July 18, 2009

July 2009, Vol. 8, Issue 7

Welcome back to a (very) late summer issue of Truckin'.

1. Trading Pickles by Paul McGuire


3. Yellow No. 2 By Betty Underground

4. The Grays by Milton T. Burton

5. Justin Masterson By Broseph

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

The July edition of Truckin' is late but it's definitely worth the two week delay. Betty Underground is back with one of her sultry stories of living the hard like in L.A. in the 1990s. Johnny Hughes goes back, way back, to his days in the Boy Scouts with his contribution this month. I'm honored and pleased that Milton T. Burton shared another one of his fantastic short stories. I'm also excited to announce the debut of Broseph. I have a feeling that we'll be reading more from him in the future.




Be good,


Learning to Steal in the Boy Scouts of America

By Johnny Hughes © 2009

























Johnny Hughes is the author of Texas Poker Wisdom.

Trading Pickles

By Paul McGuire © 2009

Sven worked in the largest pickle factory in Western Norway in a dreary town. Sven's options were limited since he had a terrible habit of holding a steady jobs. In the four and a half years since he graduated from university, he held no less than 76 jobs. All of them had something in common... he was fired from all 76.

A dozen of those jobs were in restaurants and Sven learned right away that he was not cut out to be in the food industry. Sven tried conventional office jobs. He temped for an agency, but that lasted less than a week. Sven drove a cab for three days and was fired. Sven took a position with the health department and quickly lost the job when he slept with his boss' teenage daughter. Sven fled to the boondocks to escape any potential statutory rape charges. The only job that he could find was in the largest pickle factory in Western Norway.

Sven's job was simple. He stood in front of a massive conveyor belt that transported pickles. His task? Remove any pickles that seemed irregular or too small. He was the fifth of six people on the line. By the time the conveyor belt of pickles reached him, 95% of the bad pickles were already removed by his colleagues. Since he was not the last line of defense, he completely slacked off. After all, in case he missed an irregular pickle, it was Johan's responsibility to catch it since Johan stood at the end of the line.

On his breaks, Sven snuck into the parking lot and stole cigarettes. Most of his fellow workers left their car doors open which made it easy for Sven to swipe a cigarette or two. Sometimes, Sven stole CDs or loose change. Every once in a while, he got caught but quickly apologized and mentioned that he was getting something out of a friend's car and mistakenly opened up the wrong car.

Lifting cigarettes was usually the highlight of Sven's day. Well, that and the end of his shift. He quickly raced out of the factory and drove to the closest pub in search of free drunken sex. He lingered all night scoping out possible mates and then went in for the kill. He always looked for the most wasted woman in the bar. Sometimes he was able to take her home and have his way with her. Other times she passed out completely which meant that he dumped her off at the side of the road and stole whatever Kroner she had in her purse. When Sven struck out completely, he drove to the neighboring town and visited a brothel owned by a woman named Maeva.

During the 1970s, Maeva was the most successful Madame in Oslo. Everyone who was everyone knew Maeva. She corralled girls for the rich and famous including politicians, dignitaries, and wealthy businessmen. She also catered to the members of the Norwegian hockey team and whenever a well-known rock and roll bands from the UK or the States would play concerts in Oslo, the promoters always made sure that the dressing rooms were well stocked with Maeva's girls.

Maeva eventually retired and after a couple of years, she quickly grew bored with doing nothing so she returned to doing what she knew best... the sex business. She renovated an old house in Sandness and operated a very discreet but very popular brothel.

Sven was a regular customer at Maeva's house of ill repute. He often showed up two or three times a week and blew most if not all of his paycheck at the pickle factory on Maeva's girls. He knew every single whore who worked for Maeva. Most of them were Romanian or Polish and he had sampled them all. The only Native Norwegian who worked there was Maeva and she was half-Swedish, but too old and wrinkly for Sven's tastes.

Despite numerous incidents with his uptight shift manager, Sven managed to keep his job at the pickle factory for two years. On the morning of his second year anniversary at the factory, one of the executives in the human resources department called him into the office. Sven expected to get fired for stealing a case of pickles. He was astonished when the suit handed him a paycheck that reflected an automatic raise. Sven did not know how to react. He had never held a job long enough where he was rewarded with a raise.

Sven thanked the executive and didn't bother returning to his position on the line. Instead, he close the door to the office, lit up a cigarette, and slowly walked out. Sven never finished his shift and his two year career at the largest pickle factory in Western Norway came to an end.

Sven pilfered about twenty cigarettes and a couple hundred Kroners from various cars in the parking lot before he finally left. He drove straight to Maeva's house. She politely asked him to leave when he offered to pay for a blowjob from one of the Polish whores in exchange for a case of stolen pickles.

Paul McGuire is the author of Lost Vegas.

The Grays

By Milton T. Burton © 2009

Even though I've been a Baptist all my life, I've always viewed it as a blessing that Father Cozart was at the theater that night. The rest of us were just average Joes, people with no special credibility. But Cozart was a theologian and philosopher with an international reputation who had been associated with one of the most prestigious Catholic universities in the country for three decades. He was also a kind, unpretentious man with a gentle demeanor that inspired trust. The two of us happened to have adjoining seats at the Jane Street Theater one evening, and we struck up a conversation before the performance started.

It was my first trip to New York City where my daughter had been living for three years. She and her fiancé cooked up the idea of taking me to the play. The theater was a respectable establishment, but one that was in a section of Greenwich Village that was almost deserted in the evenings. Perfect for an after hours robbery. After the final curtain, we were all walking toward the nearest cab stand when the four young thugs slipped out of an alleyway. I won't waste a lot of time describing them. Gangbanger clothes and smirky, feral expressions. It didn't take an Einstein to figure out what they were after. We froze and they smirked, their bright, gleeful eyes drinking in our fear. Then two of them pulled knives. Large knives. I put my arm around my daughter and drew her close. Cozart was calm beside me but I could hear him whispering a prayer in what sounded like Latin. Old habits die hard, I guess.

What happened next happened exactly as Father Cozart and I told the world on Larry King Live and a half dozen other shows. The iconic little man just appeared out of nowhere, standing between us and the muggers. One second he wasn't there, and the next second he was. You've seen his picture, I know: the silvery coveralls, the slanted, oval eyes, the tiny, almost lipless mouth. That face is found in magazines and books and on internet websites by the score. It's also prominently displayed on roadside signs outside Roswell, New Mexico. I later learned that UFO researchers refer to his type as "The Grays." Only this one was a little different. Besides his shiny coveralls he was wearing a low-slung Colt Frontier .45, a fine western hat and a pair of cowboy boots.

"Huh!?" exclaimed the biggest mugger.

"I didn't say nothing, pardner," the little man said, his voice soft and metallic. "But I was about to point out that you hombres can't expect me to just stand here and let you rob these fine folks. Now can you?"

"Huh?" the big thug asked again.

The little man turned his head toward us. "Redundant, ain't he?" he asked. He turned back to the muggers and leaned forward to point at two of them. "You two need to get while the gettin's good. I'm lettin' you boys live to see another sunrise. You ain't done murder yet, so you can still get your houses in order if you're of a mind to."

The frontier brogue coming in that machine-like alien voice was eerie and sent chills down my spine. We all stood motionless for a few seconds. "Git!" the little man barked. The two thugs he'd pointed to began to back away. He gave his attention to the remaining pair. "But you rascals," he said. "You're already killers, so. . ."

The big Colt seemed to leapt into his hand as if by magic. It roared twice, and the remaining two muggers fell to the ground, a small neat hole in the forehead of each.

There came a long, stunned silence. Then the shiny little man turned to us, blew an imaginary puff of smoke from the muzzle of his gun, twirled it expertly back into its holster, and said, "As you folks get to know us better you'll come to understand that we've got real firm ideas about what's right and what's wrong." He winked one of his big, almond-shaped eyes at us and then vanished so quickly that the air made an audible "pop" as it rushed in to fill the void where he'd been standing.

My daughter and her fiancé refused to talk to the press. Thus Father Cozart and I became the two-week wonder. We had the fifteen minutes of fame neither of us wanted, and after that the whole incident dropped from the world's radar screen. I am convinced that since the coming of television people rarely believe or disbelieve anything. They merely watch. Four reputable people, one of whom was a famous theologian, had seen an alien, and the whole thing was allowed to drift onto the back page. No mater. Cozart and I talked it over, and we agreed that we'd done our duty and tried to alert mankind. If mankind refused to take heed, then so be it.

There was a little ribbing when I went back to work, and the company president called me in and pointed out that the firm offered to pay for "counseling" for long-time employees. I demurred. After a few days even the sidelong glances ceased and things returned to normal. Father Cozart and I had our vindication, though. It came some six weeks after the incident when a dozen of the little men appeared out of nowhere in the House chamber during the president's state of the union message. The one with the Colt and the cowboy hat was there, and two were dressed as Knights Templar. One wore a Roman toga and a laurel crown while three were decked out as Robin Hood and a pair of his merry men. But their costumes didn't really matter because that's the night the hangings began.


Yellow No. 2

By Betty Underground © 2009

It was a guest house behind a Spanish adobe style mansion just off 7th St. near Montana Ave in Santa Monica. Painted an authentic pink, it stood out like a sore thumb in the block of white and beige.

The owner was an old eccentric lady, all but completely deaf so she never bothered us. She never heard us. We occasionally saw her barking orders at the gardener about the care and tending to of her prized Hydrangea. He was Russian and would yell back at her in his native tongue prompting her to throw her hands up in the air and storm back into the house. I watched them from the kitchen table and was struck by the obvious sexual tension between them. Wondered if she called him over late at night to tend to her other needs.

We shared, for the second time in our long relationship, this guest house tucked in the corner of the property. Our entrance private and parking was included. A small storage shed out the side door housed our washer and dryer. Bonus for as much laundry we seemed to go through. Him with is numerous sports and me, well, I was just a girl in need of frequent daily wardrobe changes.

It was a one room flat. But it was huge. A separate kitchen with one of those great old Wolfe stoves. Tiled countertops and open shelving instead of cabinets. It was a chef's dream kitchen with plenty of space to hang pots and pans and a massive pantry. The refrigerator was a 1950's replica icebox in sea-foam green. I hated sea-foam green but it worked on the fridge and I was half tempted to steal it when we moved out years later.

The bathroom was well appointed with a bear claw tub, separate water closet and a porcelain sink with a horrible blue Danish floral pattern and gold fixtures. Must have cost a fortune but it was ugly as sin.

The main room, as I said, was huge. At one end, our king size bed centered on the wall under the window. Foot of the bed away from the door, because it is bad luck if your feet point towards the door. That is how they carry the dead out.

The opposite wall was covered in built-in redwood bookcases. Ceiling-to-floor and we had them stuffed with books. No room for knick-knacks. Books laying on top of rows of books and books stacked on the floor next to rows of books.

The walls were fairly sparse. He had acquired two Henry Miller prints when his grandfather, an art collector, passed. Miller was one of his favorite writers and he felt no other art should share a wall with him.

The middle of the room was our living space. Sofa, chair and an oblong Eames coffee table he bought in Chelsea the last day he lived in NYC. It had a shelf underneath where a small box sat on a beveled edged mirror with a gold swirled pattern in it. I had found that mirror at one of the estate sales in the neighborhood and had intended to frame it but never got around to it.

On this evening we had returned early from Father's Office where we had met friends for drinks. I had drawn a bubble bath and was relaxing in the candlelit bathroom. The door open and we continued a conversation about Dante's Inferno. We had both re-read it recently and had varying opinions of the underlying meaning. That was what we did when we were coked up. We analyzed great pieces of literature as if we knew the author personally.


I finished my bath and did a line through a rolled up $20 bill. He used a glass straw he had picked up in a head shop on Venice Beach. It was a clean batch. We had gotten some a few weeks before that was cut with aspirin. Just horrible. The drip was enough to make me ill and I chased back my gag reflex every time, I loved the affect cocaine had on me. My mind clear, unlike the haze that pot always created. Coke brought us closer. Like E, we wanted to be near each other. Touching and talking. Kissing and grabbing at one another. We were frisky but sex waited because we had things to talk about. All things. Every thing. Every topic leading to the next in an endless flow of thoughts. Connected thoughts. We were connected to each other in an almost ethereal manner.

Nothing could explain what had gone wrong this night though. He was passive. When I was unhappy, he shut down. When we did blow, he opened up, but this night he was in his own head. He started writing. I remember how loud his pencil scribbling in that book was. He always used pencil. I could smell it. Yellow No.2. It rang in my ears and penetrated my thoughts and I felt like I would scream if he didn't stop. Stop writing. Stop not talking to me.

I was enraged. Not even slowly. One minute I was perfectly content to be rinsing the glasses we used for our Scotch. The next minute I am yelling at him to stop that noise. Then I slammed one glass on the tile counter. Shattering part of it and knocking the other into the sink, smashing it to pieces. I was high on the noise of breaking glass. Drowning out his god awful scratching on the paper in the other room.

Still screaming, but only in my head, I pulled the china we had received for our engagement. Nasty, ugly fine china with horrible flowers and gold trim on the edges. His mother's taste and I loathed it being in my house. One by one the salad plates shattered on the floor. Then the tea saucers and cups. Leaving the dinner plates in case his mother came over and we had to serve her on them. It felt like it took hours for the 8 piece set to be obliterated onto the kitchen floor and my ears were ringing from the noise. When I was done, there was silence in the house. The noise from his pencil ceased.

A breeze came from the side door as he came back in from the laundry shed with the broom and dust pan. Standing across the kitchen from me, the pieces of our engagement present coating the floor between us. I walked towards him to get the broom and start cleaning up my mess. Giggling a little as the realization of what I had done set in. Taking two, maybe three steps towards him when he yelled, "Stop" and looked down. My feet, bare, were bleeding from the shards of fine china imbedded in them. "Don't move."

He quickly swept away the debris between us and scooped me up. Carried me to the bathroom and placed me gently on the sink cabinet. Blood pouring from my feet. He wet a towel and slowly wiped my feet. Wiping the glass that was stuck to my feet away first. Using his nails to flick and pull the glass out.

He filled the tub and carried me to it. Gently placed my feet into the hot water to allow the rest of the glass to fall out. His face white, brow furrowed with worry he left me there to soak while he swept the rest of the china from the floor of the kitchen.

When he returned, he had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a tube of ointment and a pair of his cashmere lined wool socks. He never let me wear those socks because he knew I would ruin them walking down the driveway to the mail box.

He dried my feet and dabbed them with a cotton ball soaked in the hydrogen peroxide. It stung. He blew lightly. His breath cold on my hot feet. After he spread the ointment ever so gently over the cuts he carefully placed the socks on my feet. Rolling the tops down as far as he could first so as not to wipe the ointment off when they slipped on.

He gathered my off the counter into his arms and I instinctively tucked my head in the curve of his neck. I remember thinking how much I loved him in that moment. I loved that he could so easily carry me in his arms. How the curls of his long waves played on my face when I was in the nook. How caring and attentive he always was and not understanding the rage that had come over me in that kitchen.

He placed me on the bed and curled up next to me.

"It was just a bad trip, babe. Don't worry. I hated that fucking china anyway. I'm glad it is gone."

We both roared with laughter and then calm rushed back through us and we dozed gently off to sleep.

Betty Underground is a writer from Northern California.

Justin Masterson

By Broseph © 2009

Btreoch and I decide to hit up a Monday afternoon spring training game, Bosox vs. Blue Jays, at a beach town about an hour away. I call in sick to work and make my way over to pick him up. On the way out, he requests an ATM stop at his local branch and I oblige. Eventually, he makes his way back, sits down and asks, "Hey, you see that tool bag in the silver Hummer, with all the UCF stickers? Guess how much money he has in his checking account?"

I guessed about $12,000.

"Try $16,547."

"How do you know that?"

He pulls out the guys ATM receipt. Turns out the guy carelessly left it behind. Or maybe he does that all the time to purposely impress other bank members. Either way, he unknowingly did me a favor.

I asked Btreoch if he thought about telling the guy, or perhaps throwing it out.

"Normally," he said, "I would have but the guy was taking way too long, had no sense of urgency, and was wasting my time. He annoyed me, so I grabbed it."

I asked for the receipt, and after examining it, I put it in my pocket.

We made our way to the stadium and arrived to find a mass of fans for a sold out game. We were able to purchase "standing room only tickets." A new fucking concept to me, these tickets allowed us to sit in unoccupied seats or stand along the rails. It being a sold out venue, we were soon booted from our prime seats near 3rd. We ventured around, eventually standing in the sun on the left field line.

The game was interesting enough, but I needed more excitement. I noticed two young ladies standing on the rail near us, decked out in Bosox regalia and holding a bottle of sun screen. About my age, they were attractive and fit the profile of girls I would normally bone sober. I was wearing my Rays cap, but I didn't let that stop me from trying my luck.

I approached one and asked if I could use their lotion. "I called in sick to work to see the game today," I told the overly tan blond one, "and it would look bad if I came in tomorrow all sunburn."

They were totally cool with it. The brunette smiled and said "Yeah, sure, of course!"

Her friend requested I take off my hat and glasses, and I began applying a little bit too much sun screen to my face and neck. I made some small talk, confirming they were actual Massachusetts Bosox girls and not wannabe whores.

About a minute in, I showed the difficulty I was having fully applying the sun screen. They were giggling at me. I smiled back, asking, "You know, I always have trouble putting this stuff on without a mirror, could you help me?"

After more giggling and a slight hesitation, the brunette smiled and obliged by rubbing the areas right below my eyes, moving down to my cheek. Then the blond saw some missed spots on my neck, and she joined in. I couldn't believe how well this was all going. I was watching baseball, drinking beer, and being rubbed on by two out of towners.

People around us started to notice the fun I was having, including Btreoch. Waiting in the wings up to this point, he approached with some beer cups we emptied earlier.

"You Boston girls like dark beer?"

After the sunscreen application and some more small talk, we went to the concourse. Much to the girls surprise, we went past the concession stands to an large white tent.

To the untrained eye, the beer situation at this particular stadium borders on pathetic. Standard concessions, $5 beers, choices only Bud and Bud Light drafts, but a hidden gem existed. The initial scouting we did before proved worth it, as we found a back, sort of out of the way tent that sold some darker brews for $5.50. After our first purchase, we discovered a flaw in it's distribution system. One station for beer, one for money/cups. Empty containers in hand, we simply bypassed the money takers.

We were able to reuse our cups to get free beers during busy periods. The Bosox girls were not wise to this. We took their cups on the guise of recycling, making it look like we bought multiple rounds of beers over the next hour. The two of us ended up looking like real money spenders.

After more beer we found out that the blond one was married to a Bosox pitcher, Justin Masterson. She was tall and sunburn, fitting the profile of a out of town trophy wife. Her friend the brunette mentioned the blond was a players wife, which surprised me as they were both about my age. I remember the blond said his name like he was a product, not a person. The brunette was crunchy, with a long brown skirt, and an orange tank top that housed orange sized bosoms. She also wore those big, sort of retro glasses which was crowned by her shoulder length hair. I was interested in her immensely as she seemed the most likely to want to join in marijuana smoking, making out and eventual fucking. Coupled with her free wielding sun lotion capacity, I decided to try for further contact.

The game was getting on. The blond mentioned they had to go see her hurler husband, who had just pitched three innings. I decided to try my luck once again, and gave the brunette my phone number. I remembered I had that ATM receipt so I quickly wrote my name and number on it, gave it to her, wished them well, and got another free beer.

Btreoch and I were convinced she wouldn't call. They were moving on after the game and not prime suspects for shots of tequila at the Mexican place down the street. But after about a half hour my phone rings with a weird area code and I nearly jump over the rail with excitement to answer.

A female voice says, "Hey, is this Broseph?"


"What's goin on?"

It was her.

"Did you know you gave me your bank receipt?" she replied. "Your account number is on it."

I smiled a bit, knowing it wasn't mine, and said "Well, I think its just the partial account number, there are some X's and stuff, it's all good."

I quickly changed the subject and asked "What are you doing now?" I tried to keep from laughing. Btreoch is silent but his eyes conveyed excitement that I was making headway.

Long story short, she agrees to meet up for drinks, but only for a little while (yeah right). We go to the Mexican place and Btreoch orders a round of double tequila shots. We eat dinner and have more drinks. Btreoch has a girl, so he hangs for a bit and takes the car home. The blond one never showed as she went to receive some post game fucking probably. Alone at last, brunette girl and I cab to her beach hotel in Dunedin where we smoke several joints by the water and talk about how much we both love Bob Dylan. The sun sets and we begin making out, eventually getting naked, running around and jumping in the water. Thankfully I had a few rubbers in my bag, along with a towel and a water bottle. We fuck all night... on the beach, the water and on a bed. I end up sleeping in the team hotel while the blond one is down the hall probably wondering why her friend never returned her 15 phone calls throughout the night.

I made it clear during the all night love making session that I would need a ride in the morning. This seemed like the best time to breech this subject as she was being very agreeable to my requests and moaning a lot. In the morning the brunette takes the Masterson car keys and drives me back an hour plus to my house. Half way through I ask to drive and she obliges. The whole time I thought about stopping to buy a lottery ticket because my luck was unstoppable, but decided to keep driving. A little bored, I started to caress her leg and smiled at her. Much to my surprise, this led to more frisky behavior while driving and eventual roadhead, which I thought was a nice gesture. I thought I was going to be late to work but luckily made it back with just enough time to change and motor in on time.

When we parted ways, I asked her where she was going after this. She went to Ft Myers, where she was staying for the week with her friends and the Bosox, and then back to Mass. I told her I would see her on Facebook or whatever.

The next day Btreoch asked me if I though about how much dick this girl probably got rammed with hanging around minor league baseball players all the time. I really hadn't. I rest my hopes on the fact that I caught her early in her trip and that I covered up for 75% of the time.

In retrospect, I find it hilarious she called me telling me she had my bank slip. She could have easily just called and not mentioned it. The fact she mentioned it slays me as I probably make 16,000 a year after expenses. I wish I could find that tool bag in the silver hummer just to thank him. Brunette girl, come see me in Tampa next time your in town.

Broseph is student and musician from Tampa, FL. He's also a contributor to Coventry Music Blog.