Darrell needed to get the hell out of Hanktown.
Hanktown: People drank, danced, and gave the last bits of their soul to the devil. He pulled the denim jacket tighter.
Steam hissed out of a vent next to a chili dog stand.
"3 nickel," said the bushy man in the apron.
"3? You're full of sh—"Darell stopped himself from cursing on the off chance his mother was looking down from the Table.
"Times suck. Take it or leave it," the cook looked like he got to eat whatever customers didn't.
Darrell reached into his jacket and counted the coins. He was down to 2 penny, 6 nickel … well, 3 now.
He ate with a hand in his pocket, watching the streets of Hanktown pass him: neon lights, ear-splitting music, men chasing women, women chasing God, or another day.
A woman, a girl really, on the arm of a man passed by. She made eye contact through the curls in her face. Her eyes were like pond water.
The man she was with was walking with the stupid expectancy, a dumb drunk man about to have a short time he thinks he wants. And give up a paycheck for it.
The woman held his gaze, and then they disappeared down the alley.
And then he saw Him, the Man in Black. He stood with a cigarette on his lips, his foot resting on a guitar case. He was watching Darrell. Others passed by, but he didn't react to them. He watched Darrell, and he smoked.
"Is it time yet?" Darell asked, taking a spot next to him on the wall, his hands in his jacket pockets.
"No," the man let out a bale of smoke.
"Dammit, then why are you here?" Darrell said.
"Because it isn't time yet."
Darrell's big rig was parked in a gravel lot beside a caved building.
The armor plating on the sides was rusting in spots but it held up well against the Truckee group up in the pass.
He ran his fingers over the bullet holes. Someday, one would find him.
"It does no good to dwell on the stuff you can't do nothin' about, D," his mother said. It was her line when she caught him staring at cemeteries. She thought he'd had an unhealthy attachment to them as a child. She was a devout believer, after all. Not in "that damned comet, mind you," she said. "In the Father, the Son, and the Ghost. And forgive my swearing, but them comet people burn me up."
Darrell had followed her beliefs. He'd been baptized, memorized the verses, and sang the songs. Did he believe it today? He hadn't decided. Yesterday, he had. Tomorrow, he might.
"I need a load to haul," he said reflexively to God and nobody. "An upfront paying one."
He'd rest. It was late. Hanktown had descended into its liquor.
He knocked the rig, sat in his seat, and held his stomach as his dinner reacted negatively with his innards. While he let out a burp, he loaded a bullet in the chamber of his pistol and set it in the seat.
In the quiet of the truck cab, he let his mind wander from Hanktown to chili dogs, the girl with green eyes, and his mother. He scraped his vision across the photo taped to the speedometer: A little girl holding a bunny smiled at him.
He let out a deep, held, shallow, chili-laced breath.
Did he believe it today?
I need a long haul.
He crawled into the cot in the sleeper cab and fell asleep reading the emergency exit instructions on the ceiling.
Darrell dreamed of an iguana crawling into his truck that could change color to match his shirt. It had been sweet and cuddly, like a lap dog.
He woke up to blue light in the east. A reveler stumbled across the street, sat down on the curb, vomited, and passed out.
The hot plate was under the seat. He fished it out and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. He used the last of his coffee grounds, stirred, and sipped, watching the blue light grow on the horizon.
He reached under the seat, through the bullet casings from the Truckee encounter, and found the case with the little pink guitar.
It was more than half a step out, but a little tuning got the strings to work together.
Checking that it was just him and the passed-out drunk, he started strumming and humming to himself to see what he could find.
The chords led him to a familiar rut in his mind:
There's a land that is fairer than day
And by faith we can see it afar
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there
In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
A woman's voice joined him for the harmony.
In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
The sweet voice and his growling gravel that couldn’t hold a key harmonized in a miracle.
In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
Darrell opened his eyes as he brought the song home to its root note, letting it reverberate into the gathering blue sky.
He realized he wasn't alone. A girl he recognized was standing in the gravel outside of his door. It was the girl with the curls and the pond-water eyes. It had been her voice—a nice voice.
"I need a ride," she said.
He set down the guitar and reached for the pistol in the passenger seat.
"Get lost."