CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY DRIVINMY LIFE AWAY BYLARRYADAMS A imostnoonontheNevadadesert, early spring, two-laneHighway50between AustinandEureka, alone inthemiddleof nowhere: I’vegot thecummins350Turbo crankedto2400 inthehighhole, 42-foot reefer vanpiledtothecellingwith grocerybagsfor GrandJunctionriding solidandsmoothbehind, co-drlver snoring inthesleeper, LacyJ. Daltonon thetapedeck, harshbright overcast outside, haven’t seenacar inmiles, hubometer clickingawaydropping quarters inmypocket, roadstretching out straight andemptyfor thirtymiles before it rises toanother passover another dark ridgeof basalt mountains. Ten miles down the road there’s some dust billowing from a depression. I mark it absently. The tape runs out. I flip it over, check the gauges, turn the heater down a notch, light another cigarette. The tape runs out again and I don’t feel like rummaging for another, so I switch on the CB. All I can hear is broken up chatter from up on Highway 40. Try the radio. This hour of the morning even KGA’s a patch of static on the dial. The 4WD pickup materializes out of nowhere on the right shoulder, bouncing from a gully spewing sand, and slews onto the highway less than a hundred yards in front of me. Time slows to a crawl as I land on the air, eyes flicking from the pickup ahead to the swaying trailer 'in the mirror, smoke pouring from the brakes, cab rattling as the trailer pin slams repeatedly against the fifthwheel jaws. God damn idiot look out he still doesn’t see me—right in the middle of the road he sits at twenty miles an hour. Only fractions of a second left to decide whether to cream the fucker or go for a drive in the desert when his dreaming eyes see Armageddon in his rear-view mirror fifty feet behind him and closing fast and he swerves for the shoulder. I pop it down three gears fast, slam the hammer and ride the left shoulder, hoping like hell the trailer’s straightened out and doesn’t pop him on the way past. Then he’s in the mirrors, unharmed and dwindling behind us. I let my breath out, pick up another gear. “ Whatinhell was that?” Owen inquires from the sleeper. “ Some gonzo in a pickup,” I reply. “ No sweat. Go back to sleep.” I hear him grunt. I pick up another gear, light a smoke, put Lacy J. Dalton back on the tape deck. U d R o I V it I N fo G r ’S m d o i n f e f y er . e T nt h e w r h e e ’s n o y n o l u y one real destination, and that’s home. Each manifest has a specific address in a particular city, but after a while that city’s just another map, another loading dock, another truck stop, none of which is where it should be when you look for it. 36
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