Seattle Delivery (2)
Austin faded into the rearview as he headed west, and soon the familiar I-10 freeway came into view.
Seattle was about 2,300 miles away. It'd take a solid few days of straight driving.
Click.
He flicked on the radio. Country music poured out—Dolly Parton's voice.
Outside the window, Texas's vast plains stretched endlessly. Occasional ranch scenes dotted the landscape, peaceful and sparse. Far on the horizon, windmills turned lazily.
"Good start."
He hummed along for a good stretch until hunger started gnawing. Right on cue, a rest area sign caught his eye.
10 Miles Ahead - Lone Star Travel Center
He flipped on his blinker and pulled into the rest area. The lot was dotted with trucks—mostly long-haulers, 18-wheelers.
He found an empty spot and parked. One last check on the reefer trailer's cooling system, then he stepped out.
"Weather's still holding."
Late December in Texas was fickle. Days could be warm enough to ditch the jacket, but mornings and evenings plunged near freezing. Of course, it'd get dramatically colder heading northwest.
Jingle.
He headed into the convenience store and grabbed sandwiches from the cooler: two ham and cheese, one turkey. A big Coke too.
On the way to checkout, someone called out.
"That reefer out there yours?"
Turning, he saw a Black man in his fifties, wearing a company trucker uniform with a name tag reading James.
"Yeah, that's mine."
"Thought so. California?"
"Nah, Seattle."
He paid up and headed out. James followed.
"Texas to Seattle's a haul. You run that route often?"
"Haha, no. First time for me too."
"Damn, that'll suck. I'm just Phoenix-bound today. Pretty lucky."
They walked to a picnic table. Jake tore into a ham and cheese first. Not gourmet, but it filled the void. Convenience store sandwiches were about quantity over quality anyway.
"Reefers ain't easy, right?"
"Eh, depends. On what?"
"Temp control's a pain. Separate fuel for the trailer too."
"True, but you get used to it. Pays better than dry van too."
"Fair point."
James took a sip of coffee.
"Company truck for me—mostly construction materials. Heavy, but not bad otherwise."
"Construction's rough. Hauled plenty in my old rig."
"Yep. But it's the job. We're all in the same boat."
Glancing around, Jake spotted other drivers smoking or chilling, exhaustion etched on their faces.
"Hey, how's the road? New Mexico stretch."
James's expression darkened.
"I-40's under construction—lots of debris, so watch it. Buddy got a blowout last week."
"Got it..."
"Especially at night. Signs are hard to spot."
"Thanks. I'll be careful."
James stood.
"Gotta roll. Still far to Phoenix. Drive safe."
"Appreciate the heads-up. You too."
James waved and headed to his truck. Jake wolfed down the rest of his sandwiches and chugged the Coke.
As he rose, another driver nodded over.
"Safe travels, buddy."
"Thanks. Same to you."
A quick nod back. That was the trucker bond on the road—strangers sharing intel, a word of caution. Jake liked it.
Back in the cab, he fired up the engine and merged onto the freeway.
Sunset hit as he crossed into New Mexico. The scenery shifted subtly.
Rugged red dirt, scattered cacti—the desert emerged. Mesas rose on the horizon, flat-topped giants glowing crimson in the dying light, like flames licking the sky.
Around 7 p.m., he pulled into a New Mexico truck stop: Desert Oasis Truck Stop.
"Crashing here tonight."
Parked, he hit the showers. Clean facilities—whistling, he fed in coins. Hot water blasted away the day's grime.
"Ahh... heaven."
Nonstop driving, save for quick breaks. Even with assists and a comfy seat, his body ached.
Toweled off, fresh clothes. Back to the sleeper cab.
The door opened to his cozy nook: compact bed, mini-kitchen, sofa. Home on wheels.
Slide.
Cracked the small side window. Dry, cool desert air wafted in.
Dinner time. Fridge check: chicken breasts, onion, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes. Garlic too.
'Chicken steak it is.'
Out came the cutting board. He butterflied the breasts, pounded even. Tenderizes nice.
Salt and pepper both sides, rubbed in for flavor.
Fired up the pan with butter. While heating, he sliced onions thin, mushrooms, halved tomatoes.
Pan was sizzling.
Sizzle—
Chicken hit the heat. Juicy pops, nutty aroma filled the cab.
"Smells killer."
Two minutes in, edges golden. Flipped—crisp perfection.
Veggies tossed in, minced garlic next. Garlic bloom hit hard—mouthwatering.
Stirred it all: golden chicken, translucent onions, browned shrooms, red tomatoes. Simple, tasty.
Plated, steam rising. Folded out the table, utensils ready.
"Dig in."
Fork up, first bite of chicken.
"Mmm... seasoning's spot on. Yeah."
Balanced salt, pepper bite, chicken's savory juiciness.
Veggies next: sweet onions, tangy tomatoes, earthy mushrooms. Fancy for a quick cook.
Outside, night fell. Stop lights flickered on.
Dishes done in the tiny sink. Wiped and stowed.
Sat on the bed, gazing at the desert. Stars popped in the city-free sky.
Tomorrow, more miles. Still 1,500 to Seattle.
Eyes shut. Sleep came fast.
Up at 6 a.m. Quick wash, brewed coffee.
Engine on, back to the freeway. By lunch, northern Arizona—endless red dirt, cacti.
"Yawn... desert overload."
Two and a half days later, Oregon border. Scenery flipped: dense pine forests, humid Pacific air.
10 a.m., Portland outskirts. Quiet city—unlike Austin or Houston's buzz. Brick buildings aged gracefully, trams trundling, cyclists gliding.
"Leonard Washington, right."
Checked Bill's card, punched the address into GPS. Three hours to Seattle, delivery by tomorrow afternoon. Plenty of time.
"Alright, let's do this."
Thirty minutes later, destination: old brick building, first floor.
Washington Fine Art Services - By Appointment Only
Parked the truck in a public lot nearby. Pulled Bill's card—note on back.
Reached out to Leonard ahead. He's cranky—don't freak. Skills are top-notch.
— Bill
How weird could one guy be? He knocked.
Knock knock.
Door opened. Late-60s Black man: neat gray hair, horn-rims hiding sharp eyes. Scanned Jake top to bottom, scowled.
"Jake Winch?"
"Yes. Bill sent..."
"Save it."
Leonard flung the door wide.
"In. No time to waste."
Inside: spacious studio. Wall of paintings, statues and ceramics opposite. Central workbench cluttered with tools, magnifiers, UV lamps.
"Don't touch shit. One piece here's worth your truck."
"Uh, got it..."
Leonard pointed to a stool by the bench.
"Sit."
He sat opposite, checked his watch.
"Bill called. Said you'd show. Making time for his ugly mug."
"Thanks."
"Thank me later. What are you?"
"Jake Winch, trucker. Long-haul mostly."
Leonard removed his glasses, wiped them with a sigh.
"Hmph. Trucker wants art appraisal lessons..."
"Pick up stuff at flea markets, sell to Bill. Wanna learn the ropes..."
"Flea markets."
Leonard snorted.
"Know how hard real art is at flea markets?"
"Still, worth learning..."
"How much time you got?"
Checked his watch.
"Six hours. Gotta hit Seattle..."
Leonard barked a laugh—irritated mockery.
"Six hours? Master art appraisal in six?"
"Basics, please."
"Basics?"
Leonard slammed the desk.
"Takes five years minimum: art history, chemistry, materials, history... In six hours?"
Face burned. He was right—too cocky thinking a quick visit would cut it.
"Sorry. Got ahead of myself."
Leonard waved him off.
"Fine. Bill raved about your eye. Let's test it."
Grabbed his coat.
"Where to?"
"Market."
"Market?"
"Not lecturing theory here like some uni. Real world's better."
Leonard headed for the door.
"Coming? Time's ticking while you gawk like an idiot."
"...Yeah, right now."
He scrambled after. Damn, Bill warned him. Skills unknown, but the guy's temper was foul as hell.