On the Seventh Day of Fiction
My pusher gave to me
Truck-driving lesbians...
Rewriting Old Songs, from the Sappho's Chest Toybox, is now available. For further adventures of Alice and Yolanda, check out ZOMBIALITY
~~~
“I stopped at a road-house in Texas,
A little place called Hamburger Dan’s
I heard that old jukebox a-playing
A song about a truck driving man.”
-Truck Driving Man by Terry Fell
Now I don’t mind driving Texas. I just hate driving Texas in the summer. It always reminds me of when
I was a rookie and locked myself out of my cab in Dallas in July. Sitting in hundred and eight degree
heat, waiting to be rescued, knowing the driver who did was going to tell it to his buddies as “Reason
9788634 why women shouldn’t drive big trucks” is not one of my better memories. These days, I carry
three spare keys, since I don’t drive for a fleet any more and no one can come rescue me without
busting the window out of my girl.
I pulled into the little truck-stop out on the state highway, just north of Dallas. I was fine for fuel, but
that last Dr. Pepper was surely making itself felt. Sometimes I think I’m the only trucker on the road
who hates coffee. I’m not crazy about big truck-stops either. The big commercial chains all look alike,
and the parking lots are always gross. Oil and reefer melt, and other fluids, not to mention the fact most
male drivers piss between their back tires, all makes for a real nasty blend.
I climbed down out of the cab, found the ladies’ room, took a seat at the counter, and there she was. All
long dark hair and big dark eyes in a powder-blue uniform that didn’t do a thing for her gorgeous
copper skin. Her name plate read “Alice,” and I knew every driver, over the age of thirty-five, had said,
“Kiss mah grits” to this pretty lady at some point. The only thing that lasts longer than the smell of
diesel fuel in clothes is bad sitcom catch-phrases.
She came by with a glass of water and a menu. I gave her my best smile and said, “Alice. Dallas
Alice.” She rolled her eyes. Yeah, she heard that one a lot, too. Drivers love the song.
“Sorry, miss.” I placed my order and watched her as she cleaned up, took care of the other two drivers,
and got my order around. She set the taco salad down and stole a glance at my Pride necklace: six
colored rings on a chain. She gave me a little smile and kept working. I ate, but couldn’t stop watching
her. So gorgeou
Truck-driving lesbians...
Rewriting Old Songs, from the Sappho's Chest Toybox, is now available. For further adventures of Alice and Yolanda, check out ZOMBIALITY
~~~
“I stopped at a road-house in Texas,
A little place called Hamburger Dan’s
I heard that old jukebox a-playing
A song about a truck driving man.”
-Truck Driving Man by Terry Fell
Now I don’t mind driving Texas. I just hate driving Texas in the summer. It always reminds me of when
I was a rookie and locked myself out of my cab in Dallas in July. Sitting in hundred and eight degree
heat, waiting to be rescued, knowing the driver who did was going to tell it to his buddies as “Reason
9788634 why women shouldn’t drive big trucks” is not one of my better memories. These days, I carry
three spare keys, since I don’t drive for a fleet any more and no one can come rescue me without
busting the window out of my girl.
I pulled into the little truck-stop out on the state highway, just north of Dallas. I was fine for fuel, but
that last Dr. Pepper was surely making itself felt. Sometimes I think I’m the only trucker on the road
who hates coffee. I’m not crazy about big truck-stops either. The big commercial chains all look alike,
and the parking lots are always gross. Oil and reefer melt, and other fluids, not to mention the fact most
male drivers piss between their back tires, all makes for a real nasty blend.
I climbed down out of the cab, found the ladies’ room, took a seat at the counter, and there she was. All
long dark hair and big dark eyes in a powder-blue uniform that didn’t do a thing for her gorgeous
copper skin. Her name plate read “Alice,” and I knew every driver, over the age of thirty-five, had said,
“Kiss mah grits” to this pretty lady at some point. The only thing that lasts longer than the smell of
diesel fuel in clothes is bad sitcom catch-phrases.
She came by with a glass of water and a menu. I gave her my best smile and said, “Alice. Dallas
Alice.” She rolled her eyes. Yeah, she heard that one a lot, too. Drivers love the song.
“Sorry, miss.” I placed my order and watched her as she cleaned up, took care of the other two drivers,
and got my order around. She set the taco salad down and stole a glance at my Pride necklace: six
colored rings on a chain. She gave me a little smile and kept working. I ate, but couldn’t stop watching
her. So gorgeou