Little Rock
The face in the fly-specked mirror was a hard one, shaped even meaner by the rusty room. The smell of stagnant humidity lingered behind the stinking mixture of excrement and paper that filled the mineral stained toilet in the graffiti scratched stall, a literal shit-hole. Cyrus Bohannon had recently added his own bloody shat to the odorous pile in the bowl, carefully hovering himself overtop, so as not to touch his ass to the filthy seat.
“Perfect! No hot water!” Cyrus shaved with the tepid water dribbling over his cheap, pink, “toss-away” plastic razor. His toothbrush was in his pocket. He did not pull it out, afraid that somehow the putrid air might carry the shit smell into its bristles. He was successful in washing the sweat from his skin, and from his face, but he could not scrub the red, nor the tired from his eyes. Cyrus Bohannon’s life smelled about like this cankerous Arkansas highway rest stop.
Cy reached into his other pocket, the one without the toothbrush. He removed a clear sandwich baggy from it, the baggie’s bottom a rainbow of colorful pills. He deftly split one of the capsules in two with his right hand before pouring the powdered contents of each half into the hollow at the base of his left thumb and index finger, then he tossed the empty halves into the sink’s trickle. Lastly, Cyrus Bohannon lowered his face into the powder and inhaled deeply, feeling it burn as it sucked through his nostrils. Soon came the familiar acidic drip down the back of his throat that preceded the rush.
The sun was bright upon re-entering the world. Cyrus squinted into it, using a hand to shield his red-rimmed eyes. His boot heels were worn down on the outside edges, giving him an uncomfortable looking, bow-legged stride, or maybe that was the hemorrhoids, it would be hard to guess between them if one were to try.
Cy climbed onto the fuel tank, grabbing for the grimy Stuckey’s bag he had shoved between the rig’s seats. There were picnic tables close by the toilets, but Cyrus did not care for company, so he found a shaded curb near the rig where he lowered himself gently down to the concrete. He gripped the greasy bag with shaking hands, not really hungry, but knowing that he needed to eat. That was the problem with the speed, you never felt hungry. Cy closed his eyes for just a few seconds. On the highway behind him the hum of tires, and the roar of the “Big-Rigs”, zipped along with frequent, and soothing irregularity, lulling him despite the jittery-tingle of the pills.
He closed his eyes. In a brief, but vivid dream snow fell, and the Freightliner slid down Monteagle while Cy held tight to the wheel. The air-brakes whined a lonely whine, a high-pitched and hungry whine just before the crash. Cy lay dead in the twisted metal, but he couldn’t be dead. He could feel the heat of the day, and the weight of the crushed door pressing against his thigh. He could still hear the whoosh of the passing cars on the highway. He squeezed his eyes tighter, wishing to be dead. But the cab door moved against his thigh, and then it pressed on him again. Strange? Reluctantly, the “dead” being peaceful, Cy opened his eyes.
It wasn’t the door of the cab pressing against his leg in a dream. It was a damned dog that had crawled its way up beside him while he napped, a damned flea-bag stray! Cy “shoo-ed”it. The dog took a wary step away, its back arched, but it did not go. Instead, it whined. The same whine as the air-brakes in his dream. Cy “shoo-ed” again, and the dog took another step away. Now Cy could get a good look. A mutt, spotted brown and white like a Holstein cow, long eared and long tongued. Ugly. That was one ugly dog! The dog took a circle, sitting itself down on Cyrus’ other side, leaning hard against his right thigh this time.
“Shoo, dog, “he hollered! Once again the dog stepped off, but not away. Instead it stretched its nose toward the Stuckey’s bag, eyebrows high and hopeful. Cy noted then how thin it was, even for a dog. He pulled the burger from the bag. The dog sat. Cy put the burger back in the bag, and the dog stood. He took it from the bag again, “hooting” as the dog sat once more. “Well, how about that?” Cy didn’t even realize in his excitement that he was speaking aloud. Cyrus unwrapped the burger, smiling as the dog sat. He took a bite. Nothing from the dog, not even a whimper. Cyrus pulled the patty from between the buns and tossed it at the dog, who promptly snagged it out of the air and smacked it down. “Whooeee! I reckon you are a smart dog!” Cyrus took out the french fries next, and tossed them one-by-one at the cur, who yanked each one from the air and smacked them down, just as it had the meat patty.
Fries gone, Cyrus wadded up the bag. The dog sat. “That,” Cyrus thought aloud, “is really something! I reckon she knows just when to sit. That is a smart bitch, ain’t it now?”
Cy grabbed at the air, pulling himself up from the curb. The dog stood as well. Cyrus limped his way towards the Freightliner, the dog limping along behind. A mini-van sailed by, its children waving at Cyrus and the dog through its opened windows. Cy found himself waving back. He wasn’t sure which was more noteworthy, children waving at him, or him waving back.
Cy climbed into the cab, settling his hemorrhoids into the warn cloth of the freightliner’s seat. The big diesel roared beneath his boots, shaking the cab like an atmospheric re-entry. The dog sat hopefully outside, looking up at the driver’s door. The brakes hissed, the gears ground, and the big rig shuddered forward fifty slow feet before the brakes hissed again, lurching the rig to a stop. The man climbed back down, and gestured to the dog, who dropped her ears, and trotted forward.
At sixty-four years of age Cyrus Bohannon finally caught a break. He found his luck in Little Rock, so that’s what he called her. And so that everyone would know, he painted it beside the Queen of Hearts on the sides of his cab:
Cyrus Bohannon
Owner/ Operator
Me and My “Little Rock”
