Eric Puchner - Model Home

Another truck pulled beside them, trying to pass. It took a long time getting by, close enough to touch through the window. A sticker on its bumper said WE HIRE ONLY SAFE AND COURTEOUS DRIVERS.

“Fucking Freightliner,” Jonas’s driver said. “He got a custom-curved bumper, that’s how safe he is.” He glanced at Jonas and frowned. “Pardon the language.”

“Okay,” Jonas said.

The driver’s face lit up. “Look her there.”

He pointed at a humongous miniature golf course to one side of the interstate, a sprawl of frosting green fairways crowned by waterfalls and windmills and a rainbow-colored dragon with smoke pluming out of its mouth. It looked like what a freeway might dream about eating for dessert. Behind it stood a giant castle with a banner draped between its turrets that read GRAND OPENING. “They just put that up. There’s an arcade inside with video games. Everyone dresses like jesters and stuff, all middle-evil.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Jonas said. He would have liked the world much better if everything were in miniature, particularly if it were a series of elemental tests that involved no personal risk.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“Thank you.”

The driver scowled. His face was a little bit like Jonas’s father’s, except that it was meatier and more crinkled and his beard seemed like part of his job rather than a sign of not having one. He looked like he’d have no trouble at all cutting a penny in half. Jonas had packed his backpack earlier that afternoon, worried that perhaps his dad would come home while he was making sandwiches. But he hadn’t come home. No one had. After wrapping each sandwich in tinfoil, Jonas wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table. He tried to be brief but also to avoid contractions since it might be the last thing he ever wrote:

Dear family,

I have decided to leave and not return any time soon. I am sorry for blowing up the house and ruining Dustin’s life. I know you want me never to have done this, but there is nothing I can think of that will fix it. I will write to you in exactly one year, August 3, 1987, so please don’t worry about me getting killed or chopped into pieces unless there is nothing in your mailbox.

Love,

Jonas Ziller

This last part seemed a bit dramatic, but Jonas liked thinking about his family’s faces when they read the “unless.” Before leaving, filled with a chewy, appealing sadness, he fed Mr. Leonard a piece of baloney and watched the old dog wolf it down whole. Then he strapped on his backpack and made the long trek to the freeway, sweating through his freshly washed Izod. It was close to an hour before the truck pulled over. The driver said he could take him as far as Ventura; Jonas had no destination in mind and in fact did not know where Ventura was. Since then the driver had made several attempts at conversation, seeming more angry and upset after each one. This was peculiar, since he really seemed to want to talk.

“Do you have any questions about being a truck driver?” the man asked now. The shadow of a giant daddy longlegs covered the dashboard, cast by a knot in the windshield where a rock had hit it.

“Like what?”

“Like how many gears this puppy has.”

“Not really,” Jonas said.

The driver leaned toward him, winking. “What if I told you it was thirteen speed, with three-point-three-six rear and a three-stage Jake? Do you know what that is? A Jake brake?”

Jonas shook his head. The man began to explain what a Jake brake was, pointing at some of the gauges on his dashboard, but Jonas found it difficult to listen. His stomach was grumbling too hard. He decided it was okay to have half a sandwich, since he hadn’t eaten anything for lunch.

“What’s that?” the man asked, cutting short his explanation.

“Bologna.”

“I don’t think I’ve had one of those since I was a kid.”

“My dad buys it,” Jonas said. “For dinner.”

The driver leaned over to get a better look. “Can I see that? I just want to smell it for a second.”

Jonas handed him the sandwich. The man held it to his nose and sniffed it like a flower. He asked for a nibble and then took a bite before Jonas could answer him, chewing with his eyes closed.

“Jesus Chrysler, that’s good.”

“I only brought two,” Jonas explained.

“I shouldn’t eat this. It gives me gastritis.”

Jonas watched the man finish his sandwich. It did not take long. By the way he started eyeing Jonas’s backpack, failing to stay interested in the road, Jonas knew he would have to come up with a question or he would lose the other sandwich as well.

“Have you ever been in an accident?” he asked.

“No,” the man said proudly.

“You’ve never jackknifed on the freeway, killing an innocent family on their way to the beach?”

The truck driver glanced at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jonas shrugged. He deeply resented this man for eating his sandwich and had decided to annoy him. “Is that how you’d want to die? Behind the wheel of your semi?”

“I don’t intend to jackknife or crash or do anything that’ll unperil my life in any way.”

“You could have a myocardial rupture. It’s when your heart explodes out of the blue.”

“Hey now, little buddy. I’ve got half a mind to dump you at the next exit.” The driver scowled, lips disappearing into his beard. “Anyway, I’m straight now. A clean liver.”

“What’s that?”

“I used to be a swirl in the devil’s fingerprint. I couldn’t see it was the devil’s, or even that I was a swirl to begin with.”

Jonas giggled.

“Think that’s funny, huh? How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve!” He seemed suddenly nervous. “What the hell are you doing in my truck?”

“My family hates me.”

“No shit,” the driver said. “I can see why. They’re probably drinking champagne right now.”

“They didn’t used to hate me,” Jonas said defensively.

“Actually, I’m betting they always did.”

“My brother wrote a special song about me, for his band.”

“Probably he hated you just as much and you were too young to notice.”

The driver got off at the next exit and pulled beside a Wendy’s and told Jonas to get out, staring antagonistically at the windshield. He did not offer to repay him for the sandwich. Jonas climbed out of the cab, slipping his backpack over both shoulders for fear of being mugged. The parking lot was nearly empty. The truck rumbled back into gear and drove away, smoke chugging out of its metal chimney as it climbed the on-ramp back to the freeway.

It was starting to get dark. As far as Jonas could tell, he was nowhere near Ventura. He went into the Wendy’s and sat in a booth with bacon bits stuck to the table. In his wallet were exactly twelve dollars, which he’d stolen from his mother’s purse. He wondered if he should save the money or buy a Classic Double with Cheese Combo. Outside the cars had begun to realize it was nighttime, switching on their lights as they nosed out of Carl’s Jr. across the street. Jonas began to shiver. The reality of what he’d done — run away from home, forgetting even to bring a jacket — began to sink in. Something about the bacon bits boogered to the table filled him with homesickness. He was cold and alone and scared of using the bathroom, which had a yellow CAUTION sign in front of it with a person slipping on his back. He did not want to break his back, no matter how remorseful it would make his family when they discovered what had happened.

He left Wendy’s without buying dinner. After peeing in the hedges, he crossed the parking lot and walked through a smelly concrete place with Dumpsters and broken glass and found himself behind the Happy Trails Inn, in reality a row of sad-looking doors with numbers painted on them. There were cars pulled up to some of the doors, and he could see TVs flickering in the windows. Jonas knew he didn’t have enough money for a room — the sign said $39.00/NIGHT — but didn’t know where else to go and was too scared to hitchhike after dark. He decided to wait and see if anyone came out. If he kept his mouth shut and didn’t make them mad, they might let him sleep in their room. He sat on the opposite curb beside a motor home, an old, beat-up truck with a white shell melting like marshmallow over its roof.