Just as we made it to the highway, the tractor up and died. Probably one of them Jap-o-neeze models.
I put Little Joe over my shoulders, like I was totin’ a fresh killed deer. He was breathing okay, but still unconscious.
Just then, a big Mack truck pulled up, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Need a ride, Mister?” asked a familiar, although horrifyin’, face. It was Big Joe.
“Hey, you’re that ghost driver who picked me up a while back, threw me out of your cab with magic-type powers, then gave me a whole dime for my troubles. No thanks, I don’t ride with no dead people,” I said.
“I see you’re on to me and my true nature,” said Big Joe with a chuckle. “Took you long enough. So, c’mon. You look like you could use a ride. Do you plan on carrying that dog all the way back to the truck stop?”
“Look, Mister, I’ve had what you would call one of them real bad days, okay?” I said. “I just don’t need none of your shenanigans right now. I know you haunt these highways, lookin’ for suckers to take a ride with you sose you can scare ‘em and all. Well, I’m in no mood for such type of nonsense. I gots a space dog in an emergency-type situation here!”
“The dog appears to just be unconscious,” said Big Joe. “I can tell when a creature is close to death’s grip, and I can assure you your pet is in no way near that condition.”
I was almost faint with relief-type feelings. “You’re sure? No monkey-business? No tricks?” I said.
“Ghost’s honor. No tricks,” said Big Joe, solemn-like.
Well, many a wise man has said to never trust the undead, and surely a ghost must count amongst that group. So, I was a little leery of climbing in the cab with somebody who’s on my jackass list. But, he was right, I had a fair piece of walkin’ ahead of me, and carryin’ Little Joe on my shoulders was bound to drag me down even more.
So I lifted Little Joe off my shoulders, put him up into the cab, and climbed in after him. Big Joe put the ol’ Mack into first and began to pull away from the shoulder.
“So, how’s your day been…” I started to say, before Big Joe slammed on the brakes.
“Okay, that’s as far as we go. Time to get out!” he shouted at me, as he blew open the passenger door with what I guess were his magic powers.
“What? We ain’t gone nowhere! I told you I didn’t want none of this bull corn!”, I shouted.
“Look, there’s a busload of kids up ahead, and I mean to swerve into them this time!” he said. “Avoiding that other busload of kids was the worst thing I ever did! It doomed me to become a truck-driving ghost, for all eternity, picking up random hitchhikers and spinning yarns with them! Have you ever picked up hitchhikers? The smell alone will kill you. Plus, I have to carry an enormous amount of dimes to give away.”
He reached over to the glove box, popped it open, and a fountain of dimes spilled onto the floorboard. “See, the whole thing is just stupid. Why have I been cursed like this? WHY! For God’s sake, I’m classically trained…”
And with those words, Big Joe started sobbing uncontrollably, nuzzling himself into my shoulder. I was a mite taken aback.
“Uh, Joe, I, uh, really feel for ya buddy, I do, but it’s kind of important that we get out of here, cause, see, there’s a big fire that’s catchin’ up to us, plus there may or may not be a pissed off midget space invader that I just bashed in the head with my dog comin’ after us. So, if you wouldn’t mind just jammin’ this thing into gear and pullin’ out…”
He appeared to gather himself up all brave-like. “Very well then!” he said as he bolted back up into his seat. “I shall take you down the road ‘a piece’, as the truck drivers say. However, you are not stopping me from swerving into those kids! You hear me, Sovine? YOU HEAR ME?”
He began to laugh in a maniacal-type fashion as he put the Mack into gear. We started a-rollin’ pretty good over the hills when I decided I oughta talk Big Joe outta his school-children killin’ mission. I had enough blood my hands this evening. Admittedly, it was mostly goat and alien blood, but blood was blood in my book.
“Big Joe, you know I ain’t gonna let ya run down a busload of kids, don’t ya?” I said, as we sped down the blacktop. I could just make out the headlights of an approaching vehicle, probably the bus full of kids that Joe was aiming for. Must be on some sorta midnight field trip in the middle of nowhere, or somethin'.
“And how do you propose to stop me, you pathetic mortal? I am figuratively and literally in the driver’s seat. The cards have been dealt, and they’ve come up as Death! HA HA HA HA HA!” As you might have guessed, he laughed in a maniacal fashion again, as was his habit. I admit it was wearin’ on me.
The seat belt pulled me tight against the seat and those back-rubbin’, seat-coverin’ beads Big Joe evidentially had installed since the last time I rode with him. Despite the pleasure derived from the massage action of the beads, I felt all trapped and such. I couldn’t stop Joe if I tried. Meanwhile, we were approaching the school bus faster than a Nolan Ryan heater. Joe surely meant to kill us all.
Then, I heard a voice behind me.
“You’ll kill no one this evening, Big Joe. Now slow this vehicle down before I throw you out of it!”
It was Little Joe!
“Little Joe!” I cried. “You’re OK!”
Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part VI
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