“Nematodes,” the doctor announced with a grunt, though if he was worth anything at all, his youthful companion had already reached the same conclusion on his own. “Without question the worst Secernentea infestation I have ever seen.” He leaned fearlessly over the boiling mass. “Here, see? The mattress is stuffed with horsehair. That would provide sufficient protein for them to propagate within. These unfortunate people were infected through the bed.” He extended a hand. “My case.”
The intern barely had enough presence of mind remaining to hand over the doctor’s kit. The old man rummaged inside and removed a small stoppered tube and a tweezer. Carefully he extracted one of the millions of swarming worms from the mattress, slipped it into the glass container, where it coiled and twisted frantically, feeling for meat.
“This would appear to be a particularly virulent species. The selva is full of thousands of such loathsome parasites, many of them still unclassified. See how they seek the darkness inside the bed? I would venture to guess that this variety feeds nocturnally and is dormant during the day, which might explain how an infection could be overlooked until it was too late. Treatable at a hospital, I should think, but in the advanced stage such as we see here, immune to simple over-the-counter remedies.” His eyes narrowed sorrowfully as he regarded the sack of skin and bones crumpled on the bed.
“Once infected, they were doomed. You would have thought that, living here, they would know about this particular parasite and would have taken proper precautions to keep it out of their living quarters. It always astonishes me how little interest some people have in their immediate surroundings.” He raised the specimen. “Observe.”
The intern reluctantly took the glass tube, twirling it back and forth between his fingers as he studied its single wiry, voracious occupant. “It doesn’t look like much, just one of them.”
“No,” agreed the doctor. “Not just one.” He stared at the heaving, pulsating mattress, tapped the glass tube. “Notice how much it resembles nothing so innocuous as a human hair?”
DIESEL DREAM
When the big rig passes you on the road, do you ever
pause to wonder what the driver of that monster of an
amalgam of rubber and steel and petroleum products is
thinking? Do you think he’s just looking out for you and
your fellow drivers? What image do you have of him (or
her)? Chances are it’s wrong. He doesn’t look the way
you think he probably looks, and he doesn’t think the
way you probably think he does.
Truckers are just folk, more independent than most.
Seamen of the highway, sailing narrow concrete seas, always impatient to make the next port of call and then as
equally impatient to leave it. They get places most of us
never think about, dream dreams the rest of us don’t
have the time for.
Sometimes, rarely, ports and journeys and dreams all
come together in the oddest ways and places . . .
Whatthehell. I mean, I know I was wired. Too many white crosses, too long on the road. But a guy’s gotta make a living, and everybody else does it. Everybody who runs alone, anyway. You got a partner, you don’t have to rely on stimulants. You half a married team, that’s even better. But you own, operate, and drive your own rig, you gotta compete somehow. That means always making sure you finish your run on time, especially if you’re hauling perishables. Oh sure, they bring their own problems with ’em, but I’d rather run cucumbers than cordite any day.
Elaine (that’s my missus), she worries about me all the time. No more so than any trucker’s wife, I guess. Goes with the territory. I try to hide the pills from her, but she knows I pop the stuff. I make good money, though. Better’n most independents. Least I’m not stuck in some stuffy little office listening to some scrawny bald-headed dude chew my ass day after day for misfiling some damn piece of paper.
Elaine and I had a burning ceremony two years ago. Mortgage officer from the bank brought over the paper personal and stayed for the burgers and beer. Now there’s a bank that understands. Holds the paper on our house, too. One of these days we’ll have another ceremony and burn that sucker, too.
So I own my rig free and clear now. Worked plenty hard for it. I’m sure as hell not ready to retire. Not so long as I can work for myself. Besides which I got two kids in college and a third thinking about it. Yep, me. The big guy with the green baseball cap and the beard you keep seein’ in your rearview mirrors. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself.
So what if I use the crosses sometimes to keep going? So what if my eyesight’s not twenty-twenty every hour of every day? Sure my safety record’s not perfect, but it’s a damnsight better than that of most of these young honchos who think they can drive San Diego–Miami nonstop. Half their trucks end up as scrap, and so do half of them.
I know when I’m getting shaky, when it’s time to lay off the little white mothers.
Anyway, like I was gonna tell you, I don’t usually stop in Lee Vining. It’s just a flyspot on the atlas, not even a real truck stop there. Too far north of Mammoth to be fashionable and too far south of Tahoe to be worth a sidetrip for the gamblers. A bunch of overinsulated mobile homes not much bigger than the woodpiles stacked outside ’em. Some log homes, some rock. Six gas stations, five restaurants, and one little mountain grocery. Imagine: a market with a porch and chairs. Lee Vining just kind of clings to the east slope of the Sierra Nevada. Wouldn’t surprise anyone if the whole shebang up and slid into Mono Lake some hard winter. The whole town. The market sells more salmon eggs than salmon. Damn fine trout country, though, and a great place to take kids hiking.
Friendly, too. Small-town mountain people always are, no matter what part of the country you’re haulin’ through. They live nearer nature than the rest of us, and it keeps ’em respectful of their humanity. The bigger the country, the bigger the hearts. Smarter than you’d think, too.
Like I was saying, I don’t usually stop there. Bridgeport’s cheaper for diesel. But I’d just driven nonstop up from L.A. with a quick load of lettuce, tomatoes, and other produce for the casinos at Reno, and I was running on empty. Not Slewfoot: she was near full. I topped off her tanks in Bishop. Slewfoot’s my rig, lest you think I was cheatin’ on Elaine. I don’t go in for that, no matter what you see in those cheap Hollywood films. Most truckers ain’t that good-lookin’, and neither are the gals you meet along the highway. Most of them are married, anyway.
Since diesel got so expensive I’m pretty careful about where I fill up. Slewfoot’s a big Peterbilt, black with yellow-and-red striping, and she can get mighty thirsty.
So I was the one running on empty, and with all those crosses floating around in my gut, not to mention my head, I needed about fourteen cups of coffee and something to eat. It was starting to get evening and I like to push the light, but after thirty years plus on the road I know when to stop. Eat now, let the crosses settle some, drive later. Live longer.
It was just after Thanksgiving. The tourists were long gone from the mountains. So were the fishermen, since the high-country lakes were already frozen. Ten feet of snow on the ground (yeah, feet), but I’d left nearly all the ski traffic back down near Mammoth. U.S. 395’s easier when you don’t have to dodge the idiots from L.A. who never see snow except when it comes time for ’em to drive through it.
The Department of Transportation had the road pretty clear and it hadn’t snowed much in a couple of days, which is why I picked that day to make the fast run north. After Smokeys, weather’s a trucker’s major devilment. It was plenty cold outside; cold enough to freeze your BVDs to your crotch, but nothing like what it would be in another month or so. It was still early, and the real Sierra winter was just handing out its first calling cards.
Thanks to the crosses I kind of floated onto the front porch of a little place called the Prospector’s Roost (almost as much gold left in these mountains as trout), 20 percent of the town’s restaurant industry, and slumped gratefully into a booth lined with scored Naugahyde. The window behind me gave me something besides blacktop to focus on, and the sun’s last rays were just sliding off old Mono Lake. Frigid pretty. The waitress gave me a big smile, which was nice. Soon she brought me a steak, hash browns, green beans, warm rolls with butter, and more coffee, which was better. I started to mellow as my stomach filled up, let my eyes wander as I ate.
It’s tough to make a living at any one thing in a town the size of Lee Vining. If it don’t take up too much floor space, some folks can generate an extra couple of bucks by operating a second business in the same building. So the north quarter of the Prospector’s Roost had been given over to a little gift shop. The market carried trinkets and so did the gas stations, so it didn’t surprise me to see the same kind of stuff in a restaurant. There were a couple racks of postcards, film, instant cameras, bare-necessity fishing supplies at outrageous prices, Minnetonka moccasins, rubber tomahawks for the kids, risk-kay joke gifts built around gags older than my Uncle Phil, Indian turquoise jewelry made in the Philippines. That sort of thing.
Plus the usual assortment of local handicrafts: rocks painted to look like owls, cheap ashtrays that screamed MONO LAKE or LEE VINING, GATEWAY TO YOSEMITE. T-shirts that said the same (no mediums left, plenty of extra large).
There was also a small selection of better-quality stuff. Some nice watercolors of the lake and its famous tufa formations, one or two little hand-chased bronzes you wouldn’t be ashamed to set out on your coffee table, locally strung necklaces of turquoise and silver, and some wood carvings of Sierra animals. Small, but nicely turned. Looked like ironwood to me. Birds and fish mostly, but also one handsome little bobcat I considered picking up for Elaine. She’d crucify me if I did, though. Two kids in college, a third considering. And tomorrow Slewfoot would be thirsty again.
The tarnished gold bell over the gift shop entrance tinkled as somebody entered. The owner broke away from his kitchen and walked over to chat. He was a young fellow with a short beard, and he looked tired.
The woman who’d come in had a small box under one arm that she set gently on the counter. She opened it and started taking out some more of those wood carvings. I reckoned she was the artist. She was dressed for the weather, and I figured she must be a local.
She left the scarf on her head when she slipped out of her heavy high-collared jacket. I tried to look a little closer. All those white crosses kept my eyes bopping, but I wasn’t as sure about my brain. She was older than I was in any case, even if I’d been so inclined. Sure I looked. It was pitch black out now and starting to snow lightly. Elaine wouldn’t have minded—much. Contented or not, a man’s got to look once in while. It’s just a—what’d they call it?—a biological imperative.
I guessed her to be in her mid fifties. She could’ve been older, but if anything she looked younger. I tried to get a good look at her eyes. The eyes always tell you the truth. Whatever her age, she was still a damn attractive woman. Besides the scarf and coat she wore jeans and a flannel shirt. That’s like uniform in this kind of country. She wore ’em loose, but you could still see some spectacular countryside. Brown hair, though I thought it might be lighter at the roots. Not gray, either. Not yet.
I squeezed my eyes shut until they started to hurt and slugged down another swallow of coffee. A man must be beginnin’ to lose it when he starts thinking that way about grandmotherly types.
Except that this woman wasn’t near being what any man in his right mind would call grandmotherly, her actual age notwithstanding. Oh, she didn’t do nothin’ to enhance it, maybe even tried hiding it under all those clothes. But she couldn’t quite do it. Even now I thought she was pretty enough to be on TV. Like Barbara Stanwyck, but younger and even prettier. Maybe it was all those white crosses makin’ gumbo of my thoughts, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
The only light outside now came from gas stations and storefronts. Not many of the latter stayed open after dark. A few tourists sped through town, fighting the urge to floor their accelerators. I could imagine ’em cursing small towns like this one that put speed limits in their way just to keep ’em from the crap tables at Reno a little longer.
I considered the snow. Drifting down easy at the moment, but that could change fast. No way did I need that tonight. I finished the last of my steak and paid up, leaving the usual good tip, and started out to warm up Slewfoot.
The woman was leaving at the same time, and we sort of ended up at the door together, accidental-like. Like fun we did.
“After you,” she said to me.
Now, I was at least ten years younger than this lady, but when she spoke to me I just got real quivery all through my body, and it wasn’t from the heavy-duty pharmaceuticals I’d been gulping, either. She’d whispered, but it wasn’t whispering. I knew it was her normal speaking voice. I’ve had sexier things whispered to me than “After you,” but none of ’em made me feel the way I did right then, not even those spoken on my fourth date with Elaine, which ended up in the back of my old pickup truck with her murmuring throatily to me, “Whatever you want, Dave.”
Somebody has to be real special to make “After you” sound like “Whatever you want.” My initial curiosity doubled up on me. It was none of my business, of course. Here I was a married man and all, two kids in college and a third thinkin’, and I oughtn’t to be having the kinds of thoughts I was having. But I was running half an hour ahead of my schedule, and the snow was staying manageable, and I thought, well hell, it don’t hurt nothing to be friendly.
“You local?”
She smiled slightly, not looking up at me. It got darker fast when we stepped outside, and those damn crosses were making like a xylophone in my head. But damned if I didn’t think she was so pretty she’d crack, despite the fine lines that had begun to meander their way across her face. She pushed her jacket up higher on her body and turned up the sheepskin collar.
“It’s cold, and I’ve got to go,” she muttered. Her words made me shiver slightly, and it wasn’t from the snow. “Nothing personal. I just don’t believe in talking to strangers.”
What could I say? How could I reassure her? “Heck, I don’t mean no harm, ma’am.” I think maybe that got to her. Not many folks these days say
heck
and
ma’am
, especially truckers. She glanced up at me curiously. Suddenly I wasn’t cold anymore.
“Where are you from?”
“I asked you first.”
“All right. I live here, yes. You?”
“L.A. right now, but me and my wife are from Texas. West Texas. The back o’ beyond.” Funny how Elaine had slipped into the conversation. I hadn’t intended her to. But I wasn’t sorry.
“Nice of you to mention your wife.” She’d picked up on that right away. “Most men don’t. That’s why I try to come into town around dark. You’d think an old lady like me wouldn’t have that kind of trouble.”
“No disrespect intended, ma’am, but I’ve never set eyes on an old lady looked like you do.” I nodded toward the cafe/gift shop. “You do those wood carvings?”
“Yes. Do you like them?”
“I’ve seen a lot of that kind of stuff all over the country, and I think yours stack up real well against the best. Real nice. Good enough to show in a big gallery somewhere.”
“Willie’s place is good enough for me.” Her voice was honey and promise. “This is my home now. The people up here leave you alone and let you be what you want to be. I’m happy.”
“You married?”
“No, but I have friends. It’s enough that they like me for what I am. I’ve been married before, more than once. It never worked for me.”
The snow was starting to come down harder.
“I’m sorry.”
She must have seen the concern on my face. “Got far to go?”
“Reno and on to Tahoe. Groceries for them folks that are trying to make it the easy way. Can’t let the high rollers go hungry.” Her smile widened slightly. It made me feel like I’d just won a new rig or something.