As the sun painted the passenger window orange, Jack Laramie found himself stuck behind a rickety pick up rigged with wooden planks surrounding the bed. Four white, plastic dishwashers bounced around unsecured. Any time he’d lose his cool and swerve left to pass, a line of cars from the other direction forced him back over. The driver of the truck would step on the gas long enough to convince Jack he’d do the speed limit. He’d relax, the truck would slow, and the drama started again.
Out in the flatlands of central Texas, the roads deteriorated, waiting for someone local to repair them. Jack had to jerk the wheel to avoid sink holes. He kept his eye on the side view mirror, making sure his horse trailer followed his DeSoto’s lead.
The driver of the truck missed a nasty hole. The planks busted. One by one, the appliances hit the pavement and smashed. Sharp chunks of plastic and metal tossed in front of the DeSoto in random, chaotic movements. Jack snaked through the debris until the tires on his trailer blew out. He let up on the gas and brought everything to a halt on the right side of the road.
The truck came to a stop in the middle of the highway. The driver, a stocky fellow in jeans and a plaid shirt, got out to examine the damage. His thin attempt at a beard connected to the curly hair on his head like a chinstrap holding down a helmet. “I’m sure sorry, mister,” he said. He told him his name was Ashley.
“Well,” said Jack, “how’d you miss that crater?”
“Think I might have been dozing.”