Driving in Traffick: The Victim's Story (Margret Malone Book 2)

by Nancy Cupp

  “This bottle of water,” said Margret, holding up the container before she took a drink.

  “Don’t get me started on water,” said Joyce. “Somebody had to haul the plastic to make the bottle, somebody else hauled different plastic for the cap. Then another truck took the finished bottles and caps to the factory where they fill ‘em up with water.”

  “Huh, never thought about that part.”

  “Most people don’t. Here’s the kicker, once the bottles are filled and ready to sell, somebody has to take them, probably, to a distribution center where they unload them into a warehouse. When a store needs ‘em they load ‘em back on a truck and haul ‘em to the store.”

  “Lots of hauling.”

  “Yeah. This part really bugs me, I’ve hauled water from Michigan to Tennessee. Then I turn around and haul water from Tennessee to Chicago. Water from Indiana ends up in Florida, and water from Alabama gets sent to Texas. But Texas ships water to Bentonville, Arkansas.”

  “What? Why don’t they just get it closer to home?”

  “Exactly. We burn tons of fuel hauling the stuff around, putting all that pollution in the air, when we could just turn on a faucet in the kitchen and have a drink.”

  “But we make a living selling and hauling it around. Drives the economy.”

  “I guess, but it’s destroying our world in the mean time. That’s why I don’t idle my truck—pollution.”

  They made a couple of stops at rest areas where Margret was able to park easily. As they walked back to the truck Joyce said, “You won’t have enough hours to make it all the way across Chicago, and there’s no stopping once you start until you get to the other side. Either we park for the night before Chicago and waste a few hours or I can start my clock and drive a while.”

  “How long could it take to cross one city? I’ve still got more than three hours left.”

  “With Chicago you never know. When traffic is flowing well, it takes at least three hours. This time of the day traffic is never flowing well.”

  “Why can’t we stop once we start?”

  “No parking. There are a few spots, but I’ve never been lucky enough to get one. Not even in the middle of the day, just for a pee stop. It can be hell if you don’t stop to pee before you start across the city.”

  “How do you keep track of all that stuff—where to stop, how long it takes?”

  “Experience.”

  Joyce decided she wanted to get on the other side of Chicago before they called it a day, so she got in on the driver’s side. “I’ll drive, you’ve had enough for one day anyway.”

  “That’s for sure. Don’t you have to pre-trip?”

  Joyce climbed back down, “Of course I do.”

  When they hit the Chicago traffic Margret was glad she wasn’t driving. Traffic was stop and go, but Joyce shifted up and down effortlessly with two fingers. “She’s smooth as butter when your timing is right.”

  “I see that, but it just seems like I have to force it.”

  “You might be going too deep with the clutch, hitting the clutch-brake. It slows the RPMs too much. Just barely tap-tap it when you double clutch. You don’t have to let way off the fuel either—keep the RPMs steady.”

  “All that and still don’t hit anybody.”

  Joyce smiled, she remembered when it all seemed like way too much to keep track of. It was getting dark when she pulled into a TA truck stop just across the border in Indiana. The lot was getting full, but she found a tight spot between two trucks that required a little fancy maneuvering. She backed in and shut down the engine.

  “That was amazing.”

  “What?”

  “You just backed right in without a major ordeal. I’ll never be able to do it.”

  “Here’s the deal, ‘Whether you think you can or think you can’t—you’ll be right,’ according to Henry Ford.”

  Margret mulled that over for a while and decided it was something to remember. Joyce showed her how to set the anti-theft device, explaining most truck manufacturers only used about ten different keys, so it was likely someone else on the lot would have a key that would start the truck.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower, and a good supper. I know where to get the shower at least.”

  Margret rummaged through her bulging duffle bag for clean clothes and shower supplies.

  “I hope you brought shower shoes,” said Joyce.

  “Shower shoes?”

  “Yeah, like flip-flops. Truck stops do a good job of cleaning and sanitizing, at least most of them do, but you never know when you might pick up something—athlete’s foot or whatever.”

  “Ah, the book didn’t cover…”

  “There’s a lot the book won’t cover. Don’t worry, they sell them here.”

  When she opened the door the hot, sticky night smacked her in the face. As they made their way across the wavy parking lot, Margret noticed the putrid smells of rotting food and stale urine. She felt the heat and noise from a hundred diesel engines idling on the asphalt. Soot blew, and drifted like snow, catching on the cracks and potholes.

  Joyce deftly stepped over a discarded bag of trash, “Don’t ever step on a bag in a parking lot, some of these guys won’t get out of the truck for anything.”

  A grizzled old driver held the door for them with a smile when they got to the store. “Thank you,” said Joyce as they stepped inside. Bright lights and cool, fresh air greeted them along with every trucker gadget and kind of junk food imaginable.

  Margret found some cheap flip-flops and Joyce explained how to use a fuel card to get a free shower. “There’s a TV room and some places even have a free movie theater, but you’ll find what you really need is some sleep. We’ll be starting at four tomorrow, so the night will be short. I’ll meet you back at the truck. You have the extra key I gave you, right?”

  Margret patted her pocket, “Yup, right here.” Margret enjoyed her shower letting the refreshing water run over her body. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until her tight muscles started to release. When she was done, she dashed across the street to JJ’s for some fried fish and french fries.

  She finished the last of her fries and decided to stop at the restroom before heading back to the truck. She didn’t relish the thought of using a jar again. In the ladies room, Margret bumped into a young woman who was running water over her forearm at the sink.

  The woman, really only a girl, had on a tight fitting, sparkly tank-top, a short skirt, and high heeled shoes. “Excuse me,” said Margret. The girl looked at Margret with tear streaked smudges of mascara running down her cheeks. Her arm was red and swollen with a new tattoo.

  “That looks like it’s infected,” said Margret. The girl didn’t respond or even seem like she comprehended what was said.

  When Margret got back to the truck Joyce was stirring something in a small pan plugged into the wall. “Did you find something for supper? If you want, I have some extra beef stew. I got a whole case of it and I’ve been eating this stuff forever.”

  “No thanks, I had fish. I didn’t know you could cook in the truck.”

  “I usually do, it gets expensive to eat in a restaurant all the time. I get sick of fast food anyway. Did you enjoy your shower?”

  “Oh yeah—it felt good to get cooled off. I see you put screens in the windows, it seems pretty cool in here.”

  “Yeah, sometimes it works, unless there are too many exhaust fumes coming in. I don’t idle unless I have to. It messes up your miles per gallon, not to mention all the unnecessary pollution.”

  “I noticed almost all the trucks were running.”

  “I get why they do. It’s hard to sleep if you’re too hot, and it’s noisy. These screens aren’t secure either, but nobody’s ever bothered me.”

  Margret clumsily climbed to the top bunk and did her best to make up her bed and stow her things in the little cubby holes provided. She thought she’d read a little, but she was too tired. She clicked off her li
ght and tried to sleep, but unfamiliar sounds and smells kept her awake. The events of the day churned in her mind as she lay awake, particularly the young woman she saw in the restroom.

  It seemed like she’d just gotten to sleep when she heard Joyce up and moving around. “It can’t possibly be morning already.”

  Joyce laughed, “I told you it would be a short night. I like to start as early as I legally can so it is easier to find a spot to park at night, plus I’m a morning person, it’s harder to stay awake later in the evening.”

  “Umph—I need coffee!”

  “I’m cooking some eggs and I’ll have instant coffee in a minute, you want some?”

  “I need a doughnut, and real coffee.” Margret struggled into her jeans, while laying on her bunk.

  “Okay, hurry back, we roll in an hour.”

  Margret was surprised to see so much activity that early in the morning. Some of the trucks had already left, and the lot was half empty. She scurried along, watching to keep from being run over. Then she stepped on something soft and squishy. “Shit,” she said, hoping she was wrong about that. Whatever it was, it was still in a Wal-Mart bag. Margret hoped it wasn’t on her shoe.

  With doughnuts and coffee, Margret returned to the truck trying to figure out how to open the door without dumping the brew all over herself. Joyce came to her rescue and opened the door. “I usually set the coffee on that little ledge, if you put it on the step, you’ll dump it when you open the door.”

  “Thanks.” Margret sipped coffee and scarfed doughnuts. She felt better as the caffeine worked it’s magic.

  “Soon as you’re done, go ahead and log in so you can do your pre-trip, I’ll help if you don’t remember how.”

  Joyce smiled as she watched Margret do her inspection exactly by the book. She checked the tread depth and air pressure on every tire and made sure the lug-nuts were tight. She crawled under the trailer and looked at the brake pads, and air lines. She made sure all the lights were operational and the coolant and oil levels were up to full. All the hoses and belts were scrutinized and the fuel filter inspected. Joyce could hardly keep a straight face when Margret pumped the air brakes down to check that the brake knob would pop out.

  “Find any problems?”

  “There’s a little oil leaking from somewhere, I saw it on the frame.”

  “Trust me, there isn’t a truck on this lot that doesn’t have an oil leak. It’ll be fine.”

  It was a later than Joyce liked when they finally got rolling, but they had plenty of time to make their delivery. She knew if they got behind she could drive to make up the difference.

  Margret ground every gear as they left the truck stop, but at least she didn’t stall out. Traffic was already heavy when they got on the freeway, but started to thin as they got further away from the city. By the time the sun came up Margret started to relax.

  “I can’t stop thinking about a girl I saw in the bathroom last night. She couldn’t have been much more than sixteen.”

  “Was she all dressed up, with high heels and lots of cleavage?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think she spoke any english, looked kind of Asian or something.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t come knocking on our door last night,” said Joyce.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She was probably a lot lizard.”

  “A what?”

  “Lot lizard, you know, hooker.”

  “But she was so young. She’d been crying too, maybe because she had this tattoo, it looked infected.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. There’s a lot of sex-trafficking, especially around the big cities. It’s really sad, I don’t know how they fall into it, or why. Some of them seem to be all drugged up—but I don’t know if that comes before or after they start hooking.”

  “It’s such a shame!”

  “I know, I see a lot of posters at rest areas and stuff about sex-trafficking. It says to call if you’re a victim, but I don’t think they have access to a phone or money.”

  Margret adjusted the visor to keep the morning sun out of her eyes. She noticed Joyce’s pictures and a couple of metals stuck there. “Is that a purple heart? Were you in the military?”

  “Not me—those are David’s, my boyfriend.”

  “Is this him in the pictures?” Margret quickly glanced up, afraid to take her eyes off the road for long.

  “Yeah, it’s about all I have left to remember him by, he was killed in the war.”

  “Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…”

  “It’s okay, it’s been a long time. I guess it’s why I’m still in the truck. I was kind of lost and didn’t know what to do after he died. All of our plans were gone, so I’ve just been hiding out here in the truck. How about you, are you single?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’ve spent too much time in a book to find a boyfriend. My dad’s an English professor so I come from a bookish family. I want to be a writer someday, but my grandpa always said I needed to get out and live some if I wanted to have anything to write about. I guess that’s why I’m in a truck.”

  As they were talking, there was a sharp bleat from the dash that caused Margret to jump and Joyce to laugh.

  “Wha…?”

  “You’re following too close, it’s a sensor built-in to the front bumper.”

  “Scared the heck out of me.” Margret held her hand over her wildly beating heart.

  “That’s what it’s supposed to do. Some drivers like to get right on top of the vehicle in front of them—it’s so dangerous. It also helps if you’re kinda zoning out, keeps you alert.”

  “It does that.”

  “Wait ‘till she puts on the brakes for you, that’ll freak you out.”

  “She puts on the brakes?”

  “Yeah, if somebody cuts you off in traffic, or traffic stops suddenly, the truck will slow down, usually before you even notice the problem. The system isn’t perfect, but it helps.”

  As they drove on through the day, Joyce told trucker stories and described some of the beautiful places they’d see. Some of her stories were funny, and some frightening. They were about wrecks, getting lost, low bridges, and predicaments she’d been in.

  “So what did you do when you found yourself in front of the Washington Monument?”

  “The only thing I could do, I kept driving until I could find a way out of there. Unfortunately, there are a bunch of low bridges and weight restricted roads in Washington DC. I finally got to a place where I couldn’t go in any direction and had to just sit there, blocking traffic, trying to figure out what to do. That’s when a cop came and told me I couldn’t park there.”

  “Did you get a ticket?”

  Joyce laughed, “No, I told him I didn’t know how to get out of there. He just looked around and pointed out all the reasons why I couldn’t go in any direction—like I didn’t already know.”

  “Helpful.”

  “Yeah, finally he told me to take the Parkway, even though it’s a no-trucks-allowed road. He said I could probably get through, but there were some round-a-bouts that might be a problem. I thought he would—like, escort me or something, but he just said, ‘Good luck,’ and left.”

  “So you got out?”

  “I got out all right. The round-a-bouts were pretty, all planted with flowers, but they were too tight to curve the truck around. So I ran over a lot of flowers, up and over the curb, thump, thump—on every block, for ten blocks.”

  “Oh my gosh, like you left a trail.”

  “I sure did. I felt bad, but what could I do? You’ll see trails all over the place where there are impossible turns, and tight spots that trucks just can’t get around.”

  Margret stopped for another stop-light. “Drat, I’m starting to hate this road, what did you call it?”

  “It’s the Lincoln Highway, US-30.”

  “Mr. Lincoln must have really liked stop lights.” Margret stalled the truck again forgetting to flip the splitter lever down before she start
ed out. She recovered, realizing the mistake, only to put the truck in reverse instead of first gear.

  “Stop! You’re in reverse.”

  “Dammit!” She struggled to find the proper gear, but by then the light was red again. When it turned green, she got going, but waited way too long shifting between gears, causing the truck to roar with high RPMs. “Why can’t I get this now? I was doing okay a while ago.”

  “I think you’re getting tired. There’s a Pilot truck stop a couple of miles ahead, we’ll take a break there.”

  It was mid-day so parking was wide open. Joyce suggested backing in as if the lot was full. “It’ll be good practice, without all the pressure of trucks in the way, and stuff to hit.”

  Margret worked and struggled, but finally got backed in between the lines. She was feeling pretty proud of her self, until they got out and saw how crooked she was. “Do I have to fix that?”

  “Don’t worry about it, there’s plenty of room so it won’t bother anybody. Let’s go get something to eat, you have to take a half hour break anyway.”

  5

  Carlos

  Carlos paced in the dim light of the storage room. He looked at his phone for the hundredth time, as if he could make a call, a text, e-mail—anything from her, happen. He kept away from the single, dusty window above his head that allowed almost no air to circulate. A mouse scurried over a burlap sack of rice onto a ledge of rough stone that made up the walls. Carlos allowed himself to quietly jump up enough to get a glimpse of the street.

  He saw no one, no trace of Machete’s sleek Mercedes, and no trace of his henchmen with their semi-automatic rifles. Still—he didn’t dare move from his spot, at least not until after dark. He needed food, and he only had part of a bottle of water left. Sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to call someone to help, but he didn’t want to use the phone. With the battery’s charge almost gone, he’d save it in case she called.

  What did the Gringo say when he drove her away? Las Vegas? Is that where he was taking her? If only he understood English better. Rosa had been teaching him, so he’d be able to get a job when they got to America, where they’d be safe again, where they could start a life with their baby when he was born.