Loud is How I Love You (11 page)

We’re standing outside on the steps and I look down across the parking lot to where the row of gas pumps are. As I’m watching, a shiny beacon of hope on eighteen wheels rolls up to the pumps. Then I get an idea.

“I’ll hitch a ride,” I say.

“No,” Travis says. “You will not hitch a ride. Are you insane?”

“I’ll hitch a ride with a northbound truck,” I say. “That one.”

I point to a big rig gassing up on the northbound side. Odds are this truck will be passing through New Jersey on the Turnpike. If I can just get to Exit 9, I’ll only be ten minutes away from home. I’ll find somebody who can come get me from there.

“Absolutely not,” Travis says. “That’s sheer stupidity.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I promise.”

“Emmy, this isn’t the sort of thing you promise will be fine. It’s the sort of thing that ends up with you being on a
60 Minutes
special about human trafficking.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say.

I walk back to the van with Travis on my heels giving me grief:
Wait, what do you think you’re doing? Emmy? Are you nuts? It’s just an exam
. The whole time. What a pain in my ass, seriously. His negativity is really putting a damper on my “great idea” buzz. And besides, it’s not just an exam—this scholarship is the difference between making my mother proud or making her relive the agony she went through with my father fucking up his life. I really don’t care if it seems foolish, if Travis doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know how my mother gets, and he doesn’t know how much she’s sacrificed to help me get through school. And I know what the fuck I’m doing.

Oh, did I say that out loud?

“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

“Well, I’m sorry you think it’s stupid,” I say. “But I have to do this. I have to try.”

I open the back doors to Steady Beth so I can dig my guitar out of the gear pile, but then he gets right in my way, blocking me so I can’t walk past him.

“Cut it out,” I say.

“No,” he says, moving right in front of me. “We’re not done talking about this.”

Joey’s head pops up over the gear and he sees me attempt to shove past Travis, who puts his arms around me and still won’t get the fuck out of my way. Now I’m really angry. That’s when Cole and Joey hop out of the van and come around the back.

“What the fuck, Travis?” I say. “Let go of me.”

Travis lets go of me, but he won’t move out of my way.

“What are you doing?” I snap. “He’s going to leave before I can even ask for a ride home!”

“What the hell?” Cole says. “Who’s going to leave?”

“She thinks she’s going to hitch a ride home on a truck,” Travis says.

“You can’t force me not to hitchhike home. You’re my guitarist, not my fucking father!”

“I’m just trying to help you!” he yells back. “It’s a grade on an English test, for fuck’s sake, it’s not worth putting yourself in danger!”

“I’m not!” I say.

“Dude,” Cole says. “Everyone calm the fuck down, all right? Let’s talk this through.”

“Let her by, Trap,” Joey says. “Before one of you gets hurt, seriously.”

He glares at Joey and then steps to the side. I want to smack him right now, I swear to God, and this time I don’t want to fuck him at all.

“I’m trying to help you, Emmy,” he says. “It’s late, you’re upset and you’re not thinking straight.”

“Fuck you, Travis.”

“Fuck me?” he says. “Whatever, then. Fine. Go on and get yourself molested by a lonely trucker. Great idea.”

“Jesus Christ, Trap,” Cole says. “Calm down, all right?”

I grab my guitar and I am so pissed off I feel like if I can actually manage to get this trucker to give me a ride north, I might just quit life and apply to be his trucker assistant. Maybe I’ll become a trucker myself and never have to put up with stupid boys treating me like I can’t figure my own shit out and telling me what to do. God damn it.

Travis paces away from me, muttering, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he goes to the front of the van and I figure that’s it, and fuck him anyway. I’ll deal with him when he gets home. Or whatever.

“I’ll get my jacket,” Joey says.

“No you won’t,” Travis calls from around the side, then reappears with my backpack and my jacket, and he’s wearing his. “You guys stay here with the gear. Call Triple A and have them tow it to the nearest garage. I’ll be back down in Emmy’s car with the cash by one o’clock.”

“What?” I say.

Travis turns around and pulls his guitar out of the back.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m going with you,” Travis says.

“You are?” I’m still so mad I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I’m too relieved to say it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not letting you hitch a ride with a trucker by yourself, are you crazy? Oh wait, if you weren’t crazy, we wouldn’t be bumming rides off of lonely truckers in the first place.”

“You don’t know that he’s lonely. You don’t even know for sure it’s a he, do you? Don’t be sexist.”

“If we end up dead in a Hefty bag on the side of I-95, I’m going to be pissed,” he says.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Jesus Christ.”

“Come get the plate number off of this truck,” he says, pointing across the parking lot to the gas station. “That’s our ride. Call Sonia by eight thirty, and if she hasn’t heard from us, somebody better come looking.”

Cole pulls his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and hands it to Travis, who takes it and stuffs it into his front pocket. “The corkscrew to the eye should get you out of a pinch.”

“You people have no faith in humanity,” I say. “Or truckers.”

“Hey, I’m a realist,” Cole says. “You never know.”

“You guys,” I say. “This is Maryland, not Camden.”

When Travis and I turn to leave, Joey is giving us this sad, worried look, but then Cole pats Travis on the shoulder.

“You guys will be fine,” he says. “Ace the test, Emmy. Show Professor Cocksucker what for.”

Which is why we love—no,
need
Cole in this outfit.

Travis and I walk across the parking lot, carrying our guitars. He’s still mad at me, I know, but he’s stopped telling me how dumb I am and I’ve stopped calling him a controlling, arrogant bastard, so this will have to do for now. The trucker is hanging out at the gas station booth, talking to the attendant, and I have no idea what his deal is yet, but you can infer from the sweeping gestures with his arms as he talks that he’s super glad to be talking to a human being face-to-face. Maybe he is lonely. Hell, driving a truck must be lonely, all that awesome Kris Kristofferson
Convoy
/CB stuff aside. This trucker is probably in his fifties with that short salt-and-pepper hair. The black ink of an old, bled-out tattoo (a real one, not a Sharpie one) is climbing up the side of his neck, which means the guy likely has a back piece or full sleeves at least. Former inmate? Biker? Can’t tell, really. He’s no retired punk rocker, this I know from the mustache, tucked-in flannel, leather vest, crisp blue Wranglers, and cowboy boots. He looks like he could even be from Nebraska. I look and see the license plate on the back of the truck says Montana. Close enough to Nebraska if you’re from Jersey.

Travis and I get closer, and now the trucker and the gas station attendant are paying attention to us, and why not? It’s damn near four a.m. on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning and we’re schlepping guitars across a rest area parking lot,
so I guess we’re enough of a curiosity. With how skeptical the trucker guy looks as he watches us, I’m starting to feel less optimistic that this is going to work at all. But just as I’m about to say fuck it and turn back, I hear something familiar on the night breeze, something that is floating on the air to me. Something I know very well.

My father’s band Consequence had exactly one hit single. It was called “Love’s a Trip” and it peaked at seventeen for one week on the Billboard Top 100 in 1976, ninety-eight for the year. It starts with this lonely, haunting guitar riff, and that’s what I’m hearing right now, floating across the parking lot to me.

“Holy shit,” I say, nearly dropping my jaw. “Do you hear that? Or am I having a psychotic break right now?”

Travis pauses, and then he hears it, too. His eyes light up in recognition and he starts to sing along with the vocal, “
Get on board, don’t bother to pack, you’re on this trip and you won’t be back . . .”

“It’s a sign, Travis.”

“A sign?”

“Yeah, a sign,” I say. “Don’t you believe in spooky supernatural signs?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No I don’t.”

“Well, I do and this is one,” I say, more determined than ever. “Work with me here.”

“I’m about to hitch a ride from a trucker in a rest area at four in the morning like a hobo. I’d say I’m working with you just fine.”

Dubious does not do justice to the look we’re getting from ’stache Montana. Oh, great, he’s shaking his head disapprovingly as we get closer. He turns around to look behind himself and he sees, of course, that no, there’s nobody back there that we’re looking at. It’s him we’re coming to see.

I clear my throat as we approach.

“Excuse me, sir?” I say. “Good morning.”

Nothing. No response. He sports a convincing “not amused” face as he takes in the sight of us, pretty scraggly at this time of day with our guitars in tow.

“Um, we’re in a bit of a jam,” I begin.

“Forget it,” he says, and it’s more of the kind of throaty growl you might expect out of an angry grizzly bear than any human sort of sound. I gulp as Travis shifts on his heels.

“We can pay you,” Travis says. “We only need a ride to Exit 9 on the Turnpike, not too far.”

“I said forget it.” He turns and walks away from us, back toward the cab of the truck. As he’s walking away from us, the Consequence song ends and I think,
Well, I guess it wasn’t a sign after all
. But then another Consequence song comes on and I realize that the music isn’t coming from the gas station—it’s coming from the truck. And it’s not on the radio, because nobody plays a double shot of Consequence on the radio, not even at four a.m. This trucker guy is actually a fan of Consequence, and he’s playing a cassette tape of Consequence’s album
Blue Aphasia
on his stereo.

“Hey, do you like this band?” I call as he’s about to climb up into the cab of his truck.

“What?”

“Consequence,” I say. “Great Southern-style rock band from the ’70s, right? Totally underappreciated, though.”

Now I start singing along with the next song, and you know I have to be a fan because nobody has even heard “Rubber Tire” if they’re not a big fan. I air guitar along and belt the verse out and I sound pretty darned good for four in the morning, thanks very much.

“So you’re a fan of Consequence, then?” he says, eyeing my Boss Hog T-shirt with a healthy degree of skepticism. “You don’t look the type.”

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Actually? I’m the lead guitarist’s only daughter.”

“No way,” he laughs. He might be amused now, but he’s not convinced.

“Yes. Yes way. And I’m in a band now myself, and we’re on our way home from playing down in Baltimore and our van broke down.”

“What happened to it?”

“Alternator,” Travis says.

“You sure it’s not just the battery?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

Montana doesn’t say anything else for a minute. Travis and I exchange looks. Montana still says nothing.

“So . . .” I begin.

“I don’t pick up strays,” he says. “As a matter of personal ethics.”

“But I need your help,” I say. “Mr. . . .”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s supposed to tell us his name here, but he just stares blankly and blinks slowly a couple of times. “Mr. Montana?”

“We’ll pay you fifty bucks,” Travis says. “It’s only a couple of hours north.”

“I don’t do rides,” Mr. Montana says.

“Please, Mr. Montana,” I say. “I have an exam at Rutgers first thing in the morning and I really can’t miss it.”

“Then maybe you should keep your ass in school instead of wandering around the highway with your boyfriend on a Wednesday night, ever think of that?”

I grit my teeth. I grind them. But I don’t back down.

“Look, the rock is in me,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. “I was born with it.”

“Then what do you care about an exam?”

“I care about my mom and all she’s sacrificed to get me through college.”

He’s thinking it over, I can tell because he’s tweaking the ’stache and his tongue darts out to lick at the corner of his mouth as he concentrates.

“Let’s go, Emmy,” Travis says, pointing over to a Peterbilt rolling in to the pumps. “We’ll ask this guy coming in now.”

“Wait a minute,” Montana says. “You’re really a daughter of Consequence?”

“Yes,” I say. “I can prove it.”

“Right. I’m sure you’ve got your birth certificate on you and everything,” he says.

“Better than that,” I say. Then I pull my guitar out of the case and strap my Gretsch on. Montana’s eyes go real wide when he sees the guitar.

“Is that . . . ?” he says. “No, it can’t be.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “It is. This is Len Kelley’s very own Gretsch.”

Then I take a pick from my pocket and play Dad’s lead on “Rubber Tire” perfectly, right along with the truck’s cassette player.

“No Goddamned way,” Montana says, and his eyes go all watery with emotion. Like, the guy is about to crack. “You’re really little Emmylou, the only daughter of Len Kelley?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “Not so little anymore.”

“Your father was my guitar hero.”

“Mine, too,” I say, and something catches in my throat as I have a total moment here.

“This is like a sign from God—no, a sign from Len.”

Travis sighs a big, heavy one and I don’t even care what he’s thinking because this is awesome. He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Come on. I’ll give you twenty now and the other thirty when we get off at Exit 9,” he says.

Mr. Montana scratches his chin, rolls back on his heels. He sticks his hand in his vest pocket and clicks his tongue.

“You’ve got yourselves a Goddamned deal.”

Travis hands Montana the twenty. Montana smiles, hops up into the cab, into the driver’s seat, singing like the guy is in church.