Georgia Rolling

Prologue

O ver a thousand kilos of cocaine already this year, the guy from Georgia Highway Patrol sits back in his chair, arms crossed, and we know that’s just a fraction of what’s on the road.

Heads around the room nod. Faces echoing the Trooper’s frustration. A rough-cut man with a full beard and a t-shirt advertising ‘Atlanta Narcotics Unit’ adjusts the sunglasses on top of his head. "We are covered up with it in the city too. We are kicking in doors like every night, but we aren’t stopping shit."

Agent Mark Saunders stands and strides confidently to the head of the table, the Glock at his hip as much a part of him as his piercing blue eyes. What we need is information.

A wave of snorts and eye-rolls ripple around the packed room of experienced drug hounds. A man in jeans and a plain t-shirt, sporting a single diamond stud earring and a devil-may-care attitude leans against the back wall. He speaks without looking up from his phone, Ah, get a snitch. Genius idea, can’t believe I didn’t think of it. A smile creases the white stubble on his heavily lined and tanned face. Thank god, everyone, the Drug Enforcement Agency is here to save us.

The man exudes experience, and his words obviously carry weight in the room despite a complete lack of any kind of identification. Faces turn from him to Agent Saunders, waiting.

At thirty-six years old and a veteran of Iraq, Saunders has a long history of grabbing grumpy bulls by the horns. "Yep, just a good ‘

ol’ snitch. Someone who you pay fifty bucks to tell you about an ounce of coke in someone’s trunk. He walks closer to the naysayer. That’s exactly how I personally pulled three-thousand kilos of powder off the road and seized eight million in Cartel money last year. He lets the sarcasm sizzle a little bit before spreading his arms and addressing the room again, We have to think bigger than that. We need detailed intel. People, patterns, places."

He strides over to the wall-sized map of Georgia and smacks his palm flat against the paper. Six million people in the Atlanta Metro area. We can’t solve that. He steps back and makes broad gestures toward the smaller towns, But we know the smaller trucking outfits operate from all over the state.

Grudging agreement simmers in the room, and no one interrupts him this time. He jabs his finger at the map. "People, are out here who are heavily involved. Places, are out in the country, harboring trucks and stash houses."

Yeah, we know. But we can’t cover all that ground, and local PD aren’t much help, someone protests.

Saunders turns toward the voice, putting up three fingers in a counting sequence. People, Places, he emphasizes the third finger, "PATTERNS. He smacks the wall map again, back muscles flexing visibly under his shirt. Fifty-nine thousand square miles, but a single person, the right person, can show us the pattern."

He pauses for a second, making sure he has them. He does, and when he continues, his voice is quieter, "The right person, with the right knowledge of local trucking, can give us the pattern. We get the pattern, we find the places. With the places, we get the people. Not some street dealer or low-level shithead, we get the organizers, the big-time smugglers, the people who are moving half a million in cash every load."

They are leaning in now, each no doubt thinking about what cash seizures like that could do for their departments.

Saunders smiles inside his head, time to bring it home. I can find us the right guy. I’ve done it before. But I can’t do it alone. He spreads his hands to include the whole group, "None of us can do it alone. We need to work together, share information, back each other up on traffic stops, deconflict our operations. If we play nice together, work as a team to get intel, he steps forward to the table and smashes his fist on it with sudden force, we can crush it."

Chapter One

A4-wheeler cuts me off, and I stomp on the brakes.

Idiot! I yell at the blonde in the little red sports car and reach for the air horn.

     My rig slows, but I have 80,000 pounds that don’t care about stupid people riding my back. The precious gap between my truck’s front bumper and the end of my career quickly evaporates.

HAUWWWWNK. I give her the what’s-for with the horn, and she jerks right, heading up the on-ramp she was maneuvering for.

Here it comes.  I shoot the blonde a glance as I roar by and see she is flipping me off with a hand clutching an iPhone. Classic.

    I get off the brakes and hammer down on the go pedal, trying to get my momentum back. The brokered load of energy drinks acts like it wants to stay behind with the blonde, and I waste fuel and time getting back up to speed. The Caterpillar in my Peterbilt 379 pulls strong though, and we steadily climb back to 74.

I’m coming, Kid. Not gonna miss it this year.

Hauling my meal-ticket up to New York had been easy, those backpacks were damn near as light as empty, and easy on the 10-year-old truck. The load up had been the profitable leg of this trip, but with no return freight base I’m always at the mercy of some heavy load brokered off C.H. Robinson to get me home. With no time to waste on this run, I had to bid this one down to a dollar and quarter per mile.

Barely paying for the juice, but some things are more important than profit.

     I look back at where the brightly wrapped package had been and try to forget.     

  A few hundred miles later, my eyelids start to droop. The logbook in the passenger seat shows I am coming off a mandatory 10-hour rest, but me and that swindle sheet know it was really a 3-hour nap while those assholes jerked me around at the loading dock.

  The CB radio crackles. ...Bear in the Grass at 146. Cop at mile-marker 146.

    Sitting up straight, I glance at my cracked Android phone clamped to the dash. The Wayz App agrees with the radio, and I ease it back to 65. Cops will normally give me five to breathe in North Carolina unless it’s a fresh-faced rookie. As I pass mile-marker 145 red lights start flashing deep inside one of the dash air vents.

     Yeah, I know, I know. I flip the vent shut, hiding the radar detector lights just in case it is a Baby Bear today.

   As I top a slight rise, I see him in the center meridian, hiding in the low ground. A Highway Interdiction SUV, all black, decked out with antennas and license plate readers all around. He’s got the radar gun out, but he’s looking at ME, not my speed. I relax and keep my eyes on the road.

Nothing for you here, Cocaine Cowboy. That sharp-eyed ol’ boy isn’t writing tickets. He’s looking for smugglers. Gonna take my truck and freedom too if he catches me with a load.

I pat the steering wheel. "And that's why we don’t haul the Devil’s Dandruff."

   Pushing back up to 74, then 75. I figure it should be a clear shot for a bit, and I’ve got places to be. Just gotta keep my eyes open for another 298 miles.

    I bring up my playlist and smile as I fire up Chicken Lights N Chrome. Country music fills the cab, and I bob my head and sing along full-bore.

A blast jerks me awake, and I swerve back to the center of the lane and look over. A friendly but concerned face looks back at me from a real nice Freightliner in the left-hand lane.

     His voice comes over the radio as he paces me, Hey Dream Weaver, you having some shutter trouble over there?

   I pick up the radio and nod ruefully. Yeah, buddy. Can’t keep ’em open. I glance at the GPS to see how far till home. Bout two-fifty to my stack of bricks, guess I better find a watering hole. I can afford a quick break at a truck stop. Need fuel anyway.

   He nods and starts pulling steadily past, accelerating easily. Yeah, get some mud or pop some beans, brother. Get it back between the lines.

Coffee yes, drugs no. I cock my head as he pulls ahead. Hmmmmm. What are you under, fence post holes?

He continues to pick up speed. Shit, only thing I’m hauling is ASS. Left-laning it down to Rock City for a hot load.

Must be nice to have that kind of freight base. I’m barely making it running full.

Well, good luck man, don’t feed the Bears now. He will though. He’ll catch a ticket for sure if he doesn’t slow down.

I see a Pilot truck stop sign ahead and start downshifting. That’s the best fuel rate I’ll get till that little Mom and Pop on the border; may as well make a pit stop.

Shoulda kept pushing, woulda been 7-cents cheaper at Sally’s, I silently berate myself as I watch my hard-earned nickels flowing into the dual 100-gallon aluminum tanks. Even with the highly-touted Owner-Operator Independent Driver’s Association 10-cent discount, it is still two ninety-seven a gallon. My shoulders sag as the gallons tick past one-fifty before finally stopping, and I do a rough calculation in my head.

Hundred-Fifty times five... that should have got me past Fayetteville...

  Shit. I shake the last few drops into the tank and replace the nozzle.

  An old driver from the neighboring lane looks up. Your load hurting ya? What are you under?

  I’ve got Cheap-and-Heavy from New York for one-twenty-five a mile. But I ain’t even getting five miles per gallon.

  Damn son, you’ll go broke like that. You riding the hundred dollar lane or something? He refers to running fast in the passing lane.

 I lean my six foot two, 260lb frame on the pump and stroke my stubble beard. Naw, I’m keeping my speed down. I’m trying like hell to get home for my son’s birthday, but I can’t afford to pull this shit fast.

 The man nods sympathetically, and he gets a bit of a far-off look. We all been there... He trails off before giving his head a little shake. Maybe check your air cleaners? If you’re starving for air that’ll put a hurt on ya.

 I glance at the big silver canister at the front of the cab. Yeah, they’re overdue for sure. Been putting it off, trying to invest in a K&N, but you know.

The older man stuffs some trash in the plastic bin between pumps. My experience, you can pay once now or twice later. He nods at my truck as he turns to go.  Put off your maintenance, and that road tractor gonna let you down.

With an empty bladder and 32 ounces of black coffee close at hand, I pull out of the truck stop. With a shake and a lean, I wrestle my truck onto the onramp and roll out onto I-95. For once, traffic is light, and I get up to speed quickly.

 I pull up the screenshot reminder on my phone. 7 PM. DON’T FORGET THIS TIME.

Just four more hours — easy straight shot. I’m coming, kid. I keep it to a smooth 70, babying the fuel a bit. Gotta take it a bit slower or I’m doing this run for free.

 The miles melt as the hot pavement rolls past, and I have too much time to think. Missed chances, angry wife, little Jimmy. I try to kind of pull them out one at a time and look at them, think about what I would do different. A man can’t drive through that rain though, so I crank up the music. Sweet Home Alabama pushes away the pain, gets me tapping on the steering wheel.

I’m eyeing a South Carolina Trooper in the mirror, him tailing me in the left lane, when I accidentally drift into the rumble strip on the side of the road.

    WMP-WMP-WMP-WMP.

 Shit! I wrestle it back on the road, hoping he’s feeling lazy. No such luck. Sure as a flat, he decelerates and comes in behind me.

You gotta be kidding me.

 Less than a hundred miles left till I can drop this load, and here the State’s Finest are going to hold me up.

His lights come on, so I flip on the blinker and ease over to the side. I roll to a stop in a clear area as far off the road as I can get, trying to make sure he’s comfortable. I glance at my book as he walks slowly up the right side of my truck.

Hopefully, he doesn’t look at it.

 I get my license, insurance, and registration ready to hand him instead. I lean over, seat belt still on, and open the passenger door to the truck.

  Howdy! A middle-aged man with burly forearms and a friendly smile raises his hand in greeting. Hey, I know this is your office, mind if I step up?

  I relax a little. We can get a warning from this local yokel.

 Sure thing, Sir. I wasn’t speeding coming down that last hill, was I?

  The uniform steps up so he is partly in the cab and we can talk easier. Nope. You were dead on the limit in fact. I just stopped you for weaving over the line. Thought you might be tired. He eyes me for a second and then casually looks around the inside of the truck. Nice truck, is it yours?

  I smile as I hand him my documents. Sure is! I mean I am making payments, but I am my own man, pick my own schedule.

  Hey, that’s awesome... He briefly looks at my license, Ron. You got your logbook handy, Ron?

 I think about my pencil-whipped mandatory breaks, and start to sweat. Shit. If he 34-hour restarts me... SHIT.

 Sure do! I try to chuckle. Right there on the seat.

 He acts surprised to find it right in front of him, but I know he’s just playing it cool - this guy knows about trucking if he’s asking for the comic book. Ah, here we go. Mind if I ask what you are hauling?

   Not at all, Sir. Twenty—five-hundred cases of heavy-arse Monster energy drinks. I’m darn near a full eighty. He nods, and I see him stop on my last log sheet, looking at the cookie-cutter 10-hour break.

   Yeah? Man, my hat’s off to you, I don’t know how you guys stay in business hauling this cheap freight. You get paid by the mile or the load?

My gut twists. He’s after something. C’mon, don’t shut me down, man. Look, sir, I’m just trying to get home for my kid’s birthday. One-twenty-five a mile. By the time I cover maintenance and save for tires, I’m barely covering my fuel on this.

  He looks up, calculating. You don’t say. How do you even make it then, what do you normally haul?

I’m from down by Augusta, and we got ourselves a backpack factory down there. I live right by it and haul fancy backpacks out to make money, and then whatever brokered loads I can get going back to Atlanta or Savannah. I jerk a thumb toward the trailer. Lotta times its beverage loads like these.

He suddenly seems to reach a decision and hands the book to me, looks me in the eye. "Again, my hat’s off to you. Make sure you are squeezing enough rest in where you can." He inclines his head down toward the book, and I see his thumb is conspicuously pointing right at the line that shows my nice, crisp, fictitious 10-hour break.

I nod sheepishly. Yessir.

He continues. Look, I am not the Department of Transportation. I couldn’t shut you down if I wanted to. Just do what you need to and get home for your kid’s party. Ain’t nothing more important than family. But get home safe, all right?

He pulls off, but my heart doesn’t slow down right away. I ease it back on the road, picking a speed 5mph over. I guess going just the speed limit is a bit suspicious around here. A glance at the clock, still enough time to make it.

Gonna make it this year. Gonna make it if nothing goes wrong.

  I knock on the wood-grain wheel of the big rig and get the music rolling again. The Thunder Rolls right outta Garth Brooks. It rolls through me and with me, both of us headed south.

The sun starts to set as I leave the warehouse in Augusta.

6:28. Just enough time.

  Sons-of-bitches had been in no hurry to unload, and now I am right up against it. But with nothing but dispatcher brains in the trailer, I feel free as a bird and get in the hammer lane. I roll down the window and let the cooling evening air whip through the cab to keep me awake. I crank up the music for the home stretch, blasting it to fight the wind. Barreling past the loaded trucks on the right, headed home, feeling good.

Final stretch, the music carries my home with one more Chicken Lights N Chrome, and Alabama Roll on.

Dusk settles, and I fire up those lights with a surge of pride. I look back along the side of the truck, grin at the glowing outline and sing along.

I downshift coming off the highway, then swing it wide to get on the little back-country two-lane. The digital clock on the dash glows brightly as we approach the homestead.

6:55. Light the candles Jimmy, I’m coming in hot.

  Rolling slow now, I carefully maneuver the tractor and 53-foot trailer onto the long gravel drive, then bump slowly into the field of weeds. I turn in a big slow arc until the truck is pointed almost back to the gate, but with the lights shining on the double-wide. I shut off the music, let the air out of the brakes and sit for a second, all the rush in me now gone. The house is dark, and there are no cars lined up on the weeds. The sad patch of gravel that Jenna used as a parking spot for her beat-up Saturn is empty. The diesel idles and the exhaust mixes with the cool night air before blowing gently through the cab. I reach for the keys to turn off the truck, but then change my mind and leave it on.

   I step down slowly, shake the stiffness from my joints, and walk slowly to the porch. My worn boots shuffle through leaves as I cross the small wooden porch, and overgrown weeds tug at my Levis. I open the unlocked door without knocking and step inside. I flip the switch next to the key rack, but nothing happens.

  Shit. Wonder how much I owe. Never here anyway.

  The light from my rig floods through the windows of the house, punctuating the shadows with dusty spears of light. I pull out my cell phone for a flashlight and look around. A Happy Birthday banner from Wal-Mart hangs from the cabinets above the sink, but one end has fallen down. There is dust on the banner, and dust on the dishes in the sink. Dust on the paper plates and the six half-melted candles lying on one of them.

   Happy Birthday, Jimmy. Daddy loves ya buddy.

    No one replies, and I slowly pass the wall with the picture, heading toward the bedrooms. The hollow-core door to Jimmy’s room creaks as I push it open. There is no furniture there, just the present and the letter. I look at the brightly-wrapped package, wipe the dust. I had been so happy bringing this back last year, known Jimmy would love to play with the truck that was a model of my rig. I pick up the letter and walk back to the living room. I look at the picture of the happy little family, two smiling newlyweds with a chubby baby between them.

   I speak around a lump in my throat. I made it Jenna. I turn the letter over in my hand. I don’t need to open it, I have read it enough times.

I can’t do this anymore, Ron. It’s his birthday, and he is so disappointed.

   I sit in the only chair and flip through my phone, try the number again, knowing she won’t answer. C’mon, don’t be a bitch.

    After three tries, I get a text.

   "What do u want?"

To see my son and give him a present.

R you even in town?

Told u I would be.

Sure, like I can trust that.

I glare at the phone, jaw tightening. "I’m at the house now."

Nothing for a while, then. We were going to come by at 7, but I didn’t want Jimmy to be disappointed if you hadn’t made it back yet. Let’s meet at the park tomorrow.

C’mon Jenna. You know I will be back out tomorrow. I got bills to pay. I look around in the darkness and shake my head.

Like CHILD SUPPORT??

The anger comes with a bang. A bang and a side order of eye moisture, but I push back against both. I jam the phone in my jeans pocket and crack open the fridge to find a row of warm beers.

  I decide against a beer and walk to the mailbox instead. A $1,150 check from my last backpack load is there, alongside a $350 insurance bill and a $900 fuel account bill.

 Great.

Warm beer it is. I retrieve two and head back to my rolling home. I slam one back and have the best of intentions to crack the other one. I think I was even reaching for it when sleep put me out of my misery.

The alarm drags me back to consciousness, and I sit up in the sleeper cab. Bleary-eyed, I slap it until it shuts up.

 3:30. I step down to take a leak. Everything is quiet and peaceful. I glance over my shoulder and do my pre-trip inspection from where I am standing.

Yep, still got all my tires. Looks safe.

Back in the cab, I consider the check and bills.

Fuel first, that leaves two-fifty. Can’t pay the insurance yet, but it can stretch another week till this last load pays. I eye a mini-fridge in the back. I can get by on fifty to eat. Air cleaners will be a priority after my next load of backpacks.

With a decisive nod, I pull out the checkbook.

I hit send on the text message as I roll toward the highway.

I am trying, Jenna. I really am. I left a check for you on the mantle. Door is open like always. 200 is all I can do this month. I am living out of my truck and gone all the time. If I cut it any closer, I’ll be borrowing money for fuel. I wish like hell you’d move back. Power’s off but the house is yours, just come home. I can just stay in my cab whenever I am back. I just want to see Jimmy when I can. I deleted and you off the end. No sense in pissing her off.

  The wheels sing and the Caterpillar under the hood pulls hard as we swing onto the 4-lane highway. Heading up to be first at the dock with a solid six hours of sleep to drive on, I feel good. I hammer down and me and my brightly-lit Pete surge forward in the pre-dawn.

Chapter Two

Sweat trickles down my back in the hot Georgia sun, as I watch the forklift loading the backpacks. Saran wrap and cardboard keep everything nice and neat, with no overhang to catch on other pallets. The dockhand pulls up next to me. Got ’em loaded pinwheel. Two more and we’ll have a full 28. He wipes his brow. Humidity like three-hundred percent this morning.

 I grunt. Man, you ain’t lying. I’m gonna head in and get the bills.

I walk over to the tiny nearby shipping office and sign for the load in triplicate, handing the top sheet back to the attractive girl behind the counter. Blonde hair, mid-20s, probably had a kid but still has good curves.

She leans on the counter, chest pressing on her white Leonard Skynyrd T-shirt, and smiles. It’s all yours, good luck in St Louis.

Pretty teeth. No ring.

Thanks, Alicia. I scoop up the other two copies and lean my rangy bulk on the counter in what I hope is the epitome of manly hotness. Hey, I’ll be right back tomorrow. Line up another load for me?

She frowns. Ron, it’s over 700 miles both ways. No way you can turn that around and pick up again tomorrow.

I show her the pearly whites, hopefully charmingly. C’mon, I wink at her, gotta make the big bucks so I can take you dancing.

She snorts, bites her lip, and hesitates. Ron, I can’t.

Dance? I glance at her hips. I bet you can. I try a more serious face. "Look, I really need this."

 Her face softens. OK, I can hold a load till 8 AM, after that, I gotta let it go. But you be careful, you have to sleep sometime.

I flash her a confident grin. Girl, I am coming off a 34-hour shutdown, and rarin’ to go. Just ask my logbook.

She shakes her head as I leave, watches me go. I can’t tell if she likes me or is just bored.

Westbound to Atlanta, traffic is light and the rising sun is behind me. Open lanes and a light load, getting paid one-sixty for every mile I roll over, feel like the king of the road. I poke the phone. No reply from Jenna yet, but it’s barely 6 AM. I downshift, and the Cat roars something powerful as it pulls the load up a rolling Georgia hill. I can hear her ever-so-slightly gasping for air, but she tops the rise without dropping any further down.

I think about Alicia, wondering if she has a boyfriend, and end up comparing her to Jenna. Flirting is flirting, but do I really want to move on? I feel sick and empty thinking about starting over, but maybe it’s time.

That lost feeling twists harder when a picture of Jimmy playing in the yard comes to mind. I look at the phone again and feel like a fool. Damn it, Jenna, just answer for once.

Eighteen rubber donuts play a song on the asphalt as we get back up to 74, and it is a sweet sound indeed.

I grab up the CB mic. Anyone got your ears on around the sunny side of Hotlanta?

 After a second, a cheery voice responds. Helloooo, neighbor. Yeah, I’m riding a bundled out wiggle-wagon into the sun. Where you headed?

I chuckle, envisioning a fully-loaded two-trailer combo heading east. Glad I don’t pull one of those death-traps. I’m headed to St Louis straight and fast. What are you looking at?

I look at the CB, then at Wayz, which is showing clear. Not all drivers use both, so you never know.

The voice comes back, and I’m thinking he’s an old-timer just from the language. Better brush your teeth and comb your hair. Got a paper-hanger on your side with a big customer right now.

A cop is writing tickets to truckers, and someone’s using radar in a trap. Sounds like a traffic enforcement project.

That’s a big 10-4, and thanks.

No problem, straight-and-fast. You should be good once you turn north. The bears are sleeping on 75.

Awesome. You keep that Widowmaker between the ditches now.

The other trucker signs off, and I catch myself grinning.  Not all drivers use the CB anymore, but I love it. Something useful and fun. Pretty rare when you