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With the morning sun shining on my face, I raised my thumb high into the air at each passing vehicle. Despite the early hour, the humidity and warm temperature caused my forehead, chest and armpits to sweat. The sparse Sunday traffic on the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma’s Interstate 44 dampened my hopes for catching a ride quickly. After about 40 minutes, a guy in a late-modeled white Plymouth station wagon pulled over to pick me up.

"I really appreciate the ride," I said, opening the back door of the car. Rags littered the floorboard and clothes draped the backseat.

"Don't worry about the clothes. Just throw your stuff on top of them."

As I did so, I looked in the back of the station wagon. I saw a worn flat tire, a tool box, two playboy magazines with the cover of one magazine partially ripped from its binding, and lots of greasy, dirty tools scattered around.

"My name's Bryce," I said, as I climbed in the front seat. I reached out my hand.

"Glad to meet you. I'm Jack." He had a firm grip.

A red faded ball cap that said “Keep on truckin’” fit snugly on Jack’s head. Embroidered beside the words stood a guy leaning backward with his hands on his belt and his big foot protruding forward as if he were going to walk right over you. Jack's curly, short brown hair stuck out haphazardly from beneath his cap. He wore a soiled white tank top, frayed and faded blue jeans, scuffed and dirty suede cowboy boots, and a wide leather belt with a huge silver buckle showing a cowboy riding a bucking bronco.

A tattoo larger than a tennis ball decorated Jack's right bicep. The tattoo showed a woman sitting at a slight angle with her head turned so her eyes were looking at you. She had long dark hair, large sensuous lips partially parted as if she were about to kiss you, and a small mole just below the left corner of her mouth. Her thin transparent dress revealed most of her voluptuous breasts, and her nipples appeared firm and swollen beneath the hint of translucent fabric. A beautiful woman, but at the same time she appeared to have an aggressive quality. I could easily imagine her climbing on top of me.

Initially, I had an uncomfortable feeling about Jack, probably because he looked like a typical hard-nosed redneck. But with Jack's sparkling blues eyes and bright friendly smile focusing on me, I quickly felt at ease.

"How long have you been on the road?" He rolled down his window as we eased up to the Oklahoma Will Rogers Turnpike tollbooth. He lowered the volume of his crackling CB radio mounted to the dash. It seemed out of place in the station wagon.

"This time, only about a month and a half."

He took an entrance ticket and thanked the lady as he stuffed it above the sun visor. Even though Jack struck me as a ladies' man, the side view of his face was rather homely. His long nose had a slight bend to it—probably caused by someone's fist. His chin protruded out past his nose, making him look like one of those African carved wooden figures you see in gift shops. If you slightly exaggerated his profile, he would have made a great cartoon character.

Jack picked up his CB mouthpiece. "Breaker one two, breaker one two, this is the White Elephant leaving the Tulsa ticket gates northeast bound on 44 for Springfield. Can I fly, or has anyone spotted some roadblocks? Over."

I had never been exposed to a CB radio before. As I tried to crack Jack’s code, he adjusted the volume.

"I got a line on you White Elephant,” a voice said through the hissing sound. “This is the Thunderbolt on a streak. I've been running hard ever since Springfield. It's been clear sailing all the way. Over."

"Roger Thunderbolt, thanks for the weather report. You got a clear shot to Oklahoma City. Just follow your streak of lightning. Over and out."

The other guy laughed over the CB.

"Did you hear that Lightning?" he asked.

A new voice now joined the conversation.

"Roger. I can see the gates ahead. Where are you White Elephant? Over."

Jack looked at the trucks passing us on the other side of the turnpike going in the opposite direction.

"I'm in the white four-wheel buggy. I'm picking up my eighteen-wheeler in St. Louis. Over."

"Just passed you," the voice said. "I got you in my rearview mirror."

Jack glanced in his rearview mirror and then turned and looked over his shoulder. I looked too. There were three trucks in a line.

"Are you the humper? Over." On the back of the truck closest to us it said, "Humpin’ to please."

"No, I'm the one in front of it. Over."

"Got ya. Enjoy a smooth ride, over and out."

"We can make some time now." Jack hung the mouthpiece beside his CB. He pressed on the gas pedal and turned down the CB’s volume. A faint but distinct static resonated. "Why are you out here?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Jack looked straight ahead, and then glanced down at his speedometer as he spoke again. "I mean why do you do this? Why don't you get a job and settle down?"

He turned his head toward me, grinning as if he already knew the answer. His smirk seemed to condemn me to a life on the road, yet he appeared to know it was a sentence I wanted and needed.

"I don't know. I guess it's the excitement of the moment."

"Breaker one two for a northeast bounder. Over."

Jack picked up the mouthpiece and held down the bar.

"You got a live one. Talk to me. Over."

Jack increased the volume on the CB.

"This is the Rough Rider bound for OC. How's it look down that way. Over."

"Kick in your spurs and skedaddle. The trail is clear. Over."

"Sounds good. What's your twenty? Over."

"Uhhhh, marker 102. Over."

"Roger. We must have just passed each other. You got a clear shot to Joplin. Had reports of a bull between Joplin and Springfield, but I never saw him. Rough Rider out."

Jack turned down the CB and looked at me.

"You got a sweetheart somewhere?"

"I got'em everywhere," I lied. "That's the fun of traveling."

Jack laughed. "Could be."

"You got a wife and kids?" I asked.

"I had a wife, but I got into a little trouble a few years back, so she left me."

I assumed he got caught cheating. I waited for him to explain what happened, but he didn't. He looked in his rearview mirror and then checked his side mirror.

"What happened?" I finally asked.

"I got locked up for a couple of years."

"In jail?"

"The state pen."

"For what?"

"I got into a little ruckus with a guy in a bar," Jack said slowly but without any emotion. "The guy was getting the best of me, so I had to use my knife."

I glanced at his belt. I didn't see a knife sheath, but knew he had seen mine.

"Did you kill him?" My tone shocked me. It sounded cold and uncaring, almost as if I wished he had.

"No, but almost. I'd been drinking quite a bit and went crazy on him."

"Did you know the guy?"

"No, but he was being rude to the waitress, so I told him to go stick his dick in a dog because that was the only bitch that could stomach the likes of him." Jack laughed. "That put some fire in his eyes."

I laughed too. "Was it worth it?"

Jack looked at me, the grin fading from his broken, weathered face, his eyes cold and hard. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. Jack turned his head back to the road ahead of us.

"The state pen is another name for hell." The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. "On my fifth day in prison, four guys pinned me to the ground while a fifth guy pulled my pants down. When he couldn't get inside me, he held a long jagged rusty pipe in front of my nose. ‘You gotta a choice pretty boy,’ he said. ‘Me or this. What's it gonna be?’"

"Woooo..." came over the CB, "…it's a bull, it's a bull...he's got me!" Jack automatically hit his brake, and we both lunged forward. "I'm cooked," the voice said. "I'm at marker one ten." That put him five miles ahead of us. Jack pressed on the gas pedal and slowly increased his speed again.

"It's a fuckin’ cat and mouse game," Jack said, sounding as if he were pissed.

I wondered if he meant the highway patrol, prison, or me and him. Thinking about what it must have been like for him during the rest of his prison term made me nauseous. Neither Jack nor I said anything for several minutes. At mile marker 109 Jack slowed down.

"There he is," Jack said as we approached a truck on the side of the road with a highway patrol car behind it. We both looked at the two men sitting in the patrol car as we passed. Jack looked in his rearview mirror as he slowly mashed down on the gas pedal. He picked up his CB mouthpiece and pushed on the breaker bar.

"Breaker one two, breaker one two. This is the White Elephant northeast bound on 44. We just passed a bull sticking it to an eighteener. They're at marker 110, so watch your tails. Anyone coming out of Springfield? Over."

"Yeah breaker, you got the Road Hog here," a voice said over the CB. "You got a clean shot. Join the stampede. Over and out."

Jack pushed down the bar. "Thank you Road Hog. White Elephant signing off."
Jack hung the mouthpiece beside the CB and picked up a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes on the dash in front of the steering wheel. He jerked the pack toward his mouth twice before a cigarette popped out about an inch. He pulled the cigarette out with his lips and offered the pack to me.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

He tossed the pack onto the dash and picked up the lighter on the seat between us.

"Good for you," he said as he flipped his wrist, sending the lighter lid back on its hinges. He fired up the cigarette and took a big drag, holding the smoke in momentarily as he flicked the lighter's lid over the burning flame and dropped it back onto the seat. He blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth toward the open window.

"Have you ever smoked?"

"No, not really. When I was seven, a friend and I found a pack of cigarettes under the front porch. The cigarettes were so old that the paper had turned yellow. We smoked the whole pack, and I got sicker than a dog." We both laughed.

"When did you start smoking?"

"At ten, but I didn't really get into it until I hit twelve or thirteen.” He blew more smoke toward the window. "By the time I turned fifteen, I smoked a pack a day or more. I made it to three packs a day last year, but I'm down to about a pack a day now—maybe a little more."

"You trying to quit?"

"Naaaaw, just cutting back some. I like it too much to quit."

I asked Jack about life as a trucker. He told me he owned his own truck before going to the pen. He’d been out for two years and wanted to buy another truck. He lived in Oklahoma City. He planned to leave his station wagon in St. Louis and drive a truck to Florida, and then make runs up and down the East Coast for several weeks before returning. Jack always had one ear on the CB, and on several occasions he started to pick up the mouthpiece for a breaker, but someone beat him to it. We had probably been talking 15 minutes when we were interrupted.

"Breaker one two, breaker one two. Anyone got a southwest weather report out there? Over."

Jack picked up the mouthpiece. "You got a taker breaker. This is the White Elephant stampeding northeast. We passed a bull that penned an eighteen-wheeler at marker one ten. Keep your ears on. Over."

"Roger, White Elephant. Saw a bull working just south of Springfield, otherwise she's all clear. This is the Chrome Wheeler over and out."

Jack pushed on the mouthpiece bar again.

"Come back Chrome Wheeler, over."

"You got me listening, over."

"Are you the Chrome Wheeler from Atlanta? Over."

After several seconds of silence, the voice came back on.

"Might be. Who's wanting to know? Over."

"The Sidewinder Lounge in Houston. Ring any bells?"

This time laughter filled the CB before the voice spoke again.

"I know the place. Who is this?"

"Cowpoke John—you no good scoundrel. How's Diane and Cindy?"

"Well I'll be damned," the voice said sounding excited, "I heard about your trouble, but never heard the outcome. How the hell are you?"

"Still alive and kicking. What's your twenty?"

"Marker one thirty-nine."

"We just passed you. I might be at the Sidewinder in a month or two. How about you? Over."

"I'll be there on my return run this trip. I'll leave a message for you. Over."

"Roger. Are the girls still there? Over."

"Diane is, but Cindy got married. Diane asks about you every time I see her. Over."

"Oh? And how often is that? Over."

All of a sudden the CB blasted with music. The blaring country song lasted at least five seconds.

"Who's the asshole?" Jack blurted into his mouthpiece.

Again loud singing came on over the CB, but this time for 15 to 20 seconds. As soon as the music stopped, Jack's friend spoke.

"I'll leave a message at the Sidewinder. Whoever the jerk is, screw you. Over and out."

Jack picked up his mouthpiece and pushed down on the bar.

"Who's the smart ass, and what's your problem? Over."

Only a static hiss came through the CB.

"Whoever you are,” Jack continued, “your mama sucks a big one and must have done it with a moron before shitting you out. Over and out." Jack hung up the mouthpiece. "That cocksucker."

After a few seconds of silence, a voice spoke over the CB. "You got a big mouth buddy. Stuff it or back it up."

Jack quickly picked up the mouthpiece and pressed down the bar.

"Are you the radio asshole?" Jack released his bar.

"You needed stuffing," the man said.

Jack pushed down the bar again and spoke.

"Why don't we finish this discussion man to man. I just passed marker 146. I'll be waiting for you at 147, unless of course your papa was a rooster, and your mama a hen—making you a chicken shit. Over and out."

Several seconds passed before the guy answered.

"I'll be there in five minutes, over and out."

Jack slowed down. I could see marker 147 in the distance.

"Hey," I said, "the guy's not worth fighting. He's a jerk."

"Yeah, well somebody's got to teach him a lesson."

We pulled onto the shoulder and stopped beside the marker. Jack turned off the engine, and then reached under his seat and pulled out a small handgun. He sucked his stomach in and pulled out his jeans, slipping the barrel and half the gun down his pants. He pulled his t-shirt over it. I sat there stunned.

"What are you doing?"

"You don't think the guy's gonna get out of his truck without a tire jack do you?" A truck went by on the other side, and Jack looked at it.

"You can't just shoot the guy."

"Huh," Jack grunted and looked at me. "That's his tough luck for being an asshole."

"It's not worth it!" Jack glared at me as if I excused the trucker’s actions. "Let's forget it and keep going."

Jack put his hands on the steering wheel and looked straight ahead. A truck approached. Maybe I imagined it, but the truck seemed to be slowing down. Jack watched the truck. The situation seemed ludicrous. In minutes a man could be dead beside the interstate for putting his CB mouthpiece up to a blaring radio. I thought about the trucker and thought to myself, if you have any sense mister, don't stop. Then I realized I would be a witness to the shooting and probably the only person who could positively identify Jack.

Jack reminded me of Mike, a hitchhiker I picked up while returning from Kansas City to the University shortly before my divorce papers were signed. He too had a quick temper. He climbed into my car with only a small rucksack. He also had recently broken up with his wife after she left him for someone else. When I told Mike about my situation, he called Melanie a fucking bitch and said I was lucky to be rid of her. For some reason, his words made me feel better. Although it had been several months since she moved in with her boyfriend, I told Mike I had gotten over it and intended to stop by and see her the next day.

“I want to return a pair of Melanie’s earrings that I found in my glove box,” I said.

I lived in an apartment complex several blocks from the small house Melanie and her boyfriend were renting. A friend told me where they lived. On several occasions, I thought about stopping by their home. After finding Melanie’s earrings in my glove box, I had a great excuse to visit. I planned to drop off the earrings, wish them well and let Melanie know I felt fine, even though that was a big lie. I hoped to find Melanie sorry she had left me, and her boyfriend mistreating her.

“You should smash the earrings first and then give them to her,” Mike said.
We arrived in Columbia after 10 p.m., so I offered Mike my couch to crash on. He accepted. The next day, with the sun shining, the temperature reached 50 degrees by noon.

"It's a good day to hitchhike," I finally said to Mike, expecting him to take the hint to leave.

"Are you going to see your wife today?"

It sounded strange to hear him call Melanie my wife.

"I thought I would."

"Can I come along?"

"Why?" I asked, thinking his request odd.

"Oh, just to keep you company."

"Suit yourself." I glanced at my watch. "Might as well go now. It's almost one o’clock."

I went to my room and took Melanie's earrings out of my top dresser drawer. They were my last physical link to Melanie. I had burned all of her pictures during one of my drunken stupors. As Mike and I approached Melanie’s house, grave doubts about this visit surfaced. Despite the air’s cool temperature, I felt extremely warm, my hands clammy. A knot twisted in my stomach. My breaths became shore and erratic. If alone, I would have gone back to my apartment, but Mike walked briskly and determinedly, so I kept pace with him.

When we climbed the steps to the front porch, I could feel my heart pounding. Other than talking over the phone a few times, Melanie and I had not seen each other since she moved into the house with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend's blue Chevy Nova Super Sport sat by the curb. I rapped on the storm door and looked back toward the street, hoping they were out for a walk.

No one answered the door. "I don't think they're home."

"I thought I heard something," Mike said. He opened the storm door and knocked on the inside window, then let the aluminum door shut. "Here comes someone."

I turned around to see Melanie opening the door. My heart leaped in my chest. "Bryce," she said reluctantly from the other side of the storm door. "How are you?"

"Fine," I replied, half dazed from seeing her. I felt awkward and embarrassed. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello."

She hesitated a brief moment, and then pushed open the storm door. "Come on in."

"This is a friend of mine," I said, gesturing toward Mike as we entered the hallway. "Mike, this is Melanie."

Melanie said hello, and Mike nodded his head.

"Is your boyfriend here?" Hearing myself ask that question made me realize what a bizarre visit this was. I had just asked my wife about her boyfriend.

"No. He walked to the store."

Melanie turned and entered their small living room. "Have a seat if you'd like. I can only talk a few minutes. I have to go to the hospital to finish up some things I didn’t get to last week." She sat down on the couch and looked at me. "You're looking good."

"So are you," I responded, sitting beside her. Mike sat in a chair across from us. "Is everything going okay?"

"Yeah,” she said, “it's going fine. We’ve had some trouble with Dan's car, but other than that, things are good."

Dan. It was the first time I had heard his name. He had just become more real. I felt sad about the way she casually used his name with the pronoun “we.”

"You've got a nice little cozy home," Mike said sarcastically as he stood up. "Yes, a nice cozy nest. What’s this?" He abruptly strutted over to the wall and looked at a large sword in a sheath hanging horizontally between two nails. "Is it real?"

Melanie looked toward the kitchen, and then looked at me. "Yes, it's real," she responded in a flat voice. I could feel her apprehension and nervousness.

Mike reached up and took the sword down. He withdrew the sword from its sheath.

"Mike," I said, "I think you should put the sword back where it was."
He dropped the sheath on the carpet.

"I'm not going to break it. I just want to check it out." He felt the blade. "It's even sharp."

He grasped the sword handle with both hands and pointed it toward the wall. Then he turned slowly until the sword's tip pointed straight at Melanie. Her breathing became shallow and erratic. Her eyes opened wide. She glanced toward the kitchen. I assumed she saw it as a possible escape route. Then she looked at me.

I stood up. "Mike, please put the sword back."

Mike smiled and took several steps back. He raised the sword as if blocking another sword being swung at him. He then twirled once with the sword held close to his body. When he stopped, he quickly thrust the sword forward as he bent his knees slightly and screamed, “Ya!” The tip of the blade stopped three feet from Melanie’s head. She looked at me, her eyes imploring me to stop this crazy man. After a slight pause, Mike’s malicious stare changed to a satisfied grin.

"This thing's pretty heavy," he said, lowering the blade as he looked at it. "I wonder if it's ever been used to kill someone. That’s why they make swords, you know."

He stared at Melanie as he slowly stooped down and picked up the sheath off the floor and slipped the sword into it. He hung it back on the nails sticking out of the wall, but now it hung crooked.

Melanie stood up. "Bryce, I really need to get ready for work. Maybe you can come back some other time."

"Yeah," I said, rising and moving toward the hallway. "I should have called before stopping by." I entered the hallway, walked to the front door and opened it. Melanie stood behind me, but Mike hadn't entered the hall yet. "Mike?"

A moment later, Mike quickly walked past both of us and pushed the storm door open, holding it for me.

I looked at Melanie. "See ya."

"You take care, Bryce."

Mike and I walked across the yard to the street.

"Shit," I said. "I forgot to give Melanie her earrings."

I spun around and ran across the brown lawn and leaped over the three steps to the porch. I knocked on the storm door hard, and then turned around to see if Mike had followed me. He stood on the lawn near the street. I heard the inside door open and turned around just in time to see a long-haired man throw open the storm door and lunge at me. His hands hit my chest and knocked me backward, causing me to spin and jump off the porch. I landed on my feet before falling down to my hands and knees. I stood up and turned around to see him still coming at me. He was several inches taller than me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" he said as he shoved me again. I stumbled backward several steps. "You come into my home acting like an ass and scaring Melanie. Who the hell do you think you are?"

He pushed me another time, and I floundered backward once more. His charge caught me by surprise.

"I happen to be the man who's married to the woman in that house."

"I don't give a shit." His hands slammed into my chest again as I backpedaled to keep my balance. "You have no right to come on my property. So get out of here before I kick your ass!"

Mike, who had been waiting by the street when I went to the door, suddenly moved swiftly past me and smashed his open hands into Melanie’s boyfriend’s chest, causing him to stumble backward.

"Come on you big mother fucker!" Mike screamed at the top of his lungs. "I'm on your property. What the hell you going to do about it?" Mike shoved him again. "You want to fight? I'll give you a fight you fucking bastard."

It was really weird seeing Mike, who was at least four or five inches shorter than Melanie's boyfriend, aggressively pushing the guy across his yard. The whole thing happened so fast I just stood there and watched.

Mike lunged into him again as he yelled loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. "Come on you mother fucker! Take your best shot, because I'm going to kill you, you fucking asshole! You hear me? I'm going to kill you!"

I had no doubt that Mike meant it. You could hear it in his voice. Whatever hostilities he held during his own breakup were emerging full force. Melanie's boyfriend must have realized he faced a lunatic. Stunned, he showed no aggressive behavior toward Mike. If he had, I’m sure Mike would have unleashed all of his rage. I rushed over and got between them.

"Mike," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders. "Take it easy."

"What do you mean take it easy," Mike yelled, keeping his eyes on Melanie's boyfriend as I back-pedaled to keep him from getting past me. "This son of a bitch doesn't deserve to live, so I'm going to kill the mother fucker! You hear me?" he screamed once again, looking at Melanie's boyfriend. "I'm going to kill you!"

"No one's going to kill anybody," I said, putting my arms around Mike and moving him off to one side. "Please go back to the apartment." Mike's eyes were glaring at Melanie's boyfriend. "Please, go on back, okay?"

"But what about this fucking bastard?" Mike bellowed loudly.

I guided Mike across the yard toward my apartment. He kept his eyes on Melanie's boyfriend. I tightened my grip on Mike and continued walking. I glanced back to see Melanie standing beside her boyfriend, their house behind them. Sorrow wrenched my gut. That should have been me standing there.

"Please go,” I said to Mike. “I'll be along in a few minutes, okay?"

Mike nodded, and I released my grip on him. He walked to the street, and then stopped to look back. He pointed his index finger at Melanie and her boyfriend; then raised his thumb to simulate a gun. His hand lifted twice as if he had fired two shots. He gave a sneering grin before turning around and heading down the street.

I turned and walked to Melanie and her boyfriend.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to turn out as it did. I really didn't."

Melanie looked at me. "Bryce, who is that?"

"He's a hitchhiker I picked up on my way back from Kansas City. He crashed on my couch last night."

I forced my hand toward Melanie's boyfriend. "I didn't come here to cause trouble. I guess we've never really been introduced."

"Dan," he said as he took my hand and shook it.

We heard the squeal of car wheels and looked up to see two police cars speeding toward us. The cars stopped as close to us as they could without driving on the lawn. Both officers got out of their cars.

"Is everything okay here?" one officer asked as both walked in our direction.

"Everything's fine officer," I spoke up. "The person who got upset is gone."

"Who?" asked the second officer.

"A friend of mine. We had him calmed down before he left."

"What's his name?" the first officer asked.

"Mike."

"Mike who?"

"Mike Caldwell."

"Where did he go?"

"Back to my apartment. He's visiting me."

"Which way did he go?"

I pointed toward the side street. "Down that road."

"And where do you live?"

"In the Greensboro apartment complex."

The officer doing most of the talking looked at Melanie. "Is everything all right?"

"We're fine officer. Thanks for stopping."

Her reply made me wonder if she had called the police. The officer nodded his head. He stared at us as he walked to the squad car.

"You folks enjoy the rest of the day," he said.

The officers got in their cars and sped down the side street in the direction Mike took.

"Looks like they're going to pay your friend a visit," Dan said with a tinge of sarcasm and satisfaction in his voice.

It’s lucky for you, I thought, that I didn’t let him break your neck. I reached into my pocket.

"Here, Melanie. This is why I came over in the first place." I handed her the earrings. "They were in my glove compartment. I'm truly sorry," I said again, looking at both of them. "If I had know this was going to happen, I would never have come by."

Between the cops and my apology, Dan had calmed down considerably.

"Look," Melanie said, "why don't you come in for a little while. I really do have to go to work soon, but we can visit for a few minutes."

We went inside and sat in the living room. The sword still hung crooked on the wall. Dan and Melanie sat on the couch. I sat in an armchair across from them. Dan moved slightly as if he were going to put his arm around Melanie, but then changed his mind. The scene seemed surreal and downright weird. Here I sat in the house of my wife’s boyfriend, when months earlier this woman and I were sleeping together in our apartment. And just 18 months before, we walked down the aisle—she in her long white gown and me in my tux—and we vowed to honor and cherish one another for a lifetime.

Melanie spoke first. “You should be careful about who you let stay at your apartment, Bryce. That guy’s crazy.”

“I didn’t plan on him coming with me, but he insisted on tagging along.”

“Just the same, picking up hitchhikers can be dangerous. You never know.”

Her concern for my well-being seemed ironic considering her lack of concern over my distraught emotional state during the past several months.

“So you’re a painter, Dan?” I asked, looking at the paintings on the wall and wanting to change the topic.

“I’m learning,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “I have a studio upstairs, but it’s hard to find time to paint much.”

One painting exhibited a landscape with mountains and a lake, while the other a nude portrait. Both were a bit blurry for my taste, and the colors far too dark. I felt impelled to say something.

“It’ll work out,” I said at last, trying to muster up some enthusiasm in my voice. “Just keep at it.”

“Thanks.” After a lengthy pause, he finally said, “Look, I didn’t plan any of this. It just sort of happened.”

Of course, I knew what he meant, but just the same I asked, “What’s that?”
“You know. Melanie and me.”

I could feel my body heating up and my anger rising. I recalled Melanie telling me that during their first few conversations he had told her about his past girlfriends and the problems they experienced. It seemed to me a rather intimate thing to be telling another man’s wife.

“Why did you lay all that shit on Melanie about your past girlfriends?”

Dan looked at Melanie. He obviously expected those conversations to remain private. Melanie curled her lips inside her mouth and slightly shrugged her shoulders.

I stood up, unsure I could contain my anger. “I need to go.”

They both got up as I headed toward the door. I opened the front door and turned to face them. "Bye Melanie." I pushed open the storm door, my stomach queasy.

“Take care of yourself,” Melanie said.

I turned my head and looked at her. “I will. So long.”

Jack kept his eyes focused on the approaching truck. Two cars zoomed by in the lanes beside us. I looked away from the approaching truck to the flatlands of Oklahoma on my right and silently prayed. "God, don't let the guy stop." I closed my eyes momentarily, and then turned my head and glanced over at the truck passing on the other side of the highway. Jack still had his hands on the wheel, but he too glared at the truck driver. The driver looked at us, and then turned his head forward. Jack followed the truck with his eyes.

A truck and several more cars whizzed by us on our side of the road before it hit me. What if the trucker is going our way? He might pull in behind us any second. I glanced through the rear window, but saw no trucks in sight.

After sitting in silence for two or three minutes, I finally said, "Whoever the jerk is, he's not going stop. People like that are tough over the radio, but when it comes down to it, they're cowards."

After a long pause, Jack replied, "You're probably right." He leaned back, pulled the gun from his pants and slipped it back under the seat. He started the station wagon’s engine and put it in gear. As Jack eased out onto the turnpike, he spoke again in a monotone voice.

"The guy’s probably laughing at us for stopping." Jack reached down to the CB and clicked it off. As the car gained speed, he looked over at me with a big grin—the twinkle returning to his eyes. "I bet you've never experienced something like that, huh?"

I let out a breath. "It’s a first, that's for sure."

Jack laughed. "You can relax. It's over."

He gave a light slap to my arm. Jack—a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—one moment ready to kill, the next moment happy and carefree.

"I need to control my temper," he said. "Sometimes it gets the best of me, or maybe I should say the worst of me."

"Would you have shot the guy?"

Jack curled up his lower lip and raised his eyebrows before he turned and looked at me. His jaw dropped. The lines on his forehead stood out. "Probably," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. He turned to face the road ahead of him. "I don't feel like shooting the guy right now, but I did then. He still needs to have his balls kicked in. Hey, are you hungry?"

A billboard sign announced gas and food at the next turn. Before I could answer, Jack spoke again.

"Hamburger, fries and a shake—my treat. What do you say?"

"Sounds great."

After our meal, Jack dropped me off at Interstate 44 and Bypass 65 where we wished each other well. I walked the remaining three miles to my brother’s home. No one answered when I knocked on the door, so I headed around to the secluded backyard bordering a golf course. I set my gear down next to his pool, and then pulled off my hiking boots and socks to let my feet rest on the refreshingly cool tile. Within seconds, I ripped off the sweaty white t-shirt and soiled blue jeans and dove into the swimming pool’s placid water. The cool wetness tingled as it flowed over my skin.

Breaking through the pool’s surface, I squirted water out my mouth and looked up at the huge oak limbs hanging above the pool. How fast things can change, I thought, as I floated on my back. One minute I’m a hot, sweaty, stinking bearded vagabond lugging a heavy backpack and toting a guitar, and the next minute I’m buck naked floating in a clear, cool, chlorinated swimming pool in an affluent and secluded neighborhood. I thought back to the previous year when my journey began from Columbia, Missouri.

To order a copy of Close Calls: Narrow Escapes Living on the Road, go to www.bryceyarborough.com or www.authorhouse.com. The book also can be ordered from most major bookstores including Barnes and Noble, Borders and Amazon.com.