"OK, awl in, les go," Pooky said to Sam. Sam was driving with Popcorn riding shotgun still clutching his .32 revolver. Pooky squeezed in between the two in the large two-seater diesel. The heavy clutch was released as the big Mack truck was slammed into first gear and then spirited into second rumbling across the short wooden overpass toward the other railroad tracks at the bridge’s end around a sharp bend.
Barely under one of the few street lamps, Sam suddenly sees a frail white man sitting low on the tracks directly in his path with a bottle in his hand. Jesus Christ! Where in da hell did'ee come from!?" Pooky said, ain't nothin' man jus go oun." Popcorn tried to help turn the wheel leaning across Pooky. Turn it, Sam! Turn!"
"Hell!" Sam kept straight and just tried the brakes knowing it wouldn't help to turn down the hill.
Not raining, but it had showered earlier that day and the climate was damp with slick roads, and it was frigid out that night. The service road was always caked with thick oil and grease, having dripped from older trucks using the same loading dock up on the second story deck each workday. The oil had a tendency of rising whenever it rained.
As Sam desperately applied the brakes, pumping hard four or five times in a few seconds, trying to avoid running over the man, at first the huge drum brakes caught and the big rig slid a little to the right trying to stop, then suddenly and without warning, the main airline busted with a huge belch making a loud howling sound, “Boosh! Boosh!”
"Oh, shit! The damn brakes,"the driver yelled.
"Pump , Man, pump," Popcorn said, excitedly.
The heavy truck wasn’t slowed a bit and kept moving forward at about 25 miles per hour picking up speed down the short hill. The small bridge curved over a deep truss so the truck could only swerve a short distance into the other lane or risk going off the outside barrier of the bridge rail and down 20 feet to certain disaster. He even tried to downshift to first gear but to no avail.
The poor old drunken and helpless man couldn't move but yelled something inaudible. Then the only thing Popcorn and the others could hear over the sound of the diesel engine was a firm yet low toned thump beneath the massive truck and the sound of smashing glass as the near empty fifth of Old Grand Dad Whiskey, hit the pavement. And then heard immediately, followed again by four more huge tires rumbling, the men cringed, ‘plumpety, plump, plump-plump, cauk!’ Sam thought wishfully, maybe that was just the noise from the tracks below and the man rolled off unhurt. Pooky didn’t really care, he just said, “Man, jus keep on goin’,” but Popcorn knew. They all really knew what had happened.
Because he was human and not just a cat or dog, Popcorn felt the impact of the stranger’s instant and violent death deep within his knees, his legs became limp momentarily. He was a criminal and a thief, with integrity he thought, if there is such a thing. But this was his first encounter with death on the job and he didn’t like it.
Sam knew they had hit the man but he still couldn’t stop the heavy diesel with the bad air brakes, it was an accident but that didn’t matter now. The truck continued down a decline where it was forced to slide suddenly in the thick mud, coming to a stop on the shoulder of the opposing upgrade.
All three black men gathered themselves, jumped out of the truck and frantically started running in three different directions. Without going back, they knew a man had been killed, but at the moment while he ran, Popcorn became more concerned with the mob. He had lost their stolen diesel truck and trailer. He was responsible for their one hundred thousand dollars worth of furs, and he wasn’t going to get paid that night. So, it was a long, cold, dark, and lonely walk home from the industrial section of town.
