The Oaxacan Rig
I had brought home the goods, all the way from southern Mexico. Everything was fine and swell, but now I needed to return the big rig with which I had hauled the freight.
I don't know why I didn't think of this before. We live in a bordering state, probably Texas, and it's a two-day journey back down to Oaxaca.
Maybe I'll start in the morning. A few hours won't make any difference.
In the morning I am still sluggish and procrastinating. It has to be done. You can't just leave an 18-wheeler parked in front of your house. Besides, some Oaxacan must have need of it.
Here I go, I think. A fool and his empty truck. I could maybe find cargo to sell down there, hammocks or straw boaters; make the trip worthwhile, but I'd have to pay plenty of mordida and the chance of losing the entire shipment during the long journey was right at 100%. Not good odds for investment.
Rolling south, I think of just stopping at a roadside park and hiking to a bus stop. Somewhere south of Waco, this scheme takes shape. Might even leave a suicide note, but I'm not sure there is anything north of Oaxaca to connect me with the rig.
"GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD, I'M OFF TO JOIN THE SERVICE."
I rode near to Austin, and transferred to a route heading back north, to home. When the Greyhound passed the roadside rest stop, I said, mostly to myself, "I wonder if the drivers live in those rigs."
A gent across the aisle in a Peterbilt gimme glanced at where I was gazing, said, "Looks like an abandoned Oaxacan rig to me."
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