Let's Not Meet Again

"Just Slide That Back Under The Seat"

My hometown is very small and rural: technically speaking, it's not even a town. It is considered an unincorporated area. There is no town council, no library, not even a police force of any kind (state troopers swing through every 3-4 days or so).

I always had two jobs when I came home from college for the summer: during the day I worked at a farm supply store, and at night tended bar. I tend to make my own entertainment, so I loved both jobs.

The store sold hardware, tools, cattle feed, horse feed, fertilizer, etc. Whenever someone ordered feed or fertilizer the warehouse crew would load the customer's purchases onto their trucks. Sometimes the ticket would be for 2-3 50lb bags of feed, sometimes it would be for 2-3 tons.

One day at the farm supply store I was working the warehouse with my coworker and friend Snacking Sam (he ate constantly but weighed about 120lbs soaking wet). It was a really slow day right before closing time, so Sam and I were sitting on the dock outside the bay doors of the warehouse listening to the radio and smoking cigarettes.

Michelle, the assistant manager came into the warehouse and handed me a ticket for a ton of pig feed. I looked at my watch, jokingly cocked an eyebrow at her, and hopped on the forklift. The 50lb bags came to the store on pallets, so each pallet held 40 bags. The farming industry "takes all kinds," so I had seen everything from small-time farmers making their own way covered in mud and shit and sweat, to pristine, multimillionaire farm owners who ran operations employing 100 or more people.

A flatbed Chevy pulled around through the side gate and backed up to the dock. A guy, mid-50s hopped out of the driver side door. He was probably 5'10 and 180lbs, and he looked like he was a small-time farmer. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeve button up, and he had a pronounced limp. He was tan and weather-worn, salt and pepper hair, really starting to gray at the temples. He deftly hopped up onto the dock (it was about chest-high if you were facing it from the ground) and watched me drive the pallet of feed towards the dock.

I got the pallet lowered onto the bed of his truck, then got off the forklift to have him sign his ticket. As I approached him we swapped hellos and I handed him the clipboard. I always tried to make a point to greet our customers by name, but I saw on the ticket that he'd paid with cash.

He signed his ticket then said "Hey man, I'm Eddie. I need some help. I got this busted knee and I gotta get all this shit unloaded before dinner. You mind riding over to my place and helping me unload? I ain't got no forklift at the house. I'm right over off of Highway 22, about 3 miles from here."

I'd made these arrangements before with customers I knew, and this guy seemed pretty harmless. I told him I could help him out, and since it was 5:00 I was about to clock out anyway. He said "I really appreciate it. I'll pay ya $20 for your trouble."

I clocked out, said goodbye to Snacking Sam and Michelle, then went to my truck. He was parked, idling on the edge of the road in our gravel parking lot, and I threw a wave to let him know I was ready to go.

We pulled onto Highway 22, a winding, two-lane highway that led from our hometown down to a lake and further away from civilization. My father had always called Highway 22 the "Jack Hanna Memorial Expressway" because it was constantly overrun with deeer, opossums, raccoons, coyotes, snakes, and every other manner of wild animal.