Reunion in LA (1)
I-5 heading south from Portland felt familiar now. I'd driven it just a few days ago on my way up to Seattle.
But things were a little different this time. In the passenger seat bag, carefully packed books full of knowledge from Leonard and items bought in Portland nestled safely.
Now the real work begins.
No longer just relying on luck and his newfound ability to spot old treasures and flip them—this was the next level, where he could truly appraise their value and make deals himself. His grip tightened on the wheel.
Once he crossed out of Oregon, the landscape started drying up again. Entering Northern California, the massive redwood forests greeted him first.
Sunlight slanted through the towering redwoods that scraped the sky. The shimmering light danced amid ancient giants that had to be centuries old. It was a world apart from Texas plains.
An overwhelming vista only nature could deliver, beyond anything man-made. He pulled over to the shoulder, rolled down the window. The forest air was crisp and invigorating.
Being a trucker has its perks—moments like this make it feel damn lucky.
Birdsong echoed through the giants like background music as he savored the moment. Wind rustling, leaves swaying, grass whispering... pure peace and ease.
"Alright, time to hit the road again."
An hour later, the redwoods gave way to vast plains—the California Central Valley.
Endless farms stretched out: orderly rows of vineyards, almond trees, olive groves. Sprinklers sprayed arcs of water that sparkled in the sun.
He flicked on the radio. Spanish chatter filled the cab. He spun the dial—English talk shows, country tunes, hip-hop... Settled on news.
Electric trucks, huh...
It still felt like sci-fi. He'd just started payments on this used diesel semi—$880 a month for 60 months. No calculator needed; it was a beast.
But once this Seattle run wraps, I'll breathe a bit easier. Pay's not bad...
By 3 p.m., he passed the San Francisco Bay Area. The Golden Gate loomed in and out of the fog. No stops—he jumped on I-80 and kept southbound.
Sunset painted the California hills gold. Wind turbines spun lazily. Around 9 p.m., he hit LA's outskirts.
City lights sprawled endlessly beyond the horizon, brighter and vaster than any Texas town. Skyscrapers, headlights, neon billboards blending into a sea of glow.
He punched the delivery address into the nav.
Organic Valley Distributors - LA Logistics Center
Off the highway, another 40 minutes into an industrial zone. He parked in front of the massive logistics building. Lights blazed despite the hour—24/7 operation.
"Jake Winch, from Portland."
Showed the guard the shipping papers; cleared to enter. He backed carefully into the unloading bay. Staff waited under fluorescent lights.
"Temperature check first."
A Hispanic guy cracked the reefer door, checked the gauge. All good. Unloading wrapped in about 30 minutes.
"Good work. When's your next run?"
"Not sure yet. Waiting on dispatch. Haha..."
"Hope you've got time to rest. Drive safe."
Quick exchange, back to the truck. Checked his phone—text from dispatcher Tom.
Monday today... Thursday was three days off. More downtime than expected. Finger hovered over the screen.
Perfect—rest up, handle Portland buys, hit some LA flea markets.
Replied.
Put the phone down, then remembered someone. Scrolled contacts.
Marcus
The black trucker from that truck stop, sharing budae jjigae way back.
Said he lived in LA, right?
They texted check-ins now and then. Last call, he'd insisted:
'Hey, bro. Hit me up if you're in LA. You fed me good once—I'll treat you big time. For real.'
Back then, no long hauls planned, so he'd brushed it off. Now here he was.
Give it a shot?
Glanced at the clock—past 10 p.m., but not too late. Dialed.
Ring-ring—
Connected after two rings.
"Yeah?"
"Marcus, it's Jake. Remember me?"
"Damn, bro! 'Course! How you holdin' up?"
"Haha, good, man! Look, I'm in LA right now."
"For real? LA?"
"Yeah. Just finished delivery. Got till Thursday free, figurin' to check out the city."
"Ha! Perfect timing, bro! When you free?"
Marcus's upbeat vibe had him grinning too.
"Tomorrow work? Morning or afternoon."
"Hell yeah! You got morning plans?"
"Nothin' big... was gonna hit a flea market for antiques."
"Antiques?"
Puzzlement in Marcus's tone—fair enough. Truckers and antiques? Odd mix.
"Haha, yeah, dippin' into antique deals on the side. Extra cash."
"What? For real? While truckin'?"
"Yup. Haulin' takes you to flea markets. Spot somethin' good, buy low, sell high."
"Man... you're one of a kind. Where'd that idea come from?"
"Just lucked into it. Found an old sign at a rest stop—turned out valuable. Started learnin' from there."
That day with the Route 66 sign. Awakening his Object Past Vision, flipping his life. Still vivid, that fateful moment.
"Whoa, jackpot. Pay good?"
"Better than you'd think. Truckin' alone's got limits, y'know."
Marcus paused, thinking, then exploded with excitement.
"Damn, this lines up perfect! Got a guy you gotta meet."
"...Yeah?"
"Does cleanin'. Name's Tyrone. Grew up same hood—like brothers."
Marcus raved about their bond, Tyrone's reliability, then cut to it.
"He does estate cleanouts too. Clearin' dead folks' houses, sellin' stuff. Estate sales, right?"
Now he was hooked.
"Yeah, I know 'em. So?"
"Haha, he called me yesterday. House he's clearin' is weird."
"How so?"
"Old white grandpa. Worked Hollywood back in the day. Not sure what, but y'know movie folks—warehouses stuffed with old props and junk. Owner wants it cleared."
Old items, props...
Something tingled. Experience said: don't miss this.
"...And?"
"Tyrone griped about trashin' good stuff. Asked if I knew a dealer... and boom, here you are."
They both cracked up. Perfect timing—golden opportunity for him.
"Can I check it out?"
"Bet, bro. Callin' Tyrone now. Hold up."
Line muted. He waited anxiously in the cab. Minute later, Marcus rang back.
"Yo, Jake!"
"What's the word?"
"Haha, he's down. Tomorrow 2 p.m.? Pasadena—textin' address."
"Perfect! Thanks, Marcus."
"Haha, that's how we roll. That Korean stew you made? Saved my ass—I was starvin'."
His laugh boomed. Yeah, classic Marcus. If not for that shared meal back then... no connection now. Life's unpredictable.
"Cool. See you tomorrow, Jake. Coffee in the a.m. before your market run?"
"Sounds good. Where?"
"Santa Monica Airport Antique Market? Solid spot."
"Looked it up. Was headin' there anyway."
"Perfect. 10 a.m. Food trucks outside."
"Got it. Later."
Hung up.
Heart raced. Hollywood vet's house. Warehouse full of old stuff...
Somethin' big smells here... for sure.
Leonard and Bill both vouched for his instincts. But he reined in hype, aimed for calm.
Hope, but don't obsess. Could be bust. Antiques: 99% junk, 1% treasure.
Leonard’s cool warning echoed. Deep breath, searched nearby lots.
Big Rig Parking
24/7, $30/night. Pricey, but LA truck parking meant paying for safety.
20 minutes later, pulled in. Vast lot, semis lined up—mostly long-haulers like him. Parked carefully, killed the engine.
Long exhale, tension melting. Fatigue crashed in—he'd driven near-nonstop 14 hours from Portland.
"Ugh... gonna die... straight up."
Climbed to sleeper berth, flopped on the bed. Stared at the ceiling, faint LED glow.
Tomorrow... what'll I find?
Excitement kept sleep at bay. But he needed rest. For tomorrow.