“I don’t give rides to hitchers,” said Tommy Granier, an over-the-road driver for Pepsi-Co. A big guy, Tommy wasn’t prone to giving anyone a ride, let alone friends and family, even though he’d been a pushover to his two nieces who asked him to let them ride up to Saint Louis Lambert International Airport. Tommy did it once, and now his family thought that meant they could ask whenever they wanted to. If it had been up to him, he would’ve waited to stop elsewhere, other than the Love’s Travel Stop in Matthews.

“C’mon, dude. Please? I’m trying to get clean and sober, and Saint Louis has the best resources.” He reeked of beer, body odor, and Pall Mall’s. He was wearing a Navy blue t-shirt once bearing a Grateful Dead logo and what Tommy thought was a once well-loved pair of blue jeans, now almost blackened with various grease and dirt stains and plenty of holes worn through the material. His Levi jean jacket was tied around his waist, just as dirty as the t-shirt and jeans. The only thing out of place on the man was the brand new Wolverine boots, the yellow standing out against the jeans like a flashing yellow caution cone on the highway.

Rolling his eyes, Tommy saw another of his work colleagues; at least, that’s how Captain referred to Tommy. “Yo! Tommy! You ain’t pickin’ up strangers now, is you?” Captain, a nickname given to him by other OTR drivers, was older than Tommy, with muscles in all the visible places. Originally from Alabama, Captain served in the military as a driver. He loved the work and the long distances. But the Captain needed to get in everyone’s business, giving them orders when not in his truck driving. Tommy didn’t know if he was a Captain in the military or which branch he served, but the way he barked out orders to the other drivers? You’d think he was a sergeant, not a Captain. But Captain? The nickname stuck with him. “You know pickin’ up hitchers is real dangerous, don’tcha?”

“Mind your business, Captain,” Tommy shouted back over the ambient noise of various semi-trucks rumbling to keep their generators and electronics working. “Captain, you hauling those cows? Is that what I smell over there?”

Captain laughed, showing off his pearl-white teeth. “Yeah. I gots some cattle I is takin’ up to South Dakota. Sure beats you makin’ your usual run, up to the Lou and back. Man. If’n I had that route, I think it’d do me in! Proly retire like quick!” The Captain burst into laughter. “Be safe, brother. And you?” He pointed at the drunk Deadhead standing next to Tommy. “You best be safe, too. Tommy, there? He got a penchant for beings a little more than dramatic, ain’t that right, Tommy boy?”

“Is that your rig I hear mooing, Captain?” Tommy saluted the Captain, and the Captain, still laughing and shaking his head, saluted him back.

“C’mon, dude. Please? Can you give me a ride? St. Louis isn’t all that far, you know?” The Deadhead shifted from foot to foot, readjusting his backpack.

Looking at the ground, Tommy shook his head, contemplating letting this guy ride with him to St. Louis. Not that Tommy’s truck was clean. Driving for Pepsi-Co had perks like unlimited cases of Diet Pepsi and Cheetos. Between discarded Diet Pepsi cans and empty bags of Cheetos, the inside cab of his truck looked like a dumpster. The only difference between his truck and the trash inside? In the truck, there was no sign of rats. Not that Tommy was embarrassed by the state of his truck. At least that’s what he told the company and his family. The truth was worse. He didn’t want anyone to see what the mess was like. That included people who wanted a ride.

Tommy heard the sound of Captain’s horn as he left Love’s, the raggedy man still pleading for a ride. Rolling his eyes, Tommy grabbed the bridge of his nose, knowing that he was going to do something he’d probably end up regretting. “Okay. Fine. I’ll give you a ride. But understand there’s no smoking inside. Or booze. Either of those things could get me fired. The booze for sure.”

“Oh, yeah, man! For sure. Let me finish this real quick,” the Deadhead pulled a pint-sized bottle of whisky from his jeans. Tommy couldn’t be sure where it came from, but the liquid inside the bottle disappeared faster than it appeared. “Ahhh!” he gasped, breathing heavily after downing the bottle in one chug. Tommy was sure the bottle was more than half full. “Ouch. That burns a bit,” the Deadhead squinted. “The name’s Brian, but most people call me Preacher.”

“Preacher? That a nickname from drinking so much?” Tommy asked, looking down at his shirt, Cheeto dust visible right down the middle. He pressed a button on the key FOB, unlocking the 2021 Volvo sleeper truck. Tommy bought it two years ago with less than 100,000 miles. Comfortable enough for him alone, he never dreamed he’d give anyone a ride. “Climb in.”

“Naw. My dad was a preacher, and I was a PK, a preacher’s kid. Us and the kids with police officers for parents? We were the ones getting into trouble together all the time.” Preacher climbed into the cab’s passenger side like he’d done it hundreds of times. “Woah. For a Volvo, this is a nice sleeper.”

“You know trucks?” Tommy asked, brushing trash and Cheetos dust from the driver’s seat. Preacher kicked trash into the back, where the bed and refrigerator were. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed by the trash, big guy. I’ve lived in dumpsters dirtier than this.”

“So, Preacher. Where am I dropping you?”

“Outside the Greyhound terminal, if it’s cool with you.”

“Can do,” Tommy said, starting the truck and letting her warm up just enough to get the air conditioning blowing cold. Four short blasts on his air horn alerted other drivers of his intention to pull out of the travel center.

The ride to the interstate was short but quiet, Preacher halfway leaning back in the reclining seat. Neither man said a word until they were past Perryville. “Not to make you nervous or anything,” Preacher said, reaching into the sleeper cabin for his backpack, “but how many times have you been pulled over?”

“Pulled over? I’ve never been stopped, Preacher, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” he said, patting his backpack. “’Cause I have three pounds of marijuana in my bag.”