(Every word of this story, except for the obvious stuff, is true. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and this one woman.)
Back in the ’90s, when Saturday Night Live was still occasionally funny, Christopher Walken did a skit called “Trivial Psychic”. He shook a co-worker’s hand, his body would jerk, his big bug eyes would get bigger and buggier, dramatic music would play, and the camera would swoop in. He asked the lady several questions, each of which would bring a worried “Yes” answer from her, as well as more camera swoops, bug eyes, and music. “You have a daughter?” “Yes.” “She’s at home with the housekeeper?” “Yes.” Then he’d tell her: “The housekeeper just waxed the kitchen floor.” “Yes?” “Your daughter’s gonna run in it.” “Yes?” (The woman no doubt thinks there’s a broken bone, at minimum.) “The housekeeper’s annoyed; she’ll have to do that part of the kitchen over.” This goes on a little more, then the announcer comes out with “Ed Glosser, Trivial Psychic.”
That’s what I’ve considered myself at times, because, although I think that people can read my every thought at times, my psychic abilities are usually limited to thinking about a song, then it plays on the radio, or a couple of dreams about really trivial occurrences that then came true.
In the summer of 1990, shortly before I met my ex-wife, I took up with a girl who I had known for years, who had been out of town for a while, and began a fairly lame 3-week relationship with her. Since I was liking the companionship, and hoping for more, if you get my gist, I suppose it made sense that I dreamed, a couple days into the 3-week thing, that a specific higher-up in my company would ask me to go install one of our products on the road, and I would tell him, no, because I just met a woman and wanted to spend some time with her. The very next day that exact thing happened. (Sorta weenie-ish, I know, but it was rural Illinois, not Vegas, where they were going to send me, for cryin’ out loud.)
There were times of slightly-more-than-trivial psychic feelings during my relationship/marriage to the other woman, usually involving the sky being a different color (I swear) as I left work, followed by me being yelled at by her about something that, well, seemed pretty trivial to me actually. (There’s several things that I don’t miss about marriage–that one at least.)
Fast-forward to fall 2003. We didn’t travel much during my marriage, but in the ’80s, with or without a girlfriend, I’d use my vacation time to travel, always west, to see places I’d never seen except in media, books, etc. So, in ’03, after a dry spell after my marriage broke up, I decided to go east instead. I’m partial to rock/pop music, a handful of showtunes, jazz, or folk, and what little good country there is. So I got a ticket for the mecca of country music, the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, and for a Patty Loveless concert about 4 hours from there in Georgia. I also planned to see the Smoky Mountains, and go downtown in Nashville, listen to bands, fall in love with some gal there, and move to Tennessee or something.
My car had other plans, though. It basically died in Nashville during rush hour, just as I was heading to my motel. It didn’t die completely, just started chugging out blue smoke. Lots of blue smoke. Something called the “rear main seal”, which had been leaking oil, let loose a lot more, and really started to lose oil fast. So I rented a car to get to the 2 shows, skipped the mountains and the bars, and headed home to do some car-shopping at home.
It took me two full days to get home; I drove back roads instead of the interstate, because the car smoked way less at 50 or so miles an hour than it did at interstate speed. I’d hit the nearest Walmart in the morning and buy a case of oil. I wouldn’t even check it during the day, just stop every hour-and-a-half or so and add 2 quarts. Then at night at the motel, I’d bring it up to full.
I don’t know if you’ve ever driven alone much, but, I’m here to tell you, you don’t have to be crazy to start talking to yourself if you’ve been driving long distances. Whether it’s “Mmm, there’s some cows”, or “I wonder if there’s a meth lab in that barn” or “I wonder if there’s a hot lonely farm wife in that place”, you’re gonna be talking to yourself. So, I don’t know if I said this thing out loud or just thought it very vividly, but, just outside “Turnipseed, Minnesota”, I saw a semi-truck and trailer from “Mays Trucking” parked by the side of the road, as I turned from one state highway to another, and said, or thought, to myself, “That trucking company will have something to do with my love life.” I know that I didn’t go “back in time” in my mind later and make this up, because I clearly remember (again, either) saying out loud or thinking vividly, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll fall in love with some big, burly female truck driver (who could throw me across the bed as easily as I could throw a loaf of bread into a shopping cart).”
I made it home without further mechanical problems, did some car-buying, and forgot about the whole “Mays Trucking” thing. Then, one month later, I was set up on a date with a new co-worker of an old friend of mine, had a 3-week romance with her, got dumped so she could go back to her old boyfriend, got a call 3 weeks after that: “He’s not being nice; wanna go have a beer?” “Sure (and, you know, the sky was a weird color that night, as I was heading into my trailer after work), let’s have a beer.”
The next day she wouldn’t return my calls, but about 3 weeks after that, I got a call from the matchmaker friend: “She (we’ll call her Emmylou) is pregnant, and they’re getting married.” “How nice”, I replied. As time went on, I started doing a little math in my head, gave “Emmylou” a call, and convinced her that we should have a DNA test. (We’ll call my daughter Alice) Looking back, we could have saved the money; not only is my little “Alice” not butt-ugly, like the other “gentleman”, but she is terribly shy like I was as a kid, and at least as uncoordinated as I have always been. She is indeed my little sweetie.
Anyway, to make a long story short, although her mother had very little to do with my romantic life (just another trivial romance, if you will), until I find a woman to grow older with, my little “Alice Mays”, daughter of “Emmylou Mays”, and granddaughter of “John Mays”, one of the co-owners of “Mays Trucking” of “Turnipseed, Minnesota” (until he drank himself to death), well, little “Alice” is most definitely the love of my life.
I couldn’t swear in a court of law that the name on that truck was their family name, because it was such a ridiculous thought (about that trucking company having something to do with my love life) that I just dismissed it immediately. But it was a small town, my daughter’s mom is from there, her family owned a trucking line there. And, I know traveling alone is freaky, but since I was
a loser in between romances, and wanted to get out of town, I went. There’s no guy in the world I can stand to spend more than a couple hours drinking or hunting or working or fishing with, and I didn’t think any of my friends would loan me their wives, so I traveled alone. Plus I planned to get discovered by a talent agent in Nashville, and discovered by a rich woman in Nashville.
I know this one is long; but it is my 100th post, if you can believe WordPress, and describes what is, so far, the defining series of events in my life, so I guess the world of wordpress can indulge me. And, do you know how hard it is to make up a name for a trucking company? You name it, it’s a truck line.
Thanks a lot for reading.