Don't Always Believe What You Hear on the Citizen's Band

I swear to the Big Trucker in the Sky, I don’t know what the world’s a-comin’ to. Pull up your stool and get a load of this.

The other day, a few of the regulars at the truck stop were gathered round the Citizen's Band.

"I'm looking for a friend." said a high-pitched voice on the radio. "Would you be my new Daddy? My daddy's done gone away, and I need a new trucker to be my daddy."

Well, I don't have to tell you that just about broke my heart. Poor little fella! I lost my own Poppa to an out of control tire changin’ machine when I was young, so I felt the poor kid's pain. So I up and decided to do something. I wish some trucker had done the same for me.

"Say, let's get together and help that young pup!" I said to the crew.

Now, I wasn't expecting them to all jump up and shout boo-ya or somethin’, but this group was downright puzzling in their reaction. I confess to being a mite disappointed.

"Sure, Red," Jimmy snickered. "You go right ahead and tell him Big Joe sent ya!"

They'd been givin' me the business since I arrived a few days ago, with my tale of catchin' a ride with the ghostly gear-jammer.

"Well, if ya'll ain't the most jaded bunch I ever saw! I'm gonna find out where that kid lives and see if I can help him out!" I bowed-up, and they backed off like little panty-waists.

One of the older long-haulers at the counter motioned me over.

"Listen, the guy on the radio's handle is 'Teddy Bear'" he whispered. "He has a place in town. But first, you need to know something about him..."

"I don't need to know anything other than where I can find him," I said "That kid's in trouble, and needs a friend, and I'm gonna be that friend!"

With that, I walked out of the cafe, and caught a ride with a driver headed toward town. I had him let me off at the oil station on Main and 1st to ask for directions. I saw an old Mexican feller sittin’ by the newspaper box, waitin’ on customers. Having befriended the Mexican race in my numerous trips down to Houston-town, I felt no fear in approachin’ him.

"Say, Poncho, I'm lookin' for Teddy Bear. I hear he needs a new daddy, and I aim to be it." I said to the Mexican pump jockey.

"Uh, really?" he said. "Another one, eh? Jeez, you truckers really can't help yourselves, can you?"

"I don't get what you mean, Sen-Yor," I said to him, slightly annoyed at the dadgummed indifference people seemed to show for poor Teddy Bear's plight. "Look, I need to know where to find him. I need to daddy that youngster now!"

A look of disgust spread over the Mexican feller’s face.

"Just head up 1st Street to the top of the hill, it's the house with the big CB antenna. And pal, do me a favor, inform your community that I am not this guy's agent, and to stop asking for directions here." He made that quotation marks gesture with his hands when he said "community", then walked back into the station and shut the door behind him.

I had considered the Mexican peoples to be particularly wise and caring, but began to reassess my assessment.

Anyhow, I headed up to the house on the top of the hill, and loudly rapped on the door.

"Teddy Bear? Teddy Bear? Come on out here and meet your new daddy!" I shouted.

A slight man with a thin mustache opened the door. He had a scrawny build, very smooth lookin’ hands, and I noticed that his trousers were a mite tight in the junk.

"May I help you?" he enquired, in a voice I thought I recognized as that of the unfortunate boy. Surely I was mistaken. Perhaps my hearin’ was still screwy from my run-in with that damn ghost trucker.

"I'm lookin' for Teddy Bear. I heard on the Citizen's Band that he's lookin' for a daddy. I come here to daddy me some Teddy Bear," I said, hoping against hope that this little wormy guy wasn’t Teddy Bear’s “Uncle” or some-such semi-relation.

"Well!" said the guy. "You certainly seem to be an eager beaver, Mr. Big Man. Come inside and we'll discuss how you can start being a daddy."

The invitation seemed a bit odd, but I stepped into the parlor anyway.

"What can I call you, Big Daddy?" asked the man.

"Uh, you can call me Red."

“Well, Red, would you mind stopping off in the washroom for a moment? I require cleanliness with all my clients, especially newbies.”

It was a bit of an odd request, but maybe this guy is a clean freak, and if it means getting Teddy Bear some daddying, well, washing my hands ain’t too much of a price to pay. So, I headed to the bathroom and began washin’ my hands. That’s when I noticed a few odd items strewn about the place.

First, there was a big sign on the wall. It read: All patrons must wash hands and genital areas.

What the hell? Is this feller some sort of sawbones or something?

Next, I saw what appeared to be a special device that I had only seen one previous time at my grandma’s place. It was one of them bags you use to wash out your backside contents, I think its called "givin yerself an enemy", on account of you would only wish that upon your enemies.

Next to the sink was a big box of something called “Man2Man Condoms and Super Dork Lube”. Wow, this dude was some sort of freak show, leaving stuff like this layin’ about.

I decided to park myself on the can to ponder a bit. That’s when I saw ‘The Menu’.

Next to the can lay a fancy laminated card with a list of curious soundin’ terms on it.

"Pork and Beans (Beans Optional) " - $100.

"Greek Style Shake and Bake" - $125.

"Bolivian Moon Shot" - $200. Bolivian Moon Shot? What's the South American space program got to do with this?

Then, it hit me like a Mack truck rolling over a puppy farm: This place wasn’t no home for a lonely kid; it was house of sin, a house of the devil! And not only that, but man-lovin’ devilry! I knew I had to make my escape quick-like, so I pulled the bathroom window open, and slipped away back down the hill.

Now, I ain’t one to judge much. I seen some crazy stuff in my time on the road. And I like to think I got a good heart, and try to help people when I can. That bein’ said, I would have loved to save that kid, but I ain't about to get into man sex to do it.

Even drifters have standards.


High Times in Houston