J.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Sale>
     
    
   
   
    
     
      +Seat
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Half
      way
      between
      the
      feeling
      and
     
     
      the
      doubt.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      had
      been
      hitchhiking
      for
     
     
      maybe
      an
      hour
      by
      then.
      And
      I
      was
     
     
      tired
      and
      obviously
      a
      little
      sore.
     
     
      My
      hands
      had
      the
      feeling
      of
      rope,
     
     
      like
      iron,
      and
      |
      felt
      the
      urge
      to
      lie
     
     
      down.
      My
      garment
      bag,
      wasting
     
     
      away
      from
      overuse
      was
      pulling
      and
     
     
      tearing
      at
      the
      seams
      as
      if
      someone
     
     
      was
      trying
      to
      get
      out.
      But
      it
      was
     
     
      almost
      empty.
     
    

    
     
      My
      boots
      were
      the
      lace
      up
     
    
   
   
    
     
      kind,
      black
      patent
      leather
      with
      thick
     
    
   
   
    
     
      rubber
      souls.
      I
      was
      wearing
      a
      pair
     
     
      of
      woolen
      socks
      over
      my
      ankle
     
     
      socks
      because
      wool
      socks
      make
      my
     
     
      feet
      itch,
      and
      I
      was
      smoking
      a
     
     
      DuMaurier
      cigarette.
      I
      was
      happy,
     
     
      in
      a
      way.
     
    

    
     
      It
      was
      at
      least
      a
      form
      of
      hap-
     
     
      piness:
      that
      one
      derives
      from
      run-
     
     
      ning
      away
      from
      something.
     
    

    
     
      I
      had
      not
      yet
      been
      gone
      an
     
     
      hour
      when
      I
      felt
      a
      tremendous
      bur-
     
     
      den
      had
      been
      lifted
      from
      shoulders.
     
     
      The
      weight
      of
      worry
      and
      the
      sug-
     
     
      gestion
      of
      sadness
      under
      which
     
     
      adult
      life
      is
      lived
      all
      of
      the
      sudden
     
     
      vanished
      from
      my
      sight
      in
      the
      same
     
     
      way
      a
      car
      moving
      in
      the
      other
     
     
      direction
      on
      a
      freeway
      does:
      with-
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      out
      thought
      to
      it.
     
    

    
     
      I
      had
      not
      shaved
      since
      it
     
     
      happened.
     
    

    
     
      My
      pockets
      were
      full
      of
     
     
      notebooks
      and
      strange
      reminders
      of
     
     
      my
      lost
      life
      when
      I
      decided,
      as
      if
      in
     
     
      a
      dream,
      to
      merely
      pull
      them
      inside
     
     
      out
      and
      dump
      their
      contents
      onto
     
     
      the
      windy
      ground.
      From
      the
      black
     
     
      notebook,
      the
      one
      with
      the
      cover
     
     
      that
      flipped
      open
      in
      the
      detective
     
     
      fashion,
      I
      tore
      out
      the
      last
      page
     
     
      which
      had
      only
      a
      name
      and
      a
      num-
     
     
      ber
      scrawled
      on
      them:
      Kate
      2-7688.
     
    

    
     
      Some
      numbers
      you
      can
      dis-
     
    
   
   
    
     
      regard.
      Some
      pieces
      of
      paper
      fly
     
    
   
   
    
     
      though
      your
      life
      with
      all
      the
      impor-
     
     
      tance
      of
      a
      cheap
      bic
      pen,
      and
      you
     
     
      treat
      them
      that
      way.
     
    

    
     
      But
      some
      you
      hold
      on
      to.
     
    

    
     
      There
      are
      small
      graying
      bits
     
     
      of
      paper
      in
      your
      grandmother’s
     
     
      house
      right
      now.
      And
      she
      has
      them
     
     
      between
      two
      pages
      of
      a
      book
      that
     
     
      will
      not
      be
      opened
      but
      to
      see
      that
     
     
      piece
      of
      paper.
      Your
      daughter
      has
     
     
      one
      too.
      It
      is
      there
      in
      her
      wallet.
     
     
      The
      one
      stuffed
      with
      all
      the
      pictures
     
    
   
   
    
     
      of
      her
      high
      school
      friends;
      all’
     
    
   
   
    
     
      signed
      with
      hearts
      and
      XXOOs.
     
     
      She
      has
      a
      piece
      of
      paper
      in
      her
      wal-
     
     
      let
      that
      she
      would
      not
      show
      you
      on
     
     
      punishment
      of
      death.
      It
      is
      hers
      and
     
     
      she
      guards
      it
      with
      something
      just
      as
     
     
      important
      as
      her
      life:
      her
      privacy
     
     
      and
      her
      intimacy.
     
    

    
     
      My
      piece
      of
      paper
      is
      not
      the
     
     
      one
      |
      tore
      out
      of
      the
      black
      note-
     
     
      book.
      But
      that
      is
      another
      story
      and
     
     
      anyway
      we
      were
      talking
      about
      inti-
     
     
      macy.
     
     
      Rookies
      do
      not
      drive
      the
     
     
      trucks
      that
      drive
      Canada’s
      high-
     
     
      ways.
     
    

    
     
      Mostly
      the
      cross
      country
     
     
      tucker
      is
      the
      old
      timer,
      the
      one
      who
     
     
      knows
      exactly
      when
      he
      needs
      to
     
     
      sleep,
      when
      he
      can
      begin
      his
      day,
     
     
      and
      what
      speed
      to
      take
      down
      a
      7%
     
     
      incline;
      he
      does
      not
      need
     
     
      reminders.
      And
      if
      you
      have
      the
     
     
      right
      kind
      of
      vision
      you
      can
      spot
     
     
      them
      from
      the
      way
      they
      brake,
      the
     
     
      way
      they
      pull
      into
      a
      truck
      stop,
      the
     
    
   
   
    
     
      way
      they
      pull
      over
      for
      hitchhikers.
     
     
      They
      do
      it
      in
      much
      the
      same
     
     
      way
      a
      basketball
      player
      —
      point
     
     
      guard
      more
      succinctly
      —
      dribbles
      a
     
     
      basketball.
      Like
      he
      was
      meant
      to
      do
     
     
      it.
      A
      truck
      driver
      manipulating
      an
     
     
      18-wheeler
      with
      a
      fully
      loaded
     
     
      trailer
      has
      the
      art
      of
      a
      sculptor,
      the
     
     
      sense
      of
      a
      chess
      player,
      and
      the
     
     
      instincts
      of
      a
      race
      car
      driver
      —
      but
     
     
      he
      has
      the
      soul
      of
      a
      point
      guard.
     
     
      He
      never
      speeds
      up
      when
     
     
      he
      should
      slow
      down,
      and
      he
     
     
      understands
      which
      travelers
      he
      can
     
     
      overtake,
      and
      which
      he
      must
      yield
     
     
      too.
      The
      analogy
      of
      the
      point
      guard
     
     
      extends
      here
      too
      because
      in
      much
     
     
      the
      same
      way
      the
      best
      point
      guards
     
     
      —-
      Magic
      Johnson,
      Bob
      Cousy,
     
     
      Isiah
      Thomas,
      John
      Stockton
      —
      see
     
     
      and
      understand
      the
      traffic
      of
      player
     
     
      movement
      both
      before
      and
      as
      it
     
     
      happens,
      a
      professional
      long
      range
     
     
      trucker
      can
      spot
      a
      trouble
      spot
     
     
      before
      anyone
      else
      who
      is
      watching
     
     
      can
      even
      sense
      a
      minor
      problem.
     
     
      The
      trucker
      sees
      weakness,
      as
      the
     
    
   
   
    
     
      point
      guard
      sees
      weakness,
      and
      in
     
     
      much
      the
      same
      way
      the
      trucker
     
     
      avoids
      it
      in
      such
      a
      fashion
      as
      to
      ren-
     
     
      der
      it
      impossible,
      just
      as
      the
      point
     
     
      guard
      moves
      here
      or
      there,
      or
     
     
      directs
      a
      teammate
      to
      do
      so,
      he
      ren-
     
     
      ders
      the
      problem
      moot
      by
      his
      own
     
     
      proclivity.
     
    

    
     
      Good
      truck
      drivers
      and
     
     
      good
      point
      guards
      are
      not
      wary
      of
     
     
      trouble.
      They
      understand
      it.
      They
     
     
      seek
      it
      out
      if
      only
      to
      prevent
      and
     
     
      destroy
      it.
      They
      are
      not
      afraid
      of
     
     
      that
      which
      would
      scare
      other
      peo-
     
     
      ple
      because
      they
      know,
      if
      only
      by
     
     
      their
      own
      rare
      in-born
      instincts
      that
     
     
      it
      is
      they
      and
      they
      alone,
      that
      the
     
     
      trouble
      was
      made
      for.
      They
      can
     
     
      control
      and
      prevent
      it
      so
      they
     
     
      embrace
      and
      welcome
      it.
     
    

    
     
      Hitchhikers
      have
      no
      use
      for
     
     
      trouble
      and
      should
      avoid
      it
      at
      all
     
     
      cost.
      Like
      that
      Nova
      idling
      to
      a
      halt
     
     
      there.
      It
      is
      too
      anxious
      for
      me.
      Too
     
     
      in
      desire
      of
      me
      to
      get
      in
      for
      the
      ride.
     
     
      So
      I
      opt
      out.
      Play
      my
      own
      defense.
     
     
      Move.
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
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