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“Ex-cuse me!?” She asks, sounding a little more than shocked. But I thought she was a trucker’s daughter? Peeing in a jar first thing should be as natural as anything for her. And if she's not into that then I might just use it myself. I mean it when I say we can’t stop for anything and I honestly don't remember the last time I went.
“I did say acleanBall jar…” I’m quick to add, grinning in a way that breaks through her own reservations, “Or do you need to let something else out?” I ask by reflex. Pee in a jar is easy. Anything from the other end is a whole different ball game, but definitely doable.
“I can hold on…” She murmurs unconvincingly. “…Waitress’s bladder.” She assures me and I shrug. “Suit yourself…” I rasp. Feeling the sting of my own pressure building down there when she says it. Wondering if I can hold on as well as she can, even with a canoe at the front of my jeans.
“There’s some sandwiches back there… If you're hungry,” I offer. Gladly changing the subject but surprised when she teases me about it.
“You make your own sandwiches?” She asks me, giving me a sidelong glance. Leaving me unsure if she's impressed or not by the fact I can and do prepare all my own food.
“Best ham and cheese around,” I retort, “…There’s even a little microwave back there if you like ‘em hot,” I offer. Already salivating at the thought of food. Needing something in my mouth if it can't be her just yet. And despite her attitude, it isn’t long before I feel her shifting in her seat. Her rear end brushing my cheek as she sets to work finding us both some breakfast.
“You find ‘em?” I ask, suspicious of the silence that’s finally broken by the sound of a jar being filled, making me smile wide to myself. But I resist the urge to rib her about it if only to keep my mind from thinking about doing the same thing she is.
Truckers gonna truck… and girls are gonna need to pee… Every time.
The sound of wrappers followed by the distinctive hum and rattle of the Soviet-looking microwave I keep is eventually joined by the smell of freshly nuked bread and scolding cheese. And Petra climbs back into the front balancing two piping hot sandwiches like she's never left work. “Breakfast of champions…” I murmur, devouring mine in two bites while she peels hers open, blowing on the steam before pressing her sandwich back together again, offering me a bit.
“You want some?” She asks me and I take a sideways bite, leaving her only half.
“Hey!” She whines, pretending to be upset. But she knows damn well what I'd rather be eating right now and I tell her as much, making her flush crimson red before I remind her that we’re almost at the border.
Traffic’s light but there’s always a lineup for trucks and commercial vehicles. The wait only made longer when she scuttles off again, secreting herself in back and asking me every few minutes if she can come out yet.
“No point hiding if you're gonna yammer the whole time,” I remark, smiling again. Insane with a happiness I never thought I'd ever feel in this life. And all because of her.
“Okay, showtime.” I finally instruct her once we’re next in line. The border patrolman spotting the rig directs me to another area, which is par for the course. The employers I work for have their own people planted every step of the way. There’s always the risk of discovery, but I've lost count how many times I've done this and never had a problem.
But I wasn’t carrying a witness to a double shooting. And it’s never been the last run…
Shut up! It’ll be fine…
“P.T.?” Petra hisses in a whisper from the back, making me wince.
“Not now, darlin’.” I tell her firmly in a low voice, readying the phony paperwork and ID I have ready. But she says it again with increased agitation.
“P.T.? I gotta poop. Now… Like.Right now.”
12
PETRA
What can I say? I’m a girl of habits. And first thing in the morning, even if it’s waking up in the front of an eighteen-wheeler, this girl needs her bathroom time. Even if it is right at the worst possible moment, I know I can't stop nature when she's calling at this hour.
P.T. groans loudly. And without even peeking, I can just imagine the look on his face.
A plastic shopping bag is thrust in front of me from his side of the cab, right at the same moment he's cracking the window to speak with the border guard, offering his paperwork to someone I’m assuming is somehow in on whatever caper P.T.’s mixed up in. But it doesn't do me any good. It could be the second coming of the Christ and I'd still need to go.
And yes, I have gone potty into a bag before, trucker style. It's not pleasant but given the alternatives, I surprise myself at how quickly I'm grateful for P.T.’s offer of the bag and I waste no time in starting to fill it.
“Mr… Uh… Parker, is it?” I hear the border guard ask in a disinterested tone before rattling off the spiel they give every trucker. Welcoming them to Canada but quickly adding the list of felonies they're liable for if they haven't followed any of the golden rules that I'm guessing someone like P.T. isn’t really worried about but is supposed to know by heart.
“…And you're traveling alone today?” The guard asks. My own work almost done but the evidence is more than just a warm log in a bag.
“Ummm…Yeah.” P.T, chokes, stifling whatever sound he's trying not to make once my scent travels downwind to him. Reaching the border guard not long afterward.
Well… I guess I’ve fucked this up for both of us…
“You carrying any fruit or vegetables?” The guard drones on, politely ignoring the not-so-subtle restroom aroma filling the cab and probably half of Canada by now.
