A Poem for the Road

They say all roads lead to Rome

I must be driving the other way,

Theres no Coliseums on this street,

No Venus to give my heart away.

Coast to Coast, I’ve looked for a home,

Oceans so blue, the deserts dry,

Everything perfect for two,

But alas, it was only I

Ray chewed what remained of his eraser. He didn't care for the taste, but read somewhere that it would help him think. His page was still empty despite his new diet. He sighed and gazed out of his bug splattered windshield. The sky was still holding on to the fading light with the now set sun, and the dark splats looked like black stars. How many thousands of bugs had met their demise because of him. Their last view before smashing into his semi was looking at his aging face. Headlights were slowly turning on from the highway, an illuminated string through the high desert of north west Arizona. 

  Sitting in the bog of LA traffic to start the day was a blessing for Ray. He always took cross country hauls because he could stop at his favorite truck diner, “Diesel with a Side of Cakes” in Fort Collins Colorado, at the base of the Rockies. The food was typical diner food, nothing special. Barely salted omellets and slightly raw pancakes. What made Side of Cakes special was the waitress, Billie. 

Billie was a ray of sunshine and spice and a bland diner. If Ray stopped by during a dinner rush he would slowly drink his coffee and watch Billie carry eight plates and a coffee pot without spilling a drop. She would laugh and talk to each customer in the diner, but when she finally got to him, he felt he was the only one there. She would sit in the booth across from him and ask where he had been, and where he was going. He would read his writings about the road and Billie would sit through each refrain, smiling after his final pause. Usually these poems involved geographic places,, but while stopping and going in LA traffic, he realized he could tell her something more meaningful. He would read a declaration of his love to her. A romantic gesture if executed perfectly. He didnt stand a chance with someone like Billie unless he wove a perfect encapsulation of his love.

The sheet of paper in his lap looked empty. Unrepresentative of the amount of work he had put in throughout the day since LA. Ray readjusted his seat in an attempt to dislodge the missing words for his poem. Ray was running out of time. The uncooperative cabin light casted three sets of shadows over the clutter in his lap. He reread his half blank page and crumpled it up, and threw it on the ground with the others. A new page a new start

He reached to the passenger side and grabbed his worn dictionary out of the glove box. He deliberately flipped through each page, checking the underlined words. Past words that he had stumbled upon while trying to finish other poems. A junkyard of “Aleatory” and “Pedantic”’s waiting to be combined into poetry. Concealed somewhere within the tattered pages of Webster, was the perfect confession of love already written, Ray just needed to find and rearrange the pieces. 

Writing poetry was Ray’s escape. Truck stops across America had been his writing room, each one adding its own voice. Crossing the Appalachians into Tennessee is where he wrote “The Mountains Push Me Up”. “Trucker Heaven” was written at a truck stop in Iowa, with facilities so nice some never left. Billie’s favorite was one he wrote right on the outskirts of New York City, “I hate cities, and those who live there”. Those all came easily to him compared to writing a love poem. How could doing the thing he loved, about the woman he loved be so difficult?

Ray rubbed his eyes. They were dry and his eyelids were clinging together desperate to get some sleep, but he would be at a booth with Billie in 2 days, and hadn't written a word. The neon signs of the gas station market promised some hope on the other side of the line of trucks. Bunched up reject papers fell onto the still warm pavement below him as he opened his door into a chilling night. 

He walked across through the packed lot and was assaulted by the fluorescent light of convenience. He asked the man behind the counter for a fifth of Whiskey. Whenever Ray hit writers block, his liquid friend was able to coax out the hidden ideas that Ray normally would be too timid to put to paper. The freedom that came from writing without worry did not come without a cost. Ray always had trouble stopping his dances with freedom. On a normal haul he would never even bring the temptation in the cabin with him. But he had never had a haul where love was at stake and the inability to name it. 

He walked back out to his truck, looking at the now dark but illuminated mountains of Arizona. The empty landscape of the shrub before and after was interrupted by lines of parked trucks. Too many starts and stops, both leaving LA and in writing. Nothing was working. Ray had once heard that Hemingway never wrote sober. “Write drunk, edit sober”. Turns out that was wrongly attributed to him, and Hemingway actually never wrote drunk at all. Ray refused to truly believe that correction. He was just like his favorite writer, even if the evidence was opposed. A bottle of Jack Daniels would do the trick.

Rays cabin had a bed, small TV and microwave. He sat on the bed and poured some whiskey into his coffee mug, his only cup. He looked at his new empty page and took a sip. Ray shivered, as he always did on his first sip of alcohol. He felt the spiced liquid light up every nerve it touched on the way through his body. Looking at his blank page was becoming easier, and after another large sip he found himself filling up the page. Replacing ephemeral ideas with pencil lead as he worked down the page. The cabin light glowed into the winter desert night.

Part II

The long roads stretch on,

Winding through the dark.

Lost with no sense of direction

No shelter for my heart

The future is ahead of me

No turn offs to be found

There is no point to beg or plea

My tires keep rolling on the ground

Ray woke up in a warm sweat. He hadn't managed his way into his sheets and was still wearing his boots. The entire cabin was warm and stale from the mid morning sun. His headache and loss time were a cost from the night before, but was the liquid inspiration worth it? He looked back over what he had written the night before. Despite some much needed editing, it was all there, the seeds of ideas and outline of what he was hoping to tell Billie. 

Slowly, but with years of practice, Ray got ready for another full day of driving. He needed to make the pass over the Rockies by nightfall. He dumped out the leftover whiskey in his coffee mug. The white sunlight caused psychic harm on Ray as he opened the cab to do his pre-drive check on his rig. The air was thin and did not hold the heat of the sun. 

 Ray joined the highway and began the metallic march east. Unable to think about anything except the road ahead of him. His splitting headache and sideways stomach felt satisfying though. A payment well worth the inspiration he received last night. Trying to formulate any new coherent thoughts was impossible. They would not stick together. Miles through Utah Rays thoughts ran in circles, often repeating the same word over again without conscious thought.

The semis were silent monks, watching over the roads of America. Shamans of pavement. Ray loved driving and felt he was fulfilling an ancient role. A watcher and caretaker of travelers. Constant and passive, his fellow truckers watched the lanes come and go, a secret network of good.

Ray stopped for lunch, hoping to write but was unable to focus. He brewed a new cup of coffee, and edited his poem from the previous night's creative explosion. The threads that seemed so certain last night now seemed confused and disconnected. He was going to be arriving to Billies booth in the morning, so time was limited. He tried to lay down just for a second to heal the hangover. He slept. 

Ray dreamed of Billie covered in syrup sitting in a booth on a marble tower at the base of a jagged mountain range. Whiskey began flowing down from the peaks loosening rocks and trees filled with books. Ray held onto the base of the pillar as the mountainous wave crashed down on them. Billie sat listening to the torrent of liquid. When the river eased into a stream Ray looked up the peaks and saw words etched golden into the mountain. 

He woke in his cabin to a start, trying to think of the words from the dream. He felt physically improved, but mentally slow still. Ray cussed as he looked at the clock. He was now running behind both for miles and words. His breath increased as the clock suffocated him. He needed to finish hi poem, and just as importantly deliver it. He reheated his coffee and added a splash of inspiration.

He exhaled to settle into the drive and to try and relax. Freeways split off and joined his road, bringing new cars and taking others. As the winter stars began to shine brighter cars began leaving the roads faster than they were replaced, soon leaving Ray mostly alone on the roads. A natural process that happened daily. Headlights and taillights began spreading out. 

He looked into his coffee mug. A subtle rainbow layer glimmered at the surface, the warm dark coffee underneath. The heated whiskey vapor stung his eyes as it steamed up from his lap. He swirled the mug before bringing it to his lips, trying to mix the concoction back together again, unsure if he wanted to hide the taste of the whiskey or the reheated coffee. He knew some of the other truckers drank a bit while driving but this was his first time. He just needed to loosen up the words out of his subconscious.

Whenever Rays eye caught the clock in his periphery his train of thought crashed down and he took another sip, the whiskey tickling his nostrils. His evening was moving quickly, with few rest areas through the Rockies. His breath was unmistakingly polluted with Whiskey.

Ray watched vehicles appear in his rearview, pass, and then head out in front of him, their taillights vanishing behind corners and hills that he would be at shortly. The incline of the spine of America forcing everything up. His whole life was full of people passing him. He was left behind as they charged ahead. He took another sip of his caffeine alcohol. Tonight he couldn't be passed. Ray pushed on the pedal. For the first time since he started long haul trucking, he started inching above the speed limit. He continued his pace, marching up into the stars, and still felt comfortable. The moonlight was now spread out over the inclining landscape as he weaved through the mountain valleys of the range. 

He scanned the side of the road for cops. Ray had not seen a cop the entire drive, but now that he had whiskey in a cup and was driving over the speed limit, he thought he saw them behind every bush and tree.

The miles ticked on, a little quicker than before. As he gained elevation the landscape began to shimmer, as colder temperatures ruptured water into crystals. Every tree and boulder was outlined in white silver and his headlights caught every stray blade of grass. Ray saw the sign for the next rest stop five miles away, and due to his speed increase, he would have more time to write then at his last stop. He would stop to write, and the continue throughout the night until he got to Billie. Ray was excited to put pen to paper, with his renewed optimism.

A bright light blinded Ray from his mirrors. Headlights right behind him. How did they get so close? Where did they come from? He couldnt make out the car that joined him on the road. A cop must have pulled behind him because of his drinking and speeding.

“This cant be happening” Ray said as he took his foot of the gas and slowed significantly, hoping to trick the cop behind him. 

“No officer i know the speed limit, i just really have to use the restroom” He rehearsed. 

“That smell? Yeah I had just received a new unopened bottle of whiskey as a gift for my charity works, and then it fell out of my bag and shattered.” 

Rest Stop 3 miles a signed informed. 

So close to salvation but this was surely the end. Ray not only was not able to tell Billie how he felt, but he was going to be in prison. Once again Ray felt the constriction of his breath. He waited for the blue and red lights to switch on. In some ways Ray felt relieved, that this bad behavior of his was going to be punished. That an unnatural inspiration wasn't going to be rewarded. 

The headlight pulled into the right lane and began passing him. As it passed he let out a breath of relief when he noticed it was just a minivan.

Rest Area Ahead.

Ray rolled down the window to get fresh air as he slowed into the rest stop.. Stale whiskey polluted air was ripped into the void and replaced by thin cold wisps. Ray heard the soft crunch of thin ice from the empty parking lot.The world was bright, silver moonlight shining off the delicate crystals of a new night. A few more stanzas. A few more drops of inspiration.

Part III

A compass and the stars

Have all been replaced

Auto following cars

No need for space

Taillights drift off ahead

Leaving me in the dark

Afraid of my deathbed

I’m alone on the Arc

The words flew out of Ray. Everything just clicked. The words so dislodged that he could probably write a whole other poem, dedicated to luck, and maybe Jack Daniels.

Stars were poking through the darkness above as he began pulling out of the rest stop. He pulled back on the interstate. The road now completely empty. The silver moonlight outlined his smiling face. He crossed the pass and looked out to the layers of earth in the distance. 

Ray enjoyed driving at night. The interstates returned to their intended purpose. No stop and go traffic, hardly any other drivers at all. Just a driver, a truck, and the pavement.Ray added a splash more of whiskey in his coffee to celebrate.

 The moon was just beginning to rise above the mountains. While words and rhymes batted around in his head he brought his three ton rig up to speed to join the red eyes of tail lights heading north. 

Ray ran through the additions in his poem. It had to be perfect, and he had gotten as close as humanly possible. He could drive to Fort Collins and edit and possibly sleep until the restaurant opened. He sped up to 15 over the limit again, not needing to touch the gas, only limiting the brake. The road was declining and empty. 20 mph would be just as safe, and if it provided just a couple more minutes to edit it would be worth it. He sped up, watching the speedometer tick up, surprised by how much the needle moved, while the truck didn't seem to be speeding up at all. The empty road and soothing movement of the rig complimented the success in writing Ray had. He let his mind wander, thinking over what he accomplished. He was feeling sleepy, but was basically complete in his task. He took another sip of his coffee, and coughed, realizing his coffee was now mostly whiskey. The sting of whiskey was just as much of a wake up as coffee would be though.

Ray put on talk radio to keep him awake, and removed his foot further from the brake.Extra sleep was tempting, and then he would be in better shape to read Billie the poem.

Ray sped down the mountain, dropping elevation and closing in with his destination. A turn on a bend revealed a car coming up the mountain. No worries, the road was large enough for many. It passed and Ray was horrified. A highway patrolman puttered up the incline. He slammed on the brakes instantly. The patrol car turned on its blinker and pulled around, heading back down the hill. Ray felt his chest tighten. For the first time of the night Ray noticed what bad shape he was in. The alcohol was fully within him now. Still there was no way the ranger knew that. He was just a Semi heading down the mountain. A shaman of the pavement. 

The patrol car gained on the lone semi. Illuminated signs warned of a tight turn. The patrol car didnt seem to pay mind, so neither did Ray. The first turn right was fine, but the second turn going left was tighter than Ray imagined. Tires skidding screamed out into the night as less of them made contact with the asphalt. The coffee polluted with whiskey spilt, as Ray and his cab began losing their contact with gravity.