The two nights a week I have welding class at my union hall are rough. I work eight hours, then lurk in a dark basement full of welding booths for three more hours. It's a long day and by the time I take my boots off for the first time in fourteen hours and take that much needed shower it's aleady almost time for bed. Tonight's mad dash from the hall's front door led to a careless mistake; when I whipped my keys out of my pocket one of them sprung loose somehow. It was pitch dark by that time, I only knew it had happened because of the clinking sound it made as it bounced off the sidewalk and into the dead leaves on the ground somewhere. I checked my keychain and all of the important ones seemed to still be there. No one likes losing anything, but I tried to focus on the fact that I could still drive home and unlock my front door, and that was all that mattered at the time. I'd find out what seemingly trivial thing I'd lost access to when I'd go to grab that random key and suddenly notice it isn't there.
At the first traffic light I hit during my ride home I pulled up next to an eighteen-wheeler. After inching forward toward the cab I looked up and noticed something large, brown and furry strapped into the passenger seat. I glanced over at the haggard old driver, then back at his mysterious guest to make sure it wasn't his wife. It wasn't. The black plastic eyes that were sewn onto the face reflected the red of the traffic light, and then the pointed ears revealed themselves. This guy had a huge stuffed teddy bear sitting next to him. I'd heard of taking a friend or loved one on those long cross-country treks, but this was something new to me. That guy must really get lonely to resort to that, I thought to myself. Then again, a stufed animal can't disagree or give an old opinionated trucker any lip so maybe it makes sense. But what about the potential for accidents caused due to passing motorists taking their eyes off the road in order to establish what that thing is? Does that really warrant the bear's presense for its faux company factor? And does he bring that thing into the bunk in the back of the cab to spoon with on those cold nights? My appraisal of the unsettling situation came to a screeching hault when those big shiny eyes reflected green instead of red. That bear was his business, and getting home to take those boots off was mine.
Something inside me forced my hand to hit my right directional on at the last minute, something that we'll refer to here as hunger. I knew I could have easily just headed home and crashed after my shower and a few chapters in bed, but that would lead to a miserable morning with a stomach aching until my nine o'clock coffee break. I pulled up to the window after placing my order to pay the girl who was obviously exhausted from a long shift due to the apathy in her voice over the intercom. It shocked me to see that it was someone I'd worked with eight years ago in the fast food industry, or maybe it didn't. She didn't recognize me with the beard and tattoos, but then again she probably wouldn't have remembered me if I still looked like that same clean-cut teenager. Seeing her there all these years later made me appreciate the fact that I was driving home from a tough day at a high-paying construction job followed by an annoying union hall function. It's hard to remember the old water marks at high tide. I handed her the money, she handed me the bag of food, and I made sure to smile and reciprocate when she told me to have a good night. She needed it more than I did.
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All of that sympathy went directly out the proverbial window as soon as I got home, though. My stomach was growling so much that I sat right down at the kitchen table to eat without even taking those lead boots off first. A first inspection of the bag's contents frightened me at first, but I placed confidence in that girl's ability to fill a fast-food order after such a long tenure in the field. Maybe she put the biscuits in the bucket with the chicken? I was wrong, and therefore furious. No wonder she never made it out of that line of work, she couldn't even master such a simple task. Who can truly enjoy eating fried chicken without biscuits? Those three fluffy balls of dough symbolized more than three dollars' worth of my bill. I decided to head back across town to get them based on the principle of the thing. That's when it dawned on me: I'd become that guy who we always wondered about when we worked the post-dinner-rush drive-thru, the one who would waste more money on gas coming back for a forgotten item based on the fact that it should have been there in the first place. I was right: even if I didn't have the hairy face or ink she wouldn't have recognized me. And the second time talking to her that night, assertively and politely, she didn't. Maybe all of my changes haven't been for the better.
I pondered that for awhile until I became depressed at the realization that it's a sign of getting old. To lighten the mood I thought about some positive things such as getting paid the next day. That would mean having to swing by my boss' hideout at his favorite bar to have a beer with him, thus rescuing him from his stuffed animal crane machine addiction for half an hour or so, depending. That man can feed dollar bills into that sadistic contraption in pursuit of those worthless pieces of poorly stitched cotton for hours, and he will if no one is there to hold a conversation with him. One of the ways to gauge how long he's been at the bar is to see how many plush animals are sitting at the end of the oak in front of his reserved stool that he occupies from eleven-thirty in the morning until mid-afternoon. It's hard to leave that place without him pawning off some of those stupid toys on me, as if I have a long list of people to give them to just as soon as I can. They end up sitting on my couch for awhile until I bring them to work and toss them into the car of a coworker with kids. That train of thought made me realize what a hypocrite I'd been. I turned around and looked in the back seat of my truck and there they were, staring at me sardonically: two stuffed bears dressed like pilgrims and holding small pumpkins for the approaching holiday. Maybe that trucker was wondering what my intentions were, too. That verse about the speck of dust and the plank in the respective eyes came to mind, always one of my favorites. It's a good book, whether it's fact or fiction. I drove on, it was all there was left to do.
Perhaps it was Providence or just my need for closure, but that last issue was not going to go unresolved. My headlights illuminated the back of the car ahead of me at that last traffic light near my house and as I sat and waited for the light to turn I read the license plate: CKP 7671. That combination was just one digit off from the tag on an old car I used to drive. Turning on the dome light in my truck, I fumbled through the jangling mess of keys dangling from my ignition. The mystery was solved, alright. And though I haven't driven that car in several years now, sometimes, when I see a similar model on the road, I'd like to give it one last spin. They say you regret the things you don't do in life more than the things you do. Of course, again, they're lying.
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