Green Chip

A green sobriety chip turned in John Quigley’s pocket as he steered into the truck stop. His heartbeat quickened and his fists clenched as he tried to ignore the truck stop's massive display of beer. He’d have to tell his AA group about this craving. Eleven months without alcohol—he found it hard to believe, and so did his family and friends. They had watched him spiral downward for over fifteen years. When he first joined AA, they met his efforts with skepticism, but after he earned a few chips, their doubt turned into cautious hope, and finally into joy. He earned his green chip the same month he celebrated his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. To celebrate, he planned to surprise his wife with a trip to Hawaii.

With the green chip heavy in his pocket, he pulled into the truck stop for fuel and food. Stepping down from his cab, an ad next to the diesel pump caught his eye: a twelve-pack of Budweiser. He yanked his eyes away. No matter where you turn, he thought. He inserted the fuel hose, popped a pinch of chew into his lip, and leaned against the side. An off-white cowboy hat, a sleeveless button-up, plain blue jeans, and snakeskin boots gave him the classic look of the old-school truckers he grew up admiring along I-10.

After fueling, he parked in the side lot and walked inside to pay. "Afternoon, Missy.” Quigley offered an awkward smile, attempting to sound casual.

Missy tapped her screen, located the account, and pointed to the card reader. "Sign here with your finger." He signed, took his receipt, and tucked it into his back pocket.

"So, which is healthier?" Quigley asked. "Hardee's or the dried-out steak rollers?"

"The hamburger has veggies,” she laughed.

Minutes later, Quigley sat in Hardee's, eating while shouting out answers to the Jeopardy! broadcast on the overhead TV. "A carrier!" he called out to a question about heavily armed warships.

"Battleship," a middle-aged man in a flannel shirt chimed in from a nearby table. Just then, a contestant on screen buzzed in with the exact same answer.

Quigley turned to size up the stranger. The man looked muscular in an unassuming way, with neat black hair and a trimmed beard. He radiated a quiet confidence that Quigley mistook for warmth. "What's your name, partner?"

"Tobiath."

"I'm John." Quigley gestured toward the lot. "Are you a company man or owner-operator?"

"Supposed to be an owner; I’ll find out tomorrow morning."

"An owner-operator?" Quigley asked, impressed. "Not many of them left nowadays."

"No wonder; with the price of diesel and my quarter-of-a-million-dollar truck, it's brutal," Tobiath said, shaking his head.

"You've got that right. Us small guys can't survive anymore—big businesses are taking over." They chatted shop until Tobiath wiped his hands with a napkin and stood up. "Well, got to do laundry, then crash. Gotta start early if I want to snag a good haul."

"Good luck, partner. Maybe we’ll run into each other down the road," Quigley said.

Quigley walked out to his rig and turned the key. The engine cranked relentlessly, but the diesel engine refused to catch. After several attempts, the batteries drained flat. He called dispatch, and maintenance promised a service truck within the hour. Seeking a distraction, he reentered the building, called his wife for a quick chat, and then spotted a classic Pac-Man arcade machine outside the laundry room. He dropped in a quarter and began guiding the yellow icon through the maze.

"Watch out!" Tobiath warned, stepping out of the laundry room with a basket of folded clothes.

Two ghosts trapped Pac-Man. "That's your fault," Quigley chuckled, stepping back from the machine.

"Why are you still here? You should be halfway to Atlanta by now,” Tobiath noted.

"Truck wouldn't start. Just waiting on a mechanic."

"Come check out my rig while you wait," Tobiath offered. "I love showing her off."

They walked into the overnight lot until they reached a spotless, jet-black semi with polished chrome trim. Fresh wax made the deep paint gleam under the setting sun. They climbed inside, revealing a pristine sleeper cab packed with a closet, microwave, fridge, and bed.

"Man, this is some setup," Quigley said, while Tobiath pointed out various custom features.

After a few minutes, Tobiath set up two camper chairs in the grassy strip behind his truck. As dusk settled, the sky shifted from orange to deep purple, unveiling a clear, star-filled night. Tobiath stepped into his cab and returned carrying a cold twelve-pack of Bud Light. He tossed a can to Quigley.

"Thanks, partner, but I don't drink anymore," Quigley said. "Eleven months sober."

"Congratulations,” Tobiath said smoothly. “I’ll be thirty-one months next Sunday."

Quigley blinked, staring at the open can in Tobiath's hand. “But you're drinking right now.”

"Well, sure, but I'm not drunk. I have one here and there to stay grounded. My AA group takes a realistic approach—you can't pretend alcohol doesn't exist. Can you honestly tell me you aren't always thinking about it? That you don't salivate every time you see a billboard?"

Quigley felt the cold can in his hand, his eyes fixing on the night sky. "Every single time I pull into a truck stop... I want one. You're right. It's always on my mind."

"I used to be the same way," Tobiath said softly. "I know our method works." Tobiath’s eyes flashed for only a split second, too fast for Quigley to notice.

A fierce conflict raged inside Quigley. He cherished his family's trust and the way his wife looked at him now. But a dangerous thought took root: If I don’t get drunk, I’m still in control.

“So, it’s alright to have just a little now and then?” Quigley asked.

“Scout’s honor,” Tobiath said, raising a hand before pausing and pulling back slightly. “Actually, maybe give it back. I’m not sure you’re ready.”

“Now wait a minute,” Quigley said with a nervous laugh, holding tight to the cold aluminum. The urge overwhelmed his remaining willpower. “I’ll keep this one. Just one.”

He popped the tab and savored the first long, cold swallow, looking over at Tobiath—a man who seemed completely relaxed and free of struggle. If he can handle it, so can I, Quigley thought, completely unaware Tobiath was lying.

Two hours and several beers later, the service technician finished repairing Quigley's rig. Drunk and flooded with false confidence, Quigley climbed back into his cab and hit the interstate.

He floored the accelerator, pushing the heavy rig to its maximum governed limit of 80 mph. His heavy tires drifted across the rumble strip, then veered into the middle lane. Passing motorists honked at the weaving truck, and one driver dialed 911. Inside the cab, Quigley sang loudly along with the radio, utterly unaware of his severe impairment.

Suddenly, a dark silhouette materialized directly in his headlights. Tobiath stood in the middle of the highway, wrapped in a black cloak, eyes glowing red with malicious delight.

Panicked, Quigley yanked the wheel hard. The multi-ton rig smashed into the median's steel cable barrier, snapping support posts and shearing tension cables instantly. The semi flipped onto its side and skidded into oncoming traffic.

Quigley survived just long enough to see a figure step out of the dark toward the wreckage. He recognized Tobiath, but the mechanics of the horror—how the man had appeared in the road, or why he had orchestrated his ruin—remained agonizingly out of reach.

Tobiath peered through the shattered glass of the cab, watched the life leave Quigley's eyes, and smiled. His work finished, he turned back toward the shadows, returning to his hellish pit to count his latest trophy.