The ride to the interstate was short but quiet, Preacher halfway leaning back in the reclining seat. “Not to make you nervous or anything, but how many times have you been pulled over?”

“You have what?” Tommy did his best to concentrate on his northbound lane of Interstate 55. After 8 p.m., traffic lightened to Arnold, a few miles from the Pepsi Co. distribution center. Grateful for the darkness, a new moon, four cars, and a light pickup truck, a newer Ford F-150, Tommy squeezed the steering wheel, wishing he could stop long enough to throw Preacher out. “Three pounds of marijuana? Sweet Mary mother of all that is holy, you brought that junk into my truck?”

“I don’t recall you asking me if I had anything on me. Cops did. Three nights ago,” Preacher snickered, pulling out a cigarette from a beatup-looking pack. “Let me tell you. I was straight up with them. I said I didn’t have any weapons,” he slapped his knee, letting out a long, loud laugh. “And you wanna know what they asked me then?” Preacher used the smoke as a pointer, pointing it at Tommy’s head. He slowed down, driving three miles under the speed limit, slower than his usual 73 miles an hour on cruise control. “They asked if I had any drugs on me! I repeated what I said before: ‘I don’t have any weapons.’” He pulled out a small blue Bic lighter, flicking it to life, and inhaled deep, cracking open the truck window. “That’s not what we asked. Do you have any drugs?” Preacher laughed again. “I said I don’t have any weapons. But I do have almost four pounds of pot in my backpack.”

Tommy, muttering under his breath, said, “I knew I shouldn’t have picked you up. Now I’m going to jail. For a long time.”

“Naw. Even if you got stopped, I’d cop to the drugs hoss. No sense in both of us going to jail.”

Tommy’s knuckles turned pale and white, gripping the truck’s steering wheel. “Can’t believe I trusted you. Take me to St. Louis, you asked. I figured, why the hell not? What’s the worse that could happen? Well, I could get stopped. I could lose my CDL and all because I gave some derelict alcoholic a ride? What was I thinking!” Feeling the night air and the wind coming in from the open passenger side window, Tommy looked over at Preacher smoking, doing his best to blow it out the window. “Of course! Now you are smoking in my truck? Could this night get any worse?” To the surprise of both Preacher and Tommy, the truck ran over the rumble strip.

“Woah, Tommy boy, keep your eyes on the road,” Preacher pointed out the windshield with the cigarette. Taking one last drag, he flicked it out the window, rolling it down. “Try to clear that smell out of the cab for ya,” Preacher smiled. Reaching back for his backpack, he sat it down on his lap. Considering the condition of his clothes, Tommy figured the pack would be in worse condition. Weirdly enough, it wasn’t. The Swiss Gear black pack was durable, just the thing needed to travel in rough weather. It still looked brand new and even though Tommy thought about asking if he had stolen it, he was too angry about the weed Preacher smoking in his truck. Preacher pulled out a small bottle of disinfectant spray, pressing the button twice. The sweet smell of patchouli filled the cab, eliminating any trace of the cigarette.

“What is that stuff,” Tommy asked Preacher. “Smells like a hippy.”

Preacher raised his eyebrows. “Funny enough, I did get this from a hippy chick. I think it was a Grateful Dead show.” He scratched his head, “Or maybe it was Phish. It was a weird night. That’s all I remember. It was like a week ago. She asked me if I wanted it, knowing I wouldn’t get to wash my clothes until I got a detox bed. She said it’s potent enough to clean the smell from just about anything!” He smelled the nozzle of the bottle. “She’s not wrong.” Preacher rolled up the window, leaning back as best he could in the passenger seat.

Tommy, still throttling the steering wheel, looked over at his passenger. “If I didn’t need to be at the DC in an hour and a half, I’d stop and drop you here. But,” his face reddening, “I have to take you up to the Greyhound station, ten minutes out of my way, but here we are.” Sweatbeads ran down the back of his neck, a thin rail of sweat creeping across his forehead. The F-150 passed him at 80 miles an hour. As a seasoned trucker, Tommy could gauge his and other people’s speeds within a few miles per hour. Paying more attention to the truck than the road, Tommy let the truck drift, hitting the rumble strip again. Red and blue lights came up behind Tommy’s truck, the siren wailing so loud it stopped Preacher from telling Tommy about the healing properties of patchouli. Sliding down in the passenger seat so as not to be seen by the state trooper, Tommy did his best to strangle the steering wheel. The trooper came around Tommy’s Cheetos truck, accelerating beyond his ability to calculate his speed. He guessed that he was going faster than a hundred miles an hour.

“One, one-thousand.” Tommy counted. “Two, one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand. Five one-thousand.” At the count of five, both men lost sight of the trooper, the lights highlighting the backside of hills going into Saint Genevieve.

“Whew. That was a close one, dude. Wasn’t it, Tommy?” Preacher pulled out another smoke, ready to spark the lighter.  

“Don’t even think about it. Do that again and I will make a point of dropping you on I-55. Late or not. I won’t even mind being ten or fifteen minutes late to get you out of my truck.”

Preacher threw up his hands. “Hey, no need to get all hostile on me, man. I’m a peaceful guy. Really.”