Jason goes to Canada

Oh Country Roads

The old trucker switched gears, snatching the stick into fourth as the old rig rumbled down the road.
He squinted at the highway, not because of the snow, it had been cleared long ago.
He squinted because he couldn't see worth a damn, and was too stubborn to wear glasses. The Docs had told him he was legally blind, and would surely shit if they knew he was driving a ten-ton vehicle across the border 3 times a week.
But he just treated it like he treated everything else in his life.
He just rolled with it, baby.
He got to about fifteen miles above the border to the United States when he spotted a familiar sight.
The same big hitcher he had dropped off the week before was back, walking by the side if the road in that same robotic gait of his.
"I'll be damned!" he cackled.
He geared the truck down to a shuddering stop, and the big feller opened the passenger door and climbed in without a word.
The old man squinted. Same dude, same clothes. He must've been wearing the same thing for the past week, because he smelled like a wolf's asshole.
"Well, need another ride, my man?"
He nodded, still wearing that beat-up mask. He was odd, for sure. Never speaking a word, just communicating in gestures and hand signals. But the man had driven a lot of miles for a lot of years. He had seen odder.
"Didn't like Canada, eh?"
The man shook his head vehemently.
"Yeah, it ain't for most folks. The snow gets kind of old. And the people are just too damn nice all the time. It makes you kind of miss getting cursed and flipped off like they do in New York."
He nodded.
The old trucker got the truck rumbling again, hauling ass for the border.
"So, going back to Michigan? The same place I picked you up, the Crystal Lake exit?"
An excited nod.
"Yeah, there's no place like home. So, what didn't you like about the place, aside from mayonnaise on all the damn food?"
The masked man flared his fingers out beside his head like a set of horns.
"Seen a moose, did ya?"
He put his fists up in a fighting pose.
"Got in a tussle with a moose? No shit?"
He nodded, gesturing that it was a big one.
"Well, who won?"
He pointed two thumbs toward himself enthusiastically.
"Kick his ass, did ya?"
He see-sawed his hand in a so so gesture. The old man laughed.
"Well, what else did ya do?"
He pantomimed a chopping gesture.
"You chopped wood?"
The man shook his head, pointing at him.
"You chopped wood for me?"
He shook his head again. He mimicked the chopping motion, then a person screaming, then he moved his arms forward and back like he was running, then he laid over in the seat playing dead.
The trucker paused, then said "Someone caught you chopping wood, so you got scared and ran home, then went to sleep."
The masked guy sighed, then nodded.
"Ah well that's okay son, I'm pretty sure they won't have the cops waiting for you at the border."
He shrugged, patting the machete he carried in an old vinyl scabbard.
The trucker laughed. The masked dude was weird, but he was funny.
"Well, it's about a two hour drive until your exit. You want a beer?"
He nodded, and the old man fetched him a can and popped the top, sliding a straw down in it so he could sip it through his mask, just like before.
They both settled in for the haul, and he scanned the radio for a good tune.
The Eagles were playing Hotel California, a moldy goldie but listenable. He looked over to the masked man. He shook his head and sipped at his beer.
He turned the station to Pop. Katy Perry was singing Teenage Dream, talking about some tight britches and what not.
The man nodded, so he turned it up.

He reclined a bit back in his seat and nursed his beer, seeming to doze off.

The old trucker put his rig in cruise control, and let his mind wander through the miles, as it often does.

Ready or not, America, here we come.

The End