It all started one day as I was tippy-toeing across the Buckeye. I was in no mood for talking because I was running late, as always. I only had about forty-eight hours to get to Shakey and I was running solo. I was mashing my motor and taking no prisoners. I had an eyeball on the road and an ear on the CB, just in case there were any bears around. You see, I’m allergic to flashing blue lights. I was hauling a load of dispatcher brains, so I was really moving.

I passed a slow truck called Swift and an orange truck called Yellow. I was having a little trouble trying to pass a Celadon truck that must have been turned up, when I saw a sign up ahead for the chicken coup, and sure enough, they had the small word out. I put my blinker on, hoping Celadon would let me in, but he just kept hammering. He must have had a Pre-Pass because he blew the coup. So I just kept on going too, trying to stay right next to him, hoping they wouldn’t see me from the window of the coup. I finally got around Celadon and I pulled over to wait for them, just in case they were coming. I didn’t want it to look like I was trying to outrun them. Anyway, I had to squirt the dirt and I always try to get one thing done while waiting for another thing. I wiped off my chicken lights, which I always leave on for safety, just to kill some time and wait for Smokey. After a few minutes, nobody showed up, so I put it in the wind. I had to keep my door closed if I was going to make it.

Now, being a groin-o-cologist like I am, looking at all the skirts in the cars, I never saw him coming. I heard a voice on the radio say, “Look out Supertrucker!” but I didn’t think he was talking to me, so I ignored him. After all, I hardly ever come around here and I’m pretty sure nobody around here knows me. And besides, so many drivers call each other Supertrucker when they are trying to insult someone. How could anyone around here possibly know that Supertrucker was really my handle. Well, at least that’s what they call me when they’re not mad at me.

Then I heard that voice again. “Plain brown wrapper, a Camaro, hammer down, westbound. Copy that Supertrucker?” Then I recognized the voice. It was my old buddy Mudflap. “Is that you, Mudflap?” I asked. “Last time I saw you, you hit an armadillo in Amarillo.” We used to follow each other across Texas in those days. He was a spanish-speaking gringo who drove a parking lot. A good family man too. He had lots of grandkids and he was always buying things for them. “Long time no see, hand” I said. “No time to talk though, unless you can keep up. I’m in the eleventh hour on my logbook,” I said. “I’m in the same boat as you” said Mudflap. Then added, “I can keep up, I never did like waving with my right hand anyway. But we better watch out. That smokey is hammer down on our back door and gaining pavement quickly. I got a sleeper full of grandkids and Grandma's riding shotgun so I can’t be getting pulled-over right now.” Drinking a coffee with my left hand and holding the CB in my right I answered, “Well, I never... well, maybe once, but I’ll never tell.”

I put my coffee down and started to pick my nose with a sharp nail, when I hit a bump. I saw a gator in the road and was about to switch to the granny lane when I saw him. His headlights were flashing left and right. Then the blood started running down from my nose. He slowed down and I pulled in front of him. Then he pulled up next to me in the hammer lane and spoke to me on a loud speaker saying, “Pull over now!” So I did. All of the sudden I got a headache from my eyeball to my ear. I was thinking about the speeding ticket I was sure to get. It hurt my head even more as I struggled to come up with a good excuse.

He walked up to my door in a perfectly pressed uniform as I was still trying to think of a good one and then it hit me. I said, “You ain’t gonna believe this, but I am lost. I know I was making good time, but I am truly lost. I blew a pancake and some CB Rambo was yelling at my radio, trying to tell me where a shop was, but I wasn’t even sure which way I was going, so I was trying to hurry up and find out where I was. Someone on the CB told me to look in the mirror and I would find myself - nobody was helping me. Then I got a nosebleed and saw you.” And the blood was getting all over right about then.

I couldn’t get a smile out of him. I think his face was made of stone. He did everything by the book. He just looked at me like I wasn’t even talking and asked, “Do you know why I stopped you?” Well, I didn’t want to be the one to tell him I was doing a 69 in a 55, so I said, “No sir, I don’t,” with my confused, innocent little boy face, as I grabbed another napkin. “Don’t get smart,” was all he said as I handed him my license. “I’m not being sarcastic, I’m being facetious,” I said, trying to impress upon him my award winning personality, but he was having none of it. “Do you always ramble on like that,” he asked? I answered truthfully. “I grew up eating Sugar Pops and watching Topcat on TV. That’s why I'm the way I am.”

I gave him my John Hancock and he gave me my award certificate, wished me a happy-happy and a merry-merry and I was on my way. And you know what? I never saw Mudflap again.

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