6
800 Words
A semi-truck idles nearby and for a moment, I think I’ve fallen asleep in Sam’s cab. Like when he’d taken me on one of his shorter trips for company, but before I even peer out the window, there’s a pit of disappointment in my gut.
The parking lot has changed a lot since I've passed out. It’s full dark now, and there are a number of trucks and cars, and more than a dozen or so motorcycles parked along the side of the bar.
The building looks decidedly friendlier under the cover of night, with the red and blue display of OPEN and COLD BEER flashing in the windows. Even over the noise of the truck, I can hear the faint sound of music and men’s laughter.
I push the power button on my phone and wait for it to turn on. I’ve shut it down since the battery had only been at 17%. I didn’t grab my charger when I left, and the one in my car only works if I hold the plug in with my hand.
I tell myself it’s to check the time, but really, I want to see if my mom’s texted me. I know it’s stupid, but there’s a part of me that keeps hoping she’ll tell me that I don’t have to run anymore. Tell me to come home.
The home screen flashes on. Sixteen percent charge left, no missed calls, no text messages. I turn it off and stuff it into my back pocket. I take a moment and peer out the window trying to figure out a plan. I have a hundred dollars to my name, and it takes over that to fill up my gas hog. Even if I don’t spend any of it on food, it’ll take more than that to make it to California.
The driver of the semi-truck climbs out of the cab and walks around the back, meeting two men with handcarts. He rolls the back door up with a clanking of metal, and all three start unloading crates of—I squint my eyes to make out the lettering—Little Mule? Really? What’s the company’s slogan, again? Lord knows I’ve seen it enough—A beer with a kick?
I smush my lips together. A dive bar this close to the border and right off a truck route? It couldn’t be more obvious. I’ve only gone with Sam on a few of his shorter routes, but this doesn’t look like a legit delivery. My suspicions are confirmed when I watch a taller man with dark salt and pepper hair walk over to the driver and hand him an envelope. The driver opens it, nods, and then slips it into his back jean’s pocket.
My mouth waters at the sight. I need money and have very few ways to get it. With nothing to sell, pickpocketing is always an option, but I hesitate at working the bar scene. I’m state-fair-large-crowds and man-with-kids good, not close-quarters-small-bar-rough-crowd good. I’ll have better success later in the night after everyone has a few rounds. ‘Course, their wallets are a whole a lot lighter after a full night at the bar.
I sit there, bite my nail, and watch the same thing happen again. A truck pulls up, two men start to unload, and then the driver leaves after the older man gives him an envelope. Once, twice, three times. Some of the truckers leave, but quite a few pull off and park, and then head inside.
I really only have two talents—I can play a damn good round of pool, and I can smell money. Poor people have that sense inbred into them. The same way a dog who’s never eaten anything but dry food, can smell bacon and know right away it’s good. Same with poor people. I can smell money, even from this far away, and I know it’s good.
My stomach growls, and bladder draws my attention. The dejected-looking bar seems busy enough. Trucks keep pulling up, and a group of bikers roar in and park up front. Not a safe place for a girl. But not a bad place for a game of pool, and even a better place for truckers’ flush with cash and men too drunk to notice.
I used to have my own pool stick, but forgot to lock it up in my trunk one night and mom ended up selling it. It wasn’t super pricey, but it was the most expensive gift I’d ever gotten. Sam had bought it for me just before he left.
But Nikki told me only amateurs bring their own pool sticks to bars they want to hustle, so I guess it worked out because tonight…tonight, I’ve gotta be anything but amateur.
- Writer
