is giving us this sad, worried look, but then Cole pats Travis on the shoulder.
“You guys will be fine,” he says. “Ace the test, Emmy. Show Professor Cocksucker what for.”
Which is why we love—no, need Cole in this outfit.
Travis and I walk across the parking lot, carrying our guitars. He’s still mad at me, I know, but he’s stopped telling me how dumb I am and I’ve stopped calling him a controlling, arrogant bastard, so this will have to do for now. The trucker is hanging out at the gas station booth, talking to the attendant, and I have no idea what his deal is yet, but you can infer from the sweeping gestures with his arms as he talks that he’s super glad to be talking to a human being face-to-face. Maybe he is lonely. Hell, driving a truck must be lonely, all that awesome Kris Kristofferson Convoy/CB stuff aside. This trucker is probably in his fifties with that short salt-and-pepper hair. The black ink of an old, bled-out tattoo (a real one, not a Sharpie one) is climbing up the side of his neck, which means the guy likely has a back piece or full sleeves at least. Former inmate? Biker? Can’t tell, really. He’s no retired punk rocker, this I know from the mustache, tucked-in flannel, leather vest, crisp blue Wranglers, and cowboy boots. He looks like he could even be from Nebraska. I look and see the license plate on the back of the truck says Montana. Close enough to Nebraska if you’re from Jersey.
Travis and I get closer, and now the trucker and the gas station attendant are paying attention to us, and why not? It’s damn near four a.m. on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning and we’re schlepping guitars across a rest area parking lot, so I guess we’re enough of a curiosity. With how skeptical the trucker guy looks as he watches us, I’m starting to feel less optimistic that this is going to work at all. But just as I’m about to say fuck it and turn back, I hear something familiar on the night breeze, something that is floating on the air to me. Something I know very well.
My father’s band Consequence had exactly one hit single. It was called “Love’s a Trip” and it peaked at seventeen for one week on the Billboard Top 100 in 1976, ninety-eight for the year. It starts with this lonely, haunting guitar riff, and that’s what I’m hearing right now, floating across the parking lot to me.
“Holy shit,” I say, nearly dropping my jaw. “Do you hear that? Or am I having a psychotic break right now?”
Travis pauses, and then he hears it, too. His eyes light up in recognition and he starts to sing along with the vocal, “Get on board, don’t bother to pack, you’re on this trip and you won’t be back . . .”
“It’s a sign, Travis.”
“A sign?”
“Yeah, a sign,” I say. “Don’t you believe in spooky supernatural signs?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No I don’t.”
“Well, I do and this is one,” I say, more determined than ever. “Work with me here.”
“I’m about to hitch a ride from a trucker in a rest area at four in the morning like a hobo. I’d say I’m working with you just fine.”
Dubious does not do justice to the look we’re getting from ’stache Montana. Oh, great, he’s shaking his head disapprovingly as we get closer. He turns around to look behind himself and he sees, of course, that no, there’s nobody back there that we’re looking at. It’s him we’re coming to see.
I clear my throat as we approach.
“Excuse me, sir?” I say. “Good morning.”
Nothing. No response. He sports a convincing “not amused” face as he takes in the sight of us, pretty scraggly at this time of day with our guitars in tow.
“Um, we’re in a bit of a jam,” I begin.
“Forget it,” he says, and it’s more of the kind of throaty growl you might expect out of an angry grizzly bear than any human sort of sound. I gulp as Travis shifts on his heels.
“We can pay you,” Travis says. “We only need a ride to Exit 9 on the Turnpike, not too far.”
“I said forget it.” He turns and walks away from us, back toward the cab of the truck. As he’s walking away from us, the Consequence song ends and I think, Well, I guess it wasn’t a sign after all. But then another Consequence song comes