Tonight I’ve got to go to the truck stop off East 80 because Tommy’s mom kicked me out of her house again, and haven’t eaten for two days except what I stole from the fridge before I left, a half loaf of week-old Wonder bread and an opened can of tuna fish.  I want one of the other boys to go with me, but they keep saying no, except Tommy, who won’t answer my texts because his mom convinced him that this time I really did take her wedding ring, the one from the second husband.  Jimmy says no because the last time, an old dude beat him up and it wasn’t fun anymore.  Rookie says no because the last time he caught something bad, and even though the doctor gave him a shot, it still hurts to pee sometimes.  I don’t like going alone because I feel safer with someone nearby even though we do our own thing and hardly ever see each other once we split up.

But I gotta make some money, so I tell myself there ain’t nothing to worry about, and I’ve done it plenty of times, and by now, I know who the bad ones are.  Rookie taught me the first time that you line up your eyes to Gas Pumps 18 and 19, then make a straight line, and that’s where the truckers who want boys line up.  It’s fuckin’ cold out here tonight, and there are maybe two trucks in my line of sight and probably some kid already working them, so maybe I won’t be eating after all.  But I head out to the dark corner of the lot anyway and pretend I’m just taking a walk and looking around.

I pass the other trucks and wonder if the rest of the drivers know what goes on out here, and I guess they do, but it ain’t their business, and they’re not in the mood to get into it with the other ones anyway.  As I get closer, I see one of the trucks is the Jericho Foods rig, and I remember the big man who rides it because he crammed me into the back of the cab that one time and it really hurt my back.  He can be fucking mean, and I know because Tommy did him once and said the same thing.  So I walk around and hope he don’t see me because I don’t want to deal with him.  I see the other truck is an International Transport one.  I know the driver has to be a loser because there’s nothing the least bit international about a line that carries between New Rochelle, New York and Peoria, Illinois.   

See, I read up on all these different freight lines when I can’t sleep at night, and I can tell the crappy ones from the reputable ones.  My theory is that if the line is decent, then chances are the driver is decent, too.  Okay, maybe not decent, because most of them probably have wives and kids at home, and they’re out sticking their dicks into rentboys and risking bringing home STIs and shit.  No, not decent, but not raving psychotics, either.  The ones from the podunk lines you’ve never heard of, with fancy names that sound nice but are total lies, probably hire whoever will take the job.  They never check their records or test them for amphetamines or anything else.  Those are the ones to be careful of.

“Lookin’ for someone?”

I turn and see a skinny dude behind me lighting a cigarette.  I say nothing, but he offers me a butt and I take one from the pack.  I move closer to let him light it.  In the short flicker of his Bic EZ, I see he’s got a bad haircut and a wrinkly neck with three days of stubble.  I take a drag and lean against the International Transport driver’s side door next to him.  He’s got the body odor of days on the road. 

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t either, and halfway through the cigarette, I decide if he doesn’t make a move soon, I need not to waste time and move on.  I haven’t heard another truck pull up, and I wonder if anyone else will come through tonight.  My stomach starts to growl, and the skinny dude looks at me and asks if I’m hungry.

“I’m always hungry,” I say, and lick my upper lip like Rookie does when he’s acting like a whore.  If this man doesn’t take the bait, I know I’m wasting time and will have to put out for Ole Jericho tonight if I want to eat.

“I got an extra sandwich in the cab,” he says.  “If you want it.”

I nod, knowing this is probably just a way for him to get me up there, but why else did I come here anyway?  Let’s get the job done.  I watch him hoist his skinny ass up to the cab and wait for him to tell me to climb in, but instead, he slides back down and hands me something wrapped in white paper with three letters I can’t make out scrawled on the outside in black marker.

“Ham and Swiss,” he says.

I feel like throwing the fucking thing at him.  I don’t want a damn sandwich; I want him to pay me money to suck his dick or whatever else he wants me to do.  But I don’t get angry.  So I tell him I’ve changed my mind and I’m not hungry after all and thank him for the cigarette and wish him safe travels.  He doesn’t say a word; he just holds the stupid sandwich in his left hand and takes one last drag from his butt.

I walk slowly around the Jericho truck and look up into the dark cab.  I don’t hear anything and can’t tell if he’s in there.  I start to leave when I see him walking toward me, carrying a paper bag.  He’s exactly the way I remember him from before.  He’s wearing the same orange and black plaid shirt;  his sleeves rolled up over his thick hairy arms, his barrel chest and ample belly pushing against the pretty white buttons like he was trying to make them pop off.  I think the scraggly reddish beard is new, or if it ain’t new, it’s grown a lot since last month.  He slows down when he sees me.  He’s got a plastic bottle of Diet Coke in his hand, his stubby thumb curled around the stem like he was choking it.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” he says.  Yeah, that same fucking stone-cold look he gave me the last time.  Some people never change.

“Nothing, sir,” I say, as soft as I can make my voice so he can still hear me.  I look down at my shoes as if I’m guilty of something.

“If you wanna make some money, you’ll have to wait till you’re invited,” he says like he’s some grand stud that can afford to be choosey.

“I understand, sir.”  I remember he liked it when I was meek.  It made him calm down.  But I don’t really understand, and the more I think about it, the more I don’t want this monster on top of me tonight, even if it means not eating.  So I’m thinking now I should’ve kept that sandwich. 

“Hey — hey!” Jericho says, his voice louder as I start walking away.  “Get back here, boy.  You don’t just walk out on me —“

By now, I’ve circled back around the truck and can’t hear him.  I start to make my way toward Gas Pump 18 when I see the skinny dude again, standing outside his rig.  That paper-wrapped sandwich is still in his hand.  He spits out the burning cigarette and stomps on it with the toe of his left boot.  I wonder if he overheard me and Jericho.  I feel embarrassed for some strange reason.

“A hundred bucks,” he says.  “If you’ll ride with me a hundred miles.  That’s it.  You’ll have to get back on your own.”

“Ride with you?  And do what?”

He doesn’t answer.  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a brown billfold.  He shows me the five twenties and nods toward the cab.   

Rookie told me a long time ago that you never, ever go anywhere with a dude, no matter what he says.  Once you leave the truck stop, once he’s behind the wheel, you’re no longer in control.  And you always gotta stay in control, no matter what they make you do.

But Rookie isn’t here tonight, and Skinny Man’s got a hundred bucks and a ham and cheese sandwich, and I need to eat, and I need to make money, and I need to not get stuck bending over for Jericho.  So I get into the cab with him and watch his skinny arms as he turns the key, pulls the shift rod with a hard jerk, and looks over his shoulder to see if anyone’s watching.  As he merges his rig onto the dark freeway, I make myself believe that everything’s okay.  I make myself believe that the sandwich tastes good and that maybe he’ll offer me some water or even a beer if he has any.  I make myself believe that he’s really going to let me out in a hundred miles and pay me a hundred bucks.  And I make myself believe that International Transport isn’t such a ratchet outfit after all.