Thirty Seven

June 16, 1974 Father’s Day 4 pm

Once buckled up, I introduced myself.

“I’m Kozak.” I said.  After enduring Tim, I’d decided to use the handle Kozak for the remainder of the trip. My nom de guerre. “Kozak” I said again.

The driver did not respond. Thirty seconds later, speaking to the windshield, he muttered, “Mike.”

“Mike. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the lift. Where you headed?”  I asked

“East.”

Not a jolly fellow this Mike, but that was fine. It was understandable that he wouldn’t want to let me know how far east he was going in case I turned out to be difficult.   

Mike did not say much in the first fifteen minutes of the ride. I thought he would be a quiet guy and I would be riding in silence.  A quiet guy after rat-a-tat-tat-100-words-of-nonsense-a-minute Tim would be welcome.  

However, Mike turned out not to be quiet.  He had a good deal to say and what he had to say he directed at the windshield.  Occasionally, but rarely, he’d turn his head to look at me.   Usually to emphasize a point. Mike would opine for a spell, then there’d be a few minutes of silence and then he would start up again either elaborating on a prior topic or beginning a new one. Not a lot of volume. He spoke in a monotone. A regular pattern of stopping and starting excoriating everyone and everything.

It did not take many Mike comments for me to realize that this guy was a bad egg--a bona fide sourpuss. No smile, staring ahead as if he was perpetually thinking of incidents when someone had done him wrong.  Wire rimmed glasses which he regularly pushed up after they had slid down his smashed nose. Dandruffed straight brown hair.  

Mike railed against ethnic groups; other truckers who “couldn’t drive worth shit”; state troopers; politicians; and members of his family. He vowed revenge for one affront or another. At the end of a rant, he’d blurt a refrain. “They’ll pay” or “They’ll get theirs” or “That’ll be fixed” or “In due time.”

I learned that Mike’s mother died when he was ten; his father abandoned the two kids and “dumped us off on his alcoholic brother.” He spoke at length about how family members had done him wrong.  I tuned out for some of it as it became repetitive but caught key parts. Mike had a particular antipathy for his sister whom, he said, he’d raised.  

“I raised my kid sister myself.” He said. “What does she do?” Long pause. “She goes and marries a spic, has spic children with spic names who smell like spics.” Another long pause.  “She comes home one day.” He shakes his head from side to side several times.  “Comes home one day with a tattoo on her arm.  Right here.” Mike pauses to put a finger on his right bicep and jab at it. “Right here.” he says again.  He looks at me for emphasis.  “Pedro, it says.  Pedro.”  He turns to the windshield and continues, “Pedro.  A tattoo on her arm that says Pedro.  She has a kid.  Names the spic kid Pedro. Probably too stupid to think up a new name. Like one Pedro Gonzales is not enough.” A grunt.  “In due time.”

After criticizing the sister, Mike waited a few minutes and then started in on his ex, “a worthless cunt if there ever was one.”  Mike, he said, worked his “ass to the bone, while she did nothing.  Nothing. Nothing.”  Long pause. “One day I come back from a haul and she has cleared out. Taken everything. Leaves a toaster and some silverware.” Another pause before he mutters, “She’ll pay.”

“Actually” he said, “She paid.” Mike emphasizes the past tense. “She paid” he says again. “The Statue of Limitations will be over on that soon.”

Did this whining grump really say ‘Statue’ of Limitations?

“Statue of Limitations?” I say.

“Statue of Limitations is almost over.” He nods his head to the windshield with a smirk. 

Despite his surly behavior and his antipathy for everyone and everything, Mike claims that he has a lover in Santa Rosa that he may stop to see.  There is, I discover, a Santa Rosa, New Mexico about an hour and 45 minutes from Albuquerque.  If he drops me off there, I would have gotten a ride of nearly 250 miles.  Not a bad lift.

However, Mike adds that he may not stop in Santa Rosa because he has another lover in Amarillo and yet another one in Oklahoma City, and still another in St. Louis. So, it may be unnecessary to clean his pipes in Santa Rosa, because there are several others down the road. 

Another Romeo. 

How many of the people have I met on this trip who claim to be irresistible? 

I can’t believe Mike has a single lover, let alone the string he claims to have along his route.  He certainly is no charmer and, also, not much of a looker. His nose is all busted up.  There are other marks on his face. My guess is that he has gotten into brawls because of his sweet personality. And there is not much to him from what I can see in profile.  A good sneeze will send the guy out the driver’s door. I can’t see women waiting for his truck’s arrival.

“Kozak you said your name is?” he asked. 

“Right, Kozak.”

“Polack?”

“Polack” I say. 

“You don’t look stupid.”  Mike thinks this is very funny.  Laughing and Mike do not go together, but this quip he believes is a scream.  His mouth doesn’t open. It’s as if the laughter is jailed inside his jaw. His tight lips tremble. There is some tearing on the one eye I can see in profile.

“Both grandparents came from Poland.”  I say evenly.

“Too bad.” This is not as funny to Mike as his prior comment but it’s worth a derisive snicker.

“You’re Okay, Kozak.  Couldn’t tell at first.   There’s a truck stop in Albuquerque.  We’ll get something to eat there and clean up.”

We’d get to Albuquerque around 7.  Assuming a return to the road at 830, we would be at lover number 1 in Santa Rosa around 1030.  A good time for his tryst. Sure.

The truck stop in Albuquerque was no ordinary rest area. It was reserved for truckers, had lockers and showers for drivers, and a conventional dining room.  The stop was also a place where a trucker could get vehicles serviced.  Mike pulled into what looked like a huge service station.  I went with him when he talked to an attendant.  He arranged for the oil to be changed and other servicing.  I saw him fill out a form and sign his name. I made a note of his signature and a few other bits of information he’d put on the form.

We were told that it’d be two hours before the truck would be ready. In the meantime, Mike told me he’d “shower up for Santa Rosa.”   He threw me a quarter.  “Hey” he said, “you could use a shower yourself. Follow me.”

I was not surprised to learn that I was ripe. I’d been out in the heat and in and out of a dozen cars since I left UCLA two days earlier.  Still, it seemed odd that Mike who in general did not appear to be a generous sort, would pay for my shower.  I told him I didn’t need his quarter, but a shower would not be a bad idea.  He nodded and took the quarter back.  I used my own change to pay for what turned out to be a wonderful shower. I soaped up, let the hot water cascade down my body, and felt much better when I emerged.   

When I finished, I met up with Mike in the dining room.  A waiter came by and deposited menus.  Mike did not even look at his. When the waiter returned, Mike stared straight ahead.   "Steak and eggs." he said. "Steak rare. If it's not rare I'll send it back."  When the waiter left, Mike grunted. "Always get steak and eggs. Been coming here every haul for years. Had this waiter a dozen times. Dumb ass doesn't know I get steak and eggs."

The meal was surprisingly good and inexpensive. The downside was that I had to endure more venting from Mike.  More shots at his sister and ex-wife.  A couple of pokes at his “every day drunk” uncle. A swipe or two at ethnic groups.   

Over dessert, Mike opened up about where he was headed. He told me this haul would terminate in Stroudsburg. He also said that he grew up in Scranton about an hour away from where he would deposit the truck.  His ex and sister still live in the Scranton area.  His own home base was not far from Scranton.  

He pushed back from the table and lit up a cigarette. Probably the tenth cigarette he’d lit up since I made his acquaintance.  Mike took a deep drag and then blew the smoke up into the air. He stared at me across the table.

“After I drop the rig off, before I go home, going to take care of things in Scranton.” He nods his head a couple of times. “It’s time. It’s time.”  Another nod or two and a pause. He leans toward me. “It won’t be the first time I paid someone back.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans back. “What do you think I mean?”

“Your business” I say.

He leans forward again. “That’s right Kozak. My business. I take care of my business. I have and I will.”  Another drag of the cigarette. Another exhale up into the air.

I don’t say anything. I can tell he is waiting for me to ask about how he has taken care of business. I don’t. He is not discouraged by my silence.    He proceeds to tell me something very dark, something I truly cannot believe. He tells me he has killed women before who have wronged him. 

I look at him without changing the expression on my face. I’m sure this guy is full of crap. 

He describes some particulars: the kind of women he has “made pay”; his m.o.

This bag of damaged goods is bragging about being a killer, trying to impress me. It is not believable. He looks and sounds like Barney Fife’s good for nothing twin. Barney Fife gone bad. Couldn’t graduate from Mayberry High. Got a job driving truck. Has nothing going for him so he is literally and figuratively blowing smoke telling me how he has killed women as if that is a badge of honor.

“You’ve killed women?” I say cynically.

“Damn right. Keep souvenirs.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught?”

He moves his mouth in what passes for a Mike smile. “Statue of Limitations. Think about the way I do it. They can’t identify them and they never find me.”

Again with the statue of limitations. He can’t say it right and doesn’t even know it doesn’t apply to what he claims to have done.  A lover, with ladies panting all over the country, and a killer.  Right. He reclines in his chair, puffs on his cigarette with a smile, exhales above his head.

I don’t for a second buy his baloney, but I do think about not getting back in the truck with him. However, I figure that he has no lover in Santa Rosa or anywhere.  And the guy is going all the way to Stroudsburg which is further east than I need to go. If I can stay one step ahead of this sick jerk—and I think I can=I’ll have a ride nearly all the way home. I’ll just have to get out somewhere east of Youngstown and go North for a short time.

We get back in the cab and drive east.  I have not slept now for close to two days.  It is 9 when we start driving.  Mike says we will arrive in Santa Rosa around 11 and he can’t wait.  I doubt we will be making that stop but regardless I need to sleep.  I am going on two days without any.  I ask him if I can crash on the mattress in the back of the truck until we get to Santa Rosa.  Let him talk to himself about revenge and his sister’s Pedro tattoo.  

Mike surprises me when he says that he could use some sleep himself and will pull off at the next rest stop to snooze for a couple of hours.   This is odd since he claims to be anxious about his date in Santa Rosa. 

“Okay” I say, “I’ll put my sleeping bag on the side of the truck when you stop to sleep.”

“No need to do that” he says, “there’s plenty of room on the mattress for the two of us.”

There isn’t.  His comment alarms me. That mattress is too narrow even for me and a skinny guy like Barney Fife’s twin. I know how wide the mattress is.  I saw it when I tossed my backpack there. Mike maintains that there is plenty of room.  He tells me to go back and sleep and he will join me when we get to the next rest stop.  

Fine, I’ll go back and sleep. But whenever he pulls over, regardless of what he says about enough room, I will get up and out.   

I climb back to the mattress and fall asleep in minutes.  The next thing I know I am jostled awake. Mike has climbed back and is lying right next to me. I am pinned to a side of the cab away from the driver and passenger’s seat. I do not feel good about this. I would have to hop over Mike to get through the curtain, into the cab area and out.  I wait and prepare for an attack of some sort but am happily relieved when the rotten egg conks out.

I fall asleep myself despite being crammed in. I don’t think I am asleep for very long before I hear noises that I have never heard before or since. Mike is thrashing about in his sleep banging the back of the seats in the cab. Banging and kicking as if he is having a horrible nightmare. He is not hitting me but he is alarming me because of this violent movement.  Over and over banging the chairs.  Periodically he emits noises that I can’t decode. It is very wild.

I wait for a moment when he is not moving and quietly step over him.  I get to my chair in front and sit spooked for about twenty minutes.  Then I must have conked out for an hour or two despite whatever thrashing continued. I wake up when I hear Mike growl, step through the curtain, and maneuver into his seat. He asks me why I moved up front.

“There was no room back there, Mike.”  I left out the thrashing.

“Plenty of room Kozak.” He grunted like he was angry.  “Doesn’t matter.  I got to get myself to Santa Rosa to get laid anyway.  Then you’re out of here.”

That scenario was becoming more and more appealing to me.   Mike returned to the highway. About ten minutes later I asked if I could use the bed. He’s on his way to Santa Rosa.  I’ll be alone back there. I need to sleep.

“I’m exhausted Mike.  When we get to Santa Rosa where your girlfriend is, I’ll get out and find a place for the night.” 

This did not seem appealing to Mike. He became even more of a sourpuss, but at that point I did not care. In a short time we’ll be in Santa Rosa and I am done with Mike. I went into the back and quickly crash.

I don’t know how long I was asleep before I was awakened. Mike was again back on the mattress lying next to me.  Like before, I was crammed against the rear of the cab.  What was he doing here?  What time was it? I sensed that it was still night, but I thought it might be close to first light.  

Mike started talking again about his girlfriends here there and everywhere and asking me about mine.  I did not like this conversation and did not offer much in response. What he did next I will remember for as long as I am alive.  With his right-hand palm down, he put his hand between my legs.

“Long time before you see your girl. She like to blow on it?”

The literal answer was that this was an activity to which Becca was not averse, but I knew where we were heading. I leaped over him while shouting No. The jump was an athletic move worthy of some note. I was in the cab of the car and out the door in seconds. 

Where was I? 

It looked like I was in the parking lot of a rest stop of some sort and that dawn was coming on.  I race walked into a bathroom and threw water on my face.

“Did that just happen? Did that just happen?”  I was talking to myself in the mirror. “Look he’s into guys. That is fine. I told him I’m not interested. So we’re square.” I am blabbering, not making sense.

When I came out of the bathroom, I see that there’s not much to this rest area.  There’s a building that is just a rectangular structure, only a bit longer than it is wide. No gas pumps, no cafeteria, no lounge, not even a vending machine.  A men’s room on one side and a women’s room on the other.  That’s it. There is a map hanging on the front of the building. I look at it and am startled to see that we are way past Santa Rosa.  The town I am in is Tucumcari New Mexico, about an hour east of Santa Rosa.

I return to the truck and I see Mike standing outside of it. The sun is making its way up. It is close to 5 am. He has taken my pack and placed it outside the truck.

“This is where you get out. Gotta get my pussy in Santa Rosa.” 

I don’t tell him that I know we passed Santa Rosa 60 miles ago.

“Gonna get your gal in Santa Rosa are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Just like you kill women and keep souvenirs.”

“Just like that.”

“You’re a sick fuck, Mike.”

The scrawny bastard walks around the front of the truck, throws his right hand in the air to give me the finger backhanded, and enters the cab. Once in he leans over and retrieves something from under a seat.  Then Mike lowers the passenger window.  “Take a look Kozak” he says.  And then Barney Fife holds up a knife. A big menacing knife.  “Lucky for you, you don’t have a twat and a tattoo.”

He drives away.  I grab the phone book I’ve carted around during the whole trip and scribble notes on the cover.

I look around. I am standing in a nearly vacant rest stop in the middle of nowhere.  A place a driver would only stop at to use the rest room or sleep.  

For the second consecutive day, I am outside alone in the very early hours of the morning and am trembling.