Tow Truck
Randall studied Theater Arts. That was his degree—learning to build sets, in Theater Arts. That was what he liked—working behind the scenes, helping run the show. He never wanted to act, and if you wanted to direct you did too much of that. He felt happy holding a hammer, wearing a tool belt, so long as he got paid. He took a trucking job less than a year after graduating because he could find no paying work building sets.
So he hired on with a long haul outfit and drove. He drove extra long hauls to pay down the boat that he put in his dad’s name, intending they share it until his dead took ill. Each delivery he made for the company, at seven dollars a mile, minus what went to the fore and aft drivers, he put some money toward the boat. When he paid it off, he called the manufacturer, and they told him they would deliver the boat to him at their employee discount rate because he had hauled for them. .
When his wife left him, all she took was the dog. His boat remained safely in his dad’s name even though the old man could no longer go out on it. Later, when his ex got into financial trouble, he bought the dog back from her. He figured it was both their gains.
He needed to help his mom care for his dad, so he took a local job driving tow trucks. Far cry from long hauls. After only a few days, he wondered whether he was the red-headed stepchild of the outfit. He seemed to draw every call to hook up a brick, and looked forward to no longer being the new guy who got all the shit assignments.
He needed to stop for a beer on his way home. Any day when your dogless ex-wife called your wife earned a man at least one beer. And as if that was not enough to turn his molars to gravel, his wife called back to tell him a letter had arrived from his attorney and asked whether she should open it. Well, that sort of day also demanded a beer. Hell, no, he did not want her to open it and read it to him! Why would she even call and ask?
He would definitely stop for a beer. At least one. Then he would not mind going to the shooting range. He had enlisted in the service, gone into the National Guard. After three and a half years, he tried to enlist in the regular Army, and they asked whether he was aware he had bunions. His bunions had never seemed to matter but they gave him a medical discharge anyway. He missed getting to deploy to Iraq with his unit by two and a half months. He missed soldiering, but at least he could still go shoot. He felt happy holding a gun, even when he did not get paid.