Little Black Book

Though the morning air was cold it was, like a good apple, fresh, crisp, and pleasant. It gave Henry's arms goosebumps under his flannel sleeves but, also like a good apple, he didn't want to let the morning go to waste. The wind threatened to blow off his cap which he surrendered onto the gray, dusty dashboard where it would be safe; and now the wind tousled his dark hair that was getting too long and thick. This feeling he liked -- so long as his hair didn't whip his eyeballs.

The truck and pup ate up the interstate, the yellow lines of the middle zipped by one after the other and the white lines on the edges by the shoulders were constant and steady. One seemingly epileptic and the other dependably ceaseless. The breeze of the open window made him think of the scenes in movies when the airplane windows would bust and everything would get sucked out. He imagined this very thing happening to him at that moment through the truck window; and not falling or screaming, but floating . . . or flying, rather, as he had dreamed on occasion throughout various parts of his life. He would fly, wind in his ears, and then become aware and lucid of his situation and lose his special ability. But this time he would not lose and would continue to fly where he chose, removing his boots to soar with complete agility.

The scenery flew past the windows and the two eyes observed all they could: his right arm handling the wheel of the semi and his left elbow resting out the open window. Henry looked to his right at the duffel bag in the passenger seat. His pulse quickened with a mixture of pleasure and anxiety. His eccentric, bipolar boss handed it to him that morning saying, "Here, Hank. You've earned it. Open it up when no one's around. Don't ever say I never did nothing for ya."

When he had felt the weight of the bag’s contents and the way it shifted around, he had been confused as to what it might be. His boss' eyes had been half closed, bloodshot, and had dark bags hanging under them. Henry had opened the passenger door and set the bag inside on the seat and went around to the driver side to fire up the rig. He thumped his tires with a hammer and checked his lines leading to the trailer before he sat down in the cab and unzipped the bag loaded with bundles of cash. He estimated some $20,000 at least. He had gulped and nearly choked on his heart.

Now, his conscience was playing tricks on him as he flew down the road, for he knew he should return it to his employer's wife and explain the situation. But he wondered: just maybe no one knew about it and maybe no one ever would. Henry wasn't a risk taker. But maybe today he would learn.

Milton Savage, the owner of the small fleet of dump trucks which Henry drove for, was known to be mentally unstable. His drinking problem and reclusion helped matters not at all. But it had been some years since any major relapse, other than an occasional bout of unprovoked yelling at employees for trouble on job sites which were completely beyond their control, or fault. Milt was a decent and pleasant enough man to work for, if his wife kept him on his medications and was adamant about his therapy attendance. Henry wondered what Milt would do if he changed his mind about the money, and then found that it had already been spent. There's no telling what Milton would fabricate if he wasn't in his natural state of mind.

Henry saw the white, fluttering speck on the side of the highway that he'd been passing by all week. It was a book that he had watched flip open and close from the wind of the cars speeding past. The pages jostled like a bush in a breeze which granted it a sort of personification in the way it seemingly waved and giggled at him, and he'd had an overwhelming desire to stop and see just what book it might be. But the attention that his rig parked on the side of the interstate would draw, and him stooping down to gather up a book, made him apprehensive to take any action. Henry loathed attention.

So, every round the whole week long, he had watched the book fly by, debating whether or not he would muster the courage to pull over and pick it up.

The dump truck would cause a spectacle and invoke all the obvious and predictable comments from the crew which annoyed Henry to no end. He wasn't sure if it was worth it. But he was drawing closer to it and his cushion to come to a complete stop, safely, was almost passed. He was a few minutes ahead of the last driver of the crew behind him. He could pull over and grab it if he was quick and get back on the road without anyone on his crew ever knowing.

Henry drew in his window arm to man the wheel so his right arm could down shift. He let his foot ease off the accelerator to let the jakes drone and work the brake gently. The truck slowed gradually and as it did, Henry flipped the hazards on. The two green arrows blinked in unison, as though the truck might split right down the middle and turn both ways at once.

He stopped on the shoulder of the road just past the book and, putting his thumb on the red knob for leverage, he pulled out the yellow knob with a fork made with the index and middle fingers. The truck hissed as the parking brakes set. He hurriedly left the cab, eyeing the bag of money as he climbed down backwards. Cars whizzed past, their hiss nervously irritating his ears.

As he approached the book, he felt excitement. There it was, waving to the other passing cars, not minding Henry at all, as if expecting him. He almost wanted to speak to it, having no idea why, like it was an old friend. There was far more litter along the road shoulder than could be seen from a passing vehicle and the book lay in the midst of it all like a shrine. It had become swollen from the single day of rain they'd had that week making it hard to close all the way when Henry picked it up.

The cover was black and had no words, but as Henry leafed through it he saw black pictures of a majestic horse. The book was an illustrated children's abridgement of Black Beauty, a story Henry knew nothing about. He was hardly a reader at all, but he was experiencing a compulsion to read this book, as it seemed to be a simple abridgement, conducive to his comprehension level.

Circumstance had never allowed Henry to feel the peace of a book well read; that warm stamp on the heart one experiences when they enter a library or a well-organized bookstore. The feeling that comes from the fresh, crisp paper, not unlike the air and light of a renewed morning. Imagination, knowledge, and information emit from books like energy.

Henry wondered: perhaps this is the reason people are drawn to books and bookstores; the reason people are satisfied to own books that they never read. Truly, a beautiful cover can call one into latent action and draw them to the book's purchase, or even theft. When an average intellectual is surrounded by books, they feel an ecstasy of purpose; which unrealistic purpose is to read every book that there is, starting with the History shelves. It was a small taste of this feeling that Henry was feeling, but the small taste was enough.

Henry stood amidst the great commotion of the locomotion that was the interstate. The road passed through a wide and winding, rocky canyon with tall, beautiful trees and a river. A railroad passed through and a long, long train was just chugging by. All the birds and deer and passersby saw a man standing on the side of the road, and he was reading a book.

Henry's concentration was suddenly broken when he glanced up to see a semi coming and realized he'd read the whole first page of Black Beauty. There was no point in hurrying now, Dave had seen him and would certainly make some comment. He took his time in gathering the few pages that had been ripped out and blown among the ground. He collected all that he could find and tucked them back into the book -- he would find the time to insert them properly after the work day.

Henry got back into the cab and Dave's staticky voice blared out of the speakers, "Was that you reading a book on the side of the interstate, Hank? I know that was your truck. Now I’ve seen it all."

Henry responded, "Yeah, just stopped to pick something up."

"Got yourself a little road find, huh?"

"Yep."

"Well, I lapped you."

"Yup."

Henry tossed the little black book on top of the duffle bag of money. It plopped there aesthetically and he looked at it. He would return the money and keep the book.

Pushing in the yellow knob, the truck hissed again as the brakes disengaged. First gear would grind, Henry knew, before it would go in. He'd been trying to get the mechanic to adjust the clutch for weeks. It went in though, after he forced it and let the clutch go. Lurching forward he checked his mirrors for a safe break in traffic to pull out. Soon, he got up to speed and floated the gears all the rest of the way until he was up to the truck speed limit of the canyon which was 55.