Swinging Beef



  SWINGING BEEF

  (The Valiant)

  By Lolita Davis

  Copyright 2015

  Thank for your downloading Swinging Beef, the third short story leading up to my upcoming book, The Valiant. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the story remains in complete form. If you enjoyed this story, please return to your favorite e-book retailer for more publications by this author. And please leave a review if you liked the story. Thank you for your support.

  No matter what I told Harry, I wasn't ready to go home. After leaving his traveling magazine crew, being picked up by a cop and surviving a night in jail in South Carolina, going back to familiar faces and places would be the safe thing to do. But that would be going backwards. I was just beginning to find out who I was. My mind was at a crossroads - keep going or go home to regroup. I searched for direction and found the answer in a quote by Graeme Fife: "The greatest battle is not physical but psychological. The demons telling us to give up when we push ourselves to the limit can never be silenced for good. They must always be answered by the quiet, the steady dignity that simply refuses to give in. Courage. We all suffer. Keep going." Okay. Keep going. The next question was - to where? Atlanta to see aunt and Uncle? They had been wonderful when my parents sent me there after my brother, John, died. But again, that would be going back to the past. The ocean? I had never been to an ocean. A high school friend had recently moved to California and invited me to visit. Sounded good, so that was that. California, here I come. With a couple of thousand miles on my thumb already, I had figured out the highway system; east-west roads were even numbered and north-south were odd, so my plan was to leave Columbia, hit I-20 west and visit Geri in Los Angeles.

  She and I had been friends since junior high. We spent a lot of time together, mainly getting into trouble. Throwing food from the lunchroom when the math teacher turned her back was good for a trip to the principal. So was tossing the chemistry books out the window. We thought it was hilarious, but the principal didn't find it too amusing. Every time I ended up in his office he gave me a stern talking to but always finished with, "I won't call your mother because I know how sick she is. She doesn't need to hear about this." He was trying to spare her, but didn't know that I was the one who needed a break. He knew her body was ravaged with MS but it was her mind that was the real problem. Geri hadn't seen Mom at her worst but she knew enough to steer clear. Even Geri's mom had covered for me a couple of times when Mommy Dearest was on the warpath. I was grateful for people like Geri who made life more palatable. I was looking forward to seeing her again.

  Time to get out South Carolina and head west to the Golden State. The first ride came easy. A girl driving an orange Ford Pinto stopped within a few minutes. Her backseat was filled with garbage and two long-haired cats riding shotgun. I hesitated for a split second then grabbed for the door. When you're hitchhiking you can't be too choosy. I tossed my overstuffed backpack into the backseat and put the cats on my lap. Judging from her size, Angie looked like she hadn't shared anything from the mountain of fast-food containers littering the back seat. She had pretty brown eyes and thick long brown hair, the kind that made me jealous because my hair was so fine only little girl barrettes could hold it. By the time she dropped me off at the entrance to I-20, I smelled like a deep fat fryer and wore fur from head to toe. There wasn't much I could do for the smell, but before I got out I managed to snag a few FedEx labels from the stack on the floor. They would come in handy for de-furring. I extracted myself from the cats and car, grabbed my pack and thanked her. She wished me luck and sputtered on down a side road.

  I landed by the side of a cornfield that looked dried out from intense heat. The overhead sun made me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. I stretched my arms out, hoping the sporadic breeze would waft away the odor of fish and French fries and tacos. Next I peeled the back off one of the labels, crafted a mitten out of it and patted myself down to remove the cat hair. Fifteen minutes later, my yellow peasant blouse and jeans were hair-free. I stuck out my thumb again and prayed for a clean, fragrance-free ride.

  It didn't take long. The next ride was in a white box truck driven by Larry, a local trucker with a slight build. He had hair everywhere - face, ears and sprouting out his open shirt like a vine searching for sun. Maybe I didn't have to de-fur after all. He asked where I was going then added he was meeting friends for breakfast at the Pilot Travel Center in Augusta. Larry said I should ask at the center for a ride to California. He parked his truck in the lot, grabbed my pack and we headed toward the restaurant. When we got to the door, I glanced back and stifled a laugh. His little truck looked out of place parked among the huge semis; like a Vespa among Harleys.

  Once inside the door, Larry saw his party. He handed me my pack and wished me good luck. I went from table to table asking if anyone was headed west. At the third table I hit the jackpot. Wiley and Kayana said they were taking a load of beef just west of Salt Lake City. They said they needed to make good time so they were driving straight through. From there it was only about 11 hours to Los Angeles and Geri. Sounded good to me. After they paid their bill, we headed toward what looked to be the most tricked-out truck on the lot. The trailer was humdrum, white with a meat company logo on its side. But the Peterbilt cab, now that had personality. It was fire engine red with golden flames licking the doors. The afternoon sun glinted off the twin silver smokestacks. The grill was surrounded by sharp silver teeth looking to gobble up anything that got in the way. It was a formidable piece of machinery.

  This was my first ride in a semi so I wasn't very savvy about getting into the cab. Kayana showed me what to do by gripping the grab bar, hoisting himself up and swinging his stocky 5'2" body inside. I grabbed the bar, swung myself up and around, slamming my head into the side of the truck. Wiley blew out a deep staccato laugh before asking if I was hurt.

  "Only my pride," I answered as I rubbed my temple. My fingers explored the side of my skull looking for blood but only found deep dents made by spiked high heels during one of Mom's more abusive tantrums. A few more head slams like this may even everything out. The protective layer of weight I carried for years had been dieted away so all anyone saw was an 18-year-old girl with short blonde hair, hazel eyes, and legs that went all the way to my ass (according to an old boyfriend). The girl next door. Shaking my head like an Etch-A-Sketch to erase the memories, I returned to the present and crawled over the Oxblood red Naugahyde seat and flopped into the sleeper.

  Wiley adjusted the seat while Kayana checked a map. He jabbed his stubby finger at some point as a smile spread over his face.

  "Ah, enchiladas and Rosa. That was a great stop, wasn't that, brudda?" Kayana stared dreamily off into space. Wiley booming voice broke into Kayana's thoughts.

  "We can't go by there this time. We have to get this load of meat to Salt Lake City as soon as possible. Albuquerque is out of the way. Next run we have close by there, we'll stop. Besides, the place was dirty."

  "Don't talk stink about Rosa's place." Kayana scowled. The way his paunch stretched his Hawaiian shirt, I wasn't sure what he missed more - Rosa or the enchiladas.

  "Hey, man, I'm sorry. It wasn't that bad." The apology brought a smile to Kayana's face. Not one to dwell on things, he continued to reminisce while Wiley started up the rig and pulled out of the lot. They joked about past escapades in Albuquerque. While they talked, I observed. They were complete opposites, physically. At 6'1", Wiley towered over Kayana. What Wiley had in height, Kayana had in width. The scales probably hovered around 250 pounds for both of them. A short blond beard and shaggy sun-str
eaked hair framed Wiley's face while a bowl-cut of straight, jet black hair capped Kayana's baby-like, clean-shaven face. Yet they acted like blood brothers, reliving things and laughing as each other recounted another story. Their affection for each other was apparent. What was the saying? Brothers from a different mother? Wiley's deep Chicago cadence played against Kayana's soft Hawaiian accent to create a symphony in words. Boom, boom, boom, boom, la, la, la, la. Back and forth. The voice orchestra was soothing to my ears.

  "So what da you think of our truck?" Kayana was through reminiscing. I admitted I had never seen anything like it. Kayana puffed up his chest and began the grand tour.

  "This is a 1970 Peterbilt Pacemaker Cabover." He pointed to the hump between the seats. "This here is the doghouse, the engine is underneath it. You can sit on it if you want. In the trailer is swinging beef. That means there are slabs of meat on hooks attached to the roof. The load can shift