Chapter 2

Twenty Miles of Bad Road  

This story is dedicated to Jeanette Hill

Tonasket , Washington lies nestled in a valley surrounded by the North Cascades to the west and the Kettle River Range to the east. By air it's a 45-minute plane ride from Seattle. But by road, in the winter, it's a nearly six-hour trek. Perched in the center of the Okanogan country, the landscape is nature's perpetual mid-life crisis: part badlands, part lush mountains and part inhospitable terrain.

Here vegetation is determined as much by the southern exposure as it is by precipitation. A south-facing hillside is often populated by prairie grasses and sage, while the northern flank of the same hill, sheltered under high latitude protection, is a diverse collection of ponderosa pine, larch, and fir. In winter, one flank of an exposed ridge may be barren and windswept while the other side lies buried under deep drifts of tree-sheltered snow. Often these snow fields and winter deposits remain well past June.

The Okanogan's people are as rugged and diverse as the land. The territory is populated, sparsely, by ranchers, loggers, miners, fruit growers, leftover 60's peaceniks, and retirees.

Pulling into Tonasket on a snowy early January evening, I looked for the restaurant where we were supposed to meet. We were expected by a green-carded Canadian and his Sioux-Crow wife. This was our job interview, a dinner and no movie date with a couple we hoped would see fit to employ us in their trucking company. The job description was simple: produce-hauling reefer trucking. Running apples south to L. A. and salad north to Edmonton, Alberta. We were beyond qualified. We'd both been there, done that.

Dallas checked the left side of the street while I surveyed the right. Finally spying the diner, we pulled our 4x4 up to the curb. Parked immediately in front of us, tumbling out of a beat up, old Ford pickup was a balding white man and a Native American woman. The woman wore beat canvas Carhartts. Her long cascading dark hair made her look just a bit like an older and slightly more worn Cher.

As I exited our truck, the man met me and stretched out his hand. "Welcome to Tonasket. I'm Darren, and this is my wife Patricia. And you are?"

"Tim. Pleased to meet you, Darren."

I turned to face Patricia, who I only knew from Dallas' description. She wasn't anything like I'd expected. The elegance of her name did not match the reality of her weathered features, her cowboy bent and beat up saunter, or the bone crushing, turn-my-knuckles-inside-out handshake she sprung on me. I watched as she pulverized Dallas in a similar fashion. She was clearly a hard woman for a hard country. I thought to myself that wherever I'd imagined the night going, I'd best rethink the whole plot line.

Our dinner was pretty much greasy spoon variety with Darren and Patricia constantly talking over one another. As I watched them compete for air time, it dawned on me that Patricia was more masculine than just about any truck driver I knew. I learned that she cowboy'd, working cows on their spread, castrating bulls, and riding up in the high country bringing in strays for local ranchers.

Darren was by contrast a bit more soft-spoken with a thick Canadian accent. His face beamed as he described himself as an old school trucker who liked straight pipes, mural-decorated sleepers, and twin stick, old boy trannies. Particular about his drivers, Darren thought of them as family. Spending time with us, eyeball to eyeball, was his way of gut feeling his way through the hiring process before anything was signed on any dotted lines. He'd heard about us through other truckers and picked up the scent of a good thing thanks to their attaboys. One day out of the blue, Darren had called us with a prospective job offer. The rest of that story had led us to this one.

At the end of the meal, as the snow started spitting, Darren suggested continuing our "how-do" up at their ranch. Patricia assured us they had a bunkhouse where we could crash. "And besides," she added, "who in their right mind would want to truck all the way back to Spokane on a night like this?" Never mind our careers as truckers and that snow and ice and the occasional center-line straddling loose cow thrown in for excitement was basic to the job description.

I shrugged and looked left to follow Dallas' lead. Five minutes later I found myself following the lights of Darren's rig. Dallas and Darren rode in Darren's pickup. Patricia rode shotgun next to me. At first she and I mostly continued our dinner conversation. Just the standard "where are ya from, whose yer daddy?" sort of banter. She told me of growing up on the Crow Nation admitting that she'd led a crazy life. A former prostitute, a present cowgirl, and a pretty good trucker herself, Patricia fascinated me with her story. Gaining elevation east of Tonasket, the roads grew narrower and soon I could barely see Darren's taillights.

"So how long have you known Dallas?"

Her question came unexpectedly. I told her we'd known each other for several years and that we'd run team off and on during that most of that time.

" So how did you meet?"

My stomach did about 90 somersaults. No way. Nuh-uh. I was not prepared to confess to a total stranger the "who, what, how, where, and why" of my relationship with Dallas.

"Oh well, uh well... we uh met uh when I was broke down on a Frito Lay chipper load outside of Bakersfield."

Silence filled the cab. I felt as if the woman sitting next to me was conducting an unannounced inspection, going through all the files in my mind one by one. And worse, she, with the rough callused hands, determined expression and tough as nails exterior, wasn't buying a single word. I couldn't explain it but I had such a strange feeling. Like a detective looking for clues to a crime, the woman conducted her search for the truth around and around in my head. I stalled. I changed the subject. My God, were we ever going to get up to that damned ranch of theirs?

"Kind a strange that two men can get along so well together for such a long stint. I worked a couple rodeo circuits back in my wilder days and I don't think I ever ran across two hands that spent as much time together as you and Dallas do. Least without killing each other once in awhile. Especially riding around in a truck for weeks on end.

My gut split wide open. She knew. I knew she knew. I could still feel her investigation of my mental files. There she was, searching, wandering around and looking things over. I just hoped she missed all the porno stuff. Mentally, I tried to deny all of this could really be happening but my throat told me we were already outed. Worse, Patricia, in the middle of this damn blizzard, had marked this to be wash day on her calendar and for me to come clean. In my own words.

"You know, don't you?"

"Yeah hon, I know. I was just waiting on you to tell me."

"How?"

"I don't know. I just knew that first day Darren spoke to Dallas on the phone. When he hung up, I looked at him and said, 'Darren those two boys are gay.'"

"Shit."

"So how did you really meet Dallas?"

I resigned myself to the fact that their ranch was at least on the other side of Canada. Separated from here by at least twenty miles of bad road. Time was on her side. I really had no choice. I started talking. Dallas was going to kill me.

____________________________________

We were late. Looking at the speedometer, I did some rough calculations. If nothing went wrong, we would make the consignee with five minutes to spare. But that meant nothing. No trains, no accidents, no flat tire. Nothing.

Trouble was, my calculations also showed that to fit that timeline I had to average 70 miles per hour, and California has a 55 MPH maximum speed limit for trucks. Never mind that the autos were doing 80. If a trucker keeps up with the flow of traffic, it's a sure speeding ticket. On the other hand, if he moves at the posted double nickels, the violation reads "impeding traffic."

California equals a trucker's worst nightmare. Today's truck drivers not only don't have the luxury of setting their appointments for loading and unloading, they also can't compensate for every delay that might come their way. 55 MPH speed limits not only decrease productivity while creating a safety hazard, they contribute to a very real economic hardship for drivers, who are paid by the mile, not by the hour. Any driver will tell you the 55 MPH limit for big rigs has nothing to do with safety and everything to do with creating revenue for the state.

Today, I prayed CHP wouldn't produce a citation with my name on it. The potatoes in my wagon were due in Bakersfield in two hours. I'd been loaded late and never had a chance of making the delivery appointment. "Do the best you can..." The words of my dispatcher echoed in my mind.

I was still north of Fresno. Do the math and sweat bullets. Miss the drop appointment and I couldn't reschedule for 48 hours. By that time the sugar level in the potatoes might change and they would be useless. The farmer would be hosed. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Pulling out into the hammer lane, I passed a cabover pulling a set of joints. By the way his wagons caught the breeze as I went around him, I could tell they were empty. Doubles are among the most dangerous truck combinations on the road. Magnets for wind whipping, jackknifing, and butt-puckering rides, they are a bad idea that should be outlawed. Were it not for the endless lobbying and bogus statistics of the American Trucking Association, they would be. Never mind triples.

Passing the driver pulling the doubles, I looked over and waved. The wave is damn near reflexive among drivers. I didn't really catch more than a glance, but even with that I could tell the driver I passed was handsome, with a muscular body hidden under a tight white T-shirt. Returning the wave, the trucker waited until I pulled ahead, then flashed his lights signaling I could return to the turtle lane.

My rider looked over at me. "That guy is gay."

I looked over at Heath. "He is not, Heath. He's as straight as they come."

"No Tim, I swear he's gay."

I checked my mirrors and took another look at the driver under discussion. "He's not gay. He's straight. He's too good looking and he's in good shape. Hell, he can probably even still see his shoes! I've yet to meet a gay driver under forty out here. I think you're just doing some wishful thinking."

Heath shook his head, refusing to accept my take on the situation.

A few minutes later we both heard a new noise competing against the sound marking the rhythm of the highway.

"Uh oh."

I wanted to cuss but I was trying to impress the man sitting in the shotgun seat. "I think we 're losing a recap on the trailer. We're gonna have to check it out at the next rest area."

Pulling into the rest area, I set the brakes and made a quick run to the restroom. On the outbound sprint, I met face to face the subject of our previous speculation. Saying "howdy," I noticed that, yeah, he was cute. But I was better than sure he was straight. Returning to the truck, I checked the tire while Heath bounced around repeating over and over, "Tim, he's here! I saw him again. I'm sure he's 'family'."

Looking at the tire, I didn't have time for Heath's speculation. Sure enough the recap was beginning to separate. As I was bent over the tire, the trucker emerged from the restroom. Heath watched him as he watched me.

"Uh Tim, don't know how to tell you this but that driver seems more than interested in you bent over that tire."

By the time I could turn around, the driver was headed back to his own rig. "You are so full of shit, Heath. Get in. We got to get down the road. But just to prove it, I want you to know I am gonna 'out' myself. All so you can rest your pretty head tonight knowing that driver is straight. Deal?"

"Deal!"

Pulling out of the rest area, our heavily-laden truck seemed to take forever to gain speed. In the mirrors, I watched as our friend followed us out of the rest area. Pulling empty wagons, he quickly overtook us.

"You missed me, driver." I keyed into the CB mic as he passed us.

"Appreciate it" a masculine voice responded as the set of doubles moved back into the turtle lane.

"Nice voice!" Heath interjected

"Where you taking those wagons?" I asked, ignoring Heath.

"Down to Ontario. You?"

"Bound for Bakersfield with a load of spuds. Then I hope to make it down to LA so we can hit some clubs before last call."

"Good luck"

"Thanks. My rider has never been out in West Hollywood before so I thought I would show him around.

"Forty two," the mysterious driver responded with the slang version of 10-4.

"Yeah." I struggled to keep the conversation going. I felt like an idiot. "I am hoping I can find somewhere to drop this trailer so we can bobtail around and find some trouble." Heath shook his head as I began dropping hints like precision smart bombs. Every statement became more obvious than the last.

The driver ahead of us remained neutral.

"Hey, let's take it up to another channel so we don't piss anyone off. Meet you on 29?"

"Gone."

Switching CB channels, I waited a minute. "Did you make it?"

"Yep"

"So how do you stay in such great shape driving truck? You look like you work out everyday. Not many drivers keep toned." Nothing could be more obvious. Straight men who do not hang out together do not compliment other men on condition of their bodies. Ever.

"Unloading appliances. I run this set of wagons loaded with GE appliances up to the bay every other day. I have to fingerprint them off the truck."

"I bet the boys in the Gay Bay stop whatever they are doing to watch you work that load." Heath choked. The man ahead of us remained neutral. Looking at Heath I pointed toward the truck we were following. "See? Told you he wasn't gay. He would have said something by now."

"So do you ever lay over in San Francisco? I bet you wouldn't be lonely." There. I couldn't get any more outlandish than that.

Heath buried his head in hands giggling. "Oh my God, I don't believe you."

"I don't usually lay over in San Francisco." The deep voice came over the radio.

I grabbed Heath's neck with my free hand. "Are you satisfied, you little shit? I told you he's straight. Not only that, he is clueless!"

Heath shrugged. Returning my attention to the man behind the mic, I gave it one last shot. "So do you ever go out in West Hollywood? I sometimes go to this leather bar on Santa Monica Boulevard."

"You mean the Eagle?" He stopped for a second. "Yeah, I've been there."

I damn near drove the truck off the road.

Heath was grinning ear to ear.

___________________________________________

Patricia eyed me in the dark. "So you met Dallas just running down the road?"

I nodded.

"And the two of you have been together ever since?"

"Almost. Dallas and I didn't hook up immediately. I was kinda' dating Heath that day when we met Dallas. I'd known Heath a month or so but I felt something very strong the minute I met Dallas. I'd always wanted to have a fellow truck driver for a partner. But I never met anybody out there on the big road I was attracted to. Then out of nowhere, I meet Dallas. I mean I wasn't looking, right? And suddenly here is this truck driver who is smart, attractive, and who understood trucking. But if it wasn't for Heath and his gaydar, I never would have met Dallas. Ironic, eh?"

Patricia nodded. She was looking straight ahead again. I wondered what she thought about the idea of two gay guys driving truck together.

"You know, Heath didn't get it. The whole trucking thing. He'd be all upset and get his panties in a bind because I couldn't make it home for Valentine's Day. Hell, if I couldn't make it home for Christmas, what on earth made the man think I had a chance of getting home for Valentine's Day? I really liked Heath, but he kept urging me to get off the road. I was trucking when we met, so you'd think he'd understand.

Patricia remained silent. For some reason this felt like confession and she was some sort of priest who could absolve me.

"Anyway, I kept in touch with Dallas. It was easy to like him and considering everything, I don't think Heath and I had a chance after that. Dallas never put any pressure on me to change what I was doing. He wasn't about getting me off the road and building fence lines all around me."

Patricia's features softened under the fractional light emitted by the dash. Listening to my narrative, she adjusted herself in the seat and still quiet, half faced me.

"You know meeting Dallas was this amazing time. I'd only been in one other long-term relationship and that had gone south in less than two years. When things fell apart I hit the road to get my shit back together. I'd only been single about six weeks when I ran into Dallas. Heath was the first man I'd dated since my breakup.

For the first several months, I didn't let Dallas get very close. The sum of our relationship consisted of the two of us running down the road together. We'd run up and down I-5 and I-99 through California. He'd be waiting on me in Sacramento after I shagged freight out of Washington. By the time I pulled into that Sacramento truck stop, I was already rode hard and put away wet. Near insane. Now you know that's tired. You ever been that tired trucking, Patricia? So tired that you start seeing things in the middle of the road? Crazy shit like elephants and windmills?" She nodded.

"Anyway, when I met up with him, I'd sleep for an hour or two and then he'd wake me up and I'd be running on his back door chasing him down I-5. We'd talk over the CB radio all the way into LA. Sometimes, we'd get to run back north together but only as far as the bay area. We didn't do anything special. We didn't date like normal people do. Forget about movies and nice dinners and flowers and shit. We just hung out and trucked. He keeping me awake, while I chased his trailer doors."

"So that's how you became lovers?" Patricia asked.

"No, not really. I wasn't that easy. I told him I wasn't making any commitments for six months. But, it's all good because I got to know him. I mean really know him. I listened to what he was saying between the lines. While he talked my ears off to keep me awake and focused, he was also getting the attention of my heart."

I felt silly speaking this way to a complete stranger. Worse, in the dark blizzard I could barely see the taillights of Darren's truck as we followed. Higher and higher we climbed toward their ranch.

"So eventually Dallas moved to Washington?"

"Yeah, eventually a driver got fired where I was working, and Dallas moved in with me. A year later we started running team together and then we moved east of the mountains to be closer to my grandparents. They treated Dallas like family."

"Tim, have you told Darren about this?"

"No, I haven't. Neither has Dallas. We are applying to be truck drivers. What I told you isn't part of the job description. Remember, you folks called us because you needed drivers. We didn't call you. Dallas and I, we're good drivers and nothing else should matter."

The rest of the ride up to the ranch was uncomfortable. Patricia argued that sexual orientation didn't just happen and that it wasn't natural. Arguing against her logic was impossible. Still I tried to hear her out. Finally, I'd had enough.

"Being gay is not a choice. Sexual orientation isn't a decision. It isn't something you have any control over. Being gay is just the way things worked out. I don't think God makes mistakes. And even if it were a choice, don't adults have the right to choose certain things? We can choose our religious beliefs and that is protected. We can choose our marital status, and that is protected. So, even if I did choose to be gay, it still shouldn't matter."

Now I was pissed. The woman shouldn't ask questions she didn't want to hear the answers to. She'd never walked a mile in my shoes and the whole argument that anyone would choose to be gay was insane. Who in their right mind chooses to swim upstream against the current for the entirety of their lives?

Patricia and I reached something of a truce, limiting our remaining conversation to more neutral subjects. When we all arrived at the ranch she was eager to show Dallas and me her animals. I entered the barn behind her as Darren and Dallas followed. Horses peered out from freshly cleaned stalls. I quickly forgot our unpleasant discussion with the woman as I set about getting to know the gentle giants. Kissing muzzles, scratching necks, and gently conversing with the horses, my mind sidetracked.

Eventually we retired to their double-wide trailer. Patricia began to talk about her history. Sitting in their living room, one story flowed into the next as I learned about growing up on the "rez," meeting Darren, working with rodeo companies, and finally settling in the Okanogan. The rugged but splendid journey Patricia described filled my imagination.

Darren listened quietly with a slightly amused grin on his face as his wife brought out treasures from old cow camps she'd excavated. Recounting spiritual awakenings, she told of strange and powerful gifts and experiences. "When I am out gathering cows for other ranchers, I know which wildlife has recently passed. I locate ancient burials. And I hear the thought voices of others. I see things others can't." It struck me as very odd that this woman could be so comfortable with so many things considered strange or foreign by most folks, and yet have such trouble understanding or accepting gay people.

Long into the early hours, Dallas and I eventually retired to the bunk house. My restless sleep mirrored the wicked winds and the wild blowing snow outside. Exhausted from the trek to Tonasket and the ride up to the ranch with Patricia, I forgot to tell Dallas of my conversation with Patricia. As he slept peacefully, he did not know what lay ahead.

__________________________________________

A certain chill was in the air, and it wasn't just the snowy, high mountain morning breezes coming off the Cascades. Awakened by the morning sun on my face, I realized with a start Dallas was already up. Dressing, I made my way toward the main house. Patricia greeted me with a blank expression. Her dark hair hung low against her back and when she motioned toward a half-full coffeepot, I accepted.

Nodding a good morning, I looked toward where Dallas and Darren sat in the living room. Taking a sip of the most bitter coffee I'd ever ingested, I listened midstream to their conversation. Darren spoke.

"I just don't know. I have never known any gays before. We don't have them up in Alberta."

I choked, nearly spitting out my coffee. My gut tightened as I registered that Patricia had squawked.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Darren asked Dallas as I sat down across from them. Dallas looked angry and hurt all at the same time. Blindsided, he wasn't saying much. Equally shocked, I looked at Darren. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Tell you what?" I asked.

Darren looked at me. "That you were gay."

"Because it's none of your business. It doesn't matter." I felt like I was repeating the same nonsensical conversation from the previous night.

"We're good drivers...remember? You heard about us from other drivers. What about last night, Darren? You going on and on about how you could tell over the phone that Dallas was old school. That he knew his equipment. That you want drivers that you can trust out there. That you and Patricia treat your drivers like family..."

"I know." Darren started getting uncomfortable. Fidgeting and unable to make eye contact, he looked toward Patricia. I wondered if he was hearing, truly hearing, what he was saying. "You're exactly what I am looking for but..."

"But what?"

"You're gay. I don't know. I just don't know. I've never thought about this gay thing before. I mean I like you both. But I don't know if I want gay drivers driving for me."

I looked at Darren and then over toward Patricia. She was standing near a window, looking out over the snow covered high country. I felt as if she had stabbed me in the back. I couldn't believe that a Native American woman who'd experienced her own share of discrimination as both a woman and as an Indian, was a willing participant in this train wreck of a "job interview." Her silence was maddening.

"Darren, we didn't call you. You called us. Patricia told you her suspicions that first day when you spoke with Dallas. She told me so. I'd have never brought this up but Patricia asked me a point blank, direct question. What do you want us to do, lie to you? I don't mean to be disrespectful, but Dallas and I have stellar reputations out there. We can truck anywhere. If you think we just walk into a place and say 'Hi, we're gay. Give us your load...' "

Darren interrupted. "I am not saying that. I don't think you'd do that. I DO like you both and I know you have excellent experience. It's just I don't know what I'm going to do. I need to think about this, decide how I feel. Give me a week and then let's talk again."

Dallas and I grabbed our gear and began the long ride back toward Spokane. It seemed to take forever to get back to paved highways. The silence was deafening. I didn't want to return the way we'd come as the happiness I'd felt on the ride over, the pride of being a wanted commodity, was replaced with a deep sense of shame. No matter how good you are, when you're a "homo," it's never good enough.

As much as I knew sexual orientation shouldn't matter, in some circles it does. Second-guessing my honesty with Patricia, I was angry that anyone would ever have to choose between honesty and hiding. I felt Dallas' humiliation and his anger.

We drove on icy deserted two lane roads across the top of Washington. Near Sherman Pass, Washington's highest mountain crossing, we silently skirted the remains of a vast burn. Scarred sentinels guarded both sides of the highway. The charred trunks of ponderosa pines and fir trees stood testament to nature's destruction. The stark contrast against the snow seemed to chill the last of the Christmas holiday's light. Everything around us was dead, dormant, and hopeless. In the middle of that old forest fire burn, Dallas finally spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me you told her?" Dallas turned to look at me. Tears welled up in his eyes but I was too chickenshit to look at him. I kept my hands on the wheel, my eyes aimed high on a quickly fading horizon.

Why is it when you hurt someone the hardest thing to do is say you're sorry? Why is it so hard to apologize without excuses, reasoning, or without fixing the blame on something else? Why is the awkwardness of silence so much easier?

The sun was already setting behind us and the snow reflected the sky's pink hues. I felt completely unsettled and caught between the horrible outcomes of choices, I'd never seen coming. I wanted to reassure Dallas that everything we'd just endured was a dream. But I had nothing to offer. I couldn't comfort my own awkward uncertainty. How could I reach out to him?

The truth is, most of the time we "passed." People didn't figure things out, they didn't clue in we were gay when we first met them. Often they didn't catch on for years. Two guys running team, who own a couple 4x4's, who happen to live together even when they aren't trucking. It seemed obvious to me. But to a world used to stereotypes, our story didn't compute. We were just Tim and Dallas, AKA "The boys." That's how everyone referred to us. And by the time they figured out our relationship, they already liked us. Even bigots make exceptions. Once you know someone, it is far harder to hate or fear them.

As I drove, I rehearsed what I wanted to say. The words seemed easier in the confines of my mind.

"I'm sorry, Dallas. I totally forgot about Patricia. Once we stood inside that barn and started messing with the horses, you know what had my attention. Shit, Patricia seemed cool with everything and she acted like Darren already knew. I had no idea..."

The words never left my lips.

"Tim when are you gonna learn that not everyone needs to know. The world is not that simple. Some people would rather hate us and believe a bunch of bullshit than open their eyes." He went silent again.

We dropped off of Sherman Pass, rolled into the haunted places of my father's childhood. Kettle Falls. Colville. The shores of Lake Roosevelt. My father knew what it meant to be hated for something he couldn't control. Something unseen, but always lurking in the shadows just the same. We had different stories my father and I. But in some tellings, they could be the same tale. We were both born with something inside us that neither could control.

My father's stepfather repeatedly beat him. All because of something he could never change. No matter how many fearful tears my father shed, he would always represent to his stepfather another man's seed. A child can't understand the complexities of adulthood, territory, and conflict.

The highway grew dark as we drove toward Chewelah. The oncoming headlights on US 395 seared my eyes. Seek and ye shall find. Yearn, bend, and be still. Hoping to find a silver lining to the mess I'd created, I struggled against wild emotions. Driving for Darren was just a stupid trucking job. But dealing with rejection over something so abstract threatened to somersault past all logic to the core of fear. I had heard every judgment, every name, every comparison. This time it wasn't aimed at a stranger. When it's directed and aimed in your direction, it's another matter. Certainly we weren't asking for special rights. Certainly we were qualified. Certainly without warning four people now faced issues that made all of them uncomfortable. Certainly none of this was easy.

Certainly nothing was certain.

We finally pulled into Spokane sometime after dinnertime. Neither of us hungry, we'd not spoken since coming off of Sherman Pass. Stepping into the apartment, he closed the door behind us. Pausing in the entryway, he turned, embracing me. Neither of us moved for a long time.

Watching the snow falling outside, I thought about human relationships. Complicated and messy, they are nothing but a series of delicate entanglements, ever cementing and fragmenting.

Love is a learning experience. Few get it right the first time. There are no schools, no certificates, and each experience is unique. We glow at the high points and wince at the lower ones. Love has no resume' and companionship, in all its forms, ironically defies conformity. It's not who you know, but how you know them. No experience required.

Weathering our impossible storms, I think that most folks hope for the company of those who never break stride or falter. We dream of superheroes and we find the reality of imperfection. Imperfection shining in friendship, in family, and in love. As Dallas and I swayed, embracing in the chill of our dark January apartment, I said a few "thank you's" to the Good Lord.

_______________________________________________________

Two weeks later Darren and Patricia hired us.

As long as we trucked for them life was never boring. People often fear the unfamiliar, especially when it is taboo or difficult to understand. I figure Darren and Patricia's reluctance to hire us had more to do with them than with us. Our sexuality seldom came up. But when it did, even after we had known them a while, it remained an awkward subject between us. I don't think either one of them ever budged on the whole issue of whether being gay is a choice or not. Dallas and I eventually accepted that it was their right to formulate their own views on such things. They treated us with respect and in the end I suppose that's what mattered most to us. In time, Darren would tell anyone who would listen that we were among his best drivers.

Patricia's view of the world, the natural collisions and the unnatural ones, became a fascinating journey of discovery. Her knuckle breaking handshakes brought me to my knees on many occasions. But at the same time, that voice also brought its fair share of comfort. Broke down in an Alberta blizzard, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have answer my phone call for help. I do believe the woman is tapped into some sort of spirituality beyond my understanding.

Nothing in this life is guaranteed. The highways we run are often not ours to choose. Sometimes they are full of obstacles. Sometimes the weather turns to shit and we question why we do what we do. Sometimes we encounter twenty miles of bad road. But no matter where the highways lead, twenty miles of bad road can always be overcome if you set your mind to it.