Keep on Trucking

By Jon Moray

Gary adjusted his helmet as he negotiated in his head his next jump. Known as a dirt bike daredevil, he attempted stunts up hills no one would ever consider. He revved the bike motor, gave a thumbs-up to an anxious crowd sitting in the bleachers and was off testing the shock absorbers over the rocky terrain enroute to Mountain Hill, the biggest mound tested by anyone in the region. He sped up to the hill and soared up high, spinning the bike several times before a sudden jerk had him facing a headfirst date with the earth below. Suddenly, a supernatural turn unknown to him made for a landing on his side that he dusted himself off from. The crowd roared over the impossible attempt and gave a gratuitous applause over the landing. He picked his bike off its side and acknowledged the fans with a wave. In his mind, not sticking the landing meant failure.

After well wishes from friends, Gary loaded his bike onto his pickup truck. As he was about to hop in his vehicle, he spied an oddly dressed man sitting in the bottom row of a now empty bleachers. The man looked casted straight out of the 70’s, the disco era, and his clothes reflected it. Adorned in velvet from head to toe, from button top hat that tucked in half of his big afro, to a three-piece suit, heavy on the lapels, complemented by a red button-down polyester shirt. A cane for show and high platform shoes stocked with goldfish at the clear bottom filled out his attire.

The abnormal sight piqued Gary’s interest enough to approach the man. “Who or should I ask what are you?” Gary asked with a tilted head. His eyes surveyed the man as if he were from outer space.

“Maurice is the name. I am a guardian angel, your guardian angel,” he said, pointing his cane at Gary.

“What?” Gary shook his head as if it would make his ears hear better.

“Let me give you the lowdown, bro. You should be paraplegic by now. You’re good, but you ain’t no Evel Knievel. That cat was so good he didn’t need miracles, although he could’ve used one when he broke every bone in his body at the jump in Las Vegas. That’s why I am here.”

“Why,” patronized Gary.

“You’ve run out of miracles. I’ve saved your butt for the last time, you dig.”

“You mean the way I landed on my side, that was you?” Gary asked, acknowledging the feeling he was extremely fortunate and should’ve suffered worse.

“This jump, and the jump at Ghost Hill and Suicide Mount. The big man has cut you off. Those little nudges of having lucky thoughts were his way of telling you to knock it off.”

Gary searched the pre-dusk sky for answers, but knew Maurice was correct, accented by the slow nod up and down. “You were there for those jumps also?

“I am always with you. I just didn’t make myself visible to you until now, when I was forced to deliver a final warning.”

“But I already planned a second jump next weekend to avenge this failed jump.”

Maurice peered at Gary with pursed lips that had his mustache tickle his top lip, and massaged the disco ball handle of his wood stained cane, considering his reply. “You know who was also in attendance for your three most dangerous stunts? Mr. Death, the Grim Reaper. You cannot see him, but he is standing in the top row of these bleachers.”

“Can’t I get one more miracle? Last one, I promise.”

“Man, granting miracles is a process. There is a long line to get to the front to request miracles up there. Do you know how many heavenly Cleveland Browns fans there are requesting a Super Bowl victory?”

“So, if I jump Mountain Hill, will I be on my own?”

“You will be a high wire acrobat without a net,” Maurice replied flatly.

Gary’s head sunk as his grizzled chin scratched his chest.

“I’m going to keep on trucking and cut out of sight, but I will always be near you,” assured Maurice, with a gentle tap on Gary’s shoulder.

Gary drove home in a fog, mulling the supernatural experience with his guardian angel and spent the better part of the week leading up to the jump considering Maurice’s angelic warning.

The eve before the jump was a tossing and turning one, with each side of his body battling for supremacy of his bed. Jump day was spent tweaking his bike and thinking of Maurice.

“Maurice, are you there? Talk to me,” he urged, looking around his garage. No answer. “C’mon, answer me.” No answer. Gary huffed away the rejection and put the final modifications on his dirt bike.

The drive over to Mountain Hill was uneventful, with country music providing a soundtrack that Gary ignored, evident by the lack of usual tapping on the steering wheel. He arrived at his date with destiny with friends and well-wishers lauding him. Other jumpers performed jumps on less dangerous hills that provided an adequate build up to his main draw performance.

Gary dismounted his bike from the truck and readied himself for the big jump, massaging the grips on the handlebars with gloves that masked his sweaty hands underneath.

He drew deep calming breaths to clear his mind. He turned toward the crowd in the stands to offer his signature thumbs-up, when he noticed Maurice sitting in the bottom row, with both hands on his cane, and wearing rose colored round glasses.

“Maybe he is just visible to me,” Gary mumbled under his breath as no one in the torn jeans crowd seemed to notice him. He refocused on Mountain Hill again as he revved his motor erratically for effect, enticing the crowd, and then sped toward his challenge. As he was about to ascend, he lost control of his bike, and it went spiraling toward the side of the hill before tumbling down to the base. Gary landed on his butt unharmed but suffered a bruised ego. He retrieved his bike only to find it was beyond repair for another jump.

The crowd gasped in surprise and sunk to their seats in collective silence. Maurice sat still, frozen in reflection. Gary slumped toward his fan base and was greeted with complementary sentiments that left him empty. The crowd dispersed and Gary took a seat beside his guardian angel.

Gary dusted off his forearms, lost for words but wanting to say something. Finally, he spoke, “was that you?”

“Was it?” Maurice answered, cracking a slight smile with the anticipation he was about to enjoy their verbal exchange.

“But you said no more miracles…”

“That’s right.”

“So, that mishap wasn’t a miracle?” Gary asked, with eyes on his fractured bike.

“No, but maybe the miracle was in the warning when we last met and your subconscious forced you into the mishap. Can you dig it?” Maurice answered, tapping his cane on the dirt terrain.

“I can dig it. But I wonder if I would’ve made the jump if it weren’t for your warning.”

Maurice laughed as if a joke was meant for him and him only. “Guess who was waiting for you on the other side of Mountain Hill?”

Gary’s eyes opened as wide as silver dollars at the sobering realization of the alternative.

“Well bro, I’m going to go boogie down at a few retro discos before I book it back upstairs to check in with the big man,” Maurice rose, with a wink at Gary.

As his guardian angel strutted away, Gary got his attention. “Yo, Maurice. Keep on trucking,” Gary exclaimed, with a thumbs-up, as both exchanged satisfied smiles.

Jon Moray has been writing short stories for over a decade and his work has appeared in many online and print markets. When not working and being a devoted family man, he enjoys sports, music, the ocean, and SCI-FI/Fantasy media. Read more of his work at moraywrites.com.