of life in a truck, he was no stranger to the contradictions of the industry. We talked about trucking and why he was going to continue in it. He had terminated himself from the job corps and it quickly became apparent that authority and chain of command were not concepts which would gain Hawk's respect or inspire him to perform. He had his own way.

Between the months he spent on the road with his father and the time spent at various relatives he also drifted into the southwest gang culture. Arizona and Nevada were the locations of his homeboys' haunts. His education on the road was complimented by an education into death and tragedy. His best friend perished. Others that weren't as close did as well. Knifings. Gunshot wounds.

"Have you ever seen someone 'capped'?" He asked. I nodded. I had. In Junior High, my first job had been in a funeral home. I was working in the back when a classmate was wheeled into the prep room. Fresh from the hospital and mistakenly left uncovered, the image of my friend's head blown into an unrecognizable mass from a self inflicted gunshot wound stopped my innocence dead in its tracks. My father performed the funeral on my birthday. His question brought me spinning back towards that time, then reeling forward again as he described his experience.

"My friend was at this party and this dude asked him if he was ready to die. He said yes and the dude pointed the gun at his head and fired. It went off It blew the top of his head off That was my best friend. The dude claimed he didn't think it was loaded but I know that he knew it was. The cops got him out of town and told him to never come back. There was never any trial. He wasn't even arrested. How could they do that?" Hawk looked at me. I shrugged. I wasn't sure if I believed this story.

"A couple months later I saw him back in Vegas on the bus. He didn't see me until I was right in front of him. I didn't want to hurt him then. I just wanted to know why ... Why did he kill my friend? He took off and jumped off the bus while it was still moving."

"See this tattoo ... I designed it to honor my home boy. We all got them. We were going to all go to the funeral without our shirts on to show them all but we didn't. They couldn't have an open casket funeral so it wasn't at the funeral home.. We all got the tattoos though." He rolled up his shirt and showed me the artwork. It was good. Very good. I didn't know what to believe. Maybe it was all true.

His story continued. He moved back and forth between the road and Arizona and Nevada. After some time he asked if I liked horses and he told me about his experience with Tennessee Walking Horses: Horses with five gaits. Somehow he was placed into a horse show after someone else was injured. With no experience in the arena or showing he was thrust into competition behind a horse that was so full of motion that at times the animal appeared to be descending into madness. "I thought I was going to die. They put me into that cart and told me that I had to go into the class. They didn't have anyone else. I sat in that cart and I kept thinking that that walking horse was gonna pull my arms off I could barely stay in the cart and the reigns took the skin off my palms. I didn't have any gloves. Not even a real outfit. He was so fast and intense, too. We actually won the class. I think the judge felt sorry for me ... Being pulled around by that horse. But I never once lost control."

He wasn't making any of this up. It was full of the details that only a horse person would know. The rest of his life spilled into the cab until it was overflowing with the realities of a boy who was becoming a man who was becoming a teenager. Two steps forward. One step back. All in a huge whirlwind of action and reaction with very little guidance or planning. I learned of his travels. His marriage. His child. Another one on the way. His divorce. The frustration of job corps and the challenges bureaucracies provide a headstrong young man. The career in welding that was shot to pieces by politics and rebellion. The hope for a career in trucking. Yet the understanding that all these things could once again change in a heartbeat, just as they had done before. And probably would again.

I learned that he hadn't eaten in days. After getting him some dinner at a Burger King in Pasco, Washington, we rolled across the basin and skirted the Palouse country. He asked about Dallas and our ranch. If we were gone so much we must need someone to take care of the place while we were away. Again the war within my head began. I stayed quiet and soon we were on to other subjects until the truck lulled us both into silence near Ritzville. Almost there yet not quite. Fatigue swept in and I struggled to stay awake.

I jumped the radio around. First Country, then Art Bell out of Nevada. We tried Bernie Ward out of KGO in San Francisco. Still it wasn't enough to keep attention spans focused. Finally we found a dance mix program out of a Spokane Top Forty Station. New Order mixed into the rantings, of a female pop singer claiming that she was a bitch and a liar quickly vanished into Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I was awake again and so was he. Hawk told me if the mix was good and I pointed out when the Beats Per Mininute changed and if the DJ was sampling or teasing us with something new. Suddenly we were the same age and brought into the communion only musically shared interests can inspire. We cruised into Spokane laughing and dancing on air ride seats in an air ride KW.

I stopped at the truckstop and he called his mother. She didn't want to come get him. It was late. Once again I saw a young man standing outside a truckstop in the cold night air. Alone. Running on an almost "on E" tank of options. I heard the war waging inside my head: A repeat episode I didn’t much care for.

"Do you want to stay in the truck? I have to hang out in Spokane until tomorrow to get the truck serviced anyway. I've got two bunks. Its up to you." I asked. He was over 21 and I didn't care anymore if the sexuality chasm between us would present discomfort. It was better than standing outside all night in the single digit air waiting for the ride that might not come until well after dawn.

Grateful, he accepted the offer immediately. We parked and I considered the lack of options presented to a person in the path of desperation. It reminded me of a deer’s' eyes looking in the headlights, inspiring paralysis. I laid down and he insisted that he would rather sleep up front so that the first light would wake him. I was exhausted and decided that if I couldn't trust him by this time whatever happened to me was my fault and well deserved for my lack of judgment. This silenced the voices fighting in my mind and I slept well.

The next morning I woke up before Hawk. He was slumped over in the shotgun seat leaning against the window. During the night he had removed his shirt and his Marky Mark like chest bearing that tattoo rose and fell quietly. I gently woke him and watched as he struggled to wake up. In his eyes there was instant recognition as his eyes began to focus.

Later as Hawk and I made the arrangements for the truck to be serviced, I turned around from the Lube Pit and came face to face with his mother and her 16 year old daughter. After introductions were made and she could see that her son was safe she turned to me. "Thank you for taking care of my boy," she said with the gratitude of someone who has just been embarrassed by the kindness of a stranger. Turning back to Hawk she began to tell him that he was enrolled in truck driving school and this thing and that thing. He stopped her and looked at me. "I'd really like to watch your place." It was earnest and as he watched me for my reaction all that debate raged in my head again.

"We'll have to see", I said weakly. We exchanged phone numbers and again his mother thanked me as they hurried out into the brisk morning air. I turned back towards the mechanics working on the truck and placed the number in my pocket. Later I removed the number and placed it on my dresser at the ranch. I told Dallas about Hawk and he silently shook his head. He wasn't surprised at any of it.

That number remains sitting on my dresser though every once in awhile, as I hold the scrawled hand written number in my fingers, I am tempted to call. Just to see how he is doing. See if things are working out. Until the voices in my head become so loud, each fighting their case, that I put the paper back down on the dresser. Trying not to think about that figure. The one standing in the Boise night in the pouring rain. Running out of options.