banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate.
“Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were
somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my
blind spot for a half hour.”
A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and
pickups.
Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that
was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned
near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static.
“Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this
hothead down?” The voice gave its location.
Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete
pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked
their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer
than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.”
“I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored
Kenworth a few cars ahead.
When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn
shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the
Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side,
blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth,
braked, honked again.
“How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said,
with a deep laugh.
“Until he calms down,” Shawn answered.
Five miles later, they let him pass.
The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to
Idaho.
“Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard,
“back three work.”
—THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel.
Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning
himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named Sadie, who was