Life Turn at the Truck Stop
by Shauna Checkley
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Maybe life on the farm with Carter wouldn’t be so bad after all. It would at least have a sort of steadiness to it. There could be conditions to an unconditional love, she believed. But she hadn’t spent a lifetime creating an inner sanctum of books, philosophy, poetry, her own spiritual realm and getaway, to dissolve into hayseed and weed.
Yikes, she thought, now I sound like Virginia Woolf and some of her characters! Classist! Elitist! Everything!
Even though she obsessed about Virginia Woolf nearly as much as Rittinger, she most definitely did not want to become like her at all, not in the least. She admired her for being an early modernist writer, but that was it. Emmy would have served Virginia on gleaming silverware while hearing the most scathing of remarks and cutting points of view. Likely, Emmy would have been scared of her as most people were.
Could I be a truck-stop Virginia? God help me... Could such a creature in fact exist? What was that cool song by Megan Thee Stallion? Savage or something like that? Something about being a ’hood Mona Lisa. But Virginia really needed to learn Boujee. Street classy. She needed to be funnily savage like Samantha on Sex in the City or Rachelle in that pretzel joint down the block.
Going round first with the water jug, she filled the lady traveler’s glass. Next, she refilled the big man’s coffee cup. After that, a couple came in wanting the Big Rig special as well, and she served them along with a pair of black coffees.
Finally, caught up for a moment, she did what all bored waitresses do: she inspected her nails. They were a recent sudden splurge of under forty dollars: French Tip. She had considered saving her tips for the year, but the style was on a special sale, and she just couldn’t resist. Plus, it was an investment, she told herself. Maybe my nails will spur further tips from customers or maybe Rittinger will notice and pass my thesis along. Not very likely!
Not liking him at all, she brooded on his sexuality. And she wondered: Am I even normal? But that sort of thing seemed largely inconsequential to his daily life. He did seem sexist somehow, almost pompous, too, like he didn’t expect anyone to live up to his lofty attributes.
One time he did call her out, however. He said that she was petty for demanding Canadian spelling in defence of her thesis. How could asking for the British and French spelling that you were educated with constitute pettiness? She could never understand that one, especially because they were in Canada. But it hardly seemed to come as a surprise from someone pompous who boasted a PhD from Yale.
She drove for half an hour to get to the University where she took her graduate program, a summer class. Out of financial necessity, she still lived at home in the town of Dead Lake. The right name for it, she often thought. But it was where the cosmos had placed her, and she had to grin and bear it.
Still, there were further concerns. The other academic involved in the advisory team, a herpetologist, also called her out for being hard on her main thesis advisor. Emmy viewed this as a cop-out and began referring to her mentally and sarcastically as the “snake lady.”
Holding one hand up, she opened it and slowly closed it and just as slowly reopened it like it was a Japanese fan or something. Then she did the same with the other hand. One of the burger eaters watched her and smiled as if she were playing Madame Butterfly or something.
She knew that she should feel embarrassed for being seen in an act of self-conscious vanity, and yet she felt rather the opposite. She wished the tiny diner would cheer and clap for her, rattle the tableware and glasses. It would lift her sagging spirits.
Her phone went off. Several times. Carter. A flurry of texts:
Do you wanna go out tonight?
working
after work
should really have another read through my thesis again anyhow
is this all this ever is
sorry carter next time ttyl
The Ruby Red Diner was slowly beginning to clear out. Shirley, the portly cook who was the main reason for people coming to the café, would be turning off the grill. Then just cold sandwiches and cold cuts would be served.
* * *
Having finished his chores, Carter texted several of his buddies. But they had gone to a big rave somewhere in the wilds of Saskatchewan. And Carter didn’t feel like driving that far. Besides, what he really wanted was Emmy.
Feeling at loose ends, he sat in his big red Dodge truck that he had nicknamed “Clifford” after the big red animated dog on children’s TV. He stared ahead and glowered. He wanted to drink, but he knew that if he ended up getting a ticket or losing his license, his dad would be furious.
There was a full moon out that night and the sky was lit up. He thought that he caught a glimpse of himself on the sterling silver holder of his rear-view mirror. But he wasn’t certain as it was fleeting, there for a moment then gone. On wild impulse, Carter drove to The Ruby Red Diner. He burst through the doors. The song “Savage” was playing overhead. Emmy had requested it on the local radio station.
“Hey, Carter,” she said.
“Hey, Emmy.” He wanted a night of it, carousing, bacchanalian pleasure. Why did she need to go over her thesis again? What did that even mean? How many times did she need to go over the damned thing anyhow?
“C’mon, let’s hit it,” he urged, “2020 isn’t going to last forever.”
Emmy rolled her eyes. “I need to get a few things done, y’know.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” Carter said. “Tonight should be ours.”
“Why don’t you text Krishart or Kendrick and see what they are up to?”
“They went to some rave halfway across the province that I didn’t even hear about.”
“Why don’t you go?”
“Don’t feel like such a long drive. Worked all day.”
They had reached an impasse in their conversation. They stood and stared at each other, each trying to convince the other that they were right.
Taking a step forward, Carter took her roughly by the arm, “Look, if you don’t come out with me tonight, we are breaking up for good. I can’t take any more of this thesis stuff. I know that we are on and off at times. But still—”
Stomping out of the kitchen and holding a bloody knife in her hand, Shirley spoke bluntly: “Emmy’s been working all day, too, not just you!”
Carter let go and took a step backwards. He had always been scared of the cook with the golden blonde hairs on her lip. She had big hips, a thunderous voice and a tendency to speak her mind.
“You’ll be sorry! One day you’ll be sorry,” Carter said. But he left quietly, as if he had a pack of secrets up his sleeve.
“Thanks, Shirl.”
“You just never can tell with that one,” Shirley said, shaking her head. “Hey, go home. It’s close enough to quitting time and, like you say, you have your thesis to examine.”
“Thanks again, Shirl!”
Emmy hurried out the door and headed home. She took an alternate route in the hope of not running into Carter if he was still hanging about.
* * *
Meanwhile, Carter was openly drinking orange crème coolers that he had hidden under his front seat. He was angry. Why was Emmy so aloof with him? She was the only girl he had ever really liked dating, going all the way back to grades five and six. The other girls around today were saddled down with kids or just not his type. It had always been that way.
They had dated now for several years. Yet he knew that she just didn’t seem that into him. What can I do anyhow? Just what?
Soon, not used to imbibing much, he was dead drunk. And sped off, tires squealing. The radio blared ACDC’s “Thunderstruck.” He was taking wild. outrageous turns, left and right. He drove with two fingers only, using his wrong hand because his cut still smarted. It made handling both the steering wheel and the bottle difficult.
Speeding down main street, he missed a turn and wrapped his, big, red Clifford around a nearby power pole. He had always been the one that the others encouraged to “do a Dahmer,” do something absolutely, outrageously crazy. And he did: his neck snapped instantly.
* * *
When Shirley phoned her with the news, Emmy froze. She took a deep breath and clutched her heart. “Omigod! I’m to blame. He just wanted me, that’s all,” Emmy cried out, flinging herself down on a chair.
“No one’s to blame. You had things to do. It was as simple as that. Besides, rather than be a gentleman and win you over, he got stinking drunk and managed to kill himself.”
“Yeah, well... ” Emmy said, her voice dying away. “Anyway, thanks for letting me know.”
“Take care, Emmy. If you need to take the day off tomorrow, I understand.”
“No, no,” Emmy said. “I’ll be in.” She shook deep within. Like a tide had rolled through her. She remembered his parting words.
Emmy sighed and looked at her laptop. It was open, as usual, on her thesis, this time on the last lines of her thesis: “Was Virginia Woolf’s end inevitable? Was it fate that had her put those stones in her pocket? Did she have a choice?”
Bursting into tears, Emmy looked away and made up her mind: I’m going to ask for an extension. She was glad to have that decision finalized. Yet her thoughts wouldn’t lift from Carter. She saw his face, felt his familiar spirit and energy.
Reaching for the book of Psalms, she prayed. Wept. Read. She endured through the night.
Copyright © 2025 by Shauna Checkley
