The Duelist

(Based on Richard Matheson's "Duel")

The car passed Eddie Johnson at 11:32 a.m.

He glanced at it. Instead of worrying about a compact car, he was busy fighting the stubborn transmission of the semi-truck beneath his seat so he could climb the big hill just west of the San Luis Reservoir. The tractor shuddered with the meshing of cogs as Eddie forced the beast into a lower gear. The rig lurched and shook and settled into the climb. At this point, he had been driving since five a.m. and his breakfast was long gone. He had decided to stop at the little café thirty minutes down California 152 to grab something to eat and shake the road off his back and shoulders.

Eddie first saw the truck at Harry's Place in Barstow. It was a well-beaten 1955 Peterbilt 281 with a 500 cubic- inch Cummins engine and a Spicer transmission. The seals leaked, the exhaust pipes were haphazardly welded on, and the brake lines were mended with black electrical tape. A quarter of a million miles ago, it was probably quite the rig. The deep dents and peeling, homemade silver and purple paint job only added to its woeful appearance. Still visible beneath the window the name of some previous driver, "Keller," it read.

"I can let you have it for twenty-five," Harry said, spitting black tobacco juice into the dust.

Eddie laughed and shook his head. "You're out of your mind. I'll be lucky if it doesn't kill me."

"Paperwork is up to date," Harry said with a dribble of juice running down his chin. "And I'll throw in a log book. If the CHiPS don't look too closely, you might squeak by."

That sweetened the deal. Eddie drove trucks only occasionally and the load he was to deliver on this trip was a tanker of bootleg gasoline. Fuel that's been diluted with cheap ethanol, water, and lesser-grade gasoline. Skip the taxes and an unscrupulous distributor could make an additional four cents profit per gallon. When it came to money, Eddie had no scruples. It was his plan to pad his own low pay by skipping the required permits and bypassing the weigh stations.

Money wasn't always hard to come by. Years ago, when Kyle was still a boy and his wife was a beauty, Eddie worked as a longshoreman. They had a cute house on the hill in San Pedro, and spent Saturdays at the pier in Santa Monica eating hot dogs and riding the Ferris wheel. Then came the accident.

The union stuck by him, but the bottom line was he couldn't work. Eddie accepted the $20 per week disability they offered, and the family moved to Victorville. It was not enough. He found work here and there. Some short hauls with one of Harry's trucks. Most weekends he installed irrigation pipe for orange farmers in the north valley. A few baskets of oranges would always find their way into the trunk of his old Rambler--he would stand on the freeway outside Pasadena selling them for fifteen cents a bag.

He brought the truck back to the house, a broken down

trailer he and Lavinia shared. As always, she was inside watching Walter Cronkite, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kyle in the coverage from Vietnam. The beer in her hand tipped off Eddie that she had been self-medicating.

"Any sign of him?" Eddie asked.

She gulped at her beer. "Damn reporters won't leave Saigon. Bunch of chicken shits."

On the coffee table was the wrinkled pulp of their one and only letter from Kyle. He was deep "in country", as he said, hunting Charlie. That was six months ago.

"You got the truck?" she asked. He nodded. "How much you getting for this grand scheme?"

"Maybe a cool hundred after I pay Harry and fuel the truck. I figure I'll spend the night up in Fremont and then head back in the morning."

"I'll be out of beer by then," Lavinia whined. She lifted her immense girth from the couch and sat up to look directly at him. One of the few times he could remember her doing so. The springs moaned under her weight, and she rubbed a hand through her sweaty black hair. Eddie could not remember the last time she had washed or bathed. "You'll need to get some more."

"I was hoping to hit the sack. I've got to be up and on the road early."

"Damn it," she yelled, knocking over the coffee table and spilling beer on her precious letter. "I'm in pain. Can't

you understand that?"

She had been in constant pain for ten years, and as her rage cooled, Eddie saw the eyes of his sweet Lavinia still there under the fat, the anger, and the agony of her life. He got her beer, then cooked her dinner, fed her, got her into the bed, carefully put the leftovers into the Tupperware containers they kept in the cabinet above the stove, washed the dishes, and did a load of laundry so she would have clean clothes while he was gone. He went to sleep just after midnight.

The big truck cleared the incline. Now we'll get some speed, thought Eddie as the truck accelerated on the downhill side of the first pass. He could see the next grade half a mile ahead, and he knew that if he could pick up sufficient momentum, he could climb it without having to fight through all twelve gears. The truck picked up speed: 60, 65... he was coming up on a small car fast. It was a `70 or `71 reddish-orange Plymouth Valiant, probably a Slant 6 under the hood, not enough power to fly over these hills.

The truck came up on the rear of the car and Eddie tapped the brakes. He felt the rig lose some of the energy it had been capturing on the slope, and he thought of the grade ahead. Pushing down on the accelerator, he pulled into the oncoming traffic lane. As soon as the rig was past the car, he slipped back into the westward lane just as the road began the climb up the next hill. Too much was lost in the maneuver, and Eddie felt the truck slow. He pushed the clutch, revved up, and pulled it down two gears. The truck buckled and belched. Eddie caught a glimpse of a big, black cloud coming out of the stacks.

Not too pleasant for the guy back there, Eddie chuckled. The ground flattened out and the country opened up.

The sun was high and shining through the big flat windshield warming the cab. Beads of sweat dripped down Eddie's cheeks and he reached over to turn on the air conditioning. A clunk and a gurgle, then nothing but hot air blew from the vents. "Damn," Eddie cussed aloud. He cranked down the window and let the dry, April air blow in. The hills were covered in the depressing brown vegetation that blanketed most of California this year. It had been dry and freakishly warm, making the countryside look more like mid-July than mid-spring. Set back from the road was a house trailer, much nicer than his, bright-white with blue trim on its aluminum siding. A Chevy truck was parked in front and a skinny dog pulled on a long rope tied to a sagging doghouse. He thought of his own trailer out in the desert, and thought of Lavinia stomping around the living room about to open her fourth Old Milwaukee of the day.

The Plymouth blew past him before he could react. He hit the brakes as the little car swerved back in front of him, the driver giving him a toss of the hand. The son of a bitch had been lurking behind the trailer where he couldn't see him. When were people going to learn that if they can't see his mirrors, he can't see them? Eddie pulled on the cord and gave him a blast of the Peterbilt's air horn. That should shake him up.

And then, the little car slowed down. Jesus, he must've passed him going 70, now he slows down to 50. After six and a half hours on the road, Eddie was in no mood. He

was looking forward to a cold beer and a hamburger steak in Fremont--and then a long night sleeping in the cab. The road dipped, giving Eddie a burst of momentum. He passed the car, and pulled back into the lane. He downshifted to give the rig a boost of torque, but also to belch a little more black-smoke at the car.

They were crossing the coastal mountains, those rocky hills that mark the edge of the rich San Joaquin Valley, and the rocky coastline of northern California. This is where the San Andreas did its best work. Despite the growing population of the state, this area remained isolated and rural. Cattle grazed on the hills, and Mexican boys herded sheep as they had for the past 200 years. Every quarter mile or so, a small farmhouse with the classic, white picket fence dotted the hillside. It reminded Eddie of better days. He drove on.

Somewhere in his heart, he knew his son was dead. His platoon had penetrated deep into the north. He recalled his pal, Jack Rodriguez, telling him how the Army took a long time to acknowledge that friendly fire had killed his own son. That was it, Eddie thought, other Americans accidently killed Kyle, and the Army wanted to sort it out before they told him.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw the Plymouth peek out from his left rear fender. The bastard was tailgating again and wanted to pass. "Sorry, no," said Eddie. "I'm tired of your games. You just stay there and be patient."

The car started to pass and Eddie jerked the wheel to the left. Stupid, he knew, but the car pulled back in the lane

behind him. The driver of the little car tried once more, and again, Eddie weaved to the left. This time the car's return to the lane was more sudden. The driver was getting angry. This made Eddie laugh. Well good, he thought, maybe you'll quit screwing around.

Eddie stuck his arm out the window and signaled the driver to pass. If the guy hurried, he could make it before the curve ahead. The engine of the little car raced as the driver accelerated. As Eddie pulled far to the right, he saw a blue convertible coming around the bend. He signaled to the driver of the orange Plymouth but it was too late. His car's rubber was smoking the road and the driver was making a dangerous dive back into the lane.

Well if he wasn't angry before, he sure is now, Eddie thought with a shake of his head. Both vehicles settled down into a more cautious driving rhythm, but Eddie suspected the driver of the Plymouth was behind him stewing. Well, it serves him right, playing cat and mouse with a vehicle this size. I'm carrying 3,000 gallons of gasoline, and all that liquid weight means I need to keep a constant speed, he said to himself. Once out of these mountains, the road levels out and the curves ease up. There will be plenty of room for him to pass and it will be much easier for the truck to maneuver.

Eddie looked in the left rearview and saw nothing. He glanced at the right and saw the Plymouth pulling onto the shoulder. Good lord, is he going to pass on the right? Suddenly the car darted back into the left lane and started speeding. The horn from the Plymouth was blaring, and Eddie could see the driver dressed in white shirt and black tie, his modern locks curled over his ears

and the hipster moustache drooping under his nose gave him a slight "Midnight Cowboy" vibe. The driver was holding his hand to the horn and yelling cuss words above the howl of his little engine.

Eddie looked up and saw a pickup truck heading toward them. If the Plymouth didn't get over, he was going to collide with it, and Eddie doubted the driver's focus was on the road ahead. The cowboy in the little car seemed to be keeping his eyes on the rig. Eddie swerved to the left. It worked. The Plymouth moved back into his lane just as the truck shot by, but of course, that just pissed off the cowboy-driver even more.

Eddie wasn't too cool either. "Jesus Christ! You stupid, stupid, moron. Calm your ass down or you're going to get us both killed."

The truck crossed a concrete bridge over a small, dried out creek and onto a rough patch of road. The trailer started to bounce and the gasoline splashed from side to side causing a dangerous undulation that made the rig unstable. Eddie slowed. As he downshifted, he saw the Plymouth shoot out and pass him. Fine, fine, he said, go your merry way. Then he saw the driver, the smug Los Angeles cowboy in the compact, stick his hand out the window and raise his middle finger.

"Nice," shouted Eddie.

Minutes later, he crested the hill and started his descent into the valley where Chuck's Café waited with its promise of sandwiches and iced tea. If he was going to stop, Eddie reasoned, he was going to have to make up

some time. The road wound down the mountain and he could feel the load shifting in the tanks. Sixty miles per hour was all he could handle. There ahead, once again crawling along at 45, was the orange Plymouth. Eddie wasn't going to slow down. He knew the sudden appearance of the truck would jar the driver, but honestly, the guy needed to be jarred.

As the road reached the bottom of the valley the grade eased, the curves disappeared and the load settled down, transferring its weight forward to push the big truck. Eddie pulled the cord and blared the horn. That should wake him up, he laughed. Soon they were moving along at 70, then 75, and Eddie was still riding the guy's bumper.

"Come on, big man," he shouted. "Let's see you move that little piece of shit. Come on! Come on!"

Eddie was red-faced with anger. It seethed from his chest and spread through his head, so that all he could see was the little orange car and the haughty driver inside. As the car skidded off the road and into Chuck's parking lot, Eddie realized the game had gone too far. He eased off the accelerator and brought the rig to a slow stop. He cranked it around and headed back to the diner. The car was parked.

Eddie secured the truck and rolled down the sleeves of his blue cotton print shirt over his thick tanned arms. His cowboy boots scraped the gravel of the parking lot as he headed for the door of the café. He cautiously opened the door, half expecting a punch in the face from the driver of the Plymouth.

Chuck was behind the counter, his wife, Ruby, was waiting tables. A couple of other truckers were seated around the joint gnawing on sandwiches, with a guy known on the California highways as Big Dog slurping up gravy from the remains of an open-faced hot turkey sandwich, the day's special.

"Whadda ya have," Chuck asked, wiping his hands on the grease-stained apron around his thin body.

Eddie slid into the seat. "I've been thinking about a chicken salad since Fresno."

"You want chips?"

"Sure, and an iced tea."

Seconds later, Chuck placed a red plastic cup filled with ice and brown liquid in front of him. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the driver come from the bathroom. The man looked pale, his eyes were red, and his hands shook. He glanced around the room studying the faces of everyone, and Eddie figured he was trying to determine which one was the driver of the beat up rig out in the yard that had almost run him down. The man sank into a booth at the back of the café and Ruby took his order.

"I should go talk to him," Eddie thought. "Hey, there... sorry about what happened out there on the road. Things just got a little out of hand."

Then what? The guy calls the police? Eddie didn't need that kind of trouble. It could be the guy was a traveling

salesman. A lot of those guys carried pistols in their glove box to protect their samples. Eddie didn't need that kind of trouble either.

Chuck set the chicken salad in front him. Globs of mayo dripped off the bread. It looked wonderful. He glanced over his shoulder to the man and saw him eating a ham on rye and drinking a Coors. Jesus, that's all we need is alcohol added to the mix. He took a bite of his sandwich and minded his lunch.

Then, as Big Dog got up to leave, the man abandoned his sandwich and beer and headed for the door. He thinks Big Dog is me; Eddie trembled thinking about a gun. He's after me. Eddie stood up from the counter, throwing down a couple of bucks for the lunch before heading for the door. The man was across the road watching Big Dog climb into his rig. As Big Dog pulled away, the man lowered his head and went back to his Plymouth.

Eddie climbed into his rig. This had to stop and the best way to end it was to get as far away from the man and his orange Plymouth Valiant as possible. He started the truck and eased it into first. The man ran towards him waving his arms. "What the hell is wrong with this guy," Eddie said as he began to pull away.

He cranked the wheel hard to avoid the madman running toward him, and headed for the open road. The Cowboy was running alongside shouting, "Hey! Hey!" while reaching for his door handle. Eddie shifted the rig into third, and with a bump and a sway, brought it back on the highway. He caught a glimpse of the man rubbing his forehead and watching him go.

Eddie quickly went through the gears and built up speed, 50, 60, and then at 70 he saw the red and blue lights. The police can pull you over a hundred times, Eddie thought as he eased the beast to the shoulder, and you never lose that big heavy chunk that settles in your throat when you see those lights. The CHiP had pulled him over just a few miles down the road from the diner. Two more hills, thought Eddie, just shy of the long descent into Gilroy. Eddie bit his lip, and his hands started to shake. He silently prayed for a lazy cop that would overlook the half dozen infractions on the truck. He leaned out the window and forced a smile.

"License and registration," the cop said. He was a short, stocky man, his shirt pulled tight over the muscles in his shoulders. His coffee and cream skin was leathery from years on a motorcycle. Eddie could see his own tight face reflected in the officer's sunglasses and loosened his smile.

"Sure thing," he said.

The officer took the documents and went back to his bike. Eddie rummaged through the glove box for the fake logbook Harry had given him. After a few minutes, he heard a thumping from behind and glanced in the rearview to see the cop beating the tires with his baton. A light-blue Impala drove past, the kids' faces plastered to the window. Eddie took a deep breath and stepped out of the rig.

The cop took the log and pointed back to the cab. "Can you turn on your turn signals for me?"

"Sure," Eddie said. He jumped into the cab and turned the signal to the left. The CHiP studied the left signal for a beat and then pointed to the right. Eddie flipped the lever up and watched the cop walked around to the right side of the truck.

"Now the brakes," he yelled.

Eddie complied. He watched the cop study the rig, shaking his head in disgust, before turning his attention to the logbook. Exiting the cab, Eddie walked around the front with his hands carefully placed at his side, and smiled at the police officer with a wide grin and wider eyes.

"This vehicle is registered to Harold Ellis of Barstow," the cop said, lowering the tone of his voice.

"Yeah," said Eddie. "I rented it from him."

The cop nodded. "And where did you come from today?"

"Barstow."

"Your destination?"

"Fremont."

"And your load?"

"Gasoline."

The cop nodded. "Your log says you came from Simi

Valley. It also says you have a load of produce and that your name is Keller, Mister Johnson." There was a long pause while the officer took off his sunglasses and wiped the lenses on his tie. "This isn't your logbook is it?"

Eddie look at the ground as the officer shifted on his legs so that he equally distributed his weight between them. It was a stance designed to intimidate. "No, sir," said Eddie.

"And you don't have the permits. In fact, the reason you're on the 52 is to avoid the weigh station, right?"

"Yessir."

The cop shook his head. "Well, your rig may be ugly, but I'll let it pass. At least you've got the correct hazmat placard for gasoline." He tapped his pen on the side of his ticket book and studied the forlorn face of the beaten man standing in front of him. "I'm going to write you a ticket for going fifteen over, and let you slide on the log book, and the permits. But before you head back this way, I suggest you get everything in order or I'll throw the kitchen sink at you."

"Yessir."

The officer finished the tickets and tore them from the book. "Have a nice day."

Eddie stared at the wad of paper in his hands. It amounted to $50 in fines, plus he would have to spend another $50 to get in compliance. Instead of being up $100 for the trip, it was break even. He pretended to

inspect the big cylindrical air filters on the side of the engine, cowling as the cop drove away. As soon as the motorcycle went around the curve, Eddie started kicking the side of the truck.

"Fuck," he yelled. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why?" He screamed at the blue sky with its thin wisps of clouds teasing him. "Why?"

Climbing back into the cab, he inserted the key, but the full reality of the tickets in his hand slammed his mind. He threw them across the cab and beat his fist against the steering wheel. "Why? Why? Why," he repeated until he felt the frustration of the past ten years drip down his face. It was always like this for Eddie. Every time he got a little bit of money, or the promise of money, his luck would turn. It seemed as if fate was determined to kick him.

He never got ahead, never caught a break. Guys like him could never get a fair hand. It wasn't as if he had dreams of wealth and fame. At this point, he'd settle for paying his bills. He just wanted a break and for fate, or God, to leave him alone.

Not long ago, he had it, the American dream--a well paying job. Sure it was a lot of hard work, but he never shirked labor. He had a nice home, not a mansion, but it was his. Lavinia was young and pretty, Kyle sporty and curious. His dream disappeared in a moment of burning rubber and twisted metal. That was when fate turned on him. He lost his job, his wife became a fat, psychotic, drug addled boozer, and his son ran to the army before the draft notice even hit the mailbox. Now he toiled,

long hours at sub-paying work, only to be screwed again and again--so much for the American dream.

The tickets were his punishment for thinking this truck- driving thing could turn to something. A big outfit in Nebraska was expanding its fleet of refrigerated trucks, and Eddie was hoping the cash from this job would buy him a bus ticket. He would head out to the prairie and take the driving test. The crumpled tickets on the floor of the Peterbilt were evidence of another defeat.

A yellow station wagon honked its horn, and Eddie looked out his window. Why was someone honking? He was off the road. Then he saw him. The driver of the orange Plymouth was standing in the center of the road staring at Eddie. The man stepped out of the way and the station wagon drove past.

"What does he want," Eddie wondered as he watched the man return to his car. Eddie put the truck in gear and started to leave the scene. "I surrender, asshole."

As the truck started forward, the car went on the road. Eddie stopped and the car jolted to a halt, and then slowly backed to the shoulder. Eddie waited, then he started again, and once more, the little car pulled onto the road and stopped.

"It's a challenge," whispered Eddie. "My God."

The two vehicles sat on the side of the two-lane highway, the orange compact facing the big behemoth. "Well, everyone else has taken a bite of my ass. Let's see if you can," said Eddie.

He stuck his arm out of the window and waved to the driver. The car took off leaving behind a spray of gravel and a cloud of dust. Eddie released the clutch and brought his rig in behind the Plymouth.

The truck seemed to want the pursuit as much as he did. Never before had the gears shifted so smoothly. The engine growled with new life as the horses were unleashed. His hands gripped the wheel. The sweat dripped from the hairs at the base of his neck and ran down his back. Eyes locked on the Plymouth racing ahead of him, he did not notice the speed climbing as the rig headed recklessly toward 80 miles per hour.

"Damn, no," Eddie yelled as he felt the grade climb beneath him and the truck start up the first big hill. He had lot of momentum but the weight of the gasoline held him back. His foe shot ahead. They crossed the hill and the road leveled off once again. The rig began to pick up speed, and soon he was on the Plymouth's bumper.

"I'll give him a little kiss," said Eddie as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck hit the rear bumper of the car, and it careened wildly for a few seconds. Eddie felt a wave of primeval satisfaction as his prey's rear end wobbled back and forth on the road. He hooted and hollered, overcome with the blood-buzz of the duel. The road fought back, the curves returned on the downhill side, and the load of gasoline began to shift. First to the left, then to the right, each time it sloshed the effect was bigger, and the load threatened to topple the rig.

Eddie was focused on the car. He would not fail again. The red in his eyes saw only the target, only the prey,

and gravity was on his side. In that moment, Lavinia in her pain, Kyle's corpse rotting in the jungle, the cop, everything could go to hell. He downshifted to rev the engine up, and then quickly up-shifted back to twelve. The gap closed.

The car was climbing again, and Eddie had to drop through the gears to keep climbing. Gravity had betrayed him. The little car climbed and gained distance. As Eddie swung the truck around a bend, he could no longer see the car. His anger waned. What was the end game? Murder? Or could they pull into Gilroy and share a beer and laugh about the contest?

He turned again and saw the car easing up the final, long hill, steam pouring from under its hood. He's overheating, Eddie yelped with glee. The car struggled up the hill as the big truck slowly continued its steady climb. He was close enough to read the license plate; close enough to see the driver pounding on the steering wheel in frustration. The man was willing, praying, and beating his car up the final few feet of the hill. Together they went over the summit of the pass and then down.

As the wind cooled its engine, the Plymouth began to pick up speed, and as he pulled ahead of the truck, the driver stuck his arm out the window, and for the third time that day, flipped Eddie off. He sped down the hill.

Together they raced along at 80 miles per hour. The Plymouth's tires screeched, and the truck's load shifted violently in the tanks. Both men locked on a course. Both men, ignoring the road, craving only the satisfaction of the other's bloody end.

"Shit," Eddie screamed as a sudden detour took the road to the right. The truck leaned hard and his right wheels left the ground before slamming hard to the pavement.

The gasoline was moving back and forth in the tanks; each oscillation building so that the whole tank began to wobble. The truck leaned hard as Eddie muscled the wheel around the curves. Rounding the final mountain, he caught the first taste of humid Pacific air, and he saw the faint haze above San Francisco Bay far to the north; Gilroy stretched out in the valley below him as he fought to keep the truck steady.

Every moment was clear. His heart pounded in his chest and his hands, and his arms ached from gripping the wheel. Eddie watched as the coastal hills flew by in a blur. Red-shouldered hawks looped and soared in the massive wake of air displaced from his rig. Every bump and defect in the road transferred through the wheel and into his hands. He felt the hair on his head tickle his scalp as the wind blew through the window. The taste of electric pennies filled Eddie's mouth--followed by the realization that it was blood--he had bit his tongue.

The little orange Plymouth turned off the road into a wide gravel pullout on the cliff side and skidded to a stop. Eddie turned the wheel hard and aimed his truck directly at his foe. He had chosen murder. The sharp turn forced the load high in the tanks upsetting the center of gravity and tilting the truck wildly to the right. Then the load moved back to the left and started the tip that would doom the truck. For a moment, Eddie fought it, cranking the steering hard to the right hoping to bring it back down on its wheels. Then he caught sight of the

man in his car, the fear on his face unmasking the trembling thought of impending death. In that moment, Eddie relented and let fate roll his truck over the edge of the cliff. The fuel tanks on the Peterbilt were the first to explode. Scott Jessop