The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

can be whatever—ghosts, monsters, the Bermuda Triangle, flying saucers filled with little green men—it doesn’t matter. But such stories need to be shared. The point of telling tall tales is to recalibrate reality, and we truckers tell ‘em taller than most.

You got your seatbelt on? Good deal.

As I was saying, culture is full of tribes, little clubs and cults. Most of them have distinctive codes and traditions, their own myths and legends. I was in the Navy for about ten years and can tell you that sailors are an especially insular lot. I’ve known plenty of cops too, a members-only club if there ever was one. I imagine it’s the same all over if you dig deep enough.

And truckers? Well, maybe we need the psychological anchoring sharing such stories provides more than most because ours is such an unnatural way to live. There’s a reason the species by and large gave up the nomadic way of life a long time ago: It wears on you! I should know, been behind the wheel going on thirty years, crisscrossed this great big country more times than I can count. I have seen things you would not believe, trust me.

That vent blowing on you too much? I can adjust the heat. This rig has so many buttons, dials and settings it’s like a submarine or space ship. Actually, with all the glowing indicators and instruments up here, late at night when it’s just me and the slim path cut by the headlights against all that dark, I sometimes feel like I’m driving through outer space. Like I’m out here all alone, hurtling through the void.

You okay, then? Good deal.

That’s why I picked you up. I don’t usually give rides, but I know how cold it gets out here when the sun goes away. Plus, sometimes a little company, somebody to talk to, especially at night, makes the miles go faster. You’ve got music if you want, and the CB radio, but those distant crackly voices can sometimes make a man feel more lonely rather than less. Sound kind of like ghosts, I think. People talking to you from…someplace else.

Which brings me back to what I started to say. Took the long way ‘round the reservation on that one, sorry about that. But I promised you a story and I always keep my promises, ask anybody you like. They don’t call me True Blue for nothing. True Blue being my radio handle, every trucker worth his wipers has one.

Now, consider the glow of the dials and panels, the gentle crackle and hiss of the CB. Not so dissimilar from a campfire, right? It’s the perfect setting for the aforementioned ritual of recounting the so-called ghost story. Truckers have quite a stable of yarns to select from, but of all the legends traded amongst the tribe of professional drivers—sailors of the asphalt sea, you might say—the black dog is unquestionably the most iconic. Think there was even a movie made about it. Starred Meat Loaf, Randy Travis, and the guy from that dancing movie. Remember? Nobody puts Baby in a corner? Hell, it’ll come to me.

The dog—more like a wolf, really—is an enormous, loping, slavering beast. Teeth, big as kitchen knives. Hair, black as space without stars. Eyes that blaze fiery red like emergency flares on a lonely stretch of bad road.

They say a driver who’s been awake too long sees it just before a crash—the type you don’t walk away from. Does the dog cause the crash? Maybe it’s trying to warn you? There are many variations. Back when I was coming up, the old-timers said it comes to carry off your soul afterward, like a spirit guide in some Indian vision quest. But I don’t believe that. It’s no simple omen either, not the hallucination of a tired mind. The dog is very, very real. Every driver only has so many miles in them. And then, when you’re coming to the end, that’s when you see it.

First, the dog paces you, racing alongside the rig. Driver gets scared and goes faster, trying to lose it. He’s heard the stories, after all, but thinks maybe he can outrun the thing. Maybe it’s not too late. And for a minute or so, seems he’s right. It’s gone, vanished into the rushing darkness. That’s when you see it again, barreling out of the night ahead. Its roar is squealing brakes and twisting metal, breath like burnt rubber and oily smoke.

You still okay? Good deal.

If you’re fading, help yourself to those red pills in the far cup holder. Careful though, they’re serious stuff. Speaking of which, pass me a few. This is no time to lose your edge. Miles to go and all that, right? Thanks.

There’s coffee in that blue thermos and a can or two of cola in the fridge behind your seat. I tell you, these new rigs are really something. All these gizmos and creature comforts. You’d never know we’re creeping past eighty because the ride’s so smooth. Don’t worry, I’m a professional. And like a wise man once said: I never drive faster than I can see.

Now then, I first obtained the facts regarding the black dog from a most reliable source, the man who taught me the ways of the wheel. Sullivan Smith drove for a cross-country outfit for about two hundred years before moving onto a local route near the shipyard in Bremerton, where I got out of the Navy. I was hired on as a probie and he was my training instructor. Geezer’s handle was Locksmith because supposedly he’d been something of a Don Juan back in the Pleistocene Epoch and had the key to the heart of every lady he met, or so they say.

He told me all about the black dog and I sat there nodding politely, just like you, and thinking pretty much what I expect you’re thinking right now. It took a long time before I understood the truth.

Locksmith died about sixteen years ago, but not