To anyone

Whose best laid plans

Ever

Went Sideways

August 1997

The summer night lay heavy on Little Red Ride 'em Good as she did her best to address the sudden assaults of the high plain winds bouncing against her neon, strawberry red, 'moonlitness'. Thunderstorm inspired gusts ricocheted off the cab as the distant silver lightning played tag with the moon against the high towered cloud breaks. To the west, abstract white heat lightning fell into the horizon getting lost in the beginnings of other elevations. The plains rose and the Rockies lowered themselves, taking all of us wanderers up to a higher place.

Somewhere in western Nebraska, we rolled westbound on Interstate 80. It was one of those nights that know nothing less than sweet perfection. I could call that motion like some square danced vision that would be the title of a thousand verses like this night. "Stars to the left, lightning bugs to the right swing that sky and do her right…crickets sing and thunder roar, got a thousand miles to cover more…"

Love at first light, we would finally roll back into the true west, once again surrounded by the Rockies. Resting in gentle sleep all was calm and I, rocked by my baby in that cradle, lay content in that sleeper of sweet comfort. Just another of the many tonights like this one where the only sound I heard was that of the truck making solid contact with concrete expansion joints. Seven axles keeping the best of time and the hum of rubber that can serenade only the crazier of us. k. d. Lang's big Alberta voice laid up against a constant craving for motion. All the while knowing that no matter what, a still deeper song sings the best harmony a wander lusting soul could wish for. Expansion joints meeting rubber and gotta' get there yesterdays writing the lyrics of another interstate lullaby. Cradling me content in that sticky, air-conditioned, just this side of humid, mid western sleep. Fireflies danced outside while Dallas drove and sang his favorites and just before a world came crashing to a stunned halt, the desolate wide open high country basked in a perfect summer's night moment while we rolled westbound towards a date with Cheyenne.

I still don't know what woke me. Dallas may have turned up the radio volume. Maybe one dream ended and it was intermission time. Maybe the exit of one soul from this last, best place was so profound there was no other choice. But awake I did, and as I lay in the rocking darkness of the sleeper listening to the sound of the radio drift back through the heavy sleeper curtain, I heard the frantic announcer cut in over the radios station's Garth Brooks dominated country music play list. Stunned, saddened, and struggling against sleep’s residue, I made my way forward to the front of the cab. I looked at Dallas and he confirmed what I had just heard. Squeezing my hand, together we silently felt the news. Disbelief accompanied the overwhelmed newscaster's voice while the CB drew quiet and in the early morning hours, as the stunted pine framed vistas of the west learned of the too soon departure of an angel, a hush like no other fell across the airwaves of the highway. Off in the distance, the heat lightning lit the stars while Truckers and travelers wiped tears from their eyes in the predawn quiet. Halfway around the world a monarchy began its dance with politics and juggling and standing on their heads. Anywhere and everywhere the rest of us settled into remembering where we were that night when we learned that Princess Diana was taken from us. I still remember: Westbound on 80, on the Nebraska Wyoming line, chasing stars and high country light shows.

Dallas and I sat in silence as we thought about the face of this dark something that seemed to open to a premature bottomless world caught up in disordered void. Callous and bigger than our understanding of the way things were supposed to be, we sought refuge from our thoughts. Behind us, the sky lightened and the mile markers flash danced us farther and farther from that point in our minds that would forever remain marked as the memorial to that newsbreak. The one where solitary, on the endless Nebraska horizon, we learned that we'd lost not only a fine lady, but the people's princess as well.

Eventually after fueling in Cheyenne the unsettled stillness could be considered no more and Dallas lay down. Taking over the wheel, I silently watched the terrain turn from grassland to mountain then back to sage. The miles shook the shock from the horizon and as newscast after newscast informed the unknowing, the highway seemed genuinely at a loss. The chicken haulers ran their lights in the daylight and the bull haulers turned off their roger beeps and big voiced echo boxes. For a day, the highway became human and folks got down to the business of letting go and letting God take the unanswerable from their hearts and minds.

Eight hours later Dallas returned to the shotgun seat somewhere just north of Salt Lake City. As we hammered down under the endless guard of the Wasatch Range, a radio announcer went non-commercial and dared the ratings gamers to make a counter move. She said, "This one…this hour…this, is for the Lady Di" and as we made miles she broke format. Playing tune after mismatched tune, a city of Mormons and a community of travelers listened to Rosanne Cash sing about the wheel and then John Mellancamp sing the same. The cycles of life and pop goes the radio station and then, in quiet, hushed voices, the DJ played a group named Walela: The same strong voices that are the Coolidge sisters. The same group featured on some of Robbie Robertson's albums.

In native Cherokee tongue, the woman of the group sang words that I did not know. They sang lyrics that did not register. But they also sang in keys of well-known emotion, familiar notes, and sheltered within the recognized sound walls of an old standby that was not so unfamiliar, they sang a simple hymn, Amazing Grace.

Chosen by a renegade lady disc jockey, Walela soothed the heavens in universal tongues. Cherokee words danced over the airwaves of a Utah top forty station. It was the most perfect song to mark the most imperfect demise. The hymn's softness rose up from a metal station tower and transcended the cold mechanics of electronic transmission into the comfort of a mother's soft hush. The familiar notes and strange words marked this musical distance as we watched the canyons outlining the feet of Salt Lake's towering mountains. Their soft harmonic voices unified the miles and under their refrains the landscape caught gold and orange and then finally subsided into the brilliant rose of a peaceful Utah sunset. An unintended balm of grace leapt from the women of one first nation to the truest first lady of million. Soft cadences, unmet longing, and the sadness of departure all expressed within a melody that was so compelling as to bring tears to our eyes. Dallas turned the radio off after the song was finished and as the poplars and the cottonwoods along the Bountiful Valley shadow danced with the peaks, he said quietly, "That was incredible". And in the echo of my mind, the final remains of the last beating native drums accompanied by those haunted bagpipes told me that he was never more right.

May 1993

The late afternoon sun shone golden on the arid hills surrounding Union Gap, Washington. I looked at my watch as we pulled into the truck stop and looked over at my temporary co-driver, a young 'stacked' blonde bombshell named Tricia. Pulling into the Gear-Jammer Truck Stop, she looked over at me with a questioning glance and set the trucks brakes with a giant "Whooshhh".

The load was already late and I met Tricia's gaze complaining, "We're aren't going to get the rest of this damn load on tonight. It's already 3 p.m. and we are only in Yakima. It's nearly two hundred miles to Portland for the rest of those turnips. That produce shed will never wait on us this late. You call dispatch and I'll call the farm and see what time they open up in the morning."

"Why do I have to call dispatch?" she whined.

"Because you are a girl and girls are harder to yell at. Especially you."

"And your point is?" Tricia smarted back.

"Point?" I laughed. "You even have to ask when you know it's true and don't tell me that you don't. Working that 'honey please' voice for all you're worth. I've been under that spell myself, Tricia. Just being Dallas' "boy wonder" doesn't mean that I'm immune from it affecting me…I can't imagine what it does to all those straight boys who ain't been laid since last year, and who don't have a chance in hell of getting any this year. And, you know the boys I am talking about. They are the same ones you've got worked up all the time in every truck stop this side of the grapevine. So YOU can deal with dispatch. Explain why we are late and how this is a GOOD thing because now you will have a chance to wash your hair, or go shopping or watch Beverly Hills or whatever…There is no way we are going to get the rest of this load on today."

She turned to me and grinned.

I'd never met a cockier female until I met Tricia. Her confidence was amazing to behold and she rivaled Dallas with her self-assured answers for everything. The problem was Dallas was usually right about his hunches and Tricia wasn't. I'd already learned much about 'here comes trouble' female truckers. Especially drop dead gorgeous ones like Tricia who could just about talk a man into anything. Gay or straight.

Our first meeting outside of George, Washington should have been sufficient warning. Frozen brakes resulted in a mile of trailer rubber left down a deserted two-lane highway. Pulled over on the side of the road, emergency flashers blinking in the early morning light, Tricia roared by me as I walked alongside the highway towards help. Freezing in the frigid, minus 10-degree air, I swore at the cold blast of wind stirred up by the passing truck's motion. As the big Peterbilt overtook me, I realized that the truck, piloted by a driver from my own company, wasn't going to stop. Throwing rocks at the rapidly departing trailer doors, I memorized the trailer number. I'd remember that driver.

Instead, I should have been thankful that she didn't stop. Some kinds of 'help' a hand just don't need.

Running into this mysterious Good Samaritan flunky two days later in the Lost Hills, California, Burn's Brothers truck stop she walked up to me saying, "Hey I saw you walking alongside the highway near George. You got a cute ass, you know that?"

Never mind 'were you ok?' Never mind 'did you need any help?' Never mind, 'hey sorry I didn't have time to stop.' But my ass…now that caught her attention. Not enough to get her to stop but enough to make an 'I gotta' check him out later' notation in her mind. I was a goner before we even officially met.

As I fueled she held out her hand and pulling long blond wisps of wild bangs out of her eyes she introduced herself saying, "My name is Tricia," and then she smiled.

It was that smile. Blame it all on her pearly whites. In one instant, this hundred percent, All American Fag melted and forgot about being mad and the satisfaction of revenge. That 'son' bitch' driver that left me walking in the equivalent of Iceland could soften steel with that fresh grin. Even more disturbing was the unsettling truth that all I could think about while looking at Tricia's blazing smile was the blatant reality that her breasts had to be some of the prettiest that I had ever seen. Here was a girl who knew how to market herself. Catching my wandering eyes, her smile broadened and I knew that more than one load had been fingerprinted without charge by willing drivers hoping to share a cup of coffee with her. Or more.

I held out my hand, "Tim" I said. "You shouldn't have left me walking like that. I could get angry and be hurt and hold a grudge."

"Against me?" she asked and flashed some more of that damn smile while again pulling blonde bangs out of her eyes.

Looking at her, I gave up. "Well I could try being pissed but you'd probably see through that."

"Yeah, I'm good that way. I got talent." She said still smiling. And somehow I didn't doubt that she wasn't kidding about her talents.

The next time that I saw Tricia was sooner than I expected. Crash landing into our lives on the following trip south, Tricia, Dallas, and I three-manned a truck down to California. Rescuing an abandoned rig in Fresno, dispatch put the all too willing young lady in our tractor. I escaped to the sleeper bunk as soon as we left Spokane and less than an hour out of Spokane, she too climbed back into the sleeper while Dallas drove. All hope of attempting to sleep with her back in the bunk with me was history. I stole a glance at her while she crawled into the bunk.

"I'm coming back here to join you. I need to get a nap too", she said. But the way she grinned and that notorious white smile led me to believe that she had more than sleeping on her mind.

I cringed. Fully aware that Tricia was scheming, I imagined Dallas up front, dying in hysterics imagining what I faced just inches behind him. I knew that he knew that I was face to face with a genuine horny female 'predator'. I tried to get cozy with the far sleeper wall and pretended to sleep.

"I know that you're awake", she teased. "I can tell." She paused and then continued talking a little softer, trying to sound coy. "So why are you pretending to be asleep? You got a girl friend?" She asked as she lay down next to me. "I can respect that…you know…that you've got someone." She didn't seem to be too fond of her side of the imaginary line that I thought all people recognized when they had to share strange beds with a stranger.

I rolled over and looked at her in the darkness. 'Well Tricia, imagine seeing you here' was what I wanted to say but my Lutheranism overtook my balls and left me high and dry and terrified. I just knew that she was going to let me be.

"So how about it, you got a girlfriend?" She asked playing with her bangs pretending to be shy.

I rubbed my eyes, yawned. Anything to buy time. A second response went racing through my mind. I wanted to say 'yeah and she is driving right now…I think you've met her. Her name is Dallas, she's got red hair and she don't fight fair'. But I blinked. My weak, chicken assed response was a pitiful "No I haven't got a girlfriend."

"Oh really? Why not?" She asked intrigued.

I groaned. "To be out or not to be out", that was the question. Will we or won't we. I weighed the options as she studied me in the darkness. Once again I remembered Dallas asking me that this time, when we changed companies, could we please not be so open with everyone about "us". I wondered if I could trust her. I wondered if she would believe me. I wondered if I lied, telling her that my favorite music was opera, if she would get a clue and, more importantly, if she would let me sleep.

"Can you keep a secret?" I asked her.

"Sure. What is it? You really do have a girlfriend, right?" Tricia raised herself up on one elbow as the truck rocked us gently. She looked down at me and I stared at the sleeper ceiling feeling smothered. "I bet your girlfriend…I bet she's married…. " Tricia speculated.

"No, no. God no! It's nothing like that." I swallowed hard. "I'm gay. Dallas is my partner." I slammed the words out before things got any crazier or she jumped on top of me.

Tricia's elbow collapsed and she rolled over onto her back. She rested there silent and still for a moment just blowing her bangs into the air with her mouth. I stole a glance at her. "You shittin' me? You guys are really gay?" she finally whispered.

"Yep." I answered.

"Figures," she said.

"Why's that", I asked.

"Cause I ain't ever seen no straight man with an ass like yours," she groaned.

I hit her with my pillow and then lay back down. "Mum's the word, got it?"

"I won't tell a soul," she promised.

Waking up a few hours later, I told Dallas that Tricia knew. He looked at me and shook his head. "You told her? You know what that means don't you?"

I shook my head 'no'.

"It means that everyone knows." He said in a resigned voice.

A week later Dallas calculated that it took less than 14 hours for every driver in the company to find out. The office staff knew in six.

Tricia moved in with us a month later. Learning that her life was in free fall, she had no where to go. Her mom was facing terminal cancer, her current boyfriend beat her and our home appeared to be a place of rare stability. The minute Tricia moved in, stability moved out and as a unintended result of her becoming a resident in our home, an entire fleet of straight truck drivers dealt with their homophobia. Especially, if they wanted to see Tricia. Tricia turned our lives into one drunken honky-tonk tour after another. We didn't drink and none of her gang knew when to say when. As the official designated drivers and the only ones of the bunch that owned a 4x4 that wasn't on a repo-list, we drove in every season imaginable to the infamous Idaho/Washington state boundary. Home of wholesome establishments that catered to the old western traditions of good country music, two steppin' and at least one good brawl. The joint showcased 'beer and broads' cowboy culture at its finest. Usually participating against our better judgement and only after a bit of that aggressive blonde ambition was turned loose on us pleading, "C'mon guys lets go, it'll be fun."

Once at the honky-tonks, I did things for Tricia that Dallas refused to. Often led out into the darkened, gravel parking lot, standing lookout over the tailgate while Tricia pissed underneath the bumper, I waited patiently for her, becoming the "On Golden Pond Award Authenticator". Usually I was the chosen one talked into the freezing night air because Tricia had something that she wanted to tell "just you Tim". When in reality, the reason for our little walk was simply that the line to the ladies room was too long. Or, because this week the bouncers refused to let her use the men's room, barring her entry because Tricia was "too distracting".

As a result, I missed out on much of the who's who of who started half the brawls in the place. By the time Tricia pissed, obtained a few more drunk cowboys phone numbers in the parking lot, and we'd stumbled back in, the cops were already there. Meanwhile, Dallas remained safely inside the honky-tonk keeping track of everyone's drinks while cowboy booted women yanked each other's hair out over sly looks given to taken men. Two steppers were tackled, indestructible furniture wasn't and the band never missed a note. Dallas babysat Tricia's dates listening to them tell of how they were going to change her and straighten her out. As the nights wore on, Tricia's admirers became friendlier. The alcohol flowed. By the end of the night, with drunken arms around our shoulders, we listened as, without prompting, cowboy-up! trucker's confessed that as a result of meeting men such as ourselves, they were willing to write letters to the governor stating that some gays should be allowed to live.

Finding our home time defined as much by the diversion created by Tricia's parade of cowboy suitors as it was our own circle of interesting friends, diversity took on a whole new meaning. Dallas, Tim, and Tricia's excellent adventures started state line in the afternoon and went west from there. Watching tavern sponsored bull riding together, communally drinking all night at Kelly's neon lit Honky-tonk, and culminating with sobering, 'after hour's' discussions about sexuality at all night truck stops, the men courting Tricia were changed. We were changed. The only one who never seemed to change was Tricia.

That is until one night when, since turn about is fair play, she and her boyfriend 'du jour' accompanied us to the local gay bars. Once inside the dark, smoke filled joint, we had the typical tedious time. Her boyfriend and I dirty danced with her and we all played musical partners. Tricia somehow got a stubborn Dallas on the dance floor with me, and blowing our cover during a slow song, it is the only time to this day where he and I danced together. Eventually Dallas and Tricia's boyfriend left to watch Mesquite rodeo at home on television. Tricia and I remained behind bringing in a new day. Dancing to the Pet Shop Boys and Janet Jackson, I watched her and watched the crowd, learning in the process that she was as desirable among the women as she was to the men. Eventually, I left her standing in the corner just off the dance floor to refresh our drinks. In retrospect, there are a thousand "what was I thinkings" that storm through my mind but hindsight is twenty-twenty and with my vision that counts as blind.

Gone from her side, I was only absent without leave for a few minutes, five tops. Returning with her libation and a diet Coke, I rounded the corner and was horrified to see her lip locked with a pretty little 'lip-sticker'. Blonde hair meeting blonde hair and the fleeting thought that her mother would kill me for allowing this wasn't so troubling. It was the lip sticker's, lesbian, biker lover in full leather approaching us with an "I brake for nothing" tee shirt that had my full, undivided attention. The same lover that was forcefully pushing people out of the way and which was now making a bee line straight for 'Trish' and her new dish. And, by default, me. There was no time to exit stage right. There was no time to start singing Melissa Etheridge songs. There was no time to belt out "I am what I am and what I am, is scared shitless". I was on an express train bound for derailment and faster than my fairy farm hand god father could say "you get three wishes and none of them are single", I was getting a fourth. I would finally get to see the start of one of those infamous, western bar room brawls. Up close and personal. I had a front row seat to my own Timmy the Kid meets The Cowgirl, The Leather Dyke and The Little Miss Blond, Ain't Misbehaving Beauty in The Big Uneasy Saloon.

Standing guard in the parking lot with Ms. On Golden Pond, missing the impromptu brawls at Kelly's State line suddenly couldn't compare with the likes of what was shaping up before my horrified, honorary lesbian eyes. I could stop this showdown at the "No That was Not OK corral. Reason would prevail. I had flannel shirts. I owned a four by four. I had many women with a "y" for friends. I regularly contributed to N.O.W. Hell, I even knew that the true definition of magic wand had nothing to do with the good witch of the west but whether the four Triple A Batteries the wand used were charged or not. I would stop this.

"My friend Tricia is drunk. She doesn't even know what she's doing," I nervously laughed and tried to explain, putting myself between Tricia and the huge, angry, woman wearing an entire cow in black. "She is not even Gay", I further explained. "This is all a harmless misunderstanding." I chuckled to myself at the obvious hilarity of the situation. She didn't join me.

My lesbianism hadn't taken as strongly as I had hoped. The angry woman wasn't even seeing me. I was invisible. I stood taller. Now I came up to her chest. Which, I noticed with a troubling gulp, was heaving. There was only one option left. It’s a last resort that all true cowboys know well. We keep it a secret because we have our reputations to consider. But, this option is just as proud a part of our history as bull riding, lucky poker hands and horses with character. Were it not for the occasional exercise of this heritage, the western movie wouldn't have developed the crucial concept of the all important chase scene. The tradition revolves around a simple concept involving endless opportunities for compelling lines, rapid action, and dramatic visuals. Included in the theory, are two basic components of basic cowboy philosophy. First there must be a "chaser", and second, there must be a "chasee". There are thousands of variations to this mode of survival but in its most basic form it allows the hero to live for a few more moments on screen. It is the opposite of "Fight". It is "Run."

I grabbed Tricia and started running just as the first punch flew, missed her, and hit the other blonde. I never took the time to look back but I did hear a roar and ugly, angry, and hateful things being said about us behind our backs. Words hurled our direction that, if in the future, that large woman and I were to be friends, would be very difficult for her to take back. I wondered if she knew this and how challenging forgiving her statements would be.

The doorman appeared, and for a brief moment in our encounter, he looked like he might actually do his job, getting involved to stop our certain deaths. Such considerations quickly vanished when he realized who was chasing us. He just stepped out of our way with a surprised look on his face that simply translated said, "Why would anyone mess with her? What were you two thinking?"

I wanted to explain it to him. The power of misunderstanding. The power of confused sexual identity. The power of alcohol in the wrong hands. I wanted to tell him how silly this miscommunication was but there was no time. Tricia certainly wasn't improving our survival odds. As I tried to get her to run faster, she kept saying over and over again, "Tim, I just kissed a girl" and I kept telling her between labored breaths, "believe me honey I know, I know!"

We made the parking lot and I tried to remember where we'd parked the 4x4. Tricia kept talking about not feeling good and about needing to throw up and I tried to inform her that if we didn't get in the truck and get out of Dodge, that however badly she was feeling now, would not begin to compare with how she'd feel later. Finally finding my rig in the lot, I noticed that parked next to ours was a bigger truck with monster tires and a lift kit. Full of chrome and spit shined, I began to ponder who in the bar might have been driving such an impressive rig. "I'd have liked to have met that man that drives that sweet ride" I remember thinking.

Pushing Tricia in the cab and jumping in next to her, I started the truck and flew into reverse. My question was answered when Ms. Large and In Charge, in hot pursuit, jumped into that very same rig. The same one that I'd just admired before tearing out of the parking lot. Her rig could walk over mine in a heartbeat.

In most chase scenes, events occur that may or not seem to be natural. The pursued seems to fight fate as they attempt to allude the pursuer. Some more common tools of fate utilized to hinder the progress of the chased include backing semi trucks, red lights, occupied railroad crossings and rising bridges. Sometimes the chase is interrupted by parades. Other times the chase is suspended by road construction. Whatever the blockage, it provides all concerned with an exercise in breath control. The audience holds their breath. The pursued and the pursuer hold theirs. Everyone has an opportunity to participate in this helpful and healthy exercise. The problem with such breath control exercises on this particular night was that if Tricia didn't start to breathe, she would start to vomit.

The first block and a half of the chase went 'textbook'. Perfect. Downtown Spokane utilizes synchronized, timed lights. Hit one green one and you hit them all. I hit green. The monster 4x4 driven by the enraged lesbian did not. Thinking we were home free, I got cocky and laughed. I became overconfident. I told Tricia that we were out of danger and I arrogantly made a comment that men are better under pressure than women. This comment was heard by the Goddess. The big Kahona Goddess. The mother of all Goddess'. The official, make sure it never rains in Palm Springs during the Dianna Shore, LPGA golf tournament Goddess. The same Goddess who is friendly to 'womyn' spelled with a 'y'. Turning the next corner, I ran straight into Goddess inspired fate.

Our chase was now complete with an obstacle. Teenage Cruisers. Stalled traffic. Riverside Avenue. The street that film legends like American Grafitti were based upon. Spokane's Riverside Avenue, a place known throughout the west as one of the finest places to cruise on a hot summer night. Cars lined up for blocks and boys dangling in wranglers cruised girls dangling in other places. Polished treasures and wrecked heaps inched along the street and barely legal bodies leaned from one window into another. All of those treasured vehicles crawled at one mile an hour.

Traffic crept along. I looked behind us. The monster truck was only three cars back. I looked at the farm boys in the 4x4 Chevy Silverado going the other way that was right next to us. Separated only by the double yellow line, the fresh, eager boys packed inside the truck cab were close enough to touch. Looking at me, then at Tricia, and then back at me, they smiled approvingly. "Got Beer?" one of the passengers asked and looking at his shirtless perfection, showcased under the bright streetlights, I forgot about the lady with an attitude just behind us. I wondered if these boys chased sheep through deserted pastures in their spare time and how many times they'd gone to the principals office their senior year and if their favorite color really was John Deere Green. Their innocence highlighted by suntanned youth locked in a carefree procession under a warm prairie summer night was inviting. I wished I were back in those times.

My thoughts were interrupted by the hoarse, blood curdling battle cry coming from our lady of the immaculate monster truck behind us, "HEY PUSSIE Boy! The one with the Blonde Slut! You' re history, you hear me?" Tricia looked up startled and I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman was leaning out the driver's side window and pointing directly at us. Sub-conscientiously I slid down against the headrest. Tricia turned around in her seat and looking mesmerized by the monster truck being driven by Mad Mandy behind us, all she could do was mutter in a meek voice, "Tim, I think I kissed HER girl."

"Yes honey, I know. Trust me I know! I think indeed you did." It was a weak response. What else was there to say? The boys in the Silverado were now staring straight ahead in shock. Caught between admiration for the woman's rig and wonder at how tough she was, one of them ribbed his seatmate and said, "Get a look at her. She is pissed! I think she wants to fight someone. I sure wouldn't want to mess with her." His buddy sitting next to him nodded silently in agreement.

The boy driving looked over at us, asking with a smile and a nod back in her direction, "You wouldn't happen to be "Pussie Boy" would you? And is she the blonde slu…?"

I answered his question before he could finish his sentence, "Yep that would be us"

"No shit?" The driver asked. He looked back towards the woman chasing us. "She's got a nice rig. But she is ugggggllllllllyyy! What did you do to piss her off?"

Before I could answer, Tricia interjected, "I kissed her girlfriend!" I stared at Tricia dumbfounded and wanted to strangle her. Why'd she have to go and say a thing like that without any sort of invitation? A shock that 'passeth all understanding' enveloped the other truck. I looked at the driver who was trying to decide if he'd heard Tricia correctly, then looking back over at Tricia in disbelief, I gave her a glance that simply translated read "haven't you gotten us into enough trouble for one night?"

The boys in the truck were still processing Tricia's revelation with expressions that seemed to hover between shock and "You shittin' us?" Mercifully traffic moved and I shrugged idling forward. Looking in my mirror, I watched as they rolled up next to our stalker. Now face to face with ms. monster truck and staring up into her elevated cab as she glared at us, I wondered if those boys felt any sympathy for our dilemma. I also wondered if they were trying to picture what our stalker's girlfriend looked like and if Trish really had lip locked her.

Finally making it to the end of the block, I made a sharp right and high tailed it out of that summer's night testosterone parade. Taking a quick left at the next block and then another, I hoped that the woman in the monster truck was still stuck buried in the cruiser traffic. When it seemed safe, I pulled into an alley. Tricia bolted from the cab and fell to her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach. Once again I found myself guarding the tailgate. Only this time I was enjoying it.

For a minute we both silently watched the activity in the truck stop. As if on cue, our assigned phone tree duties established, Tricia nodded and we both jumped out of the green Peterbilt. Stuck together on another ill-fated adventure. Dallas was home sick and the company's only option was to run Tricia and I solo, or put us together as a team. The company should have learned a long time ago that Tim and Tricia teaming spelled tribulation but they, short on equipment, took the risk.

It was a misguided calculation.

Already the trip was off to a dismal start, another produce run with hell hidden somewhere in the spelling. Shutting the tractor door behind me, I followed Tricia across the parking lot. Figuring the total cumulative lost time we'd spent on a flat trailer tire, federally inspected apples failing inspection resulting in their rejection, and snow up near Omak, Washington, combining it all put us too far out to have any shot at getting finished loading until morning.

Walking behind Tricia, I couldn't help but realize that she had, even in winter clothing, a figure that stopped traffic. I wondered if the hazardous materials warning, "Dynamite: Extremely Dangerous" was subliminally locked somewhere in her shot to hell halo. Intrigued, I studied the other drivers watching Tricia as she strolled across the lot. Her innocence and bubbly little girl bounce contradicted other more obvious physical 'adult' characteristics. I'd quickly learned from observation that men who should have known better tripped over themselves trying to save her. I was at the top of that list. Usually no matter how hard someone tried to rescue the girl from herself, she kept on keeping on, oblivious to their efforts to reform her and even more oblivious to the destruction left in her wake. Rational men could not avert her spell. Foolish ones were consumed by it. Marriages crashed under her assault.

Today, as I watched her parade across the lot, I knew that almost every driver in the Yakima Gear Jammer truck stop wanted to take a try at shooting that moonwalk. Or, at least at her halo. Stopping in their tracks to watch her jay walk, she flashed that little girl smile that left all of them in a trance. It was like a class five tornado that you could see coming for miles but knowing that there was nothing that you could do about it save seeking shelter and start your praying.

While Tricia called dispatch, I called the farmer in Oregon to let him know we were running late. I was surprised when he informed me that he would wait for us. I motioned at Tricia with a finger cutting across my throat signaling her to hang up on dispatch. She did and both of us ran for the truck and before the doors of the Peterbilt were closed, I was grabbing gears.

Tricia lay down and got a nap while I drove across the Yakima Nation and climbed over Satus Pass. Mount Adams rose straight up from the east flank of the Cascades in a race with Mount Rainier to conquer the sky. Topping the pass and leaving the reservation behind, the land opened becoming arid. The highway was deserted of the weekend sailboarders and tourists. Today the freight haulers had the road to themselves. North bounder truckers, recognizing the name on the truck's door, asked if I'd seen the notorious Tricia. I had. Over the CB I let the bragging rights loose and told them that she was sleeping behind me. "Congratulations!" and "Lucky you's" were given and I thought, "if only they knew". Luck was nowhere to be found within this cab.

North of Goldendale, the 'chicken coops' were closed and the scale master waved as we rolled by. South of the same town, U.S. 97 plummeted towards the Columbia River and into the giant gorge created millions of years ago by the last ice age. Thousands of feet below us the river beckoned with her frigid sparkling, blue waters. On the other side of the canyon, Mount Hood rose up from the high desert guarding Portland from the winds of the east. We rode the switchbacks off the plateau and soon we'd crossed the river and were running hard on the Oregon side of the water. Grabbing those gears, the east wind paralleled Interstate 84 and seemed to push us just a bit faster towards the end of the Oregon Trail. Keeping guard, the mighty river Columbia, resembling more a giant lake, pushed her way to the Pacific Ocean.

We arrived at the farm on the northern edge of the Willamette Valley just as the sun set. I set the brakes and was surprised as the farmer met me in the gravel lot. He was young, and muscular with a tight wrestler's body. Dressed in a form fitting tee shirt, he walked across the lot and shook my hand. "Everything's ready. You want to just back her in that hole over there?" He asked pointing to an empty loading dock. I nodded and got the truck lined up and into the dock in one shot. The farmer remained in the lot watching me.

Tricia felt the trailer 'bump' the dock, and as I grabbed my gloves, she got up. Sipping lukewarm coffee, she looked like hell.

"There is some justice in this world after all", I thought realizing that no one would be trying to pick her up for a few minutes. Climbing out of the cab, and checking back in with the farmer, I was pleasantly surprised to see that he hadn't moved. "Thanks for waiting on us. It's been a rough day," I said. His handsome, warm smile seemed to convey more than just friendliness and I began to wonder if I was picking up on something.

"My name is Jeff," he said and he pointed toward the packing shed office. "It'll only take a few minutes to get you out of here." As I walked behind him I knew that Tricia would have approved of the way he packed his wranglers. I suddenly wished that we were getting the entire load there. Following him around meant more of a great view. I hoped to find enough time to track down the source of that mysterious energy that I sensed coming from the smiling man. Disappointed that we'd only be there for a few minutes, I watched him as he prepared the paperwork and I thought about Tricia in the truck and hoped that she would keep herself occupied and stay in the truck while the produce was loaded.

Jeff talked about his family's farm and the product he was shipping south to the Los Angeles produce market with us. The count matched the paperwork and as he filled out the bills of lading, I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to load there again. I'd never met a more handsome farmer. He was about my height and about my age. "So where are you from?" he asked looking up with another smile.

My heart jumped. Yep, I definitely felt something besides friendly that time. That unqualified energy that makes heartbeats skip and that encourages see through vision. Ricochet passages demonstrating the power of language from spoken to unspoken. "Well I live in Spokane now but I used to be from Palestine. It's down near Albany. I liked Oregon but it doesn't feel like home anymore. At least not since the OCA moved in and started all their shit." It was a gamble. Risky. But mentioning the Oregon Citizens Alliance was a red flag. The group was hell bent on making homosexuals out to be child molesters, perverts, and sociopath. The group was controversial. Rare was an individual found that didn't have an opinion on them. If nothing else this would flush him out.

"Well someone's got to stay and fight those idiots. You shouldn't have left. We need more people like you," he said still smiling.

More people like me? What did he mean by that? Did he know? I continued to engage the farmer standing in front of me telling him that I'd done my fair share of addressing the OCA. I'd gotten the group kicked out of an auto show at the Driver's Appreciation Days at the Troutdale, Oregon, Burns Brother's Truck Stop. I'd gotten into all sorts of heated discussions in Eastern Oregon with OCA members in cafes, truck stops and over the CB radio. I had anti OCA stickers on the truck. I was far from quiet on the subject. He listened intently and just kept smiling. Finally I just looked at him and asked, "Are you family?"

His smile just kept getting bigger.

Tricia looked at me when I got back into the truck. "That sure took awhile to get three pallets on. I already drank my coffee and smoked. Did you see that guy's butt? Damn he looked fine…" she sighed.

All I could do was nod in agreement. I was still thinking about the farmer I'd just met. He'd made quite an impression in the short time we'd talked. I wondered if I lived closer, if we would have become friends. I wondered what his life was like. I had no way of knowing if I'd ever see Jeff again and if freight would take me back to his farm. In the few moments that we talked it seemed that an instant bonding occurred. One of those rare moments in life when people connect and the natural flow of things seem pure and free. But once again, the truck with its perpetual motion being the prison of our escape seemed to keep the development of those sentiments at bay. I was resigned to what ifs over what is and what could be.

Giving the wheel to Tricia, my thoughts kept going back to that farm we'd just left. As we rolled quietly through a full moon lit night and as silver shadows played hopscotch with the shadows created by the truck, my mind jumped over itself trying to put the unresolved energy I felt into perspective. I thought about calling the farmer the next day to see if I'd just imagined his warmth or to see if maybe there was a best friend in the making there. Distance and minimal home time always kept friendships to a minimum. Another friend would be nice to have and I talked myself into making the call and then talked myself back out of it. My mind settled on the latter.

"Let it go and don't ruin it," I told myself. It was a perfect moment and a self-contained story. You can't create those times in life any more than you can understand them. Investigate it and you might make it seem common and prove that it was fleeting. Wonder at the spontaneity and be thankful for even the limited experience of it.

I finally chalked Jeff up to just another one of those chance meetings that haunt a person through out their lives and the 'what ifs' of if I had a little more time faded. Instead, I asked God to keep Jeff safe and bring him back around some day. Over the years his face would pop into my mind and I would wonder if he was still out there working his farm, working that smile and driving the odd, gay trucker that showed up to load on his dock mad with speculation and finally realization. Those thoughts would appear, an image on my mind and like an express, non stop flight, take me far away from the highway I was running and back to another.

The rest of the trip into California I'd like to say was uneventful. Tricia and I made it to Los Angeles on time and delivered into the roughneck south central produce markets. I hired Dallas' and my normal lumper to help us get the load off. Returning from a phone call, I was disappointed to see Tricia treat him poorly. Pissed off at her rudeness, and lack of respect for the man and his assistant, I explained to her that Dallas and I had been using this Hispanic man and his buddy for years. In the past, he had done much to save us endless grief and heartache on the docks. Never overcharging us for his work, he was as honest as they come. Tricia would do well to treat him with respect and get his phone number when we were through. She might need him someday.

Lumpers are a necessary evil in trucking. Hanging out on the docks, they often have agreements with the receivers allowing them access to the dock equipment. Forklifts, pallet jacks and other essentials necessary to get 'the load off' may be accessible to a lumper and not to the truck driver. If a trucker tries to lump his own load, some receivers actually hinder the driver, who drove day and night to get it there, from getting the product from the trailer onto the dock. Hiring a lumper isn't cheap. Typically they charge anywhere from $80 to $160 to fingerprint a load, inventory it and move it off the truck. Doing the job in minimal time, the truck is empty and ready to reload increasing efficiency. Yet utilizing lumpers contributes to a system of kickbacks between the dock personnel and these under the table laborers.

At some receivers, if a driver tries to unload the truck himself, he will be there all day fighting extra claims, difficult receiving procedures, and intimidating delays. Unfortunately hiring lumpers usually means taking money out of a driver's pocket. Many trucking companies refuse to reimburse for lumpers or only cover part of the bill. Regardless, the alternatives are worse. Pay the money up front or pay it on the other side through increased downtime and unpleasant, if not dangerous dock politics. Tradeoffs piled upon tradeoffs. These endless making the best of two bad choices is what trucking is all about. Hiring a lumper here and there allows a driver to 'get empty' sooner so that he can go grab the next load. Time is money, especially when, truckers are paid by the mile. When the truck isn't rolling, the trucker is starving.

Finally empty and rolling east out of Los Angeles, we loaded melons in Indio, California. Turning back towards the coast, dispatch turned us north. Instructed by our "travel agent" to be in Los Banos, California first thing in the morning, we were blessed with extra time before we could finish loading the load. Giving the truck back over to Tricia in Castaic, I felt assured that no matter what, I would wake up in Los Banos at 8 a.m. Ready and willing to finish loading produce bound for Spokane town. Looking at my watch the hands read that it was 9 p.m. We had eleven hours to go 250 miles. No sweat.

Climbing back into the sleeper of the big green Pete, I laid down wondering if Dallas was feeling better. Tricia was already involved in several conversations with lonely drivers. As the CB chatter fluttered back into the sleeper, I was amazed at her ability to attract admirers even in the dark. The truck struggled against the grade of The Grapevine, the rugged desert pass that separates the Southland from the comparative sanity of the Central Valley farming communities. As the odometer clicked through the miles on northbound I-5, the last thing I heard, as I drifted off to sleep, was Tricia's flirtatious laughter. A sane man would have never shut his eyes and left her alone.

I woke up and the truck was still. Silent. Calm. Opening my eyes, I saw sunlight streaming into the sleeper through the curtain. The truck idled and the air conditioner was running on high. I could feel heat coming through the fabric of the sleeper wall. It was obviously already a scorcher in the central San Joaquin Valley. Sitting up, I opened the sleeper curtain and squinted outside. "Where are we?" I thought as I surveyed the rows of parked trucks. We had to be in a truck stop, but where?

Climbing forward, I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 a.m. I struggled to wake up fast. Something was wrong. Either we were already loaded or we…I didn't dare consider the other options. There were just too many of them and all of them ended in the same dreadful place. Recalling the conversations that I'd heard just before I fell asleep, I swallowed hard. I just knew that Tricia had gotten lucky and that my luck had run out.

Pulling my boots on, I jumped out of the truck and, still squinting, looked around. The first thing I saw, like some disturbing omen, was the towering sign that immediately confirmed my worst fears. The Bakerfield, Flying J sign. The giant electronic reader board advertised professional driver's chicken fried restaurant specials, c-store deals and fuel prices. In twelve hours we'd gone only seventy miles.

"Shit, we're dead," was the only thought that registered. Then panic. I ran inside the truck stop and found a phone. Calling dispatch, I asked a question that maybe in hindsight should have been put differently.

"Have you heard from Tricia?"

Now to a dispatcher who is assuming that a team truck has two drivers, it would be reasonable to assume that these drivers would know where each other were. Furthermore it would also seem to be a given that if one of those drivers did turn up missing, the co driver would have a better chance of finding their partner than a dispatcher a thousand miles away. Thus the question, "Have you heard from Tricia?" was not a question to inspire a calm, rationale response.

The deafening roar over the pay phone receiver could be heard several phones away and other drivers looked at me curiously. Trouble breeds community participation.

"What do you mean, "HAVE I heard from Tricia? Where are you two?" asked the dynamited dispatcher.

"I don't know for sure. I think somewhere north of Bakersfield on 99…" I was cut off.

"Tim, How can YOU NOT KNOW where you are?"

I tried to answer. I told him that I'd gone to sleep when we were ahead of schedule and that last thing I knew we were up on the grapevine. I'd just awakened to a stationary truck and no Tricia. Did he know where she was? The lion on the other end roared.

I took it that he didn't.

"Well YOU'D better FIND HER. YOU were supposed to be in Los Banos an hour and a half ago. YOU are still at least three hours away and THAT IS ONLY IF YOU LEFT RIGHT NOW. Start doing the math Tim! And when YOU find her, have HER call ME!" There was a click and then a message. "If you'd like to make a call, hang up and then try your party again." Then dial tone. Other drivers were watching me as I pounded my head against the wall.

I checked the truck stop. The drivers lounge. The restaurant. Skeptical lady drivers check the restrooms. I had her paged. I checked the shower list. Tricia was no where to be found. Walking back out to the truck hopeful, I discovered that it was still deserted. Empty. I got on the CB and screamed for her to get back to her truck immediately. There was no response.

My worst fears were coming true. I was about to embark upon a mission that had no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Destined to be stuck in my own tragic comedy, I was going to be playing this sinister predestined role, tracing the great footsteps of those pioneers who had gone before me. Souls who were far better equipped than I. Soon I would be emulating upstanding citizens whose lives were all about soliciting. Selling their meager wares. And, in the process, I would follow the sacred traditions of the nether world, knowing the rites of those who loiter in the lot. The drug pushers. The thieves hawking hot freight and stolen goods. The runaways. The Lot lizard, pecker wrecking, sleeper creeping, truck stop prostitutes. The 'good buddy' trucker hawks.

I was soon to be one of "them". Proudly 'working' the lot, aimlessly strolling among the parked trucks, it wouldn't be pretty. Timmy the truck stop trollip, tracking trick or treat Tricia. Keeping on the look out, climbing up on catwalks, staring into tractor windows, and basically putting my life in peril.

Years of careful image raising and participation in various charitable endeavors, directed to reclaim the professional driver’s rightful place as knights of the highway, was now reduced to this: Door to door, truck to truck, solicitation. Against my better judgement, I began knocking on doors and encountering the same hostile, guarded looks from drivers that I had always given those who knocked on my door. I tried to be polite and smile, which I should have known from experience, would just make everyone more suspicious.

"Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but I am looking for my co driver and I was wondering if you might have seen her, talked to her, or if she might be watching television (read: whoring around) in your sleeper?"

Drivers stared down at me incredulous. Some asked me to repeat the question they found it so ridiculous.

Then I was treated to questions in return. "You mean you LOST your co-driver?" Or the simple, but straight forward, "You ARE you kidding me, right? This is a joke?"

Some drivers were insulted that I would insinuate that they would entertain a strange woman in their sleeper. "Son, I'm a married man" or, "Hold on, let me ask my wife…Honey, do we have a woman named Tricia in our sleeper?" There was a usually a pause and then some sarcastic response like, "Uh… my wife says she doesn't recall seeing anyone named Tricia. We do have a lady named ginger but that’s our Border Collie. Maybe you should check that C.R. England truck. Those CB antennas were dancing earlier." Chuckle, chuckle. Wink, wink.

Gag.

Tricia’s future death by stoning was the thought that sustained me as I wandered the lot in the hot, blazing sun. With each closing door and shaking head, I knew that much as I dreaded it, I was becoming a CB legend among the laid over drivers in that truck stop. Soon enough, before I even knocked on some doors, drivers would greet me with, "No there is no one named Tricia in this truck!"

Finally, I struck pay dirt. A bull hauler, parked in back aisle, on the 'party row' next to the end had more than heifers in his truck. His Black Pete, with its spacious walk in sleeper, also contained an exhausted, still sleeping Tricia. The shirtless, cowboy hatted driver answering my knock invited me in as he nodded as I described my lost companion. I declined, figuring that although he appeared from my vantage to be without clothes that Tricia might also be similarly attired. "I'll get her up for ya", he said.

"Thanks, appreciate it. Could you just send her back to her truck? Oh wait, on second thought have her call dispatch first." I tried to sound cheery. Polite. Not on the verge of being on the verge.

"Will do" the cowboy said as he disappeared into the cave of his sleeper.

Turning, I walked back to the truck. Along the way several drivers inquired if I'd found her. I smiled and said yes, thanks for asking, and that if a cowboy driving a Black Peterbuilt pulling a bull rack claimed to be a virgin, he was a liar. The other drivers nodded, they understood.

Returning to the truck, I sat in the driver's seat, caught up my logbook and waited for Tricia to return. An hour later she appeared, disheveled, and hysterically crying. She’d called dispatch. The sobs racked her body and as she sat in the shotgun seat, her head buried in her hands, I felt like shit for about the tenth time that day.

"C'mon Tricia it can't be that bad. It'll be ok. Dispatch will get over it. We'll get up there and get the rest of this load on and everything will be fine." I said to calm her. "I promise."

"Nu uh" she sobbed. "They are talking about firing us."

I looked at her. Did she just say the word us? As in plural? You and me? More than one? Us, as in, really US? "Tricia, I know you are upset right now, but did you just say US?" I asked as calmly as I could.

She shook her head ‘yes’ between sobs.

I set the brakes and jumped out of the truck. Calling dispatch back, I didn't give him time to even say hello. "What'd you have to do that for?" I asked.

"Do what" he countered, hearing the anger in my voice. He wasn't yelling this time.

"You made her cry. How am I supposed to get down the road when she is in hysterics?" I was still calm but getting angrier as the enormous humiliation of the day rained down on me like some hell fire, shit storm.

"Tim," the dispatcher responded in a calm and soothing voice, "That's what women do. They cry. It makes them feel better. Women are like that. When they need to feel better, they cry. The only thing that will make it all better is a man. You up for it?"

I pulled away from the receiver staring at it in disbelief. He couldn't have just said that. Not in the nineties. Not anywhere out of a Southern Baptist. I continued making it a point to ignore his obvious knowledge of all things women.

"Tricia also said that we might be getting fired for this. She used the word us. Is that true?" I asked.

For a moment there was silence on the other end. I visualized a dragon, inhaling before he annihilates all of creation.

"Tim?" He asked very gently.

"Yes?" I answered.

"Where are you at this very moment?" He paused, then continued. "I think you told me it was "somewhere" north of Bakersfield? Right?" His tone escalated. "And where were you supposed to be at 8 a.m. this morning? I think I told you LOS BANOS?" He was now yelling again. "YOU are in charge of HER. YOU are late if SHE is late. SHE is in Bakersfield. YOU are in Bakersfield. SHE should be in Los Banos. YOU should be in Los Banos. So I ask YOU one thing while I am wondering if I should fire her, or you, or you both. Why are YOU still talking to me, wasting time, instead of trucking and getting your ass up to Los Banos?" And then there was that familiar click that needs no further definition. And a whole phone bank row of drivers silently staring at me.

When I returned to the truck, Tricia was still upset but her crying subsided into sniffles. The drama was over. I saw no point in staying angry with her. "So did you have fun?" I asked. She looked at me and weakly smiled, shaking her head ‘yes’.

"Good. You better have after all of this." I said giggling, not sure if either of us still had a job.

Gearing up to make the trek north, we rode in silence. I turned on the radio and caught a public radio station. We listened in the quiet to All Things Considered. One segment featured a collection of the work of acoustic musicians recorded live, in a subway. A single sax player was featured and he began to play Amazing Grace. Starting off slow and deep, I imagined what he must have looked like as he touched each note. Slouched against a cold wall, his instrument case opened to collect the change of passing strangers. But as the notes flowed and the power of the song transcended its environment, I imagined him straightening his posture, the sax lifted towards a concrete heaven, letting the music carry him and his listeners through the journey of that song. I am sure light fell into the darkness of that subway stop. At one point in the recording, the musician hit one particularly difficult note with clarity and brilliance. During that moment, it became obvious that the artist's talent attracted patrons, despite the darkness of the chilly hall's shortcomings. I heard applause echo off the walls of that transportation cellar. The intensity of the moment, even from the distance of the airwaves, stirred us, touched us, and far removed from the chilled underground dampness, we were lifted as well. Shivers went down my spine and Tricia looked over at me. "That’s the only church song I have ever liked", she said wiping a stray tear from her cheek. And I could understand why.

Tricia and I did get our load on and delivered it, on time, to the Spokane warehouse. Neither of us lost our jobs but we never ran together again either. Later, when we spoke of that trip that we survived together, laughter replaced the tears. On one occasion, sitting around the fireplace and talking late into the evening, Tricia confessed that our roof was the one roof under which she'd stayed the longest in her young lifetime. During the year she lived with us, as a part of our family, there were many crazy times that we shared. Eventually her mother did pass and shortly after that she fell into a state of spinning that not even our roof could contain. We lost track of her and several years passed before I heard from her again.

Jeff and Tricia’s trails intersected our lives again during the same week last summer. After years of wondering, looking out over vacant horizons, and finding their images replacing the sun beat ones I was seeing, their coincidental appearances seemed to reassure whatever doubts I had regarding those what ifs and unmet longings.

Tricia laid claim to a steady boyfriend, one that loves and cherishes her. He lets her soar and even tolerates the wild child in her. That part of her that I suspect will never be totally absent from her personality. Absent from the highways, she takes care of her family and tentatively established roots ground her for the first time in her life. When I spoke with her last, she proudly beamed, "Tim I've grown up!"

As I listened to her singsong voice fill in the blanks of the last few years, I felt peace. She spoke so proudly of her accomplishments. Once unimaginable goals were now detailed dreams of pursuing school and raising her children, The happiness in her voice left me silent and grateful. I could not help but reflect on the changes in her especially as I thought about her and my adventures. It was a chorus now. "Tim, I have grown up" kept singing through my head and as I talked to her on the remote control phone while walking alongside the edge of the bench that drops off into the cool waters of the Pend Oreille River, I thought of the amazing quality of grace. The mountains hung their shadows and the sky darkened but in the dusk I could see light brighter than I had seen in a long time. The place that only second chances illuminates. After I hung up the phone, I sat down on the deck watching the stars come out to dance with the moon. I again thought of her pride at becoming settled and stationary. "Tim I've grown up" seemed to echo off of everything. Yet, this time it was the refrain of joy.

My mind raced back with its own response to her exclamation. "Honey, I know. I know!"

My friendship with Jeff also blossomed since last summer. In the good lords' perfect timing, some things need to be waited on. Looking at where things stand now, I am glad that our reunion happened when it did. Studying history through that golden light, I know that when we met, over pallets of turnips, neither of us appreciated the opportunity and value such a friendship presented. Time makes those things stand out. We value some things more when they don't come easily and when our desires aren't immediately satiated. When the mundane falls towards amazing in hindsight. When we acknowledge the beauty in taking life at life's pace no matter what we are handed. All of it served up hot and fulfilling. With a side of grace.

June 1999

Jeff and I walked along the edge of Seattle’s Volunteer Park. Looking for a diversion while we waited for another friend to arrive, we watched the activity around us. Energy and anticipation dance in the air seemingly stifling any attempts at conversation. Volunteers were setting up their booths and concession stands. Hammers pounded, generators hummed, and trucks lumbered through the park. The site of the culmination of a week's worth of activities dedicated to the celebration of diversity and gay pride, the park relinquished her open quiet for the chaos that comes with the preparations dedicated to celebration.

"Pride," in its many forms, always seems to be an overwhelming, alienating celebration to me. Finding the loud messaged t-shirts and the blatant displays of sexuality hard to reconcile with the understated Lutheran sensibilities that are all I know, Jeff seemed to echo this confused, curious detachment as we walked around watching the various people preparing for the festivities. Tattoos, piercings, dramatic hair and exaggerated everything meant that this was not a gathering of assimilates. Rounding one corner we came face to face with an overweight woman who had nothing but electrical tape covering her nipples. Catching my unsettled reaction Jeff joked, "C’mon Tim, where is your pride?"

I decided it was best to keep my thoughts to myself.

Distracted almost immediately after the breast encounter, we were drawn towards an intriguing sight. Luckily this curious spectacle was so compelling, it spared either of us from the need for any further commentary on the location of our "pride".

At the heart of Volunteer Park is the Seattle Art Museum. The museum is an elegant building that overlooks Seattle’s Elliot Bay. From the broad steps in front of the building, a sweeping view encompasses the Space Needle, parts of the harbor and the Olympic Mountains. The museum draws upon its dramatic surroundings and presents a picture of understated, refined luxury. Today the museum bore witness to more than just the breathtaking views, the troubling carnage of post-pride set up, and its accompanying parade of overindulgent extravagance.

Indeed today, the view also included, nestled on the steps of the museum, an incredibly expensive outdoor, train wreck in the making. Complete with harps, a small jazz ensemble and tuxedoed, evening gowned everything guests, a wealthy family was in the process of giving away their cherished daughter. Totally surrounded by the set up of the pride festivities. As the guests silently waited for the start of the wedding, the jazz ensemble was accompanied by screaming hoots of, "Oh girlfriend!" this and "Mary, get a load of HER!" that. A beautiful young woman bravely stood at the edge of the parking lot doing her best to keep her eyes on the groom and ignore the chaos around her. While the wind caught her hair and the breeze swept the folds of her delicate white wedding dress, she prepared to softly make her way up the museum steps. The groom stood straight and tall with his eyes fixed on her, his future wife. Courageously he awaited her arrival, guarded by his best man and attendants.

As we watched, the future husband was also nervously surveying the makings of an out of control fiasco. The wedding guests were as perplexed with their lot as were the participants. Seated on folding chairs on either side of the walkway, they denied to themselves the horror of the circumstances surrounding their appearance at what appeared to be a gay pride sanctioned event. Bravely facing the museum, their backs to the pride set up activities taking place immediately behind them, they willed silence to return to their venue. Yet numerous quickly turned, shock stolen glances acknowledged that the wedding feast came with complimentary unintended entertainment. This entertainment not only included the musicians on the steps in front of them but a three-ring circus behind them. Somehow, like a Roswell, New Mexico or Area 51 UFO crash landing, the guests found themselves attempting to celebrate the highest honor of heterosexuality, the sacred union of marriage, surrounded by screaming drag queens, leather daddy’s and dykes on bikes.

Irony flowed like milk and honey. Jeff and I were helplessly frozen by this unfolding drama watching these forces gaining uncontrolled momentum towards some sort of collision. I could see a riot in the making. I could see this day becoming the straight worlds equivalent to Stonewall. I could see that same beautiful white wedding dress with grass stains on it and some drag queen in 6-inch neon green heels running off into the woods with a captured veil. I didn’t want to look, but the unfolding stir-fry sizzling in the juices of meat eaters meeting vegetarians left me no alternative. Jeff was equally mesmerized. A person couldn’t help but watch.

Enormous amounts of money, a greenhouse worth of flowers and enough BMW’s to keep Germany’s economy going for a decade were on display. Competing head to head with Seattle’s gay community. The wedding party was losing handily. Obviously, somewhere close by a hysterical wedding coordinator was facing a sudden unplanned career change as in the background Diana Ross wailed "I’m coming out" completely drowning out the harp.

Occasionally humanity rises to the opportunity inherent in unfolding disaster. As the bride to be waited, desperately trying to hear her cue in the harp musician’s performance, the surrounding chaos suddenly seemed to understand the horror of the best made plans heading perilously close to the shipwrecked rocks of ruin. A silent gift of honor passed from the pride organizers into the midst of the wedding party. The generators were switched off. The screams and the catcalls were hushed. Hammers quit their pounding and tools were silenced. The uninvited began to assemble behind the bride and a calm descended upon the crowd. The orchestrated quiet of respect allowed the notes of the harp to rise over the groom, past the guests and they were carried to the ears of the eager and nervously awaiting bride. As the soothing sounds from the harp danced among those gathered, the groom witnessed a small army gather behind his bride. Not from her family. Not from his. But from a different family. An uninvited group of respectful, silent, well wisher’s who had stopped their world so that his could continue. It was an amazing moment when the harp note was finally struck and the bride moved forward. The guests stood and faced her and faced an equally large group of rag tag, strangers assembled behind the bride. Eyes locked. The drag queen studied the business owner. The business owner's wife sized up the leather daddy. Chiffon met silk and silk met polyester and brushed cotton met rawhide. The uninvited and the invited. The Bride and the groom. The religious leader and the whole congregation. Then, as if understanding that this was to be the way these two would be one, all of the audience returned their gaze back to bride and the groom. Silently watching as a union was formed.

Jeff and I made our escape and slipped quietly out of the impromptu sea of onlookers. Imagining the respective family's difficulty in knowing that all their intricate planning was heading south at warp speed, witnessing their attempt to save face and make the best of things, we knew that this wedding would surely be talked about for decades. The resulting wedding pictures of the ceremony erupting into a certain 'colorfulness' that not even long winded explanations would be able to explain.

Not far from the art museum, a water tower rises at the summit of Seattle's Capital Hill. Approaching the tower, leaving the wedding just a murmur in the background, Jeff and I studied its dignified place adjacent to the museum. The water tower, an ancient circular brick building that rises four stories from the base of a traffic circle, is located on the southern edge of the park. Almost hidden amongst a canopy of trees, two sets of circular stairs climb the circumference of the tower, taking visitors towards the top. Like the tower of a castle, the view rivals that of the Space Needle: 360 degrees of splendid mountains framing deep bays. On a clear day the vistas extend for hundreds of miles. Yet the grueling stair climb discourages most visitors. Usually the place is deserted and especially at night, the illuminated splendor of Seattle and the surrounding communities serenaded under moon song, make it one of my favorite places to reflect.

Jeff and I began climbing the up the tower stairs towards the top. With each labored step up I was brought back to nine months previous. To a similar climb, taken with Jeff shortly after he first contacted me. A reunion that was made possible after one lonely night he surfed into the High Mountain Ranch pages and after viewing the web site, he was convinced that he knew me. His email message was simple. "I am a farmer. Several years ago a young truck driver loaded at my produce shed. It was outside of Portland and after reading your pages, I wondered if it might be you and if you might remember loading at my farm?"

Of course I remembered. All those years in the middle of the night or during some desolate stretch of highway I wondered about the handsome Oregon farmer and the stray thoughts he inspired. Now, once again, there was opportunity to renew our friendship and I seized upon it. We began to correspond to each other regularly and a month later, he traveled to the ranch to visit. A group of us drove over to Sandpoint, Idaho, dined with a friend and participated with abbreviated roles in his "Love! Valour! Compassion! weekend. The next day we set off to drive a rugged, 250 mile, round-trip wilderness run. Skirting Idaho's Priest Lake region, we hiked under the ancient cedars of the Kanisku National Forest and locking the hubs, we brushed the perimeter of the Salmo Priest Wilderness Area. The gang’s mood was lighthearted and jovial until the sun started to set and everyone drew quiet reflecting on the beautiful scenery of the day. The timing felt right and I decided to make a run for a sacred place that I wanted to share with the group before the sun disappeared. Our destination was Salmo Lookout and as we turned towards it, I mentioned that we were going someplace that I had not been since I was a child.

Many years ago the U. S. forest service curtailed funding for manned lookouts. Preferring to monitor breaking fires and criminal activities from the air, the government abandoned most of the lookouts. Several were dismantled and destroyed. Others were vandalized. Yet, Salmo has been left as she was then. Rising up from the Kootenay/Selkirk Range, the nearest population center is an hour drive away. To the north the Canadian Border cuts a swath through the forest several thousand feet below. To the west the ranges and the badlands of the Okanagon and the peaks of the North Cascades challenge the horizon. To the east, straddling Montana and Idaho, the Cabinets, the Monarchs and the Bitteroots stand dissecting the sky. To the north, across the border, the Purcells and the Canadian Rockies mark the lands separating portions of British Columbia from Alberta. Somewhere to the south, nestled on a bench overlooking the Pend Oreille River lay the ranch.

The sun set low to the West when we finally made the last wild run up a narrow and dangerous forgotten logging road towards the summit of the mountain. On one side, sheer drop off's plunged thousands of feet straight down. On the other side, the road's toe of the bank was on the verge of collapse. The trail grew rutted. Narrow, switchbacking parallel tracks took us higher and higher. The gang silently tried to avoid looking over the edge and the F350 Powerstroke seemed to buck and twist with the terrain like any good mount does when the trail gets a bit unnerving. Finally, we made the summit and the lookout tower.

Getting out of the rig and standing in the alpine air, I'd forgotten how beautiful the place was. The dusk air was crystal clear and the sun exploded behind the final ridge leaving in its wake oranges and reds, and burgundy. There was a slight breeze and an encampment of locals enjoying the solitude. Their camp was simple and a posse of old 4x4's marked their space. Everywhere I looked the view offered a glimpse of God's backbone. Looking down on a world just this side of heaven, suspected drug runners could be seen crossing the borderlands with 'B C bud'. Further north, forest fires raged and the smoke rose into the sunset and turned crimson. Giant air tankers descended into the carnage dumping retardant into the flames. The smoke responded on cue and billowed greater into the open sky. Across the valley another camp was seen nearly ten miles away and against the rock outcroppings, somewhere near the birth of Montana, the moon rose. We walked toward the abandoned look out tower in silence and I followed Jeff up the steps. Each one a labor at the high alpine elevation. The gang stayed quiet, staring into the breathtaking void. Finally I told the gang about this place. How I remembered it. How at this point in time this mountain had grown sacred to me. "I haven't been here in twenty four years," I began. "But I remember it as if it was yesterday. I could find this place if I was blind. Some trails you never forget."

The last time I'd seen Salmo was with my grandfather. I was a small boy and we had driven to the top as I huddled against the land ward side of his Chevy pickup. We'd been shooting all day and arriving back at camp, my grandmother hinted of the pleasures of fresh Huckleberries for morning hot cakes. Leaving camp my grandfather drove us up to the top of the sky, to the lookout. "We'll be sure to find plenty of your grandmother' berries up at Salmo" he said. I asked what a Salmo was and he laughed, "You'll see Timbo. You'll see."

Grandfathers can explain all questions and I had thousands. When we arrived at the summit, we were greeted by a forest ranger. He'd been following our progress up the mountain from his 'all seeing' perch for a half an hour. Getting out of the pick up truck, I looked at the solid legs of the tower and everything seemed huge. The forest ranger sensing my awe grabbed my hand and led me up those giant steps, around the deck that circled the observatory and then we were inside the lookout. My grandfather stood sentinel over everything as I learned about the ranger dressed in greens who lived perched on top of the world. His blinding white smile and sun bleached hair made for a golden presence and I can still see his solid frame pointing out landmarks in every direction. While my grandfather and I listened, the ranger told incredible tales of nights rocked by the super cell thunderstorms rising over the deserts to the southwest and raining electric fire down into parched timberlands below. He told of bears and elk and of the Northern Lights that danced far overhead. The memories of that long ago day were too much.

I stopped talking, swallowed hard and looked out over the big spaces and the huge open valleys. The moon rose red at first but now she was white fire and blinding. The jagged peaks to the east caught the dappled touches of silver light and they shone brilliant and calm. Everyone present knew that my grandfather was gone. But his presence remained and it seemed especially fitting to share this place with Jeff who had gone missing but whose presence also remained all those years. Ours was an unspoken bond sparked over a few pallets of turnips and rekindled in the last light of a high country summer. But, it was also a bond that I hoped would never go missing again.

The sound of dripping water in the old brick tower brought me back to the present. Our breathing came hard and bounced in a wild echo off the walls. As I continued following Jeff up the stairs to the top of the water tower the foreign sounds of exceptional women's voices made their way towards us. I forgot about Salmo and returning to the here and now realized that these voices were not coming from the wedding. High above us the origins of their song validated that my hunch was correct: these were not wedding singers. The women sang in exquisite layers. Their voices echoing off the bricks, the beauty of their harmony was compelling. We stopped to catch our breath and listen. The notes were high and crisp. Trained and disciplined. Beautiful yet haunting. I couldn't remember hearing anything so moving.

Jeff and I resumed the pained steps, continuing our climb towards the top. Eager to discover the source of such wonderful sounds, I imagined feminine, angel like waifs with slim figures and beautiful, soft faces. Instead I found a small audience of street dusted club kids being entertained by two hardened dykes. I looked at Jeff and he shrugged.

Still, their musical abilities showcased talent so real that the visual source of the sounds became secondary. The tough faced anger and the abrupt hair shadowed by pierced brows in the darkened enclave of a water tower observatory did not have to match the pure vision emanating from the women. Their voices carried and, looking out over the water tower views to the Cascade Range and the Olympic Range, they carried far. Jeff and I leaned against the brick wall watching the wedding far below. We listened and the girls sang and the whole space filled with the sort of magic that I suppose heaven, if it exists in this form, might encompass.

The women paused at the conclusion of the latest song and one of the kids sitting against the brick wall, stood up and whispered a request into the more hardened looking of the two women's ear. She shook her head violently in response. "No I will not sing that." The kid backed off but undaunted begged, "Please?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I hate anything that mentions God. I hate God. I don't like that song and I won't…"she paused, "I won't sing it."

Her musical partner asked the title of the requested song and, once it was repeated, the rest of the young adults began begging them to sing the song so that they could hear it. The more hardened of the two women still refused. Then her accompanying partner took her hand and without any sort of cue, the hardened woman turned her back on the group and looked to the center of the observatory. She inhaled softly and the exquisite sound that came from her voice turned the pleas silent. It was a low sound, hollow and haunted. Peaceful and drawn out. Yet as she began to sing, it was impossible not to recognize the melody. The song, like the far off oncoming whistle of a lonely freight train grew stronger, bringing the house to order in anticipation. Everyone knew the song. Everyone recognized those opening notes. But no one knew, in the hands of these two divine voices, where it was going.

My body relaxed and the weight on my shoulders lifted as the second woman's voice joined the first. The next line of Amazing Grace surrounded us and I realized that the song was truly reborn. The next few notes carried up into the ceiling, gaining some sort of heaven's grace as they fell back onto us. No one moved. Some closed their eyes. Some smiled. But the two performers boldly and defiantly took the song someplace it had never been before. The acoustics of the tower multiplied their power and as the duo strengthened the melody, their volume increased. I imagine that the power with which they delivered the song carried out towards the wedding party, falling down upon the seated and invited guests. The music would have covered the assembled yet uninvited guests. Finally the song sung from the top of the water tower surrounded the bride and the groom as they prepared to kiss sealing their union. The intensity of the women’s singing increased and the shivers running down everyone's spines were impossible to stifle. The song concluded much as it began. Fading into the bricks in a soft haunting wail as the hardened one, head bent, stared at the floor as she dealt with her emotions and her view of her maker. As the last note sounded the other woman accompanying her wiped a tear from her eye. Then the applause began. From far away, over our shoulders, in the direction of the wedding party, we heard the congratulations rise to where we were. The groom had kissed his bride. All in the afterglow of Amazing Grace, sung by a couple of dykes lounging in a water tower. A completed kiss witnessed by the invited guests and encouraged by the uninvited pride committee. A train wreck became a miracle.

Jeff looked at me and whispered, "Tim, that was amazing."

As the transformed, once angry performers and their rag tag audience silently filed down the stairs to exit the water tower, I knew that he was right. It was incredible. The power of that one song was indeed beyond understanding. Whether it was played by a renegade Utah DJ to mourn a fallen princess, and to comfort the desert residents through the rhythms of the keepers of the Cherokee tradition. Or whether the song's power made the sad call of a lone sax a healing presence to a young woman whose life was unmanageable and at a crossroads. Amazing Grace meant something to those who needed an extra helping of something that couldn’t quite be put into words. The song also gave definition to the actions of a group of strangers that shared the desire to try to manage a train wreck in the making once again reinforcing that amazing grace is something that there is never too much of.

Remaining in the water tower as the wedding settled into cleanup, I was still trying to comprehend the magic and power in renewed friendships against all odds. Knowing that life isn't always about happy endings and that it’s more about perfect moments, I sought refuge in the hope of such a position. Despite well-made plans going up in smoke, and unforeseen hard ships, I wondered if the secret to contentedness is also more about seeing the beauty of a moment rather than tallying the sum total of unintended, chaotic disasters.

Living this life recognizing the beauty of perfect moments that happen regardless of the uncontrollable is all about wrapping ourselves up in the fabric of second chances and the perfection inherent in imperfection. Those silent moments that steal us away unaware, sneaking up out of the blue, and that blindside even the observant.

Times that where, through no conscience doing of our own, we are graced by amazing.