Member-only story
The Bootlegging, Womanizing, Truck-Driving Man I Called Grandpa
He might not have been a good man, but he’s a great story.
I saw his big rig approaching from a distance, driving up the white caliche road in a cloud of white dust to the double wide trailer where he and grandma lived. He parked alongside the fence separating the yard from the dirt driveway and paused, eyeing his dashboard like a conductor surveys the orchestra before the symphony begins.
The engine idled, a throttling beat like the pounding of kettle drums. As if on cue, the air brakes hissed, a high-pitched cymbal crash introducing a new movement. From under the hood a low buzz crept into the piece like a cello playing a melancholy solo before being joined by a series of clicks, the plucking of violins. The music faded quickly, dissolving into diminuendo until the conductor emerged from the door, one old cowboy boot at a time swinging onto the truck’s shiny steps.
Grandpa’s head dipped as he stooped to exit, his thinning silver hair pressed to his forehead and his face below lined with the innumerable routes he’d traveled. His eyes maintained the distant stare of someone watching miles of highway unfold before them, nestled on top of cheekbones still looking strong after 62 years. He held his straw cowboy hat in his right hand and was wearing…
