Chase the Storm (2 page)

Armed with my credit card, the cash frommy drained bank account, a full tank of gas, and a Rand McNally map, I backed out of the parking lot and headed for Route I-90 with absolutely no destination in mind. Shifting into fourth gear, I released the clutch, feeling the truck lag before catching. The engine was so loud I could hardly hear the crackling radio. It was far from the purr of the foreign engines I was used to, the torn interior nothing like the plush leather of my father’s cars. I was nearing fifty-five and the truck was already shimmying; the entire thing vibrated more everymile.

It was the most glorious feelinginthe world.

With both windows down, the breeze swirled through the cab, messing up my hair even more than it already was. Holding the wheelwith one hand, my other dangled out the window, riding the wind as I sang as loud as I could. My phone, buried in my backpack, was off. Somewhere at LoganAirport, there was a plane taking off with an empty seat in first class, and in a few hours, a car would be waiting for me at JFK Airport. I smiled at the image of a frustrated driver calling my mother to check on my flight information. I would eventually call my parents and let them know I was okay, but there was no way in hell I was going to tell them where I was going. I didn’t evenknow.

Day darkened to night, and I kept driving, stopping only to use a bathroom, get food, caffeine, and gas. I was west of Cleveland when the lines on the highway finally began to blur, and I pulled into a rest stop. After finding a bathroomand getting food fromthe vending machines next to the graffiti-covered doors, I got back into the truck and wound the windows up halfway. Bunching up a sweatshirt, I used it as a pillow and stretched out across the seat, resting my feet on the passenger door. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and I’d never slept better.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I finally unzipped my bag and pulled out my phone. Turning it on, I sighed when I saw the missed calls and text messages. I knew eachone was fullofanger, not worry. Pressing the number for my mother, I put the phone to my ear and looked around the rest stop in the daylight. There were a few eighteen-wheelers parked along the side of the lot, and a guy walking his dog in front of a minivan a few spaces over.

“Where the hellare you?”mymother greeted sharply.

“Listen, Mom, I just called to say I’mfine. I’mgoing to see a friend, and I’m staying with him for the summer. I’ll be back in Boston in September,”I lied.

I had no friends to visit and no intention of returning to Boston. For the first time in my life, my day wasn’t planned, ruled by a schedule of classes, appointments, or expectations.

It was a freedomI’d always dreamed of.
“Eli—” She began in that tone she always used to warn me when I was walking that fine line with her, but I interrupted her before she could finish.

“I’llcallyou at the end of the summer, Mom. I’llbe fine, trust me.” I spoke with an uncertain confidence, one that felt unfamiliar but wonderful. “TellDad I’msorry, but I have to do this… and I love youboth.”

That wasn’t a lie. They might not understand me, and I might have questioned how we could possibly share the same DNA, but I did love them, and I was prettysure, intheir ownway, theyloved me too.

I hung up, cutting off her rant before it could start. I knew her perfectly manicured brows were drawn in tight, her painted lips pursed as she debated telling my father what I was really doing. It would be like my mother to whip up a story about a fantastic internship at a business in Boston that had fallen into my lap, too good an opportunity to pass up. Surely my father would understand that. He would never notice that three months went by without a word fromhis son, and if he ever did question it, I was sure my mother would smile and say “Of course, he’s called, but he’s beenso busy, they’ve beenbriefconversations.”

Switching off my phone, I returned it to my bag, pulled out my toothbrush and toothpaste, and got out of the truck. Lifting my arms above my head, I worked out the kinks from the night of cramped sleeping. After visiting the bathroom and washing up, I decided to find some breakfast.

It was time to begin the first day of the rest of my life, and unlike ever before, I was lookingforward to it.

 

Chapter 1

 

“M
OMMAS
,
don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys,”I sangloudly

with the radio. I barely received any stations with clarity, so I reveled in what few songs I could hear, even if they were outdated country. I could have turned it off rather than listen to distorted songs containing more static than lyrics, but I was afraid of the silence. It would give me time to think about what I was doing, to doubt the smartest decision I’d ever made. Unscrewing the cap to my water, I gulped it and wiped the sweat trickling down my face and neck, soaking the collar of my shirt. Apparentlythere was no air conditioningin1965 trucks.

The highway seemed to get longer with every mile, my destination of nowhere farther frommy grasp when I couldn’t go faster than fifty. It was just after noonwhenI saw the signonthe side ofthe road.

Nebraska… the good life. Home of Arbor Day

Arbor Day? I’d been born and raised in a city of eight million, and the entire state of Nebraska’s biggest claim to fame was Arbor Day? Chuckling, I adjusted the radio until the words to the next song became audible throughthe crackling.

The first thing I noticed about Nebraska, besides their Arbor Day bragging rights, was how flat it was. I could see for miles in every direction, although there wasn’t much to see. There were no skyscrapers or crowds, no blaringsirenshell, onlya handfuloftrucks had passed me since I’d crossed the state line. Occasionally, the road expanded to three lanes, other times it was one, but it was straight and lined with nothing but grassyfields and the rare tree.

It was me, the truck, and the openroad.
InLincoln, I stopped for lunch.
InMilford, I stopped for gas.
InKearney, I stopped for a drink and the bathroom.

I think the people who waited on me thought I was high because of the stupid grin I was wearing. I couldn’t get rid of it even if I’d needed to. The feeling was nothing like I’d ever felt before, and while I was totally clueless about where I was going or what the hell I was going to do when I got there, I’d never been happier. Each time I got into my truck, I felt proud. When the engine rattled to life and I pressed the clutch in and gripped the longgearshift, I sighed incontentment.

The truck and I had a partnership. I agreed to give it gas and care for it, and it agreed to take me where I needed to go. Perhaps not in the greatest of style, but I was quickly learning style wasn’t everything. We received some strange looks when I pulled into gas stations or stores: some admired the truck, others laughed, but neither the truck nor I cared.

When I stopped in Ogallala for gas, I overheard people talking about a nearby lake. Daring to approach, I asked themabout it and they gave me directions to Lake McConaughy. Half an hour later, I was checking into a campground and making a bed in the back of the truck. I’d beendrivingfor two days, and the lake was the first thingI’d seenthat wasn’t a paved road or an open field. I spent the night gazing up at the clearest, starriest skyI’d ever seen.

“Sure is beautiful,”I said to myselfbefore fallingsleep. The next morning, I packed up my stuff and used the restroom before leavingthe campground. Sittingat the exit, I debated mychoices.

Turnright, and I would returnto the highwayheadingwest. Turnleft, and I would go north, deeper into Nebraska and God knows where. Picking up my map, I studied the routes. There wasn’t much to the north, only a few towns scattered along Route 61. Continuing on Route 80 would lead me into Wyoming or Colorado. Neither of themsounded any better than northern Nebraska, and I questioned whether or not the truck could handle the Rockies.

“Whaddaya think?” I asked the truck as I leaned on the wheel and looked inbothdirections. “Yeah, me too.”

It was time for the road less traveled.
I turned left.

Beltingout the barelyaudible song, I tapped my hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat. The road was only two lanes with nothing on either side but scattered cows that occasionally morphed into fields of wheat. The waythe stalks moved back and forthina synchronized motion was mesmerizing, and I found myselfpullingover to the side ofthe road to watch it. It wasn’t like I had anywhere to be. My stomach rumbled, and I reached for the bagofsnack mixI kept onthe seat and found it empty.

“Damn,” I complained out loud. “Looks like we need to make a stop soon.”

The partnership between the truck and I worked perfectly until about thirty minutes later. I downshifted into second and felt the truck slow and then sputter before kicking into gear. I was new to driving a standard, pretty much learning on the job, and assumed I’d let the clutch out too soon, but whenI shifted back into third, it did it again.

“Oh, baby, no, no, not now,”I coaxed as it spit and coughed.

I bargained withthe truck to get me to the next townand I would get it looked at. My bartering worked, because soon I was pulling off the road and into Mike’s Gas and Service, complete with rusted tin roof, peeling painted sign, and a tractor sitting out front. Putting the truck into reverse, I turned off the engine and listened as it coughed a few times before finally dying. I sighed heavily and closed my eyes, only to open themwhenI heard footsteps.

“Nice truck,” a lanky guy said with a smirk as he walked up to my window, wearing the standard navy blue mechanics uniform. His dark eyes shined, and his smile was friendly.

“Thanks. I think something’s wrong, though.”

 

“Yeah, like it’s about thirty years past its prime.” He chuckled. “What seems to be the problem?”

 

“I’mnot sure,” I replied honestly. “It just started spitting whenever I shift.”

“I’ve got some time ifyouwant me to take a look.”
“That’d be great, thanks.” I got out and handed him my keys. “Where amI?” I asked, glancing around and swiping at the dust that had gathered onmyshirt and shorts.

The decrepit building was big enough for an office and an attached two-baygarage withthe doors open. I could see one truck parked inside, as well as piles of tires and tools. Next to the garage were other trucks that appeared to be invarious stages ofrepair.

Brown eyes studied me for a few long seconds, taking in the insignia on my polo shirt and Rolex on my wrist before he finally answered, “A thousand miles from nowhere.” He smiled at his joke and then said, “God’s cow country, Arthur.”

“Arthur?”I asked, confused. Did he think that was myname? “The town. You’re in Arthur. Where are you from?” He wiped his hands ona greasyraghangingfromthe waistband ofhis stained pants. “Boston.”It was onlya halflie.

“Well, Boston.” He dragged out the vowels. “Why don’t you get something to eat over there at Bunkhouse, and I’ll have you outta here in no time.”He motioned to a brownbuildingacross the street.

“Thanks,” I glanced at the name stitched on his chest, “Mike. I appreciate it. I’mElijah.”

 

He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Boston.”

Smiling at the nickname, I shook his hand and then turned toward the restaurant. That’s when I realized I was in Extreme Small Town, USA. Next to the gas station was a post office with a bench out front and anAmerican flag flying proudly on a pole. The buildings on the other side appeared to have been abandoned and were run-down, with overgrown weeds and broken windows. Down the tree-lined street was a tiny white cement building with one garage door, a white truck sitting out front, and what appeared to be silos standingtallbehind it. Ifit hadn’t beenfor Mike and the one car that drove down the road, I would have said it was a ghost town.

Trustingmytruck withMike, I ventured across the road to the diner. There were no signs of life outside, there were no cars parked in front, and the long benches under the windows were empty. The inside was dark, and as empty as the outside. Running a hand through my hair, I waited for myeyes to adjust.

“Sit anywhere, honey, I’ll be right with you,” a woman called from myleft.

 

Obeying, I sat at the nearest table, and a woman dressed in black pants, white shirt, and anapronappeared.

 

“What can I get for you?” she asked as she filled a glass with water froma pitcher and placed it infront ofme.

After a quick glance at the menu, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and soda, and then entertained myself by staring out the window and watchingMike pullmytruck into the garage. It didn’t take longbefore my food was placed infront ofme witha smile fromthe waitress.

The cheeseburger and fries were delicious, and after nursing my soda for a few minutes, I paid and headed back to the garage. As soonas I entered the garage and saw my truck still on the lift, I knew it was bad. Poking his head around a tire, Mike waved me over and pointed to a rusted piece ofmetal.

“Your clutchis gone. That’s whyit’s not catchingwhenyoushift,”he explained. Before I could ask anything, he continued, “But that’s not what is causing the sputtering. That’s your carburetor. Then there is the brake line leak and rusted rotors and worn pads. You’re lucky to have made it as far as youdid.”