This is Hank’s submission to this week’s Stories from the Jukebox song prompt, Right Place Wrong Time, by Dr John. I hope this inspires you to make your own submission!
Hank had been on the road for six days already, and was fast approaching his eleventh hour of driving this one. The roads were icy once he exited the turnpike, rarely did the snow plows make it out on the old state roads. I don’t say that because he was wary — but it did get his attention.
“That’s right babydoll,” Hank said to Brooke over the phone’s bluetooth. “I’mma go ahead and make a short run tomorrow, then I’ll just act like I spent the day parked so I’ll get another seventy hours.”
“But Hank,” Brooke replied with a sigh. “You’ve been gone a week already, and we’ve got that thing with my parents this weekend.”
“I doubt I’ll make that, sugar.”
“Damnit, Hank.”
“Well what do you want me to do, Brooke?” he replied. “There ain’t no loads going South. I can’t very well invent one. Dispatch knows I’m ready to come in, they’re watching out for me.”
“Right Place, Wrong Time,” Brooke said. “You said that last time too, then next thing I know you’re headed to Nebraska.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to come home.”
“Okay, I’ll come home ASAP.”
Brooke hung up, then texted him a bird finger.
Hank picked up a little eighteen footer bound for Batavia, Ohio. The trip was only about two and a quarter each way, so he expected it to be a quick’en. But he got more than he’d bargained for…
“Son of a bitch!” Hank said aloud to himself as the traffic sat stagnant all around him. “I ort-to-be delivering right now. But instead I’m sitting here twenty miles from the dealership.” What was that Brooke said last night? Right Place, Wrong Time? “Damnit man, story of my life.”
After another twenty minutes he began to see a little bit of movement — then nothing for ten more. But finally after almost an hour of gridlock the dam busted, so he was able to get to the dealership before it stopped accepting new deliveries at 3 PM.
“Whew,” I didn’t think I was going to make it there for a minute. Boy I’da hated to have to explain that to Brooke. Shit. Now to make it back to Goshen to pick up the Florida unit Michelle has me. It’s bigger than I’d like but Ole Dually Girl can handler. “Can’t ya girl,” Hank said as he patted the dash.
The trip back was going much better, and Hank found himself exiting I-75N in Wapakoneta, OH, right about dusk. As he slowed to a stop, he noticed a fella with a sign standing there. So he rolled down his window.
“Hey partner,” Hank said as the scruffy fella made his way over. “Here, I nabbed these this mornin’ at the Hampton Inn. You’re welcome to’em. I’ll just grab some more tomorrow.”
“Thank you good sir,” the man said as he took the double-handful of goods. Hank had cleaned out his snack basket, giving the man a banana and an apple, a couple of muffins, and his own Nuttybar from home.
And as the man turned to walk back to his spot, Hank stopped him. “Hey wait a minute there brother, it’s about to be dark. Where you staying?”
The man turned around slowly, he was wearing a different look now — it wasn’t hopeful, but it wasn’t quite as forlorn as before.
“I’ll be staying under that bridge tonight,” he said. “There’s a shelter in Fort Wayne, but I ain’t got no way to get there.”
“I’ll be damned!” Hank replied. “Climb aboard my friend.”
Just then a car pulled up behind Hank’s truck. He motioned for it to pull around him, but instead it bathed the scene in blue.
Damnit Johnny, mind ya business. Hank’s soon to be passenger froze in his tracks. “Don’t worry about it brother, just hold tight.”
The officer spoke to Henry, before he did Hank. He began to admonish him for, “being out here again.” Then he turned to Hank. “Move along if you don’t want me to haul your ass in, too.”
“Why you bother’n this fella?” Hank’d said before he’d realized it.
“Right Place, Wrong Time, Georgia boy,” the officer responded with a snark. “What’s it to you?”
“Well, I was just about to give ole Henry a ride, that’s what,” he said with a big smile. “Wasn’t I old friend?”
Henry straightened up tall. “That’s right, he was. We’re going to Fort Wayne.”
“Ha!” the officer laughed out loud at Henry, then turned back to Hank. “You telling me you know this scoundrel?”
“I know’em a might better than I know you,” Hank replied. “Now if you’ll allow me officer, I’ll get’em off your hands, and outta this state.”
The officer just shook his head, saying, “have it your way. Besides, it’ll save me the paperwork.”
Hank didn’t acknowledge the officer’s statement, he just beckoned Henry. “Come on Henry, looks like we’ve worn out our welcome in Ohio.”
Hank spotted a Marine tattoo as Henry climbed into the passenger seat of his Chevy, but he didn’t mention it. Henry’d been quiet during the trip, they only spoke once really. And it’d been right off the bat, when Hank had told him that he could roll the window up if he wanted to. He’d rolled it down as soon as he’d sat down, no doubt because he’d thought he smelled like a skunk — which he did. Henry had dozed off just afterward, probably warm for the first time in days.
Hank messaged Gray while sitting at a red light in Van Wert, IN, and asked her if she could give him the name of the Mission in Fort Wayne. She’d replied before the light was green, with an address and a question. Hank didn’t have time to answer the ‘why’. But he did get Henry’s full name after he woke — that’d took some coaxing too. But Henry’d given it up when Hank said he was passing it on to his Catholic friend named Grace, “that could probably help.”
“Grace?” Henry’d said, like he’d not seen her in a looong time.
There’d been a priest standing on the steps outside, waiting on’em when they’d pulled up — Grace must’ve called ahead.
Henry’s eyes had almost been wiped clean, as he thanked Hank on the steps of the Mission. “You were in the Right Place at the Right Time, mister. I was just about ready to give up.”
“Call me Cotton,” Hank said, as he shook Henry’s hand. “Small steps brother.”
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Here’s some more of my Jukebox stories.
Wyoming
This is just a taste of a bigger story I’m working on called, Try Your Luck In Reno. I’m warning y’all aheada time too — it’s pretty explicit. So there’s that.
Bang Bang
MJ originally published this over on the Stories from the Jukebox pub under his name — so I made him move it over here, and fix it. And I reckon that’s the end of that, cause I’m here to stay. Buckle up y’all🤠🤙
Hank to the rescue. You never know with Hank, since he's usually looking in the wrong places. Great story, Hank!