Billy, part 1

This is just a little thing I have been slowly working on over the past few days. I don't know if its going to go anywhere farther than this. I've been reading "Slaughterhouse-Five" by Kurt Vonnegut, so some of that style is being emulated.

When telling the story of Billy McKulski, there is no other way to start than this: he made a choice.

Of course, we all make choices, every day. Studies say we make upwards of 400,000 choices per day. But Billy just made one.

–

He was born June 3rd, in the Year of Our Lord 1992. Or at least that’s how his mother would phrase it.

He grew up in the indescribable town of Pocock Shores, Maine, far north on Maine’s east coast. His mother was a devout protestant, disciplinarian homebody. His father worked. Or that’s all he knew, at least.

Any time he’d ask his father what he does for work his father would change the subject, “So, how ‘bout those braves?”...

He wasn’t a delinquent in school, but the teachers sure didn’t care to have him in class. He’d do the usual stuff, pass notes, giggle at potty humor, whisper in other’s ears. It wasn’t unusual for him to see grades on the high end of C.

His mother had given up disciplining him for these grades since back in Elementary School. It only discouraged him from putting in effort even more.

–

After he graduated high school he got just about the only job he could to stay near Pocock Shores. Logging. 

For the first few months he’d do the odd jobs around the lumber yard; pick this up and move it here, sweep this, sweep that, go get the boss’s lunch. Monotony consumed him. Eventually, his boss signed him up for driver training, so he could get his CDL. “There’s a real shortage of good drivers around here,” he said. “I think you’d make a good one.”

Billy accepted the change enthusiastically. He would soon find himself thrust into one of the most dangerous jobs in the lumber yard. A far cry from the sweeping and fetching he’d been put to before.

–

The monotony of the lumber yard faded to the background as Billy hit the open roads. The hum of the big diesel engine became his music as he drove the lumber-laden truck to destinations across Maine. 

Soon, he found himself working as a commercial trucker driving across the United States. He had made it as far as California once. That’s a long way from home, especially for someone who didn’t get much farther than New Hampshire on family trips. 

He slowly lost connection with Pocock Shores, and even his own parents. His dad had retired. Or, that’s what he knew, at least. 

As he conquered the open highways of America, he met many interesting people. One guy’s name was Angus. 

He was short and fat. Your typical truck driver. Billy met him in Cawker City, Kansas, while he stopped at a diner. Cawker City is a little town of about 400 along Route 24 in rural Kansas. Angus had a big white beard. And a really long mustache, waxed to sharp points. The largest mustache Billy’s ever seen (and that’s saying something, considering Billy worked with loggers). He was on a trip hauling canned corn over to Vermont, or so he said.

That’s what Billy remembered about Angus. 

—

One day when Billy was driving down a back road in Tennessee, Billy was robbed. A big black car pulled out in front of his truck. It slowly came to a stop and two guys got out. The driver stayed in the car. They had pistols. 

They pointed their pistols at Billy. One had a Smith and Wesson. He put that to Billy’s temple. The other had a Glock. Or, that’s what Billy thought. 

They told Billy to stay still. 

They told Billy to get his wallet.

Billy asked if he could move.

“Get your damn wallet!”

“But you said I couldn’t move.”

“Forget what I said, get your damn wallet!”

“I’m a trucker, you realize I won’t have shit for shat in my wallet, right?”

Billy didn’t get angry often. Nor did he get nervous often. In this moment, he was both. The man with the Smith and Wesson pushed it against his temple harder.

“Fine,” Billy conceded. He slowly grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket. There was one twenty-dollar bill and three ones. He handed it over to the man with the Glock, who stuck out his greasy hand. He was quite fat. “That’s all I got.”

The two guys, the fat one and the other one, lumbered back to their black car and drove off. They left Billy in the middle of the road, penniless. Just like that, they were gone as fast as they had arrived.

It was May, in the Year of Our Lord 2019. Billy was 26.