Page 1 of Truck

Chapter 1

TRUCK

I’m not sure I’m the best person for this manager position at the gas station, but now I am, I’ll do what I have to do. Opening the office door in the convenience store area of the station, I sigh.

It’s a freaking mess and looking around, I’m not sure where to even start clearing all the paperwork left on the floor and desk. It has obviously been left for someone else to clean out.

Walking over to the desk, I pick up a pile of papers and flicking through them find they are invoices, paid thankfully, for gas and other convenience store products. These may come in handy, because I have no idea where to buy all the shit this place will need.

Turning when I hear footsteps, I give a raised eyebrow at Winger as he steps into the office.

“Bull sent me to give you a hand. Nothing waiting for me on recovery, but I’ve the truck if I need to rescue a damsel in distress.” Winger bends down and picks up a pile of papers, drops them onto the desk before picking up more.

“This place is a fucking mess,” I snarl.

Winger chuckles, “Well, you’re right on the mark with that. Thing is, Truck, it can only get better.”

Grunting as a response, I pick up more paperwork and sort into piles of gas invoices/receipts and convenience store invoices/receipts. This is going to take a long time.

We worked for about an hour before Winger perched his butt on the edge of the desk. “You know we need to employ some workers, and they could help with all this cleaning. Oh, and why don’t you speak to Mr. Tillman? You know he ran this place for five years, don’t you?”

“No, I didn’t know that. But he’s a regular at the bar, so I could speak to him, see if he would guide me in the right direction for supplies.” I rub my chin while thinking on this because I know Mr. Tillman is getting on in years, and he may not want to come out of his home to help here. “I’ll pay a visit to the bar and speak with him later today. He is usually around about eight-thirty every evening.”

“Yeah, since he lost his wife, he’s been looking for company, I think. Must be lonely living on your own and no family,” Winger shakes his head sadly.

“They didn’t have family?” I ask because honestly, I’ve never known much about the man or his family.

Winger shakes his head. “No, his son deployed and never came back. It was tragic and saw Mrs. Tillman decline fast. She was fighting early dementia, and it was as if she didn’t want to continue in the real world. But you know Mr. Tillman stood by her until she died, and he was a rock that anyone would be proud to have beside them. I knew his son. He was a great man, a chip off his dad, and a son they were proud of. Anyway, enough of the past. Ask him and I’m betting he’ll be happy to help.”

Once we have all the paperwork on the desk in piles, which hopefully are now organized. We step into the convenience store area. “When is Bull coming to start on the recovery behind the store?”

Winger frowns. “Not sure, he said nothing to me when I left.”

“Okay, but we are not cleaning out all that crap around the back. Let’s give Judge a call to get us two dumpsters for all the junk in the store area. We can’t use any of the stuff in here. It all needs to be discarded.” I rub the back of my neck as the tension builds, and I can feel my head starting to ache.

Winger’s phone rings, and taking the call, he grins like a fool. “Okay, on it.” Putting his cell away, he gives me a wink, “Sorry, Truck, but I’ve a call to rescue a damsel. I have Mr. Tillman’s digits. Do you want me to give him a call and see if he’ll come and speak with you?”

“Why not? He’ll be able to see what a shit state this place is in if he does,” I snarl, then grunt as I drag a box from under shelving. When a mouse jumps out, I kick that fucker. Well, I tried but missed much to Winger’s amusement. “Fuck off, I’ve got shit to do,” I snarl as I continue pulling out boxes, much more carefully I might add.

As Winger walks away, he calls over his shoulder. “Truck, I’ll speak to Judge about dumpsters, and I’ll speak to Mr. Tillman.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I respond as I dodge another fucking mouse. Christ, the place is infested and we’re going to have to get the extermination people in at this rate.

Two hours later, covered in dust and getting more and more agitated, I dragged another box of shit out of the store and threw it with the others that are waiting for the dumpsters to arrive.

A small vehicle pulls into the front of the station, and an elderly man who I recognize as Mr. Tillman steps out. Slamming that car door as if it’s not going to close otherwise.

Mr. Tillman lifts his hand to give me a small wave, and I return it with a nod of my head. I hope he’s here to help because I need all the help I can get.

“Hi, Truck. Winger spoke with me about you needing some advice, and I reckon sitting waiting for the bar to open was less important than coming over to see what it is you need.” Mr. Tillman spoke slowly but clearly.

“I need more than advice because I’ll be honest with you. I have no fuckin’ idea of what I’m doing.”

Chuckling, Mr. Tillman slaps my shoulder. “Well, the last owner was a piece of shit. I left when he started cutting everyone’s pay so he could pay for his wife to go on vacations.”

“He didn’t?” I splutter because I’ve never heard such bullshit.

Mr. Tillman shakes his head in disgust. “Yeah, he did. So, I threw in the towel and went home. Enough, as they say, is enough. I went home and never came back. Now, what can I do to help?”