Indiana

It had rained all day. Somehow like a witch doctor I had managed to only catch a few painful drops on my knuckles, the only exposed skin. I raced through Indiana like hell fire. Running from the impending doom of clouds full of rain waiting to drench my already cold skin. Real men don't have GPS and up to the minute weather maps tucked away in their pockets. Real men feel a tingle at the back of their neck, look up at the sky and hold their hand steady on the throttle. Barreling down the road without so much as blinking at the approaching thunderstorm. I pulled off HWY 65 to Indianapolis, reached in my pocket and pulled out the warm glowing tablet. Decided to stop at the nearest gas station to fill the tank and seek shelter. On my way in the woman behind the counter smiled at me, but as I pulled my baby away from the pump off to the side I looked up to see three gawking men. Blatantly staring. Eyes burning a hole in my helmet and the look on their ugly faces. I decided to move on, down the street an abandoned gas station. Bombed out building, half the pumps missing and only the awning remains. Missed a call from one of my bosses, the robot company, his familiar voice on the other end of the line. As usual nothing concrete, rumors of future jobs. Possibly one in Mexico? But these guys are always taking, wheeling and dealing. I lost track of whatever happened to Kansas City. I can conduct most of my business from the road. Make appointments, sell stock photos to companies in Stuttgart, edit photographs and search for my next long term gig with a big corporation. Everybody wants to hire local but when they need somebody they just don't care. Back on the highway. Rain to the south and behind me. I can see the clouds, the blue lines extending down to the ground. Roll on the throttle, 80mph, 90mph. Almost to Indianapolis. The wind against my tired chest and neck. Hours of being pummeled constantly by 90 + mph winds. My girl swaying back and forth. I can see a line of black ahead of me. From horizon to horizon nothing but rain. Pull over and check the glow, see what it tells me. A line of storms about 2 hours long, spanning the length of the city like a finger pointing out across the state. I'm done.

At the dinner, truck stop style. I get stares here too but at least these folks seem friendly. I have some time to kill before the rain passes. The sky turning from blue to pink above me but on the horizon armageddon. Sitting at the counter waiting for my burger next to a burly truck driver wearing a red flannel shirt. I'm sure the waitresses flirt with the professional drivers to get more tips. She kept asking him "are you on a dedicated route hun?" Many of them are. Criss crossing the country from end to end. Stopping in the same dinners along the way. More regulars than the locals. "I drive up to New York, down to North Carolina, over to Denver…" " So where's Home?" She asked. "It's in Florida, but I haven't been there in months. Go down to Louisiana to see my daughter." "It must be exciting to travel all the time." "I get so bored, it's like being in prison." But I try not to be so cynical. The young waitress in her own prison behind the counter. Imagining what it would be like to throw down her apron, take this grizzled old man's hand and climb into the cab of his truck and never look back. Waiting for the day when she can't stand one more minute of corned beef and hash and run. Leave her husband sitting back at home, crushed Budweiser cans at his feet watching reruns of the Jerry Springer show. Faded yellow wall paper peeling on the side of the walls that he inherited from his mother. Run. Grab a hold of that red flannel shirt and run. Run.