Mister Ted
…He smelled diesel fuel and dust as he materialized with a groan next to an eighteen-wheeler with a maroon sleeper cab. Behind Three-Rivers was Eddie, MoonBeaver with the ornery squirrel, and a kind-eyed older man with a square head, thick glasses and a white Santa Clause beard. Somehow he did not feel sick like he usually did coming to the present, or insane like he did going to the past. It was cold, but not terribly so; winter somewhere in the Southwest I suppose.
Maybe it’s because Three-Rivers is holding your wrist between his little hands. Maybe he sang a song for you. Wow, I don’t remember anything but classical music from my trip through the corkscrew. That’s weird.
The old man was standing with an amazed look in his eyes and his mouth shaped like an O. Eddie was elbowing him. “See Mister Ted, I told ya Thunder-Boy here was a magician—the best dey is sir. Dis here is Jay-Bone, the dude we shoot out a cannons, drop from sky-scrapers, cut up in boxes, and toss off a waterfalls in a straight jacket.”
Mister Ted was looking at Jay’s naked scarred body on the side of this windswept highway where they were the only souls in sight.
“I see Jay, that Thunder-Boy here honed his skills largely at your expense. You might want to consider a new line of work before he brings you back without something you really want. Here son, I have a change of clothes for you. The pants will have to be tied up and will be high waters, but the shirt should fit you fine. Sorry I don’t have anything for your head.”
What a nice old dude.
Jay handed Three-Rivers the scalps and chuckled as the little seed-eating holy-roller recoiled. Jay then stepped up to the man and shook his hand. “Thank ya Mister Ted, en nice ta meet ya Sir.”
After Jay pulled on the short baggy jeans MoonBeaver tied them around the waist with some lengths of rawhide. Jay liked the kid and rubbed the top of his head before they all climbed up into Mister Ted’s cab. The truck cab was like a small apartment: chair; bunk; cooler; microwave; toaster oven; TV; stereo; and a whole bunch of recorded books on CD. Mister Ted seemed to have a nice life for himself.
That could be you dummy, trucking all week and then coming back to Duty.
They were headed down toward Amarillo Texas on Route 66. Jay spent most of his time asking Mister Ted questions about trucking and how to get into it. Three-Rivers and MoonBeaver were entranced by the landscape, the likes of which they had never seen in their world of mountains, forests and rivers. Three-Rivers said they were racing Tina to a place called MedicinePole.
We’re going to Flagstaff to see Hyacinth and Amble and my girl Tina is up to no good. We better make some tracks.
Mister Ted told him that he would be taking them as far as Albuquerque New Mexico. They had a good ride, talking about trucking and the Old Testament, which Mister Ted listened to a lot.
Just outside of Santa Rosa they were pulling in for lunch when Jay spotted a dozen bikes outside of a roadhouse bar. The bikes all had the distinctive Iron Horde coyote-tails adorning the throttle. Jay was nothing if not impulsive. “Mister Ted it’s been a pleasure. I’m gettin’ off here. Thank ye Sir and be safe.”
He did not even check to see if the others followed, but just walked across the street to where the bikes were lined up on the side of the building. By the time he got to the bikes he could hear them behind him. Three-Rivers tapped him on the shoulder—the kid can actually reach your shoulder now.
When he turned to look at him the boy—he’s a teenager now—had a twinkle in his eyes that he knew was a question, so he answered, “So Squirlboy, how’d you like ta ride ta Flagstaff on one a dese?”
Three-Rivers beamed and began speaking excitedly to MoonBeaver as Mister Ted pulled his horn in the background. Eddie, though, was beside himself. “Oh Hell no! You crazy—ah, yeah, a course you is—or, oh shit. Naw son, you gonna get my ass kilt. You’ll probably ride off whit some bika babe while I gettin’ stomped on the lot Yo! Dis shit is dangerous!”
Good afternoon Brothers.
He put his hand over Eddie’s mouth, took his hat, stretched it over his head, and gave his orders. “Eddie, get the boys, en even dat dang squirrel, ta start lettin’ da air out a dese tires. All except dese four here. The other eight all get flats.”
Eddie was near to tears. “Yo son, why’ja have ta go ruin my two-hundred-dolla pimp-hat Yo? Dat shit is wrong Yo.”
He obeyed though. By the time that he and Eddie walked through the front door of that joint the boys—and the crazy squirrel—had already let the air out of two tires.
Thunder-Boy is now in print and available at amazon.com through the link below:
