Archive of Our Own

Lonesome Highway A Time-Stamp for A Fair Distance.

Blair walked into the restaurant-bar, or maybe it was a bar-restaurant. He didn’t care which was dominant, as long as they sold beer and served soup or sandwiches. He’d just put in ten hard lonely hours of driving his rig, and he felt stiff and tired and cold. His ears still rang with the sound of his engine. He’d been on the road now for seven long days, with another two to go before he could deliver his freight on the return swing of his route. He wished he were already through with this run.

All he wanted tonight, for his eight hours of mandatory down time, was to eat, and to do a little people watching while he drank his beer. One beer. Maybe catch a game for an hour or so, before he walked back to his truck and crawled into the bunk at the back of the cab. Tomorrow he’d leave this little town, and head west towards Omaha. But for tonight, he’d try to soak up by osmosis some positive feelings from the people who’d come here for enjoyment – to meet friends, play pool or darts, and laugh and flirt with each other.

But this place, while fairly packed, wasn’t exactly hopping. There were no laughing groups of friends, no couples dancing to a jukebox tune, no lovers holding hands. Most of the people here seemed to be men crowded together in dark booths. Men who stopped drinking their beers to stare at him when he passed by. Men with suddenly ugly smirks on their faces.

He wasn’t Jim, with the ability to hear things other men couldn’t, but then he didn’t need Jim’s gift, because these locals weren’t trying to keep their opinion of him to themselves. They didn’t care that he could hear them asking each other if he was a woman or a man. His hair, of course. Didn’t help that he was small for a guy. He was so tired of having to deal with other people’s clichéd, narrow-minded notions of what was the right and proper way for a man to look. He hoped nobody was drunk enough to want to pick a fight with him. It’d happened before, some inebriated jerk pushing at him, or worse, pretending that the stranger with the long, curly hair was a woman, and then acting all offended at how he’d been ‘tricked.’ He was alone here, and as much as he sometimes wanted to engage in some consciousness raising, it wasn’t the smart thing to make a stand now, when he was by himself and had no backup.

He sat down on a stool at the bar, and caught the bartender’s eye. The man studied his license before grudgingly pouring him a draft beer. Blair ordered a turkey sandwich; while he waited -- feeling unfriendly eyes upon him -- the bartender drawled out Blair’s name, and asked how come he had a girl’s name? He’d said it loudly, and Blair could hear people snickering; one voice proclaimed that ‘Blair’ must be a kind of woman, with that pretty hair and girly lips, to go along with that girly name.

So… no positive energy vibes from this crowd. Better that he finish his beer and sandwich, then leave. It wouldn’t be smart to take his sandwich with him; some of these good ol’ boys would think they had him on the run, and if prey runs from a predator, sometimes the pounce reflex kicks in, when a slow and steady retreat would maybe get him out the door and back to his truck without any incidents.

He asked the bartender, in a voice loud enough to carry -- if any of these nice folks were listening -- what diesel cost at the gas stations in town. Told the man he was a truck driver, hoping that would give him some legitimacy with the locals. It seemed to help; the derisive comments became inaudible to him, even though the mocking tones were still clear enough. He finished eating, aware of the disdainful looks sent his way, and headed for the door. Nobody followed him. He’d fill out his driver’s log, sack out on his bunk, and try to keep from wondering what Jim was doing tonight. Did Jim miss him, like he missed Jim? Probably not. Jim had a new lover, and his own family; he had Simon, and his friends from Major Crimes. Blair had… to stop thinking about Jim.

Blair crossed the road and walked down to where he’d parked his eighteen-wheeler. Yeah, he’d turned the page on that part of his life. He wasn’t sure of much right now, but of that he was certain. He’d turned the page, and there would be no Jim Ellison anymore in his own book of life.

He climbed up into his truck, locking it in case any stupid, drunken idiots decided to hassle him, and took care of his documenting. Once upon a time, he had made observations on tribal customs and sentinels. He had written journal articles and filled out police reports. Now, in his current incarnation as a truck driver, he recorded his odometer and filled in the blanks about the start of his downtime. In seven hours, with the blessing of the Department of Transportation, he would be free again to leave. He would drive down that long and lonesome road for another ten hours, then he’d walk into another restaurant. It felt like an endless pattern, and if he kept on with truck driving, the miles rolling by would measure his days.

Later, lying in his bunk -- not able to relax enough yet to sleep -- his thoughts wandered back to Jim… like they always did. It seemed he couldn’t stop remembering his life with Jim, but maybe he could pick the memories. The trucks and cars driving by made a lullaby of sorts, while he meandered down memory lane, until finally he felt his body becoming heavy, and his mind slipping sideways into sleep. His last conscious thoughts were of Jim and… how strange the jungle looked… blue-colored vines and plants everywhere… and then he was lost in dreams.