“Yo, Billy!”

               Bill let a lot slide right off his back. He would tolerate people doctoring their coffee with cream and tons of sugar. The latte and cappuccino drinkers could get away with drinking something that resembled coffee. Bill even allowed certain people to refer to him as William or Will. Then there was the thick, emotionally healthy shield that prevented most stupid things people say from affecting him. Instead, more often than not, those words bounced right off him, not letting it get to him personally. But Billy? That was the one thing, the only thing that irked him.

               Unfortunately for Bill, Dale supervised him. Supervised was the wrong word. Dale orchestrated each load Bill carried for Harris Trucking. More often than not, Bill dictated his runs, getting what he asked for. Customers preferred him, dreading every interaction with Dale. They all made sure Bill heard about how much they despised Dale. But, like it or not, Dale was the conductor. Bill, the engineer, driving their loads.

               Bill clenched his teeth and balled up both fists, ready to swing at the short, fat man. Sitting on his rear end for hours with a headset connected to the cordless phone stuffed in his pocket meant hours of snacking, eating whatever grabbed his fancy. The poor eating habits and gallons of Coke he drank each week packed on the pounds and increased his blood pressure. Taking a few steps every day into the warehouse was all the exercise he wanted or needed, at least according to his cardiologist. Dale was sitting on the precipice of another heart attack. Bill didn’t know any of that, but he was trying to keep from swinging at the fat man.

               “Billy! Wait up.” Bill walked a little faster, knowing that a confrontation was coming. Maybe he could get the fat puke to choke on his Twinkie. Not that Bill wanted him to hurt at all, but as much pain as Dale caused him? He thought it might be worth it. Bill stopped, relaxing his fists, but his jaw stayed clenched. He didn’t want to say anything he would later regret. It would’ve been too easy.

                Dale turned around. “Bill,” Dale huffed, attempting to breathe. “Just. Give. Me. A. Second.” He panted through a few shallow breaths, slowing his breathing. Two of his fat fingers were pressed against his neck, checking his pulse. “Okay.” One more deep breath. “Bill. You are going to take a load back to Danville.” Dale swallowed, gasping for breath. “Oh boy. You really got my heart rate up. So. As I said,” Dale pulled out a folded-up piece of paper from his rear pocket, “Bill, you are going home.” The warehouse and Harris Trucking operated from their base in Modesto, about an hour from Danville. The drive wasn’t a big deal for Bill, mostly because windshield time was good for him. It was being around Dale that was the aggravation. Bill took the paper, damp with Dale’s sweat, and delicately unfolded it. The photocopy was blurred out in places, namely the contents of what he would be hauling. However, the destination was clear enough: Helping Hands Network, Danville, California. “Ain’t that a couple of miles from your house,” Dale asked, pointing his pudgy finger at the destination address.

               “Yeah, it is,” Bill said, folding it up and pushing it into his back pocket. “What’s the load?” Dale was always giving him the worst loads. Once, it was 30,000 gallons of manure. Then, there was a load of live chickens. Dale made him deliver a load of damaged drywall that he almost got a ticket for when a massive piece of the material slid off the trailer, almost landing in the State Trooper’s lap. Lucky for Bill, the judge knew Dale, and he knew that Dale liked to cut corners, so he let Bill off with a warning at the hearing. The Trooper was furious to the point of coming to blows with Bill until the judge threatened to hold him in contempt if the cop didn’t walk out in silence. He did, but Bill had a feeling if he had half a chance, he’d give him a ticket next time. Even if it didn’t stick. Bill dreaded looking over his shoulder, so he kept his speed under the limit and made sure each load didn’t exceed weight. 

               “Dunno. It’s locked, and we ain’t got the key for it.”

               “So cut it, Dale. I’m not moving a load without knowing what it is.”

               “Hold yer horses, Billy.”

               Bill finally had enough. “I warned you, Dale. Do. Not. Call. Me. Billy.” His finger thumped against Dale’s chest, emphasizing each and every word.

               Dale held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. We’ll cut the lock.” He whistled so loud that all work in the warehouse stopped. “Tommy!” he shouted. “Cut that lock on #45!”

               Tommy shouted back, “You got it, boss!”

               “#45?” Bill stared at Dale, but it was more glaring than staring. “No way, Dale. Not again.” Bill walked in the opposite direction of the load, heading straight into the office of Scott Harris, CEO of Harris Trucking. The owner sat in front of a computer, reviewing data.

               “Hang on, Bill!” Dale shouted. Chasing Bill wasn’t an option, considering Dale’s still elevated heart rate. “Stop!” The shout echoed through the warehouse, Scott looking out the office’s second-floor window to the warehouse. Dale walked, trying to catch up to Bill. “Bill. Please. Wait!”