BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN

 

BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN

An unlikely tale of friendship between two men

Fiction by strzeka (02-05/24)

 

Jared Jennings was beginning to fear for his safety. The desert road was straight and clear. His headlight picked out tumbleweeds before he rode over them. He had made good time since leaving home at six the previous evening, intending to ride east through the night and resting up with the dawn. Now he felt it was time to stop. He was tired and his attention was wandering. He might pull off the road and get some shuteye for an hour or two. Three o’clock. He could see lights on the horizon. Maybe a car coming his way but it might be a motel with a bed. He would drive until he could identify the lights and then stop for the night, what was left of it.

 

He slowed his pace, readjusting his grip on the throttle to a comfortable position. The lights stayed put. They were not from an approaching car. A mile off, it looked like a diner. A tilted sign proclaimed open 24/7 in the ubiquitous Fifties style of diners all over the country. Jared curved into the forecourt, passing three or four trucks lined up facing the coming sunrise. He parked well to one side of the diner, leaving his bike in darkness and got off it. He stretched his limbs, grateful to hear silence apart from the ticking and clicking of cooling diesel engines in the massive trucks. He scrabbled to undo his white open-face helmet and hung it from the handlebars. He tapped his chest to check he had his wallet and stepped towards the front door of the diner. It was empty of customers. Surprised and alerted by the bell over the door, the night shift waitress rose from her seat and smiled at the leather‑clad young biker as he approached. He knew she had noticed but now she kept her eyes on his face.

 

            – Hi! What do you say at this time of night? Good morning?

            – You can say what you like, honey. What can I get you? How about some fresh coffee, brewed just for you?

            – That sounds wonderful. Do you have any food?

            – There’s bread and butter, ham, salami, and some good ol’ American cheese. I could rustle y’up some sammidges if ya hungry.

            – In that case, I’ll have two cheese and ham sammidges.

            – Coming right up, honey.

She checked the coffee machine and flipped a switch. Coffee would be ready in a minute. Jared heard water running as the waitress washed her hands and the kitchen sounds of crusty bread being sliced. He looked around at the neon lights and the red and chrome fixings. It was all new to him and as old as the hills. The unwavering look of an American diner. It was a small luxury to be alone with only a friendly waitress for company.

 

The waitress returned with his food on a white plate. She had even chopped some fresh parsley and sprinkled it over the bread to make it look nice.

            – Coffee’ll be just a minute, honey. Is there anything else you might need?

            – Do you have a restroom?

            – Sure. Just outside to the left. Ya can’t miss it.

            – Thanks.

 

The waitress served Jared with his coffee and discretely watched him eating. It looked like he enjoyed his food. He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and slipped off his stool. He would take a leak and drive a few more miles before setting up camp.

            – I enjoyed that. Thank you, ma’am.

            – You’re welcome. Bye now.

 

Jared sauntered into the rest room, a separate block from the diner. Lighting was primitive, with a couple of low wattage bulbs stuck in the wall. Two stalls faced a row of wash basins, one of them, amazingly at this time of night, occupied. Jared entered the other and pulled the door closed. It took a minute or so for him to open his flies and coax out his penis. He let his stream flow noisily. He ripped a shred of toilet paper to dab his urethra and was shocked to see an erect penis appear through a glory hole he had not noticed in the gloom until now. It was a magnificent tool. Straight, well proportioned and steady. Jared was no spring chicken and understood the situation exactly. The dick looked clean. Against his own better judgment, he sat back on the edge of the seat, rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned forwards to tease the cock with his tongue. There was a satisfied grunt from behind the divider and another inch of cock appeared. Jared used his teeth, not allowing the head entry yet. There was silence. Jared tongued the head. There was no taste of urine. The man kept himself clean. Jared opened his mouth and let the cock head explore. It was wide and clearly defined, a generous sized glans on a well‑proportioned cock. Jared returned to nibbling. There was a deep sigh from the other side. Jared brushed his moustache against the head and then took the entire cock into his mouth and throat, rocking slightly to signal that his unseen partner might fuck his mouth. He did not. The glans felt good against his palate. The shape was perfect for an adult mouth. Jared was unable to change his position. The man would have to collaborate if he wanted more but the tool remained in place, motionless and rigid. Jared could hear heavy breathing and smiled around the cock head. He continued alternating between gulping the glans into his throat and tonguing it. Unexpectedly, the penis withdrew. There was more silence until Jared heard the sound of a fly being zipped. The door of the neighbouring stall creaked open followed by footsteps. A man’s deep tenor voice spoke.

            – I’ll wait til you come out. I want to see you.

 

Jared pushed himself up and knocked the latch free. He allowed the door to swing open, waited a moment and stepped out into the bathroom. He saw a daddy figure in western gear—bald head, horseshoe moustache, red check shirt, jeans and pointy cowboy boots with an extreme undercut. The daddy liked what he saw—a young guy about twenty‑five in bike leathers, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, red plastic motocross boots. He liked the short hair and Freddie Mercury stache.

            – I’m guessing that was not your first time. You’re good.

            – You didn’t come. I was expecting more.

            – Takes a good effort to make me come, son. I held off out of respect. I could tell you respected my cock. That’s the same as respecting me.

Jared nodded in agreement and looked at the daddy in anticipation.

            – Are you staying here tonight, son? Where are you headed?

            – I just stopped for coffee. I want to get a few more miles behind me before I call it a day.

            – What’s the hurry? What are you riding?

            – Kawasaki twelve hundred.

            – Reckon you can make up any time lost. Whyn’t you spend a few hours til sun‑up in my cab? You can sleep if you like. I’ll keep an eye on you til I set off after breakfast.

Jared thought quickly. It would not make much difference in the long run. He was in no great hurry.

            – OK. Show me your cab.

            – Follow me.

 

The daddy held the door open and Jared sauntered out, turning to see the daddy stepping alongside him on his fetishistic extreme boots. Unsure of which of the juggernauts he was heading for, he hung back slightly. The daddy approached a dark cab and fingered an electronic fob to unlock its driver’s door. He climbed up and released the passenger‑side door. Jared sighed. He had managed to avoid the inevitable conversation until now but it would start in a few seconds. He spread his elbows to pull his hooks out of his jacket pockets, gripped onto the supports and heaved himself up into the cab. The daddy watched him and then spotted the hooks.

            – Jesus H. Christ! I had no idea. Wow! Both arms, huh? How’d that happen?

Jared was reticent to explain. It was tedious to repeat his story to all and sundry several times a day. It was none of their business. And it was late. He did not feel up to explaining at four in the morning. The daddy nodded and looked at Jared in the eyes.

            – I guess we should introduce ourselves. I’m Travis Thomson, trucker, packer, mucker. Been on the road for twenty‑five years. Divorced, free, looking for love. How about you?

            – Jared Jennings, double arm amputee, author, freelance correspondent, biker, free, lookin’ for love.

Travis Thomson laughed. It was a healthy, heartfelt laugh, friendly, generous, deep. Jared liked the sound of it even though he was the object of the laughter.

            – How old are you, Jared?

            – Twenty‑five.

            – How long you been an amputee?

            – Eighteen months. This is the first journey I’ve made since this.

He lifted his hooks and dropped them.

            – I’ve been writing at home but I felt like I was running out of ideas. So, I got myself kitted out with gear for a road trip and set out yesterday and here I am.

            – Wow! That’s impressive. You can ride that big bike with your hooks?

            – Sure. It’s had a few alterations done to it but I renewed my licence so the State of Wyoming approves of a cripple riding a big bike so I guess everything’s in order.

            – Is that where you’re from? Wyoming?

            – Yup. Little place called Thermopolis, four thousand inhabitants, biggest thermal heated pool in the world. And that’s all there is.

            – Sounds like where I grew up, without the pool. Well, whatya wanna do? Sleep? Just crawl in back and you can lie on the bed. These seats convert into another bed.

            – Thanks, I’m OK for the minute. Are you sleepy?

            – Not after your blow job I’m not. You’re good. You’ve done that before, I reckon.

            – Yeah, I have. I had a boyfriend and neither of us liked getting shafted so we stuck to blowjobs. And then he went away after I got these. Didn’t like the look of ’em, I guess.

            – That’s a pity. There’s nothing wrong with ’em. They make you special. How’d you lose ’em?

            – Travis, I don’t want to be rude but I really don’t want to talk about it. People keep asking and it gets old real fast.

            – OK. I don’t wanna intrude. I reckon you should get some shut eye. Go on. It’s all yours.

            – That’s good of you. Thanks. I think I will.

 

Jared rose and squeezed between the front seats into the back. There was a bed stretching the width of the cab. He sat on it and set about removing his boots, easily done after the clasps were snapped open. His hooks were fine for the job. He struggled with his belt for a few seconds and crouched to let his leather trousers drop to the floor. He shrugged his jacket off, letting it join his trousers and finally his black carbon forearms. He rubbed one stump against the other to shed his stump socks and lay back onto Travis’s bed. He could see Travis’s bald head silhouetted against the first light through the windscreen. He had not moved. He had not watched Jared undress nor struggle with his hooks. A trustworthy man. Decent. Jared slept.

 

As the sun rose higher, other truckers pulled in alongside the overnighters. The diner in the desert did good business twice a day as truckers heading west dropped in for a morning hour for coffee and to relieve themselves and again in the early evening when those heading east stopped for coffee and to buy a few sandwiches for the trip. The farts of air brakes being released woke Jared a little after seven and he sat up in initial surprise at his surroundings. He looked around, remembering where he was and wished he had clean clothes with him. His clothes were in one of the panniers on his bike. He could see it over on the right. He could also see an artificial leg leaning against the door of the cab. It could only belong to Travis. He crawled forward, naked except for his day‑old T‑shirt and looked down at the naked man stretched the width of the cab. He had started with a thin blanket which had slid to the floor. The man had a thigh stump about half the length of his former thigh. Jared was amazed that he had met another amputee and that Travis had not mentioned his disability the previous night. The stump was well healed and as hairy as the rest of the man. He had a beginning paunch but looked otherwise to be healthy and muscular, the signs of a man who kept himself in condition. Jared’s belly was rumbling, expecting to be fed but he sat back and slowly dressed himself, starting with his hooks. He lifted his arm and sniffed his arm pit. It was not too bad. The logistics of fetching a fresh T-shirt and donning it were too great. He plucked the first stump sock off his jacket, laid it carefully on his thigh and worked a stump into it. The same for the other arm. His prosthetic arms clacked together as he lifted them over his shoulders and Travis woke, alerted by an unaccustomed sound in his cab. He immediately realised his situation and leaned around to wish his guest a good morning.

 

            – Did you get any sleep? Good morning, by the bye.

            – Good morning. Yeah, I guess I got some sleep. How are you feeling?

            – I’m fine.

            – Ah, Travis, there’s an artificial leg leaning up against the door. I don’t like to ask but what’s that all about?

            – Had my leg off five years ago. A police car collided with my truck. It was chasing someone and it ran off the road and hit my trailer. I was underneath it fixing an air leak and the fucker tore my leg off.

            – Jesus. That must have been a mess.

            – Yeah well, the cops had back up and everyone was rescued ’cept for the baddie who spun out and killed himself against a bridge support. They rushed me to a hospital and fixed me up with a fake leg which you see before you.

            – Why didn't you tell me last night?

            – What does it have to do with anything? If I recall, you didn’t want to tell me about your accident. I don’t wanna talk about mine, either. Although if I have my druthers, we’ll know soon enough.

            – What do you mean?

            – I mean are you ready for breakfast? Come on. Get your hooks on and let’s go before they sell out of brownies.

            – Let me get my feet into these boots and I’ll be ready. Are you not going to put your leg on?

            – Nope. If you look on the shelf just above the bed, you’ll see a pair of crutches and if you’d kindly hand them across to me, I’d be mighty obliged.

 

Jared turned around and noticed the recess for the first time. The crutches were its only contents and difficult to handle with his hooks but Travis accepted them one by one. He had dressed himself in the same clothes as he wore last night except his artificial leg remained propped up where he left it. He opened his door, dropped the crutch tips down to the ground and lowered himself between them. His foot still held the extreme underslung cowboy boot. The empty leg of his jeans blew and tangled in the desert morning wind.

 

Compared with Jared’s last visit, the diner was buzzing. The smell of bacon filled the air. There was no sign of the woman who had served him the previous night. Instead half a dozen teenage boys hurried back and forth, taking orders, bringing meals, serving coffee, clearing tables. There was less of the lazy catcalling common to diners but Jared heard two wolf whistles. The boys all wore white tees emblazoned with the name of the diner and extremely short cut‑offs. They all had a morning shift from five to eight‑thirty, after which they jumped into their cars and drove to school for a nine o’clock start. Many of them had already formed relationships with drivers and knew exactly what they intended to do on leaving school. They would work a few years driving for a company until they could buy their own rigs and join the society of gentlemen truckers.

 

Travis looked at the amputee sitting opposite him and lusted for him. After his wife had cheated on him and left, he had switched his sexuality, convincing himself that he had always had a gay side, obliterated by social norms, the expectations of his parents, the flirtation of pretty girls at school and afterwards. He had married his wife eleven years previously, both expecting to live in a settled situation for the rest of their lives. She was soon dissatisfied with the amount of time he spent on the road, trying to earn enough to not only keep her in comfort but also to save money for his own rig and become an independent trucker. Things could have gone worse. He looked at the handsome eyes of the server who poured him his third mug of coffee and across at the amputee who gripped his mug awkwardly before leaning back to drink. It was one of the most erotic things he had seen and his erection proved it. They ought to leave but Travis was not so blatant as to display his erection to everyone present. He tried to calm himself, playing with the grouts in the bottom of his mug, trying not to glance at the steel hooks of his companion.

 

            – Time to go. Where are you heading to?

            – I don’t really have a destination. Apart from heading slowly south. I wanna get enough info about how life is falling apart in places which weren’t doing so well even when times were good.

            – You need to be careful, Red. Plenty of people be ready to top you for your bike. I don’t wanna read about anything like that.

            – It wouldn’t even make the news. I know what I’m doing, Travis. I trust people. They see I’m disabled, they tend to trust me. It’s worked until now. This ain’t the first time I been to the south.

            – Alright, boy. You take care. I wanna see you again.

            – Thanks for everything.

 

Jared returned to his bike, now covered in a thin layer of dust. He opened one of the panniers and found a T-shirt to clean most of the dust from his bike and the windscreen. He shook it in his hooks and decided it would do for tomorrow. He stuffed it back into the pannier, stretched his arms wide and shrugged his hooks into a comfortable position to stretch onto the handlebars. He seated himself and lifted his helmet onto his head. He glanced back at the row of rigs parked and fired his bike into life. He guided it back to the highway and was soon lost to sight. In his own microhome, Travis Thomson arranged his cab again the way he liked it, made sure his water and snacks were ready to hand and eased his rig onto the highway in Jared’s wake. He kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other cupped his leg stump.

 

– – – – – – -

 

Jared’s journey lasted for eight weeks. He met families with a dozen children, CEOs who had lost everything, single mothers who worked three jobs in a desperate effort to feed children. It was what the country had become. Capitalism had worked, syphoning wealth to the very top and leaving nothing for the common people. He wrote his stories from his house in Thermopolis, sending them to an editor who syndicated throughout the West. Revenue trickled in as his writing was reprinted. He wrote with a simple elegance and described what he saw with empathy and humanity. Three years after his tour to the South, he won an award for excellence and a considerable monetary prize. He said goodbye to Thermopolis and moved to St Louis, to a half empty block of apartments intended for the better‑off but now open to anyone who could afford to rent. His neighbours were friendly enough. The utilities worked, the internet connection was reliable and the elevator functioned. It was about as good as life could get. He received a request from a weekly mid-Western magazine for a story about logistics and how cities depended on an unseen network of transport specialists. It sounded exactly like the sort of thing he was best suited to. Jared accepted the assignment and promised thirty‑five hundred words in three weeks. St Louis was ideally sited to host cross‑country truckers and he hung around in cheap hotels on the edge of town for a few nights, hoping to talk to truckers with a story to tell.

 

The inevitable happened. Jared emphasised his angle on logistics from the truckers’ point of view. How they were treated by the conglomerates who controlled delivery of everything from food to furniture, how they managed on roads full of potholes and through regions where pirates might lay in wait for the opportunity to seize a whole trailer. He rode out to the west of town, a camcorder strapped to his chest and entered the forecourt of a major stopping point for cross‑country truckers. Goods were still transported largely by road, although more was being transferred back onto the railroads as they were repaired and extended. On a hot October evening, Jared entered the eaterie and nursed a beer, looking out for anyone who seemed calm and collected enough to interview. A man on crutches silhouetted against the window called to a waitress who rushed over and filled a plate with food from a buffet and set it down. Jared watched the man eat. Shortly, the waitress returned with a stein of beer. Jared’s curiosity was aroused. He had not forgotten his encounter with the one‑legged trucker. Surely it could not be the same man. What were the chances? He walked nearer for a better view and watched him. It was Travis. He had forgotten the surname. He slid himself onto the bench opposite Travis and crossed his hooks in front of him. Travis looked up and burst into tears. He dropped his cutlery, which fell to the floor, and bowed his head in shame at appearing overly emotional but he wept for relief and joy at seeing the guy with hooks after hoping to find him again for so many years. And now he just walked up and sat down. What were the chances? He leaned across the table and touched Jared’s face with a hand.

            – I never thought I’d see you again. I missed you so much.

Jared was genuinely surprised. He too often wondered what happened to the one‑legged trucker he had shared a few hours with. There was obviously a bond—they were both amputees, after all. But there was something more, not love nor lust but the promise of a genuine friendship. Both men knew it. The difficulty was in avoiding the impossibility of ever achieving it.

 

Travis pushed his unfinished meal to one side and retrieved his cutlery. He made a brief apology for having made a scene which Jared dismissed with a raised hook. Travis looked around to see if they were being watched and took Jared’s hooks into his hands. Jared felt nothing but the gesture was laden with significance. Travis asked about Red’s career and was intrigued to know the man now lived only a mile or so from where they now sat. He explained that he had succeeded in landing a regular route hauling vegetables and fruit from Santa Barbara to Chicago and lumber or furniture in the other direction. Jared asked why he was on crutches.

            – I seem to wear the leg less these days. I don’t need it in my cab and it’s just as easy to jump down on one leg and crutch around the rig if I need to check something.

            – It’s not broken, then?

            – No, no. Nothing like that. I told you about how I lost my leg, didn’t I? You never told me how you lost your hands though.

            – No. It was traumatic and I’d prefer not to rake over it. People often ask about it. Curious, I suppose. It’s not every day you see a guy with two hooks. The only people I ever discuss it with are other arm amputees and even that happens only rarely.

            – OK. I’m not gonna press you for it.

 

The trauma which Jared referred to came after his amputations. He had deliberately destroyed his hands by freezing them, assisted by his then‑boyfriend and lover. The affair soon became public knowledge due to a drunken post to social media and Jared was hounded to such an extent that he had to flee a promising job in L.A. and move back to his mother’s home in Thermopolis. His relationship was over and after rehabilitating with steel hooks which he had always lusted after, he set about establishing himself as a freelance author with growing success. His trust in other people had taken quite a beating and he was not ready to admit his voluntary mutilation, not yet, not even to Travis.

 

            – I wish there was a way we could be together. I think of you at night. You know why, dontcha?

            – Ha! Yeah, I can guess why. That was quite a night. I don’t usually do that sort of thing. I’m not what you’d call a promiscuous man.

            – OK. Let’s not discuss it here.

 

Travis released Jared’s hooks. Both men stared at them. Travis was infatuated by their appearance. So alien, so shocking. Jared admired them for their reliability and the insensate rigidity of his arms. He had no wrists. He loved relying on his artificial arms for everything, being instantly helpless without them, and after six years, he used them as easily as other men used their hands.

            – I was gonna ask you what you’re doing here. You weren’t expecting to see me, were you?

            – No. I’m working on a fairly long article about logistics and how it effects truckers like yourself. I interview truckers who hang around with a coffee after they’ve eaten, you know, who look like they’re not in a rush to get back on the road.

            – I guess we’ve all had experience of how the business has changed over the past few years.

            – Could I interview you, Travis?

            – Sure! But not here.

            – Would you like to come round to mine to spend the night?

            – I would. I’d like that but how would we get there?

            – You’d have to ride pillion.

            – You still have your bike?

            – Yup.

            – If I had my leg on, I’d say yes but I don’t think I can make it with crutches.

            – Oh! No, I suppose not.

            – But if you’re willing to put up with a bit of discomfort, you’re welcome to shack up in my cab for the night.

Jared thought about it. He remembered the space in the front of the cab and the long bed just behind. They could renew their friendship, their intimacy.

            – OK. Let’s do it.

 

Travis stood and balanced on his long crutches. The leg of his jeans over his stump had been cut off and the edges were frayed. His stump was naked and its rounded tip was occasionally visible. Travis knew some men appreciated seeing a bit of stump. He landed an admirer practically every week for an impromptu session of stump worship. It never led to anything further. It was as if he had been waiting for Red to turn up again. And here he was. They left the diner and climbed into Travis’s rig.

            – Fire away!

Jared switched his camera on and asked a few basic questions about earning a living at the beck and call of shippers, how it affected their home lives, the recent changes which had made the business even more cut‑throat than before. Travis answered seriously, describing aspects of the job which were new to Jared. They continued for forty minutes or so until Jared felt he had enough new material to sort through. He would upload the material to his tablet and let AI transcribe Travis’s words.

 

            – Thanks for that, Travis.

            – I hope you could make sense of it. Sorry to sound so confused.

            – No, you explained very well. I’m beginning to understand the business. It’s logical enough—that’s why it’s called logistics, I guess. I’ll probably want to talk to another few truckers, maybe a couple with smaller rigs.

            – Yeah. The smaller outfits often work the hardest. They do shorter runs, see?

            – Makes sense. Alright. Let’s stop there.

Jared poked at the camcorder on his chest until the red indicator light went out. It was past nine o’clock and the sun shone low on the horizon.

            – Where are you headed now?

            – Westwards. I’ve got a load of office furniture in the back for Phoenix. Then I run empty to Santa Barbara to pick up some produce and haul it back to Chicago.

            – How long will that take?

            – I have to be in Santa Barbara in three days by midday. Then it’s non‑stop to Chicago, or as close to non‑stop as possible. My rig’s refrigerated but the produce don’t stay fresh for long.

            – So you might be back here in five days.

            – If I drive via St Louis, sure. Why?

            – Can I come with you?

Travis was clearly surprised and equally delighted. He laughed in his comfortable baritone and turned to face Jared. He placed his hands on Red’s shoulders and said there was nothing he would enjoy more than having company.

            – Great! I have to get home to fetch my toothbrush and some clean socks but I’ll be back in the morning. What time are you setting off?

            – About six thirty at the latest.

            – OK, I’ll see you at six.

            – I’ll probably be in the diner.

            – Yep.

 

Jared hesitated for a few moments, before wishing Travis a good night. He pulled the passenger door open and jumped down, turning to push the door closed with a socket. He returned to his bike and put his helmet on. He straddled the bike and adjusted his hooks to grip the handlebars securely. He drove slowly past a row of rigs, past Travis’s rig, and drove home along deserted city streets. He packed a hold‑all with shirts, shorts, socks, stump sheathes, spare hooks and a couple of chargers. He uploaded Travis’s interview to his PC, made sure the apartment could be left unattended for a week, showered and climbed into bed. He felt as excited as a child going on his first field trip.

 

His alarm sounded at five. He slipped his hooks on and went naked to the bathroom to relieve himself. He dressed in denim with a white T‑shirt. He slid the hooks off and pushed his stumps into a clean pair of liners, then into stump socks. Now his arms fit tightly on his stumps and he savoured the sensation of rigid immobility once again. He shrugged his harness over his head, fed his hooks into the sleeves of his jeans jacket, checked he had everything he needed and locked the apartment. He had given himself forty minutes to stroll back to the truck park. The sky was lightening in the east. The air was still cool and he could hear early morning traffic on the freeway. A few homeless people slept on. No‑one bothered him. He crossed the freeway and strode across to the diner, full of men tanking up with eggs and bacon and copious amounts of coffee. Travis called out from a red leather booth.

            – Good morning! Have you had breakfast?

            – I had a sandwich. I could do with some coffee.

            – Sit down. I’ll get some.

He signalled a waiter and asked for a refill and a mug for his companion. The waiter was disappointed not to tempt the newcomer with a plate of fried breakfast but poured a coffee for Jared, staring in wonder at the steel hooks each side of the mug.

            – You’re wearing your leg.

            – Yeah. I thought I’d dress up special. It’s not often I have guests.

            – I’m looking forward to the ride. With any luck, I’ll be able to meet enough interviewees to get all the material I want for my story. I’ll save at least a week of research time.

            – Well, you’ll meet enough truckers but remember I’m working to a strict timetable. I can’t let you interview people like yesterday. We have to keep moving.

            – I get it. We’ll see. Sometimes it happens that people approach me to chat. Mainly about these.

            – I guess so. Drink your coffee and let’s hit the road.

Jared emptied his mug, holding it in both hooks. He hooked up his bag and followed Travis to the rig. Travis was wearing a pair of extreme underslung boots again, deep red leather with white detailing. The wedge‑shaped heels were about four inches tall and slanted from the heel to midsole. His bootcut jeans still bore both legs and his western shirt was dark blue with red and white edging. Travis rocked along on his fetishistic boots, all the more remarkable for walking on a prosthetic leg. Jared wanted to ask him about the practicality of such boots. He remembered Travis had worn a similar black pair the first time they met and thinking that they were just about the most unsuitable footwear imaginable. Obviously Travis had worn them for many years and knew their foibles and challenges.

 

They sat in the cab, not speaking, while Travis programmed his GPS and tuned his radio to a useful channel. Truckers still used the old technology to warn each other about traffic conditions and to maintain some kind of contact. He lifted his prosthesis with both hands and shifted it slightly to one side. He took a pair of mirrored sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.

            – We’ll stop somewhere and get you some sunglasses. You’ll be glad to have them this evening when we drive into the sun.

            – I didn’t think to bring any. Stupid of me, really.

            – You can’t be expected to think of everything. If you wanna take your hooks off, that might be an idea. It gets sweaty in here at times. You might be more comfortable with fresh air on your stumps.

It was the first time Travis had mentioned Jared’s stumps. Jared could not remember whether he had shown them to Travis on their first meeting. Travis had not seen them. In his imagination, Red always had his hooks. He knew Red had forearm stumps. He understood enough about arm prostheses to see the man still had his natural elbows, although they were hidden by his sockets which curved around to cover and protect them.

            – OK. I’ll bear that in mind. I prefer to wear my hooks, Travis. I’m pretty much helpless without them.

            – Don’t you use ya bare stumps at home?

            – Only very rarely. Maybe for a few minutes in the mornings or if I need to get up the middle of the night to pee. Otherwise I wear them all the time.

            – Ya sound like they’re not just ya hands now but they’re part of ya identity. Ya look very smart. They suit you. Reckon yer meant to have hooks.

Jared peered at the expressionless mirrored eyes. He trusted Travis and respected him more after hearing so much about what made him tick the previous evening. The interview had been more revealing than strictly necessary.

            – That’s the way I’ve felt ever since the first time I watched a guy with hooks. I suppose I was eleven or twelve and we pulled into a diner somewhere for lunch. There was a guy wearing a cowboy hat and a leather waistcoat over a red tartan shirt and his arms ended in hooks. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. My father noticed and said I shouldn’t stare but I couldn’t help myself. Anyhow, after that, I always thought of the guy when I was growing up…

            – When ya jerked off. Am I right?

            – Yeah. He was my ideal man. I already knew I was gay but I didn’t know I was an admirer until I saw those hooks flashing at the next table. I knew it was the way I wanted to be. I went through college and found a lover who was also an admirer, a devotee as they call them. We were in a relationship for a coupla years and he always tried to pressure me into losing my hands.

Travis looked at Red. He was obviously struggling with his emotions, remembering something painful. He decided to let the boy talk.

            – And of course it was something I wanted too. We worked out a way to do it, by freezing my hands in dry ice until they were too damaged to save. He stood by me while I recovered and then it all turned to shit. It got out onto social media and suddenly I was public enemy number one. I had so many death threats and insults. I went back to Wyoming to wait until it died down. My friend left me—he was the one who leaked what we did and I think he was too ashamed to hang around. Anyway, my mother took care of me until my stumps had healed enough to get fitted with these.

            – Christ! Ya didn’t even have hooks yet?

            – Nope. I was scared and helpless. It wasn’t a good time. Anyhow, there was a fight with my insurance company…

            – I can imagine.

            – …and finally they agreed to finance my first prostheses. They were pink and shiny, not the sort of thing I saw myself wearing but they didn’t look too bad.

            – Suitably artificial but not conspicuous.

            – Right. So I learned to use them and started writing again under an assumed name and life gradually returned to normal. Then I moved to St Louis shortly after we met that first time. I had another pair of arms by then.

            – Black. Yeah, I remember.

            – So my life was more or less where I wanted it to be. I had a respectable apartment, work I enjoyed and the hooks I’d always wanted.

            – Do ya still feel horny about the guy ya saw in the diner when ya were a kid?

            – Yeah! I do. He’s still my idol. I wonder where he is now. What happened to him. I guess he was only about ten years older than me, twenty something.

            – Probably a farmer somewhere local. Quite a few country boys end up losing a limb or two. Dangerous places, farms. Can ya remember where it was?

            – No, I’ve no idea. My father might have remembered but he’s dead now.

            – Sorry to hear that. So now it’s your turn to be the guy who youngsters look at for inspiration.

            – And jerk‑off material.

            – Ya have anything against that?

            – No, not really. I used to get a hard‑on every time I put my hooks on but that wore off after a while.

            – Same with me. My fake leg used to get me hard. I’d sit here and feel my cock knocking against the socket and it used to drive me nuts. I’d have to stop after a while to rub one out.

            – Yours was from an accident though, wasn’t it? You didn’t do anything to cause it.

            – No, but once I was on the way to recovery, I found out what a stump can do for a man. How it feels like a second cock when you stroke it. It’s one of the reasons I don’t wear the leg so often. I like sitting here touching and fondling my stump. It feels so good.

            – Wow! I had no idea.

            – We’re quite a pair, ain’t we?

            – You don’t mind that I froze my hands off?

            – Mind? Why should I mind? You’re happy to have hooks, ain’tya?

            – Of course I am.

            – So where’s the problem?

Jared looked at Travis again trying to read his expression. There was little to read, except for the mischievous grins on both their faces.

 

In spite of the nonchalant way Travis had taken Red’s revelation, he tried to imagine the determination and sheer guts of the man sitting next to him. Red followed Travis’s suggestion to shuck his hooks for a while. He did not need them sitting in the cab watching the scenery. Red’s forearms were half their former length. He wanted to have a closer look at them later, when they stopped. It was getting towards noon. They could stop for coffee and a bite to eat. Travis checked the road ahead was clear and leaned close to inspect the GPS. He knew of a popular diner ten miles ahead and there was a western apparel outfitter or some other such high falutin’ name next to it which sold cowboy gear. Travis had an idea which Red might appreciate.

 

Travis slowed the rig and turned into the diner’s forecourt in a wide arc. There were a few other trucks parked up. It was lunchtime, after all.

            – We’ll get a coffee and a bite to eat.

            – Oh, OK.

Jared reached round for his hooks but Travis stopped him.

            – Leave your hooks. I reckon you can handle a coffee with your stumps, right?

            – Sure.

            – Leave ’em off, Red. I wanna see you as you really are.

            – Ha! Well, first off, I can’t get the door open.

            – Sit there. I’ll get it from the other side.

Travis opened his door and grabbed his crutches. He lowered himself to the ground and balanced on his crutches, kicking his leg in the air to stretch. He closed the door and walked round to let Red out. He was wearing short cut‑offs and much of his hairy stump was visible. The underslung crimson and white cowboy boot looked alien on his leg. Travis pulled the door open for Red to enter and they settled in a booth near the door. The place was noisy with the sounds of crockery being handled carelessly and with the voices of patrons happy to be in others’ company for a few minutes. Jared looked around at the clientele and felt himself out of place, a city boy in a hyper‑masculine world. A middle‑aged woman approached to take their orders.

            – Two coffees, two hamburgers and fries.

The server poured water for the newcomers and noticed Jared’s stumps. She caught his eye and nodded at the stumps.

            – Honey, you let me know if you need anything, K?

            – Thanks.

She winked and went to shout their order at the kitchen.

            – You gonna be satisfied with just a burger? It’ll probably be eight before we get dinner. I wanna get as far as I can today, right into Phoenix if I can.

            – I’ll be fine.

            – I better get a coupla gallons of water while we’re here. It’ll get dusty on the road before long.

The waitress returned with two mugs and a full coffee pot.

            – You boys holler when you want a refill, ya hear? Burgers’ll be two minutes.

Jared sat up, the better to reach his mug of coffee. Travis poured sugar into it and stirred it. Jared carefully pulled the mug towards him.

            – Ow! Hot!

            – Are your stumps sensitive, Red?

            – Not really, no, but the coffee really is hot. You be careful too! I’ll wait a minute.

            – Are you gonna be able to handle the burger? I’ll hold it for you if you like.

            – I’ll be fine, Travis. But if you want, you can feed me the fries.

            – OK! I’ll do that.

Jared had no trouble with his burger. He held it between the tips of his stumps and pushed it into his mouth. He put it back on the plate to change his grip and continued. Other customers noticed and watched a double amputee feeding himself. It was not the sort of thing you saw every day. Nice lookin’ kid, too. Shame about his hands.

 

Travis sloshed water onto a napkin and wiped Red’s stumps clean of grease and mayonnaise. He paid the bill and left a respectable tip. A few customers watched them leave, surprised to see the older guy was an amp too. Horny lookin’ stump he had. Jared pushed out of the diner and held the door with his butt for Travis. He started back towards the rig but halted when Travis called out.

            – There’s one other thing we have to do. This way!

He kicked his stump to point the way and they crossed the forecourt towards The Western Supplies and Outfitter. Jared assumed Travis needed a pack of T‑shirts or something. The swing door was open and they sauntered in. Travis spotted what he wanted right away and crutched over. A rack of short sleeved plaid shirts. He nodded at a red shirt.

            – This looks to be about your size. Try it on, Red.

Jared plucked the shirt from its hanger and swung it around his shoulders. His stumps found the sleeve openings and he shrugged the shirt on, looking around for a mirror. Travis looked at the overall effect with approval.

            – That looks fine. Pick up that blue one too.

An assistant appeared and went through his welcoming spiel.

            – D’ya have leather jerkins? Black leather.

            – Sure. For the young man?

            – Yup.

            – I’ll fetch a couple.

He hurried to collect some leather waistcoats and held them for Jared to feed his stumps through.

            – Which one d’ya like, Red? That second one looked good. We’ll take that. Right, next we need a western style belt with a big buckle which my boy can open and close with his stumps.

            – The belts are over here, if you’d like to see our selection.

Travis indicated a couple of belts which closed with studs pushed into holes in the leather. Red should be able to manage them OK. They chose one with a large oval buckle which fit into the belt loops on Red’s jeans and Travis asked if his boy might keep it on.

            – He needs a pair of boots, too.

            – Come this way, please.

Travis chose the boots. He knew Red would choose something conservative but he wanted the boy to look more extrovert and assertive. It was one thing to go through life as a disabled man and quite another to flaunt it. He chose a pair with two inch heels, white leather uppers with long pointed toes.

            – Try them on, Red.

            – I’ll help, sir.

The display pair fit perfectly. Jared stood and walked over to a full‑length mirror. He was amazed to see how different he looked. He spread his stumps to see the effect of his leather waistcoat against the red plaid shirt and suddenly understood what Travis was doing. He was kitting him out in the same clothes that his idol had worn when he saw bilateral hooks for the first time. The boots looked fine—mighty fine was what they said. The long toes curled up some. They looked horny.

            – He’ll keep them on too. There’s two more things we need. A pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and a white western hat with a wide curved brim.

            – Hats are this way, sirs.

Jared stood helpless while the salesman sought the correct size and Travis put a succession of various handsome cowboy hats on his head.

            – It has to be white to match your boots, Red. I hope they have one.

The salesman returned from a storeroom with two more broad hats of pristine white felt. The crowns were tall and dimpled to make a square profile. The brims curved up and felt sturdy. Travis placed both on Red’s head and asked which one fit better.

            – We’ll take that and the boy can wear it. No need to wrap it. And now for the sunglasses.

            – They’re by the cash desk, sir.

They walked past the boots and Travis suddenly stopped. He had spotted a pair of tall black boots with long pointed toes and severely underslung five inch heels.

            – Jesus Christ! I’ve never seen anything that extreme. Hey, how much are these?

            – They’re half price, sir. Can’t shift ’em.

            – Let me try ’em on.

He sat on a bench and the salesman helped him remove his red and white boot which boasted four inch heels. Travis pulled filler out of the shaft and pushed his foot deep into the boot. The extreme undercut looked fetishistic and so did the long pointed toe which curved up like on Red’s new boots. They were the most extrovert western boots Travis had ever seen and he had been a connoisseur for over twenty years.

            – I’ll take ’em! Do you have the box?

            – Yes sir. Will that be all?

            – Yup, except for the sunglasses.

The trio went to the cash desk to pay. Travis gently fitted the aviators onto Red’s face and admired the boy’s grin. Red had beautiful teeth. He should show them more often. The salesman inspected Jared carefully to make sure there were no cleaning instructions or price tags still attached to the new clothes. Travis handed over a credit card and the amputees left. Jared carried Travis’s new boots, his trainers and new blue shirt in a bag on his bent elbow. He was wearing everything else Travis had bought. The boots were solid and forced him to kick his feet more powerfully to walk. His gait improved immediately and his back straightened. The big western hat looked magnificent, the aviators glinted on his face and he swung his stumps more strongly in keeping with his gait.

            – You look like a real man. How d’ya feel?

            – This is fantastic. Thanks Travis.

            – Welcome. I thought if you were gonna be travelling west, you should look the part.

            – And do I?

            – You said it. You look fantastic.

 

They climbed warily into the cab, careful not to scuff their new boots. Travis set about changing the boot on his prosthesis.

            – I was gonna ask how you can fit a prosthetic foot into a boot like that. I guess I’ll see for myself.

            – I bought a wooden foot from a guy who sells ’em on eBay, made exactly to conform to any kinda boot. Let me get this one off and I’ll show ya. See, the foot is in three parts and they lock together with a coupla bolts.

He dug in a pocket for his keys and loosened the bolts with a small hex wrench. The new boot had an inch higher heel. Travis adjusted the foot and compared its shape with the boot.

            – I reckon that’s good enough.

He pulled the tall black boot onto the artificial leg and felt the foot slide into place.

            – All set an’ ready. I’m gonna put this on and go for a stroll. Whyncha put your hooks on? I’d sure like to see how they look with the shirt and jerkin.

Jared took the jerkin off easily enough but had to ask for Travis’s help with the shirt buttons.

            – I try to avoid clothes with buttons, see? They take too long and sometimes I can’t reach them. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but my elbows don’t bend as much as I’d like when I’m kitted out. It’s a compromise because of the protection over my elbows.

            – Is that why you hooks kinda jut forward when you’re relaxed.

            – Jup. Makes it look like I’m about to grab something.

            – It looks great, Red.

Jared lifted his arms from the cab floor and checked the harness was oriented properly. He put his naked stumps into the sockets and swung the harness over his head. He put his new shirt back on  and finally the leather jerkin. The shirt sleeves covered more of his upper arms than a T‑shirt and hid most of the triceps cuffs. Travis saw to the shirt buttons and suggested leaving the lower buttons done up.

            – Yeah, I can probably pull the shirt on over my head if I can get my hooks in the sleeves.

 

Travis rummaged through his clothes until he found the boot‑cut jeans he was looking for, the pair which still had both legs attached. He took his short shorts off and carefully worked the right cuff over the rim of his prosthesis. He tugged on the material and pushed it down as far as the shin. He donned a liner and a couple of stump socks before pulling the socket onto his stump. He put his flesh leg into his jeans and squirmed to pull them up to his waist. The unnaturally long toes extended a ways. Travis inspected his feet and laughed.

            – These are the most extreme boots I’ve ever had. Not the most extreme I’ve ever seen, mind. But I have to wear something I can drive in. That’s why I like the undercut, see? It lets me rest my foot at comfortable angle on the cab floor. And now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’m gonna take ’em for a test run.

 

Travis opened the cab door and slipped down to the ground, holding onto hand railings each side of the cab. He held onto one while he found his balance and tested his weight on the prosthesis. The knee seemed trustworthy. He straightened his back and pulled his shoulders back before stepping out. He jerked his stump to move the leg forward. The heel seemed odd, in a different position from what he was used to, but he knew the extreme undercut would behave like any normal heel when he built up momentum. He could feel additional tension in his natural leg as his calf muscles compensated for the stunning five inch high heel. He allowed his artificial knee to remain straight and tried walking on a rigid leg. He chuckled under his breath. He would do that if he wanted to draw attention to himself. He spun himself around on his artificial leg and limped back to the cab. He opened his door and remained outside talking to Red.

 

            – Is there anything you wanna do before we head on out? I’m gonna get us some water and then we can make tracks.

            – I’m fine, thanks.

Travis nodded and strode back to the diner. He walked with a limp but did not necessarily appear to be a one‑legged man. His astonishing boots disguised the rigidity of his artificial ankle. Jared suspected Travis had a boot and shoe fetish which might explain his readiness to wear such extravagant footwear. He reappeared a couple of minutes later carrying flagons of water in each hand. His limp was more severe. Jared realised he did not know how long Travis had been disabled although he could remember the story about an accident with a police car. Travis lifted the water onto the driver’s seat. Jared wanted to lift the flagons and stash them behind their seats but his hooks were incapable. Travis climbed in awkwardly and moved the flagons himself.

            – All set and ready. Put your belt on, Red.

Jared took his hat off. Travis watched Red’s efforts to secure his safety belt. It was sometimes a difficult manoeuvre for full‑bodied men. The buckle clicked home.

            – Well done. Not easy, is it? You gonna wear your hooks?

            – I think so.

            – OK. You wanna take ’em off, tell me and I’ll stop for a minute.

            – Thanks. I’ll be fine.

Travis fired up the rig, checked that the forecourt was clear and eased the truck back onto the highway west. The two men made a professional impression for oncoming traffic. Two upright figures wearing mirrored shades, a haulier and his back‑up or father and son. No‑one would think they were two gay amputees. They relaxed into the rhythm of the road, mostly silent, comfortable in each other’s company.

 

Travis curved around the Indian reservations. It was a shorter route through them but he respected the people’s right to be disturbed as little as possible. There were no services for a hundred miles either. It was better to stick to the freeway. The early evening sun blasted dry heat into the cab and Jared appreciated his sunglasses. His stumps felt sticky with sweat although he was not wearing liners or stump socks. The sockets were a little loose. It was of no great significance but Jared much preferred to feel the sockets holding firmly to his stumps, extending his wristless artificial arms to his hooks. His sockets rested comfortably on his thighs, the hooks pointing motionlessly at the windscreen. Travis glanced at his companion from time to time, checking that he was awake, keeping a paternal eye on the young man. After a seven hour stint, ugly low industrial buildings began to dot the highway on both sides. They were approaching Phoenix. Travis cut his speed in readiness for city traffic. He needed to cross town to his destination where his cargo of flat‑pack furniture would be unloaded the next morning. He had made it in time. His customer would have the merchandise a couple of hours ahead of schedule and Travis was grateful for it.

            – You have a choice, Red. Do you wanna stay in a motel or are you OK sleeping in the rig?

            – I guess I’m OK with sleeping in the rig. I’ll have the front seats, though. I don’t wanna take your bed again. You’re the one doing all the work. You should get some good rest.

            – OK, that’s settled. Now I need to find a place to park up for the night. Let’s see if I can find a restaurant or somewhere we can wash up in the morning.

Travis drove on until he spotted Miss Lizzy’s Lounge, which looked like a popular diner with a few trucks already parked in a row in the forecourt.

            – Did you have any plans for this evening? It’s still early, too early for bed unless you have something other than sleep in mind.

            – Do you think they have beer in the diner? I could do with a cold one. As far as having something to do is concerned, I ought to get some ideas sorted out. It would be good to sit down and write for an hour or two.

            – We could sit in the diner if you like. The tv’ll be on, prolly some old baseball game on repeat.

            – That’s OK. I got used to that sort of background noise in college. Shall we go over?

            – OK, you’ve talked me into it. You’re paying, mind.

            – I’d be proud to buy you a beer, Travis.

Travis slammed his door and locked it and Jared carefully positioned his hooks to support his weight. His hat was behind him on the bed. To wear it or not? Why not? He hooked it onto his head and used both hooks to get it into a comfortable position. He could see his reflection in the rig’s glossy paintwork and admired his new appearance. The two amputees strolled slowly across the forecourt towards the diner, the sound of a country and western song increasing in volume as they approached.

 

            – I’m gonna have a proper dinner, Red. I suggest you have something to eat too. That hamburger at lunchtime’s not enough.

            – I know. Let’s sit in that booth.

Most of the other customers were crowded around the bar or further off, playing pool. One or two solitary truckers occupied the other booths, concentrating on their meals. As Travis had predicted, flat screen TVs showed some ball game. No‑one was watching. Jared took his hat off and put it on the seat next to him. The server arrived and handed over two laminated menus. She poured water for the men and noticed the hooks on the younger guy with the aviator sunglasses. She had occasionally seen other drivers who had lost a hand and replaced it with a vicious‑looking hook but you rarely met one wearing two. He turned his menu towards her and pointed at something.

            – I’ll have the ribs and fries. And we’d like two beers.

            – Sure. See anything you like, sir?

            – I’ll have the steak and a salad. Medium rare.

The server left with their order.

            – Hope the food’s better than the music.

            – Ha! Out here, you either get country and western or the Jesus channel. Folks lead simple lives.

Travis told an old joke about a guy whose wife left him and took their dog.

            – Sure gonna miss that dog is the punchline. I’ve heard it was from some old country song.

Jared laughed. Somehow the joke was new to him. It was an ingenious punchline which revealed an entire mentality and lifestyle. He glanced around at the almost completely male clientele and imagined they would sympathise with the guy.

            – Would these other customers be truckers, do you think?

            – Sure, some of ’em. I guess most everyone is just passing through one way or another. This ain’t the kind of joint most people would come and spend the evening.

            – I was thinking I could maybe interview a driver for my article.

            – You’d better wait until someone approaches you and then ask ’em if they can spare a few minutes. I reckon most guys are shagged out after being on the road all day. They just want to kick back for an hour or so. I know I wouldn’t want to concentrate on an interview at this time of day.

            – No. I see what you mean. Maybe there’ll be someone around tomorrow morning when we unload.

Travis noticed that Red said ‘we’.

            – How long will it take, do you think?

            – About half an hour if they don’t rush. Is that long enough for an interview?

            – Oh yeah, plenty long enough.

            – Well, you could look around the depot tomorrow and show yourself. Someone is bound to ask you about your hooks and you can take it from there. Say you’ll tell your story if they tell theirs.

            – That’s what I was thinking. I’ll do that.

The server brought their beers and assured them that their food was on the way. Jared twisted his right hook to point up so he could grip his beer. He raised his glass and wished Travis good health.

            – You look very cool with those sunglasses.

            – Oh! I forgot I was wearing them.

            – Leave ’em on. I have another suggestion for ya. Let your beard grow out. You got a fine moustache. I reckon you could grow a good‑lookin’ beard. And think of the time you’d save not shavin’.

            – To tell you the truth, I’ve thought about letting it grow before but I always chicken out after a couple of weeks when it looks real scrappy.

            – Let it grow for six weeks and don’t touch it! No trimming, no edging. Just leave it. By then it should be thick enough so you can see what sort of style you can wear.

            – I getcha. Alright, I will. Starting right now. I have to admit, it would make life a bit easier. Shavin’ ain’t easy.

Jared lifted his hooks to emphasise his point. His stumps felt sweaty. When they had eaten, he would take his hooks off. The sockets could hang down his back and he could sink another beer or two using his stumps.

 

Their meals were tasty and generous. Travis tucked into his steak with enthusiasm and picked a couple of slices of tomato out of the salad. Jared used his hooks instead of tackling the ribs with cutlery. Hooks were just as efficient as a fork or chopsticks. They cleared their plates. Jared excused himself and made his way to the men’s room and was surprised to find it well equipped with a row of wash basins, soap and towel machines. He went into a stall and, after the necessary contortions, urinated. He allowed hot water to run over his hooks for a few seconds and gripped a towel to dry them. Travis left on the same mission as soon as Red returned and Jared shrugged his leather jerkin off. His harness lay over his new shirt. He shook first one stump and then the second free from the sweaty environment of the sockets. They hung over his shoulders by their control cables. He folded the jerkin and put it next to his hat. He stretched his stumps to grip his glass and emptied it of the last of the beer. He leaned on the table and allowed the tips of his stumps to touch in front of him. Travis returned and noticed the unusual sight.

            – That looks real horny, Red.

Jared smirked behind his aviators.

            – Shall we have another beer? I’m paying, remember.

            – OK. One more but that’s all. We have to be on the move early. I don’t want a sore head.

Jared caught the eye of the server who hurried over to take the order. To Travis’s surprise, Jared footed the bill for the entire meal. The diner was not designed for relaxing and the music was becoming tedious. Half an hour later, they headed back to the rig. Jared put his hat on using only his stumps and held his jerkin between them. His sockets swung from his shoulders.

 

Travis was sated after the late dinner and the beer. He sat on his bed and opened his trousers to remove his jeans and prosthesis. The sleek boot on his natural leg slid out easily. He intended to take it off later but anticipated crutching back to the bathroom to urinate. Jared sat in the front passenger seat, still wearing his sunglasses and hat in the darkened cab. He shrugged to loosen his harness and allowed it to drop onto his seat. The sockets knocked together with a familiar hollow sound.

            – Are you OK up there, Red? Need any help?

            – I don’t think I can get my sunglasses off with my stumps, Travis.

            – Turn around.

Travis leaned forward and removed both Red’s hat and the aviators. They were held on with spring‑loaded wire temples which Red might learn to handle with the tips of his hooks. Right now, his stumps were useless.

            – Thanks, Travis.

            – I’ll put your hat back here on the shelf with my crutches, OK? The glasses are inside it. Whatcha gonna do for the rest of the evening?

            – If I can get my phone out, I might watch some videos with the sound off. I need to charge it too, and my camcorder.

            – There’s a USB outlet on the dash.

            – Yeah, I noticed. Can you hand me my bag?

Travis lifted it over and wondered how Red was going to manage with his bare stumps. He wanted to help but was reluctant to interfere. Red surely knew what he was capable of even if it all seemed overwhelmingly awkward.

            – You don’t need to keep the sound down, Red. It’s no different from the radio.

            – Thanks, Travis.

 

Travis leaned back onto his bed and left Red to his business. He kneaded his stump, grateful that it was the perfect length to cup in a broad hand. As far as he could make out, Red believed the explanation about a police car colliding with his truck when he was underneath fixing it. It had actually happened to another trucker a few years before, when Travis was already an amputee. The man had ended up legless at forty and had fought to recover not only the ability to walk on artificial legs but also his professional reputation as a reliable and punctual driver. Travis had never met him and doubted that he was still on the road. He would be in his sixties by now.

 

Travis had arranged a scenario with a college friend who ran a repair shop on the outskirts of town. He was working on his car which was balanced on a rickety old jack. The idea was to remove a back wheel, knock the jack out and let the sharp‑edged brake disk smash onto his thigh. With any luck, the sheer weight of the car would do enough damage to require amputation. Travis was prepared to argue with a surgeon that recovery would be quicker and he could cope with the psychological challenge of limblessness. He had several hardly credible explanations worked out. However, the car shifted immediately after it fell and bounced. The brake disk hit his leg twice and severed it almost completely. As previously agreed, the college friend was absent at the time of the accident and returned half an hour later to call for medics.

 

After the victim and his severed leg reached hospital and were both thoroughly inspected, his doctor sympathetically explained that in his opinion, the best route to take was amputation from which a healthy young man like Travis could make a successful recovery in short order. Travis feigned to reluctantly agree and had been a happy amputee for twenty‑eight years and counting. He used crutches exclusively for the first five years, proud of the folded‑up trouser leg over his stump and the admiring looks he got from friends and strangers for being a fun‑loving guy despite a disability. He learned to use his crutches with confidence and elegance and bought his first artificial leg only when he discovered an artificial foot which could fit into the high heeled boots he favoured. He had learned to drive a truck and achieved all his specialised professional approvals for food transport as an amputee driver. Maybe if their relationship matured later, he would reveal the truth to Red. He did not like lying or feeling like an imposter but it was a difficult thing for outsiders to understand. The fewer people who knew the truth, the better, as Red had found out at considerable distress to himself and those around him. Travis ran a finger from the tip of his stump along his inner thigh and plucked at his shorts to give his insistent erection more space. He squeezed his stump and circled its end with his open palm before lifting it to echo his penis.

 

Jared’s camcorder was recharging while he watched an old episode of a favourite comedy show. His phone’s fold‑out screen was big enough to operate with a stump. Sometimes he held it in both stumps and selected data with his nose. It was a hit and miss method, not recommended, but needs must. He was not concentrating on the show. He was trying to plan ahead without a clear picture of the situations he would encounter with Travis. Tomorrow they would be unloading the trailer and he was unlikely to meet another trucker at the warehouse and even more unlikely to be able to spent twenty minutes interviewing him. Maybe when they got to Santa Barbara to pick up the produce there would be other truckers around. Jared understood from Travis that there would be no shortage of truckers with a robust opinion of recent changes to the business. It was a matter which the usual media ignored. It was a labour matter for working folk, not the kind of story the media fed to the public. Jared hoped to collect enough current opinion to do the subject justice.

 

The comedy show ended and Jared put the phone to one side. He turned to see how Travis was doing, whether he was sleeping or not. Travis was masturbating both his penis and his stump simultaneously. Jared crawled out of his seat and kneeled watching.

            – Let me!

Jared altered his position so he could reach Travis’s cock with his stumps. Travis took his hand away and fondled his stump. Red used his pair to grip the cock the same way as Travis had seen him handle the hamburger. The cock was slimy with precum and Red had difficulty keeping the thick penis between his stumps. It was an incredible sight to see two truncated arms working together to masturbate him. The sensation was overwhelming combined with those from his stump. Jared was prepared to fellate Travis as he had on their first encounter but he seemed to be enjoying manual stimulation just as much. Travis had learned to delay orgasm. Red’s stumps slid around, up and down the shaft until Travis’s entire body seemed to power itself into ejaculation. Semen flew and hit the wall. Jared watched Travis convulsing for a few seconds, flailing his stump from side to side, his penis twitching as it pulsed more semen. Jared’s stumps were sticky with precum. Jared was acutely aware of what he had lost. Along with his hands, he had lost the ability to masturbate. His stumps were too short for it to be easy and comfortable. He could jerk off with his hooks but it was a demanding process. It looked horny but was a frustrating disappointment.

 

Travis recovered his composure and cleaned up with paper kitchen towels starting with Red’s stumps. Jared returned to the front of the cab and watched. Neither man spoke. It had seemed an expected thing to do, one man helping another despite their physical shortcomings.

 

Travis disturbed Red again only when he wanted to take a leak and wash up in the bathroom. He had put some denim shorts on and had a washbag over his shoulder. Red moved to let him by and watched Travis crutch first to the diner’s entrance and then round to the side of the building where he was lost from view. The reason for the detour became plain when he returned.

            – The diner’s still open but there’s a notice on the door telling truckers to use the side entrance if we wanna use the bathroom.

            – Oh. Fair enough. Are you getting ready for bed? I’ll go and clean up too in that case.

Jared had his own toiletries in a plastic bag.

            – I won’t be long. You’ll have to open the door for me, Travis. I’m sorry.

            – Don’t be. Go on. I’ll wait.

Travis made up both their beds while Jared rubbed a sponge over his face and stumps. He succeeded in opening a tube of toothpaste and replacing the tiny plastic cap. He brushed his teeth as best he could and wiped his mouth. He rolled his bag up, tucked it under an arm and made his way back. Travis let him in and asked if Red needed help with anything.

            – Would you pull my boots off? I think that’s all. Maybe open my belt. I can do everything else. Thanks Travis.

            – How d’ya like your boots, Red? Are you gonna wear ’em tomorrow?

            – Sure! They’re great.

            – They look good on you. Try undoing your belt, Red. Just tug on the buckle and it should come loose.

It did. Jared counted it as another small victory, something else he had not expected to do but could. Travis retired to his bed and Jared stretched along the width of the cab on the converted front seats. He slept in his T‑shirt and shorts and tugged a light blanket over himself. He used his jeans as a pillow. Travis wished him good night and doused the light.

 

Travis woke first at first light. He needed to pee so there was nothing for it but to wake Red. He looked at the sleeping man, his mutilated arms on his belly, the handsome face with the trademark gay moustache. There was already the outline of stubble on his cheeks. Travis buzzed his whiskers once a week and let his bulky moustache grow until it began to annoy him. He placed a hand on Red’s chest and shook gently. Red started but quickly came to his senses and wished Travis a good morning.

            – You’ll have to sit up. I need to get to the bathroom.

Jared sat up and bounced onto the passenger seat. Travis climbed down and crutched across to the facilities, naked except for his shorts and the tall black boot. Jared looked out and saw similar signs of movement in other rigs as truckers woke early in order to make use of as much daylight as possible. Travis reappeared and Jared made an effort to fold the blanket and readjust the front seats, without success. He needed his hooks for that.

            – Do you wanna pee?

            – I can wait until I’m dressed, thanks Travis.

            – OK. Let me get a shirt on and we can go for breakfast. No rush but I wanna be out of here by seven, OK?

Jared looked around for his clothes. He wanted to change his T. His boxers were fine for another day.

            – Can you pass me my bag?

            – Wait a second, Red. I’ll help you. I know you can do it yourself but…

            – OK.

Travis put on a Hawaiian shirt covered in tropical fruit on a sky blue background. Jared lifted his prostheses from the cab floor and arranged them on the seat next to him. Travis pulled Red’s T‑shirt off and found a fresh one in Red’s bag. He rolled liners and socks onto Jared’s stumps and let the man don his hooks himself. Red claimed his new red shirt was still clean enough so Travis fed Red’s arms into the short sleeves and fastened a couple of buttons. Jared kicked his legs into his jeans but left the zip and belt open. Travis fetched the white cowboy hat from above his bed and fitted the mirrored aviators onto Red’s face. Last of all, Travis climbed down and helped Red put his gleaming white boots on. Today his trouser legs were inside the boots. Travis took a couple of steps backwards to let Red out, locked the cab door and they made their way to the diner. Jared shrugged and spread his shoulders, persuading his harness into its comfortable optimal position. He tested his hooks. Everything was in order. He held the diner door for Travis and within minutes they were tucking into hash browns and sausages with eggs sunny side up. Two mugs of coffee each and they were set and ready. It was five to seven. Both men paid another visit to the bathroom, leading Travis to wonder how a bilateral amputee with hooks wipes his arse.

 

It was a cool bright morning. There was little traffic, mostly other rigs. Whatever commuter traffic there might be into Phoenix would not be on the road for another hour. Travis listened in to the radio to check for traffic information. There was nothing of concern to watch out for. Travis engaged cruise control at fifty miles an hour and drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his stump. Jared rested his prostheses on his thighs and noticed again that the shape of his sockets prevented him from straightening his arms fully. It was a nuisance in the cab where everything had to be stashed away. There was a lot of reaching to do and his sockets were not optimal for that type of stretching. The next set he had would be made without the extension around the elbows. His current pair were ideal for someone sitting at a desk typing or operating a computer. There was no reason he should not have two pairs of arms. Maybe the new pair could be fitted with bigger farmer's hooks. They looked they meant business. Standard hooks looked demure and inconspicuous in comparison. He sniggered at the thought of his hooks being unobtrusive.

            – What’s funny?

            – I was just thinking about getting a second pair of arms with bigger work hooks on ’em. How these hooks are tamer in comparison.

            – Don’t you have other hooks? I thought there were different kinds which you can swap out.

            – There are but mine are all the same sort. I don’t really need big work hooks. They look more imposing than these ones.

            – You should definitely get a pair of ’em in that case. A man in your position should be as imposing as possible, make people take you serious. Where do you go to buy hooks?

            – Any prosthetist should have a selection if only for demonstration purposes.

            – Right. In that case, we’ll call in to a prosthetist in L.A. Have a look for one near Interstate Ten and we’ll stop by if there’s time.

            – Are you serious?

            – Never been more serious in my life, Red. A man should have the tools he needs to do his job, am I right? In your case, that means a new pair of big steel hooks.

            – Wow! That would be great.

 

Travis slowed his rig and indicated left. They were still on the outskirts of town but clearly in an industrial quarter. Warehouses lined the streets, a few of them obviously disused with burnt out autos or piles of trash in overflowing bins outside. Travis turned into an orderly forecourt, stopped and reversed towards a loading quay. He stopped six feet from the edge and turned the motor off.

            – I’m gonna find someone to guide me in before I hit the bay. There’s usually guys around but we’re early. I’m gonna go to the office. You can wait here or come with me.

            – I’ll wait, Travis, thanks.

            – I just realised I’ve never delivered here without my leg. Let’s see how they like a bit of stump.

Travis was wearing his shortest cut‑off shorts. His stump was fully visible. He was an impressive sight, a one‑legged man on crutches in a gaudy shirt wearing a cowboy boot rarely seen outside a porn studio. He swung himself along at a normal walking pace, perfectly comfortable with his disability. He saw a familiar face in the office he was approaching and called out. Jared heard a muffled reply and shortly the door opened. Two men appeared, one so obese that it was amazing he could fit through the door, the other, a slim young man in denim dungarees with a straggly blond beard and curly hair. The big man exchanged greetings with Travis and deplored how early he was. Jared had the impression they knew each other well enough to be comfortable with each other’s insults. It was the first time he had heard Travis referred to as a fuckin’ cripple. The young man stood by waiting for instructions but knew what he had to do. He moved closer to the rig and spotted Jared on the passenger side. He lifted his baseball cap in greeting and Jared acknowledged with a nod and a smile. They looked at each other for too long. Both understood. The big man called to him.

            – Go ahead, Slim. I’ll bring him in.

Slim raised a hand, climbed a few steps up to the loading quay and disappeared into the warehouse. Travis signed some papers on the big man’s clipboard and crutched back to the rig. The big man heaved himself up some steps by the office, positioning himself where Travis could see him in the rear view mirror. Travis started the rig and inched it backwards until he saw the signal to stop. He lowered the bridge and the big man stepped onto it. He had a key to the trailer’s doors and opened both sides, letting them fold back until they clipped into rubber locks. The young man reappeared driving a forklift truck. Jared watched him in the mirror and strained to focus better. Travis hopped down. Jared decided to follow him. He wanted to see Slim. He put his denim jacket on to hide his hooks and clambered down from the rig.

 

Between entering the warehouse and starting to unload the trailer, Slim had fired up an enormous black pipe which rested on his chest. The mouthpiece was an inch wide and curved down sharply for nine inches or so. It was attached to a bowl of astonishing width and depth. Slim puffed on it as he manipulated the forklift’s controls, turning his head from side to side, revealing the shape of the bent pipe. Jared stood, hooks hidden in his pockets, looking up at the erotic sight of a youngster smoking a pipe, the biggest he had ever seen. Travis chatted with the big man off to one side, paying no attention. Jared was infatuated. Pipe‑smoking was his great fetish, something he wished he could practise but he was too embarrassed by the thought of being seen in public with such an sensual object in his mouth. Everyone would see how the pipe affected his libido, always causing an erection. Slim’s teeth clenched the enormous pipe and he continued unloading pallets of flat‑pack furniture as if it were completely normal to send powerful erotic signals with every exhalation of blue tobacco smoke. Jared leaked precum and hoped it was not visible to the others.

 

He imagined himself sitting in the cab with a similar bent pipe resting on his chest, puffing away, enjoying the feeling of something artificial in his face which other men might notice and admire. He had smoked a pipe when he was still in college before he lost his hands but he had never dared smoke in public. The association with self‑arousal was too strong for him to overcome. He smoked his pipes in his room but after his amputations, he was unable to manipulate a pipe and tobacco. Somewhere along the way he lost the two pipes he owned. Seeing Slim calmly smoking the stunning pipe rekindled his desire. Perhaps he was more skilled with his hooks now and could take up pipe smoking again. Before they left Phoenix, Jared wanted to know where Slim had bought his pipe.

 

Travis and the big man entered the warehouse to check on the merchandise. Jared stood in the yard watching Slim shunting back and forth. Slim noticed his appreciative audience but had no idea of the genuine reason why. He knew he was good‑looking but wished his blond beard would grow out a bit more. His moustache curved sideways quite naturally and when he let it grow, it was a half‑decent handlebar. But his boyfriend did not approve so Slim kept it short. The boyfriend’s family was from some religious cult and had funny ideas about things. He didn’t like Slim smoking a pipe either. Slim had four grizzlies, as the enormous pipes were known. This was the best of the ones he owned, something he could pack once every morning and smoke all day. He knew the older men stared when he smoked. The pipes were a fantastic size and sent a powerful message. His favourite was a bent with a five inch bowl. It was an amazing pipe but he rarely smoked it because it needed too much tobacco. It was practically impossible to smoke it all. Slim drove deeper into the trailer to extract the last row of pallets.

 

Jared felt out of place. He could do nothing to help. Travis and the big man were doing whatever they needed to back in the office, Slim was reversing into the warehouse. He felt suddenly helpless. What was he doing here on a forecourt somewhere outside Phoenix, of all places? He felt that he was on some kind of joyride instead of researching the effects of new legislation on the trucking business. Slim sauntered out of the warehouse and took the enormous pipe from his mouth.

            – All done and dusted. You wanna join my dad and me for a coffee?

            – Er, sure.

Jared walked alongside Slim, four feet above him on the quay. Slim stepped down to the forecourt and opened the door to the office. The sound of male laughter came from another room. Slim called out.

            – Shall I brew a new pot, pa?

            – Yeah, I was just gonna do it.

            – Lazy bugger. He was waiting for me. I never expected to see Travis with a partner. Are you learning the route or what?

            – No, I’m not really with Travis for any sort of work‑related thing, at least, not directly. See, I’m a writer and I wanted to find out more about logistics and how truckers feel about the latest amendments.

            – Oh, I gotcha. You oughta talk to my dad about that. He’s heard everything from guys who pull in here.

            – Really? That would be great. Listen, can you help me? I need to get my camcorder from the cab but I need some help to reach it.

            – Sure. Just show me. Let me get the coffee on first.

            – OK.

Slim emptied the old grouts and heaved a good amount of ground coffee into a new filter. He emptied a potful of fresh water into the machine and switched it on.

            – Five minutes. OK. Let’s go.

 

Slim felt he understood everything about the figure who strode along beside him, hands in pockets, shit‑kickin’ white cowboy boots on his feet and disguised behind mirrored aviators. The guy was older than he was, but that was of no import. Slim could be with a good‑looking guy of any

age. The guy stopped suddenly.

            – Shit! I don’t have the key. And even if I did, I probably wouldn’t get the door open.

            – Why not?

From behind his glasses, Jared stared at Slim. There was no sense in trying to hide it any longer.

            – Look!

Jared withdrew his hooks from his jeans pockets. It was surprising that Slim had not noticed before. Half the black sockets were visible.

            – Keys are hard for me. I can’t twist my hooks, see?

            – Jeebus! Wow! Double hooks! Oh man! Two of us. That’s never happened before.

            – What? What do you mean two of us?

Slim snorted and leaned over to pull his jeans up.

            – Look!

Jared looked down and saw two metal pylons stuffed into white trainers.

            – I’m legless and you’re handless. Never met a guy with two hooks before. How d’ya do?

Slim stuck his hand out to shake. Jared could only laugh and offered his right hook. Slim took it between both hands and Jared could almost feel the warmth.

 

            – Listen, it doesn’t matter about the camcorder. I can use my phone. It’s just that I can organise my stuff easier from the memory card.

            – OK.

            – There was something I wanted to ask you about, Slim. Can I call you Slim?

            – No! Call me by my real name. Dexter. Slim is what the truckers call me here because my dad is so big. Whatcha wanna ask?

            – I saw you smoking your pipe. I’ve never seen a pipe that big. And I wanted to ask where you got it. I’d like one like yours.

            – You smoke a pipe too?

            – Well, I used to. I’m thinking about starting again.

            – And you want a big pipe, right?

            – Yeah, I’d love one.

            – Listen. I got a pipe, real big but it’s too big for me. I’ll let you have it for two fifty, OK? It cost three fifty but I’ve smoked it a coupla times.

            – But you don’t like it.

            – It’s too big for me. It would suit you. You’re taller than me. You can handle a taller bowl. Yeah, I reckon you’d look pretty cool with a big pipe. And I mean big. You interested?

            – Two fifty? Sure!

            – OK, let me tell my dad we’re going out.

Slim turned towards the office and walked quickly. There was no outward sign of the guy being a bilateral amputee. And yet Jared had seen that his legs were mere poles. Slim went into the office for about thirty seconds and reappeared.

            – We have ten minutes before your man wants to leave. Get in my car and we can get the grizzly. Come on, round the corner.

            

There was a beautiful white two seater Chevrolet, electric, high off the ground on a jacked‑up chassis. Dexter unlocked the doors and slid in. He glanced at the position his legs were in on the flat floor and powered the car up.

            – Hold on!

Jared watched Dexter drive using only his hands. The car was adapted according to the usual design for legless drivers. Dexter was far from being helpless but the adaptation was cheaper than a customised vehicle.

            – We live on the other side of the highway but it’s impossible to walk and to be honest, I’m sick of walking between work and home. How’d ya like my car, Jared?

            – It’s beautiful. I love the way you control everything with your hands.

            – Ya. Can you drive a car?

            – I know how to, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have a car right now. I ride an adapted Kawasaki twelve hundred.

            – Oh wow man! I wish I could ride a big bike.

            – What’s stopping you?

            – No weight down below. Top heavy, see? You need legs. Here we are. Wait here and I’ll get the pipe.

Dexter pulled up to a white ranch house two hundred yards from the junction. True enough, it would have been next to impossible for a pedestrian to reach. He spread his prostheses and pushed his way up the sloping driveway to the house. A minute later, he reappeared holding the grizzly. Even from where he was sitting in Dexter’s car, Jared could tell it was a monster. Dexter pulled the door open and pushed his butt inside onto the driver’s seat before dragging his pylons in. He held the pipe up for inspection and laughed at Jared’s expression.

            – This is what you’re gonna smoke when you’re strolling down your street, letting people see the real man. With this in your face, no‑one will doubt you are not a full‑blooded man even without hands. Man, with your hooks and this pipe, there’ll be camera crews from CNN callin’ round to find out why the gay capital of America is at the end of your street.

 

Jared laughed at the improbability of the situation. He was being sold a pipe bigger than the largest pipe he had ever seen which he was encouraged to smoke to impress other men.

            – You don’t need to pay me right now. You can pay me later if you like. Next time you come by, give me a call and you can pay me then.

Jared was about to say that he was hardly likely ever to come by again but thought better of it. He could catch another ride from Travis and revisit Dexter in Phoenix. At the very minimum, Travis might drop him off beside the highway. Jared lifted a hook and traced Dexter’s blond moustache. They stared at each other, Dexter seeing only the reflection of his own boyish face. Jared looked at the enormous bent pipe in his hands and swore to himself that he would smoke it, regardless of his self‑consciousness. He already had an erection which Dexter had noticed but dared not mention. This unexpected stranger with double hooks who loved enormous pipes like he did, a double amputee who had not ridiculed his leglessness like the religious families in the neighbourhood did. He looked at Jared admiring the pipe in his hooks and wished he could be friends with this man. Pipe‑smoking bilaterals helping each other. Dexter fired up his auto and headed back to the warehouse.

 

Travis and the big man had finished their coffee and were standing by the rig. The back doors were closed and the bridge was up. Dexter stopped alongside to let Jared out. He gripped his new pipe in a hook. Both men noticed.

            – I didn’t know you smoked, Red. Least of all a pipe. Just look at the size of that thing!

            – I’ll tell you later, Travis.

            – Fine. Get in and we can leave these good people in peace.

Travis and the big man shook hands and Travis crutched to the rig, opened the driver’s door and slid his crutches along the floor. He pulled himself up and made a quick check of the interior. Everything seemed to be in place. They had enough water to last the day. Jared saw Dexter walking back towards them. His dad put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and they raised their hands in farewell as Travis drove slowly towards the exit.

 

            – Did you know Dexter is a double amputee? He has two artificial legs.

            – Sure I knew. I remember when it happened. He was just a kid, real young and he was playing on the forecourt. He got in the way of a reversin’ truck and it didn’t only knock him unconscious, it actually parked on top of his legs. By the time he was found, there was nothing to be done to save his legs. He has real short stumps below the knee. He usually wears shorts like any other self‑respectin’ amp and you can see his old‑fashioned prossies. They have like leather lace‑up sockets, real old style.

            – Why does he stick to them?

            – S’pose he had ’em when he was little and just prefers ’em. And talkin’ of prossies, did you look up a place that sells hooks?

            – No, not yet.

            – You could do it now. Look for some place near Route Ten. We’ll be riding that all the way to L.A. I reckon we need to stop at a tobacco store too, huh? You really gonna smoke that thing?

            – Sure! Why not? If Dexter can, so can I.

Privately, Jared was not at all so sure. He had an erection from simply holding the pipe in his hook and looking at it.

            – You’d look fantastic, Red. You gonna be able to handle a pipe with your hooks?

            – I’ve been thinking it over. I reckon I can manage the tobacco and filling the pipe but I’m gonna need a lighter. Matches are too small to light a pipe this size. And the lighter might be a problem.

            – You smoked a pipe before?

            – Yeah, in college. Before I lost my hands. It was just something else I had to stop doing when I was recovering and I never went back to it. I’d lost my pipes by then, too.

            – I like seeing a pipe in a man’s face. Makes him look assured and manly.

Jared nodded his agreement and set about searching for upper extremity prosthetists in the south east of L.A.

 

He found three. If he had been somewhere other than the cab of a truck, he would have written down contact numbers and made the job simple. Instead, he had several websites open on his phone as well as a map app. The first two companies apologised that they had no retail service. Hooks and other prosthetic equipment were supplied only with a prosthetist’s prescription and paid for through insurance. The third had a Spanish name and the proprietor was much more accommodating.

            – Sí señor, it is quite possible to sell you hooks. We have farmer hooks, sí. Left and right. Five fifty each. Open until nine. In a shopping mall on I‑Ten. Sí señor, big parking for trucks too.

            – Wow. This is more difficult than I thought. The big companies don’t do retail but there’s a mall in Anaheim which is open until late with a store selling prosthetic gear over the counter. And there’s parking outside.

            – Fine. When we stop, you can give me the address and I’ll feed it into the GPS. You wanna stop and take a look?

            – Sure! I’m jacked up at the idea of a pair of farmer’s hooks now.

            – Good. Maybe there’s a tobacco store there too, huh?

            – Ha! Maybe.

 

Travis stopped in a small burg for lunch. He helped Red try on the new blue plaid shirt for the first time and looped the aviators onto Red’s ears. Red already had his white boots on, with the legs of his jeans covering them. He handed Red the white cowboy hat and watched Red fumble with his hooks trying to settle it on his head. The hat contrasted well with the darkening stubble on Red’s cheeks. Travis was wearing his shortest shorts and a denim jerkin which was an old jacket with the sleeves ripped off. They dismounted and entered a diner, attracting more than the usual amount of attention. It was full of townsfolk who could spot a stranger at a hundred yards. These newcomers were stranger than most. They watched the smart young man in the big hat eating with hooks and took in the older man’s hairy stump which Travis made sure was obvious at a glance.

 

But the food was good and so was the coffee. Travis bought bottled water and snacks and they were shortly back on the road. Ten minutes later they crossed the state line into California.

 

            – So how are you enjoying the ride so far, Red? Glad you came? Too bad you’ve not had a chance to interview any truckers yet, huh?

            – Don’t worry about it, Travis. I’m picking up good background knowledge all the time. Like I know truckers put in long hours and it’s one thing to be told that and another thing entirely to actually live it. It’s a real punishing schedule and there’s no let up.

            – You get used to it. You learn the routes and the places to pick up cargoes and get to know a few other veterans. Makes it easier. It can get lonely sometimes but we have the radio if we wanna chat. Not that I have much to say for myself.

            – Do you think the railroads are gonna take away much business?

            – They’ll take some but we’re faster for things like food deliveries. And with rail transport you’ve always got the last mile problem. If you send goods by road, you don’t have that.

            – True enough. Travis, I’ve been watching you handle the rig and I was thinking I’d be able to drive this with an adapter on the steering wheel.

            – Don’t tell me you’re gonna take my job, Red! But I reckon you could handle a big rig like this, at least at the front end. There’s a lot of things which need a strong pair of hands though. Fixing stuff, changing a wheel. You reckon you could change a wheel with hooks, Red?

            – I’ve fixed my bike a coupla times. Once you get the right tools for the job, you can do a lot of it with a pair of hooks.

            – Was gonna ask you—how do you use the throttle on your bike? I noticed you ain’t got no wrist movement.

            – I just grip real tight and move my stump up or down. My bike has cruise control so I can just hit a button with a hook to set it. Then I just rest my hooks on the handlebar and look at the scenery.

            – You got it all worked out, Red. Listen, about your interviews. Tomorrow’ll be the last chance you have this trip ’cos we’ll not be stopping much on the way back. We’ll park up in a secure truck park tonight and everyone you see is a trucker. You need to get your camera ready and get yourself placed where you can watch out for guys who look like they might not mind talking to ya. Don’t wear ya aviators so people can see ya face. Tonight and tomorrow mornin’ is your only chance this trip to talk to anyone else. Get it?

            – Sure, I gotcha.

            – Ya gonna show me some stump?

            – Ya wanna see ’em?

            – Sure!

Jared laughed at the sudden change of subject and began the laborious task of undoing shirt buttons. Travis glanced at him between keeping his eyes on the road, admiring his passenger who had deliberately destroyed his hands in favour of hooks. One by one the bottons opened and he contorted enough to pull the shirt over his head. The bottom three buttons were still closed. He dropped the shirt next to him and shrugged to loosen his harness enough to duck his head under it. He trapped each socket between his knees and let his prostheses fall to the cab floor. He used his thighs to tease his stumps socks and liners off, lifting them to one side to join his shirt.

            – Sit closer. Can you reach my stump?

            – Er, yeah, I think so.

            – I want you to rub my stump, Red. Use your arm stumps and run ’em around the end of my stump, willya?

 

Jared was surprised that Travis wanted to play games on the road but did as he was asked. The combination of his forearm stumps covered in sleek black hair with the tight blond hair curling over Travis’s stump was the height of eroticism. Travis gasped and slowed his rig. There was nothing behind him, nothing in front. He applied his brakes and activated the warning lights. He turned to exit his seat and pulled himself into the rear of his cab. He lowered his shorts to his knee and lay belly down on his bed.

            – Jerk my stump, Red. Use ya stumps. I want to feel ya stumps on me.

Jared was as excited as Travis. He had a powerful erection and knew he would ejaculate soon. It had been weeks since he last masturbated successfully although he had had wet dreams a couple of times since. He kneaded Travis’s stump until the man shouted with release and turned quickly to let his cum shoot into the air, narrowly missing Jared’s face. Travis lay back, exhausted after his orgasm, panting. Jared waited a few moments, unsure what might next be required of him. Nothing seemed forthcoming. He made his way back to his seat and lifted his prostheses from the floor onto the seat next to him. Travis heaved himself back into the driver’s seat shortly after. He patted Red’s left stump and set the rig with its empty trailer en route for Anaheim.

 

Jared thought about what had just happened. He was proud of his amputee status and his identical stumps which Travis found so erotic. Travis’s own stump seemed to be as sensitive and responsive as his dick. What Jared had done to Travis was no more remarkable than massage but it had resulted in another powerful ejaculation. Maybe Jared’s presence caused Travis to become aroused. Was Travis in the habit of jerking off whenever he felt like it when he was driving alone? The rig rumbled on at a steady fifty towards the sunset blazing across the horizon.

 

The sky was almost dark when they arrived at the first major interchange. They had to take two different freeways to reach Anaheim. Travis peered up at signage on overhead gantries, making sure he took the correct lane, the correct turn‑offs. The freeway became a stroad with fast‑food joints and filling stations on each side. Anytown, USA. With any luck, the mall Jared wanted to visit should be coming up on the right in half a mile.

            – Is that the place d’ya reckon?

Travis pointed at a two storey building with a sunburst logo on the roof. It was set well back from the road with a half empty parking lo in front. Travis urged the big rig past SUVs on the left, abandoned trolleys on the right and pulled up where the rig did not block anyone’s movement.

            – I’d like to come with ya but I better stay by the rig. Don’t know what sort of neighbourhood this is.

            – OK. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.

            – Take your time, Red. We’re in no rush now.

Jared swung his harness on and shoved his naked stumps into his sockets. He put his cowboy hat on and pulled on the door release.

            – Do we need anything, Travis? Water or something?

            – We can stock up later. Just get what you want, Red. See ya.

 

Jared strolled towards the entrance, dodging evening shoppers, panhandlers and abandoned trolleys. His face was still obscured by his aviators, which were becoming a permanent feature of his journey with Travis. He knew he made an impression, the more so with the handsome white hat which itself demanded a degree of self‑confidence to sport. His white cowboy boots forced him to walk more erect. He was wearing only a white T and jeans and his artificial arms were on full display to any onlooker. He swung his hooks slightly as he walked, his elbows always bent forward in an unnatural position. But the sockets felt good. They gripped his stumps and turned his arms into rigid supports for his hooks and as much as he loved the shape of the hooks he had always worn, the idea of wearing a pair of the bigger, more robust farmer's hooks was exciting. He had an erection and it was apparent inside his jeans.

 

There was a pool of some kind with big goldfish in it surrounded by real palm trees right inside the entrance. There were food shops on the left, clothes shops on the right. Further on, a pair of escalators led to less urgently needed businesses. The prosthetics store was probably up there somewhere. He skirted the pool and rose to the next floor. It was almost empty. There was a pet store right opposite with the sound of caged birds advertising its presence. A laundrette, a secondhand store specialising in graphic novels and there it was. Sanchez P&O. The windows were taped with photographs of a young man with a artificial leg skateboarding and a young woman demurely holding a glass of wine with a steel hook. Jared entered and looked around at the wares on display. Stump socks, liners, salves and lotions, cosmetic covers for hands and feet, ferrules, and vacuum‑packed prosthetic hooks hanging from pegboard along one wall. He looked around for an assistant and saw the cash desk. A smiling man in his thirties with a gold tooth and two long flesh coloured artificial arms expected him to approach.

 

            – Hi! I called you earlier, if you remember.

            – Sí señor. It is good to see you. You ask after farmer's hooks, sí? I have them here for you.

He contorted to release his elbows and twisted his body to reach two Dorrance farmer's hooks from under the counter. He let both drop and looked expectantly at his customer. Jared touched one, packed in its plastic, to check that it had the appropriate half‑inch screw connection.

            – Perfect! Those are what I wanted. Thanks. I’ll take both.

            – Sí señor. Please look also at our other hooks. You have come so far, sí ? Take everything you need. Speciality hooks and speciality tools. We have stump socks and premium quality liners at special discount, señor. Take a look here.

The salesman eased his way from behind the counter and escorted Jared to the wall full of an alarming variety of hooks and attachments. Jared was surprised by the number of attachments with half inch screws, all obviously intended to fit a standard socket, which had no moving parts. There were hooks of various sizes, spikes, steel balls on the ends of rods, steel rings which screwed in.

            – These are wonderful! I never knew there were so many different things.

            – It is tools for our workers, señor. They do not want to use their expensive hooks for daily work. They use tools on their protese.

Jared was in his element. He looked at the wondrous variety of hooks and tried to imagine himself wearing one. There was one design which caught his attention. It was steel and larger than normal hooks, about four inches wide. Just a simple hook. It cost a hundred and thirty. Jared nipped a corner of the packaging and pulled it off the peg hook. His eyes roamed over the other exciting items and he imagined himself with a hook and ball. There were globes of different sizes. He thought what he would look like if he had a steel globe poking out from a shirt sleeve or from his jacket. Just something to keep the sleeve in shape, not something which would be of any practical use. There was an attachment with a steel ball about an inch and a quarter on a threaded steel rod. He nipped hold of a corner and pulled it free of the display.

            – OK. I think that’s all.

            – You need stump socks, señor? Half price, full quality. Look!

Behind him were shelf after shelf of stump socks of every description. He knew his size and quickly found a bulk pack of ten pairs. He had never owned so many at once. Ninety‑nine ninety‑nine. His hooks were full. He asked the salesman to bring a pack to the cash desk.

 

He spent more than he had intended but everything was what he had expected and more. He had his farmer's hooks plus two attachments and a bewildering number of stump socks. The total was a thousand four hundred plus sales tax. The salesman dropped the items mechanically into a thin pink plastic bag and Jared transferred it to his own hook. A more satisfied customer was rarely seen.

            – Señor! Special for you. Free of charge!

The salesman held a plastic sachet containing two small rubber fittings.

            – What are they?

            – When you use your big hook. This sticks on the socket and you put your cable here.

            – Oh! That’s a good idea. Thanks very much.

            – It is nothing, señor.

Jared turned to make his way out and detoured to avoid another customer in a wheelchair who had just entered. He walked between two shelving units and spotted single and double harnesses of the type he wore. They were all embroidered and decorated with colourful emblems from central American cultures and he stopped to admire them. One, in red and green with yellow outlines, caught his attention and he looked at it more closely. It was a handsome item. A single harness for a right arm amputee. He imagined himself wearing it—just the right hook with his left stump bare. Travis would love it. He worked it out from behind the other harnesses and took it to the cash desk.

            – This is for one arm only, señor. It is what you want?

            – Yes please.

Jared paid another hundred and fifty and left before he found anything else which caught his attention. The pink plastic bag bounced against his leg as he walked back to Travis’s rig.

            – You should see the place! They have half price stump socks, ten for a hundred bucks.

            – Wow! That’s less than half I pay.

            – Go and have a look! Second floor, Sanchez’s. Go on! There’s no hurry. You said so yourself. I’ll wait.

            – OK, I will.

Travis climbed down and pulled his crutches out. He was wearing his short shorts and a red plaid shirt. He kicked his leg to stretch and rotated his stump. Jared watched him disappear in his rear view mirror.

 

Jared tipped his purchases out onto the seat. Everything was vacuum‑packed. Maybe it was something to do with the clientele being mostly workers on the land. It kept the sand and dust out. The farmer's hooks looked enormous compared with his standard hooks. Bits jutted out, a curved piece which he understood was for holding nails and the long fingers were knurled with interlocking ridges. The hook he had bought seemed useful. He could operate a phone with the sleek curve at the back of it, he was sure. Then he had the globe. A big steel ball which screwed into his socket and did nothing. But it would look cool. That’s what it did! It looked cool. He wanted to try it, to have a socket terminating in nothing more than a steel ball on a rod. The most stylish form of disability. He laughed at himself imagining he would ever be able to use any of the things which had bought without someone helping him. His hooks were useless for the task. He held the plastic‑wrapped steel ball and realised again how disabled he was. He dropped the packet back onto the seat beside him, rested his artificial elbows on his knees and his chin on his hooks and waited for Travis to reappear.

 

Travis had found the cut‑price stump socks and selected several pairs. He saw the wall display full of hooks and crutched over to inspect them more closely. There was one solid hook which attracted his attention, large and extravagantly curved. It was thick where it screwed onto the socket and narrowed towards the tip. Travis looked at the price. Sixty‑nine dollars. He imagined the hook kneading his stump and reached for it. On the next aisle, he spotted some of the crutch tips he favoured and picked up two pairs. Travis was fascinated by the bilateral amputee behind the cash desk. The man had short stumps, no elbows. His prosthetic forearms were narrower than Red’s, almost cylindrical. They looked perfect, completely artificial. The man manipulated his hooks as if he were quite familiar with them. He held up Travis’s purchases for him. Travis wrapped it around his hand and crutched slowly towards the exit, his eyes exploring the stock for anything else he might like or need. The double amputee stared at the customer’s astonishing boot. He had worn even more extreme boots in his youth with exaggerated extended toes and heels so underslung they were almost non‑existent. It was a competition between the young men in the village. The elders, men the age of the moustachioed customer, scorned them.

 

Jared was relieved to see Travis returning. The Anaheim evening was hotting up as darkness fell and Jared felt vulnerable. He could see some Latino gang members hanging out nearby and tried to avoid making eye contact with them. They watched and pointed at Travis as he passed them, laughing at some inane joke.

 

            – You OK, Red?

            – Yeah. I was trying to keep an eye out for those guys.

            – Troublemakers. They’re everywhere these days. So, let’s get parked up for the night and we can have a beer.

            – Sounds good.

Travis followed instructions on the GPS and they were soon on the throughway which took them to the guarded truck park between L.A. and Santa Barbara. Jared was surprised to see so many articulated refrigerator trucks lined up ready to collect California’s fresh produce and distribute it around the country.

            – Make sure your camera is charged up, Red. You can interview drivers tomorrow morning when they’re waiting for their loads. You might even find a couple of guys tonight. There’s a great place to eat right inside the secure area so everyone you see is a trucker. I reckon this is the only chance you’ll get to talk with people.

            – Thanks for the advice. That’s good to know. I think I’m all set with the technical stuff.

            – Right. I see you’re still wearing your ordinary hooks. Doncha wanna try ya new ones?

            – I do but I need someone to help. I don’t think I can even get the hooks out the packaging.

            – Don’t worry about that. Just show me what you want and I’ll do it for ya.

Travis knew what he wanted well enough. He had not mentioned the big hook he had bought for the sole purpose of having Red massage his stump with it. The boy would survive if his left split hook was changed for the big one. Travis wondered if Red would use it for anything after they parted company in a few days. It was probably merely a decorative piece, something extravagant intended for a bit of theatre, not for anything practical or useful. But Travis had been surprised before by Red’s unexpected dexterity. He might find a purpose for it which Travis himself could not imagine.

            – I wanna try out the farmer’s hooks. Can you get them out the plastic and change them out?

Jared nipped both packages and lifted them over to Travis who ripped them open with his teeth and shook the heavy steel hooks out. Jared showed him which was left and which was right and used the tip of his right hook to point out on his left what Travis had to do to change the hooks.

            – Just mind your fingers.

Jared held his socket steady as Travis removed the cable and unscrewed the standard hook. He gave it to Red and fumbled for a few seconds with the farmer’s hook before it found the thread and screwed into the socket. The hook had three rubber bands on it which provided considerable resistance to Travis’s efforts to pull the steel fingers apart in order to reattach the cable. Jared tested it immediately.

            – Wow! That feels so powerful.

            – It looks wicked. You could do some damage with that.

Travis took hold of the socket and looked closely at the new hook. It was obviously bigger than what Red had had before and it looked less like a hook than some kind of complicated machine tool.

            – Ya want me to do the other one?

            – Yeah. Thanks Travis. I should learn to do this myself.

Two minutes later, Jared had a pair of farmer's hooks. They felt heavier than what he was used to and the steel fingers were a different shape. But he noticed something which had so far escaped him. The two fingers were curved halfway along their length to allow the user to grip something like a broom or a spade in a circular gap. He had never had hooks with a smooth round hole between the fingers and was excited by the thought of another application.

            – They look great, Red. Ya gonna keep ’em on or shall I change ’em back?

            – Ha! I’ll keep ’em on thanks. They feel different if that makes any sense.

            – Ya look like ya mean business. I never saw hooks like that before.

Jared used them for the first time to nip the hooks on the seat beside him into his carry‑all. Three rubber bands made them more strenuous to open and their grip was stronger. Travis started the rig and eased out of the car park back to the freeway. Jared glanced at the road ahead but most of his attention went on his gleaming new hooks flashing reflections from streetlights.

 

Two hours later after crawling through evening traffic, he turned off the highway halfway between L.A. and Santa Barbara onto the approach road to the secure truck park. The road was four lanes wide and tall steel fencing topped with razor wire lined it. Travis stopped in front of an equally imposing rolling gate, gathered papers and permits and hopped down from the cab. He crutched over to a security hut occupied by three uniformed armed security guards. Two of them recognised Travis and the paperwork was approved in short order. Travis returned to the cab, signalled to a guard that he was ready and the gate rolled aside. The rig entered and Travis looked around for signs directing him to his designated spot.

 

            – Time for dinner. Put your camera on, Red. You never know. I’m gonna put my leg on.

Travis reached back and grabbed his artificial leg from his bunk. It was still wearing his jeans. Travis undid his shorts and pulled a liner and stump socks from the socket of his prosthesis. He stuffed his stump into the socket and his leg into his jeans. Jared was wearing a white T, jeans and his white boots. The tiny camcorder hung around his neck.

            – Ready? Let’s go.

Travis swaggered on his impossible boots. He had not worn his leg for three days and it felt odd. But soon its familiar tight rigidity returned and Travis felt he was young again, displaying his exhibitionist footwear for anyone who cared to notice. They stepped into a long low building with a simple message of welcome on the door and found themselves in a blue and white diner with row after row of sumptuous booths. The décor was all auto‑related, much of it from the Fifties. One wall was plastered with registration plates, another with chrome grills from countless gas‑guzzlers. A server dressed as a pump attendant in shorts appeared to hand them menus and poured two tumblers full of water.

 

Jared eyed the menu. There could not have been more Mexican food on offer even in Tijuana. Burritos and tacos and enchiladas made up for most of the food on offer. Beans and chili and avocados.

            – What are you getting, Travis? I’m not a great fan of Mexican food.

            – Neither am I. I’m gonna ask for a T-bone steak with fried and a salad.

            – Yeah, that sounds more like what I’m hungry for. You order. I’ll have whatever you’re having.

            – Any kitchen can make a meal like that. I know for a fact they have stuff hidden away for Americanos. Guys like me from the north who never got a taste for tacos and that stuff.

            – Where are you from originally, Travis?

            – Billings, Montana.

            – Ha! We were practically neighbours.

            – Now I have a place in Kokomo, Indiana. Not too far from Chicago. Don’t often get the chance to see it these days. The road is where I live and that’s the way I like it.

            – It’s a lot of work but I can see the attraction. Not the sort of thing I’m cut out for though.

            – I don’t agree. I’ve been watching you as a potential partner and I like what I see. I’m not as young as I was and I’d appreciate someone along who could take over the wheel and let me take a rest without losin’ time on the road.

            – Wow! You reckon I’d be cut out for running a rig around the country?

            – Sure. You already said you thought you could handle the rig with your hooks. I don’t see why you wouldn’t. Get yoursef a permit to handle a rig and next time out, you can handle the front end.

            – Wow! It would be great to have another profession to fall back on if my writing dries up.

            – You should look into it. It ain’t difficult, god knows. Just takes a lot of time getting all the permits an’ licences an’ shit.

            – I’ll think about it.

The server returned and they ordered big portions of home‑made ice cream. Jared experienced the inconvenience of holding a long spoon with a farmer’s hook. He had struggled with his steak too but noticed that the new hooks held his cutlery more firmly than his ordinary hooks. Moustaches slathered with whipped cream, they swiped paper napkins across their faces, amused by each other’s appearance. A heavy‑built trucker and his sidekick approached and the older man went into a paroxysm of feigned violence, throwing his arms around and punching the air. Jared looked on in alarm.

            – Trapper, y’ol’ son of a gun! Never thought I’d see ya here. Whatcha doing’ this far west?

            – Been on this run for two years. Santa Barbara to Chicago an’ back.

            – Hungry lot those yankies. Man, it’s good to see ya.

            – Sit down, fer christ’s sake before someone sees ya. Hi! Who are you? Not seen ya before.

            – This is my sister’s boy. I’m showin’ him the ropes.

            – Pleased to meetcha, son.

 

The newcomer introduced himself as Casey Carter and his nephew as Shawn Stevens. He offered his hand to Jared and accepted the steel hook without comment. Jared and Shawn sat back and listened to the two old colleagues catching up on news and worries, eventually inevitably turning to the government’s latest raft of regulations.

            – Actually, that’s why Red is along with me. He’s doin’ research for an article about just that, see? Red, whyn’tcha interview Case?

            – You wouldn’t mind if I record you?

            – You go ahead, son. I do work as a union rep so I’m up on the latest.

Jared gripped his camcorder and poked the on button. A led flashed red, indicating it was recording.

            – Go ahead, Casey. Tell us where we’re goin’.

As a representative of the truckers’ union, Casey was used to being interviewed. He briefly outlined the new controversial measures and described their effects on various major aspects of the business. He mentioned reactions from other truckers he had spoken with and ended with some proposals to improve the current situation. A couple of other truckers making their way out had stopped by the booth and were listening in.

            – Sorry to butt in but we was just talking about that and what you say makes a lot of sense, F’r instance…

            – Hey, sit down and let Red tape you. He’s writing an article.

            – Sure!

The two men sat in the space vacated by Travis after he moved toward the back of the booth.

            – Like you were saying about drivin’ hours—I reckon it makes the roads more dangerous.

The two men added to each other’s explanations, with Casey clarifying points for them and providing more information for Jared. They spoke for nearly twenty minutes.

            – An’ that’s all I have to say on the matter.

Jared manipulated his camcorder again, watched closely by the latest newcomers who had not seen Jared’s hooks in his lap.

            – Thanks for talking to me. I’m pretty sure I have enough material to make a good start and I know I have a much better picture of the problems you’re having than I did an hour ago. Can I offer you gentlemen a beer in appreciation?

            The young nephew and Jared rose and crossed to the bar. The nephew ferried seven pints of lager back to the truckers. Jared thought his farmer's hooks were specifically designed to stop the wearer holding a glass of beer. Not to be outdone, he excused himself and shrugged his prostheses off. They hung down his back, still attached to the harness. He gripped his glass in his sweaty stumps and enjoyed the taste of the icy beer. No-one paid any attention to his disability, something which Jared noticed. It was the first time he had been in the company of men when no‑one had commented or asked about his hooks. He was not sure how to feel about it.

 

Jared bought another round and gradually the group diminished. Three hours after arriving, Jared and Travis made their way back to the rig, Jared swinging his stumps while his sockets clacked together across his back. Outside the passenger door, Jared twisted his body to don his prostheses again. Climbing into the cab with mere stumps was too risky after a couple of beers,

 

            – That was a pretty good session, warn’t it? Did you get the sort of stuff you need?

            – Yeah, it was really useful. Your friend Casey was great the way he laid everything out and explained the problems. To be honest with you, Travis, I think I have enough material now for my article. I’m not sayin’ other people’s opinions ain’t worth listenin’ to, but if we don’t get another chance to sit around like that, it won’t worry me.

            – Well Red, I reckon you’ll have time between breakfast and loadin’ time to talk to people. I reckon you should chat to as many drivers as ya can. Ya never know when someone is gonna say something you can use.

            – True enough. I just wanted you to know I’m satisfied now. I think I’ve got enough.

            – Great. ‘S good to know you’ve got what ya come for. How about the other stuff we got? Ya new hooks? How’d ya like them after tryin’ ’em out?

            – You saw I couldn’t pick up my glass of beer. I would have been better to have one of my old hooks.

            – One of each, ya mean?

            – Yeah. Maybe a worker hook on the right and a normal hook on the left for other stuff.

            – Ya want me to change ’em out again?

            – Yeah! Thanks Travis.

            – I should come clean with ya, Red. I bought ya a big hook I wanna see ya wearing on the drive east. Let me find it.

Travis scrabbled in his bag until he found the big decorative hook. It was a ridiculous size compared with Red’s other hooks.

            – How’d ya like that? Wanna try it?

Jared laughed at the enormous curved hook. It was much larger than the smaller one he had bought. He thought quickly about situations where he might need operating hooks in the near future and decided he could let Travis see him wearing both inert hooks. He lifted his left socket and let Travis replace the worker hook with the curved monster. It was so different from the much smaller operable hooks he had always used that it gave new meaning to the word disabled. The sheer size of the thing advertised disability. Its solid immovability confirmed the severity of his handicap. It appeared to be useless for everything except maybe carrying something heavy. But it would also be a great extrovert sleeve filler.

            – Travis, look in my bag for a couple of little packets with round things inside. Stick one on my socket and fix the cable into it and the cable won’t flap around.

            – You want me to do that for ya? OK, you got it.

It was soon done. Such a minor detail but it prevented damage to the cable. Jared twisted his arm back and forth, admiring his new appearance.

            – I bought a hook similar to this but smaller. It’s in the bag somewhere. I’d appreciate it if you’d put that on for me.

            – Sure. Is this the one?

Travis swapped the hooks. The second one looked more in keeping with a proper prosthetic device, a simple hook like the ones used before split hooks had been invented. Both men thought it looked impressive.

            – I might like to wear this one, I reckon. It looks good. Whatcha think?

            – I’d like to feel it on my stump when we’re driving tomorrow. Are you set now? D’ya need anythin’ else?

            – No thanks, Travis. I’m fine.

            – It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow. We need to start early, get to the warehouse about eight and start loadin’.

            – How long will that take?

            – Under an hour. It’s a half hour drive.

            – I just thought—I’ll do better with an ordinary hook on my right tomorrow.

            – OK. Just tell me and I’ll change it for ya. Whatcha gonna do when you’re alone, Red? How ya gonna change ya hooks then?

            – I’ll just have to work out how to do it myself. I’m pretty sure I could manage with my stumps once I get the cable off the hook. I just need to practise. I’ll be OK. 

 

Jared stashed his camcorder in his bag. He did not anticipate interviewing anyone else, not after the marathon session earlier in the evening. He still had to research the official directives of the new law. Now he would read the text with knowledge of what the restrictions meant for the drivers.

 

Travis wanted to sleep. Jared removed his prostheses and they both made a quick trip to use the bathroom facilities. He looked around him on the way back to the rig. There were hundreds of rigs parked up, all set and ready to deliver America its food. To his way of thinking, the drivers deserved all the respect they could get.

 

Travis was awake at five. He spent a few minutes greasing his stump, checking his liner was tolerably clean and put a couple of the brand new stump socks over it. He donned his prosthesis and worked his short shorts up his legs. It was too hot to wear long jeans, too hot to crutch about. The long toed underslung boots looked completely alien. Travis grinned and placed a hand on Red’s chest to wake him.

            – Morning! Time to rise. I need a pee. We’ll have breakfast and get goin’. You need a hand with ya hooks?

            – I want a farmer's hook on the left and a regular one on the right. Let me move and you can get out. You look great with your pros on display.

Travis squeezed awkwardly out and stretched. There were a few other early birds showing signs of life. The truck park never slept. Rigs arrived and departed at all hours. The restaurant never shut and there was a convenience store for water or cigarettes. He limped across to the john and saw to his business. Jared was concentrating on his hooks. He needed to change both of them. It was difficult to open the farmer's hook with his naked stumps to get the cable off. But he had more success with the inert hook on the left. The cable was already off and he succeeded in twisting the hook loose and finally removing it. It fell to the floor of the cab. The left farmer's hook was just as annoying to fit into the socket. The thread was difficult to find and mid forearms were not intended to make such delicate movements. Suddenly the thread caught and Jared spun the hook all the way into the socket. He changed his T, donned his harness without his liners and set about getting his jeans on. Travis would help him with his white boots. He was beginning to feel comfortable in them. He had not worn his trainers since he got his boots. He could imagine wearing boots at home too, maybe not so showy. He had done as much as he could. He waited for Travis to return before leaving on his own mission to the john.

 

Travis swapped the right hook for the one Red wanted and put the boy’s boots on over his jeans’ legs.

            – Just wave when you’re done and we’ll get some coffee inside us.

 

Jared doffed his prostheses in order to wash. He dumped them into the wash basin next to him. All the fixtures were accessible for a bilateral arm amputee who still retained some stump. He rubbed the ends of his stumps into his eye sockets, around his mouth and over his forehead. His stubble was already looking more like it was deliberate rather than simply having forgotten to shave. If anything, it emphasised his well‑formed moustache. Jared gurgled to get the taste of night out of his mouth, shrugged his arms back on and went out to signal to Travis. The man noticed after a few seconds and Jared watched the amputee, fifty‑something years old and in the prime of life, one‑legged for over half that time. His boots were shocking. Travis strode on them with the swagger they demanded and which the prosthesis caused.

 

            – You’re managin’ fine with them hooks, Red.

            – Yeah, having one of each is the best of both worlds.

            – Ya doin’ great. I love seein’ ya workin’ ’em, Red.

Jared was still struggling with the unforgiving farmer's hook but was glad to know Travis was impressed. Travis was the first man who had ever paid so much appreciative attention to his disability and been honest about his fetishistic preferences. Jared had little reason to criticise the man. He was sitting opposite showing his artificial leg to all and sundry. He hoped his artificial arms looked as horny.

 

It was time to go. Seven fifteen. Travis reversed carefully out, guiding his empty refrigerated trailer onto the roadway. He arranged his papers and tailed another rig to the exit. He switched on the refrigeration unit, trusting the trailer would be cool enough for loading in Santa Barbara. The trailer in front passed through the gate, which rolled closed until Travis’s papers were checked. They were out and on the road again. Travis shifted his artificial leg to one side, set the cruise control to fifty and watched the sunrise with half an eye. His papers and permits were ready and he already knew which bay he was allocated. The Santa Barbara terminal was familiar, the destination on a hundred previous journeys. He was grateful for maintaining this route. It paid well and California’s crops were a lot less reliable than they had been twenty years ago. It had been a good year. There had been almost enough rainfall and farmers had worked their butts off irrigating their fields with severely rationed water. But it had been worth it. They had the best crop for years. It was not surprising that the truck park had been so full.

 

There was less security at the warehouse. Travis made his way to the checkpoint where his credentials were reviewed. Someone noted the interior temperature of the trailer, which read ten Celsius, and scrawled a signature in approval. A steel barrier rose and Travis circled until he found Bay Ninety‑Eight and carefully reversed as far as he dared. Shortly, a youngster signalled to him and he inched closer to the quay. He lowered the bridge and unlocked the doors.

            – You can sit here and wait, Red. It won’t take ’em long to load our stuff. Or you can come an’ watch if ya like.

            – I’m OK here. It’s cooler.

            – Y’ain’t kiddin’. OK, see ya.

Travis lowered himself to the ground and stood by at the rear of the trailer waiting for his pallets of fresh Californian salad to be loaded. Another truck wheezed alongside and into Bay Ninety‑Seven. The driver noticed Jared in the cab with the window up and raised a hand in greeting. Jared looked at him and nodded a greeting. The man’s sidekick jumped out and disappeared from view. The driver leant back in his seat and did something which occupied his time for a minute or so. Jared felt a little uncomfortable, unsure whether it was customary to exchange a few words with other drivers. The driver lifted a grizzly pipe to his mouth and went through the phases of lighting such a big pipe. It was bent more sharply than Jared’s and the stem was shorter but the bowl was wide and tall. The man held it with one hand and turned it, igniting the tobacco with a fierce butane lighter. He was satisfied and flattened the tobacco with his thumb before lighting it again. Jared watched in wonder. It was a hugely impressive pipe and the man did it justice. It hung from his jaw and he hawled on it, coaxing as much smoke as possible and exhaling it in jets from his nostrils. He clenched the pipe in his mouth and looked provocatively across to where Jared sat, admiring him. He had known he had an audience. He always did when he smoked. None of his pipes were anything less than attention‑grabbing. This one was one of his favourites which he could let hang from his lips onto his chest. He lowered his window to let the fug out of his cab. Jared twisted his left hook to point down and leaned across to tap the window control on the dashboard.

            – Hi! I was admiring your pipe. It’s a grizzly, if I’m right.

            – It is. You know about pipes, huh?

            – I used to smoke but gave it up. Then just a coupla days ago I decided to take it up again. I got myself a grizzly too. That’s why I was interested to see yours.

            – I sure would like to see your grizzly, man. I have a collection of ’em but they’re always different.

Jared nodded his understanding and scrabbled in his bag to find the enormous grizzly which Dexter had given him. Sold him. He dropped it in his lap and twisted his hooks so he could lift the enormous pipe for inspection. He held it up.

            – Jesus, that’s the best Oom Paul I ever seen. Hey man! You’re wearing a hook! You’re an amputee, huh? Wow. Ya sure do meet ’em when you’re on the road.

            – Really? Are there lots of amputee drivers?

            – Sure! What else can a guy do who’s lost a limb or two? Drive, that’s what. Drive a rig, same thing. Sure, there’s more amputees drivin’ trucks than you can shake a stick at.

He pronounced it stee‑yuck. Jared knew where he was from and where he was headed. The man’s radio squawked and he picked the receiver up.

            –Whassup? OK, I’ll come down.

            – Sorry as hell to break off our conversation but I have a problem up back.

Ba‑yuck. He rested his pipe between the prongs of a clip on his dash and opened his door. He turned sideways and gripped the chrome fittings alongside his cab. The man was completely legless and wore a rubber‑based stump socket around his waist. He pulled a pair of worker’s gloves from a pocket in the door and heaved himself along to the rear of his rig. Jared was amazed not only to hear how common amputee drivers were but also to watch the most severely disabled leg amputee he had seen hop down from the driver’s seat of a huge refrigerated rig as if it were completely normal. For him, it was. Jared stared at the grizzly on the neighbouring rig’s dashboard. His next one would be like that. More practical. Where did the legless guy buy his tobacco? Smoking was practically taboo these days. Where did you have to go to get good pipe tobacco?

Jared toyed with his pipe. If he was careful, he could use his normal hook to place it into his farmer’s where it could rest on the nail holder. There was no risk of it falling. The surface of the pipe was gnarly, perfect for holding with a hook. Jared was looking forward to the opportunity to actually smoke it. He needed to buy a lighter, one of the powerful butane ones which sent a fierce blast of flame. And a pipe tool. And pipe cleaners, real long ones. He put the stem of the grizzly between his teeth and opened his hook. The pipe rested on his chest. It was fairly heavy, over half a kilo but the wide mouthpiece made it possible to clench without too much pressure on his teeth. He could imagine himself walking around with it between his teeth. He would attract considerable attention. The height of the bowl was impressive in itself. It would hold a good amount of tobacco. Jared opened his farmer’s and gripped the pipe. Voices outside caught his attention. The legless driver was returning with Travis. Something was amusing. They both broke into manly laughter. The guy hauled himself up and opened his cab door. Jared noticed the outside of his cab was lined with chrome handles and bars, obvious additions for its crippled driver. Travis walked around the front of his rig and joined Travis.

            – Everything’s goin’ fine. Was just talkin’ to Jeb. He said he was real jealous of your pipe.

            – Yeah, I showed it to him when I saw him smoking his grizzly. It’s seems so odd to have two pipe smokin’ amputees pull up together like this.

            – Maybe not so odd, Red. If you’re a smoker, it’s easier to smoke a pipe when you’re driving along the freeway. An’ the big pipes are less bother. Fill ’em up once in the mornin’ an’ smoke ’em all day. As for amputees, there’s two of ’em sittin’ right here. Why would another rig be any different? It’s not so strange.

Travis altered his position and detached his artificial leg. He swung it around and let it fall onto his bunk behind him.

            – There’s hundreds of us. Guys who used to work in construction or on farms who lost a leg or two and who need a sitting job. It don’t take long to get ya permits to drive a rig and if the bank comes through, you can get a rig and convert it and you’re in business. I think Jeb wants a word.

Travis pointed past Red at the driver of the neighbouring rig, looking much like any driver you might see on the road, and peeled the liner from his stump.

            – Hey Red! Whyn’t ya smoking?

            – I need to buy tobacco and everything else. I wanted to ask—where’d you buy your tobacco?

            – Depends. I know one or two places along a couple of routes I drive and I stock up when I’m passin’ through. The shop here has a good selection usually.

            – Really? You mean I could get some baccy right here?

            – Sure.

            – I still need a lighter and the rest of it.

            – They got all that. Quick! I reckon ya got twenty minutes before you’re full. Ya got time to get what ya need.

Jared looked at Travis who had heard everything.

            – Are you OK with that? Do ya reckon there’s time?

            – If you’re quick.

            – OK. Wow! Thanks Jeb!

            – Welcome.

Jared checked he had his wallet, got his door open and climbed down. He walked quickly in the California heat towards the convenience store which was not doing much business at this time of day with drivers concentrating on loading. Jeb and Travis watched him.

            – Jeebus, Trapper! Ya never said the guy has two hooks.

            – What’s it to ya? Ya wanna swap places with ’im?

            – I’ll keep me hands, ya son of a gun. Both hands off, oh boy.

The legless amputees swapped indecent comments about urination, arse wiping and masturbation with hooks until Jared reappeared several minutes later carrying a big paper bag bulging with tins of tobacco and other paraphernalia.

            – That store has the most unusual selection of stuff for sale I’ve ever seen. Half the shop is for bottled water and the rest is tobacco.

            – D’ya get what ya wanted?

            – Yup. Travis, I’m gonna need some help with this. I got a lighter I might be able to hold. But I can’t fill it, I don’t think. Then I got some pipe tobacco in tins but I cant get ’em open with hooks. D’ya reckon you could help?

            – Sure.

            – I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to handle these things OK when I’m home but it’s difficult here in the cab just relying on hooks.

            – Sure. I know whatcha mean. Give it here.

 

Travis opened three tins of tobacco and lightly closed the screw‑on lids. He prepared the can of butane for Red’s new lighter with a suitable nozzle and adjusted the flame to something more suitable for pipe smoking than setting a forest fire. Jared had also bought a conventional pipe tool but thought he could do better with the tip of a hook.

            – Listen. I don’t mind if you smoke ya pipe for a few minutes but I don’t allow no general smokin’ in the cab, y’understand? I sleep in here an’ I don’t appreciate the smell of tobacco, OK?

            – Sure. No problem.

            – OK. I’ma check on the situation up back.

Travis crutched back and watched the last three pallets being loaded. Jeb’s sidekick stood nearby signing off on his load. He signalled to Jeb and the bridge rose steadily until it clamped shut against the rear doors.

            – That’s us ready for the road. See ya later, Trapper.

            – Yup. Drive safe.

Travis moved backwards on his crutches to get a view of the locking mechanism on the rear doors. He was satisfied and signed his own documents. Back in the cab, he raised the bridge and checked it on video. The indicator on the dash turned from red to green. He was satisfied.

            – Are you set, Red? Belt up and we’ll make tracks. Followin’ Jeb as far as the other side of L.A. and prolly a good ways after.

            – Where’s he headed?

            – Denver. We’ll lose him this evening for sure but it’s better if two rigs make it together to the Arizona state line. Less chance of an ambush.

            – Does that sort of thing really happen often?

            – Too often to ignore. The road pirates has been getting’ worse for ten years.

 

The worst of the morning rush hour traffic had dissipated by the time Travis turned his rig onto Interstate Forty and after that the road was clear. The morning was already warm. Both men wore their mirrored aviators against the glare. Travis wore a well‑worn baseball cap, Jared his big white cowboy hat. It contrasted well with his oncoming beard.

            – Ya gonna show me ya stumps, Red?

            – Sure, if ya like. I was gonna suggest I put that big hook on and try it out on ya stump.

            – Ah, man! That sounds like a better idea. Yes, indeedy.

Jared grinned at Travis and knocked the man’s stump with his farmer's hook. Travis lifted it suggestively. It was a fine example of a mature stump, covered in curly hair, the scarring invisible, still well‑muscled through frequent exercise. Travis himself was proud of his stump and displayed it without embarrassment. His requests of Red to bare his arm stumps were an unspoken encouragement for him to do the same. Red had mentioned that he wore his prostheses almost twenty‑four seven. Travis thought the man could benefit from wearing one hook with a naked stump. He did not know that Jared had purchased a new harness for a single right arm prosthesis.

 

Jared pulled his bag out from under his seat and rummaged in it until he found the big hook. Travis glanced at what the boy was doing, how he was managing. The cable was off and the farmer’s hook was already loose in the socket. Jared twisted his right hook as much as he could without a wrist and slowly the farmer’s hook worked its way off the socket. It fell to the floor of the cab and Jared poked at it with the long toe of his boot. He positioned the big hook on his thighs and began several attempts to find the screw thread. It suddenly caught and Jared slowly screwed it into his socket. Lastly, he nipped the end of the cable and coaxed it into the rubber fixture halfway up. He lifted his left arm and admired his handiwork. The steel hook shone in the sunlight and looked theatrical. He twisted it until the hook pointed to the right and, without warning, lowered it onto Travis’s leg stump. Travis jerked his nub in surprise and looked down to see the hook encircling the end of his stump. Jared moved his arm and massaged the stump. He could feel nothing. The hook transmitted no sensation to his arm stump. He had to watch what he was doing in order to operate the hook in its meagre range of movement. Travis seemed to approve. He groaned in pleasure, not only from having his stump caressed by another man but also by the sight of the impractically large hook, such an unlikely and grotesque replacement for a man’s hand. It looked horny as hell and Travis’s semi hardened into a full‑on erection. He shifted slightly to release it from his short shorts. It rose near to its full height and Red touched the glans with the hook. It was almost too much to resist. An hour ago, Travis and Jeb had jested about the impossibility of wanking with a hook. This is what it was like. Red alternated between touching his stump and his dick. The rig’s cruise control was engaged, the road ahead was straight and empty. Travis held onto the steering wheel for support as cum flew against the dash. Jared withdrew his hook and watched Travis struggle to regain control. The rig rumbled on.

 

As planned, Jeb slowed on the approach to the state line. His rig suddenly became visible at the peak of a long rise, a mile or so distant. Travis flashed his lights to attract attention. Jeb soon noticed and slowed a little more. Travis sounded his horn and both rigs accelerated back up to fifty‑five. It was the optimum speed favoured by truckers for fuel economy and minimal engine wear. Travis kept his distance and Jeb moved to the left side of the road at five minute intervals to allow Travis an occasional view of the road ahead.

 

After an hour or so, Jeb pumped his brakes to alert Travis that he was stopping. There was a good truck stop diner coming up.

            – Jeb thinks it’s lunchtime. You hungry?

            – I guess so.

            – OK, I’ll pull in when he does. You gonna keep that hook on?

            – Sure. You don’t mind, do you?

            – No sir. I don’t mind. How’s it feel?

            – It’s heavy but that’s OK. I like it. I like not being able to move it. It just is.

            – Man, I’d say you know exactly how to move it.

 

Travis pulled alongside Jeb’s rig. The two men were waiting for them. Travis called past the sidekick.

            – You goin’ inside or getting takeaway?

            – Reckon we’ll go inside.

            – Fine with me. Red, you set?

            – Sure.

Travis adjusted the trailer’s refrigeration to account for the noonday sun. He hopped out and fitted his crutches under his arms. Jared got his handsome white hat on and stepped down. The sidekick walked around the front of Jeb’s cab and opened the driver’s door. He turned his back to Jeb, who placed his arms around the man’s neck and lowered himself from his seat. The sidekick carried Jeb piggyback style into the diner. Travis and Jared followed. Both of them ogled the leather stump corset with its rubberised base and imagined what it would be like to make love with a manly hunk like Jeb without even the vestiges of legs.

 

Jeb and the sidekick found an empty booth and sat facing the door. Travis and Jared sat facing along the row of booths, full at this hour with colleagues heading mainly east. A server arrived to pour water and take their orders—four chili con carnes, spicy.

            – Excuse me! Can you bring me a spoon?

            – Sure. Anythin’ else ya need?

            – No thanks.

Jared rested his sockets against the edge of the table. The spectacular steel hook caught everyone’s attention.

            – Quite the hook you got there, Jared. Sure does look the business.

Jared smirked at Travis.

            – I guess you could say that. I s’pose it is a bit on the big side compared with my usual hook. It won’t open like my others either.

Jared gave a demonstration of how he was able to open the hook on his right arm by discretely moving his left shoulder. It looked like magic to the uninitiated. The server returned with a dessert spoon.

            – Can you hold it for me one second?

Jared angled his socket so the hook could close on the spoon’s handle. The server, a young Latino, had seen plenty of amputees before but this was the first time he had participated so intimately in assisting a man with hooks. Jared lifted his gaze to thank the boy and their eyes met. Just slightly too long, long enough to know.

 

Jeb bitched a little about the new regulations with a new insight for Jared and proposed taking a two hour nap between seven and nine and then driving through the night to Denver. Travis warned him of the treacherous route and the mountain passes but Jeb insisted he knew the road and conditions were clear. He suggested Travis take the lead for the next couple of hours before their routes diverged and Jeb turned north. Something caught Travis’s attention.

            – Jesus! Wouldya look at that?

A man, early thirties, with a wide brown western hat, a red plaid cowboy shirt and short shorts swung his way towards them on long aluminium crutches. His left leg was missing as completely as both of Jeb’s and his full‑length right leg prosthesis wore a flat‑heeled cowboy boot of beige suede. He moved with a smooth elegance which most amputees never achieved. This man obviously relied on crutches permanently. He caught sight of Jared’s absurd oversized hook and saw the man glance at his face. They smiled at each other for half a second, taking in each other’s stubble and moustaches. The long prosthetic leg creaked past them, close enough to touch. Jared kept an eye on the legless trucker as he crossed the dusty forecourt. He crutched past Travis’s rig and hauled himself up into one parked further along the row, nearer the entrance. Seconds later, it jerked into motion with a blast of diesel fumes from twin exhausts and swung around to head west.

            – Come on. Enough daydreamin’. Time we made tracks too.

The sidekick held onto Jeb again and carried him to a stall in the men’s rest room. Travis and Jared continued to their rig and settled in for another marathon drive. Jared shucked his hooks without being prompted and sat back with his stumps on his thighs, watching Travis adjusting the atmosphere in the trailer and checking upcoming road conditions on the GPS. Travis swung the rig around in a semicircle and rejoined the eastbound freeway. He cupped Red’s left stump with his broad hand and held it.

 

Travis slowed his rig as they approached Jeb’s turn‑off. Jeb eased his rig into the left lane and the two rigs were momentarily next to each other. Travis pulled the cord above his seat to sound the air‑splitting horn. One short, one long, one short another long. To Jared’s mind it sounded like Good bye, my friend or So long, be safe. Travis accelerated again and reset the cruise control for forty‑five. The next few hours until sundown were the most demanding of the entire journey. He moved his thigh stump so it was within reach of Red’s left stump and the two men ate the miles, wordlessly as so often on this trip, comfortable with the pleasure afforded by skin on skin as two hairy stumps touched.

 

            – Have ya thought about comin’ all the way, Red? Ya wanna come to Chicago? There’s sure to be other truckers ya could interview, guys from the east. You could find out their way of thinking. There’s two places I have to unload. Y’are sure to meet a few new faces.

            – I’m not sure, Travis. I thought I’d get out in St Louis and trek on home but I see your point. Yeah, I think maybe a few new insights would be a good idea. OK, I’ll come with ya as far as Chicago but on the trip back, I’ll have to leave ya or I’ll not make my deadline. This has been a lot of fun. Not only that, but I’ve learned a lot and met some great people.

            – Seen some great amputee truckers too, huh? I told ya there’s loads of us.

            – That one‑legged guy at lunch was something.

            – That the kinda man ya want, Red?

            – Well, I’m not really lookin’, but yeah. I could imagine him as a friend.

            – Ha! I saw the way he looked at you too. I told ya to keep that hook on, din’t I? I reckon he’d like to find out what it’s like to be made love to by a giant hook.

            – Ya want me to put it on, Travis?

            – Naah, ya fine. Ya doin’ real good with just ya stump, Red.

 

The sky darkened leaving the mountains reflecting the ruddy glow of the sunset behind them. Jared picked his prostheses up and slowly removed the big hook for the original curved split hook. The cable defeated him. He needed another man’s hands to pry open the hook and attach the cable, without which the hook was useless. It was fun to have a variety of hooks, some of them merely for show. He wished he had bought two of the medium sized inert hooks from the shop in Phoenix. He wanted to be in a situation where he was wearing two hooks, immovable, mere decorations, with a handsome companion like the legless trucker or the Latino server, someone he admired who admired him in return. He enjoyed being with Travis too but there was less camaraderie with Travis. He was more excited by the sexual side of amputation. Jared was more interested in the sensual side. It was quite a conundrum. Jared wanted to experience other journeys with Travis. They got on well together, psychologically and sexually but there was no emotion involved. Jared had believed a week ago that Travis thought differently about their relationship but the intervening time had shown that Travis was probably satisfied with the occasional blow‑job and stump massage and nothing more. Jared had the choice of rejoining Travis at some point in order to meet up with the beautiful men he had seen again or allowing Travis to continue his search for a sex partner, which Jared believed was all he wanted.

 

Travis stopped after midnight at a diner outside Wichita, Kansas. Neither man wanted more than to sleep. Travis crawled onto his bunk and Jared spread out along the front seats. They slept for five hours until the light of dawn and the sound of diesel engines woke them. They spent twenty minutes eating and another ten in the men’s room. They were on the road again before seven, destination Chicago and Travis was determined to reach it before resting again. Jared found it odd to ride through St Louis without stopping. He hoped the extra time spent visiting Chicago would prove worthwhile. He had already mapped out his article in his mind and was anxious to get his ideas on paper, so to speak.

 

Travis announced a stop for a late lunch. He had been driving for seven hours with one toilet break on the side of the road. Jared lifted his prostheses from the cab floor with his naked stumps, held the left socket with its big hook between his thighs and began the laborious process of unscrewing it. He wanted a farmer’s hook on the left and a standard hook on the right. He was uncertain exactly what might be expected of him in Chicago during unloading and wanted to be better prepared. The farmer’s hook was as recalcitrant as ever but for the first time, Jared was able to force the farmer’s hook open and keep it that way long enough to detach the control cable from its fixture and persuade it into its slot on the hook. He stretched his arm and the hook opened perfectly.

            – Well done, Red. Practice makes perfect.

            – Yeah. I’m pretty comfortable with these two hooks like this. I prolly won’t need to change ’em very often. But it’s good to know I can.

            – Keep ’em on the rest of the day. I like to see ’em on ya.

Jared nodded. He knew. He linked the hooks and peered across the flat landscape, looking for any sign of civilisation.

 

Travis wove his way through the network of freeways surrounding Chicago. It was evening. They had been on the road for fifteen hours, too long for safety. The new rules allowed employers to negotiate delivery times much sooner than previously. It was one of the most unpopular aspects of the new system, something which almost all the truckers Jared had spoken with had complained about. Travis joined a queue of refrigerated trucks waiting their turn for access to a loading bay. They would unload a third of their cargo here and continue to a bigger terminal on the east side. Travis was tired but satisfied. He had beaten the deadline by twelve hours. He received no thanks for his skill at timekeeping. If they could unload the rest of the produce without a delay, they could call it a night in about three hours time. Travis intended overnighting in a secure truck park like the one near Phoenix. There would be safety in numbers and the chance for a good meal and washroom facilities. There was nothing required of Jared. He sat in the cab watching pallets being unloaded by a forklift truck in the rear view mirror. Fortunately the process was as practised as the delivery had been. Travis took his bills of delivery and various official papers to an office for signing and they were on their way in less than an hour.

 

With an empty trailer, Travis relaxed. He was near exhausted but carefully negotiated his rig into a line of similar vehicles, many of them already occupied by sleeping truckers. It was ten o’clock.

            – How about a beer, Red? Thirsty?

            – That would hit the spot.

Travis clambered down from the cab and pulled his crutches out. Jared discovered his farmer’s hook was the more suitable for releasing his door lock. Despite its grotesque appearance, it was surprisingly versatile. They made their way back to the diner and into the fug and noise of a rest stop frequented by men happy to share an hour’s relaxation in each others’ company. They sat at a round table for two with a beer each, Travis hugging his crutches for lack of space. Jared twisted his right hook vertical so it could grab his glass and wished Travis good health.

            – Same to you, my friend. Listen. Here’s the plan. I have to get to Kokomo tomorrow morning. I need to check the mail and do some laundry. I reckon we’ll be on the road by noon. That OK with you? I reckon we’ll be in St Louis late afternoon. Don’t worry—I’ll drop you off outside your building. I already have a new order for tomorrow pickin’ up from St Louis so I have to stop there anyway.

            – That sounds good. Thanks Travis.

But it did not sound good. Although it was a question of only a few extra hours, Jared would have preferred to be homeward bound as soon as possible. They lingered over another beer until eleven, enjoying an hour of freedom. Travis announced his intention to return to the rig for the night and Jared followed him to the men’s room and across the forecourt to their beds.

 

As usual, Travis woke around six. He lay in bed, planning the day ahead, listening to the muffled sounds of men’s voices and heavy diesel engines outside. He was satisfied with his lot. This had been a good trip. There were no mechanical problems with the rig, the schedules had held and he had enjoyed having Red along for the ride. He had come to realise that Red was not the partner he was looking for. There was the difference in their ages and backgrounds and, unfair though it might seem, Red was too disabled to carry his weight in the trucking business, even if he acquired all the necessary permits. He hoped they would not lose touch completely. One thing they had in common was their voluntary disablement. Travis cupped the stump of his leg and savoured its muscular brevity. He rose, woke Red and hopped down with his crutches to visit the men’s room.

 

Jared sat up and rubbed his eyes with the ends of his stumps. He had become more familiar with baring them on this trip, at Travis’s insistence. The man was infatuated with both the stumps and his hooks. Jared credited Travis for having kitted himself out with farmer’s hooks as well as the other two. And there was the steel globe somewhere at the bottom of his bag which he had forgotten about. It would be horny to wear the smaller inert hook on his right socket and the globe on the left. He would be fairly incapable but it might be fun to experience it in the company of another man. Jared found the last pair of clean liners and set to donning his hooks, a farmer’s and a regular. He pulled on a pair of jeans and pushed his feet into his white cowboy boots. Travis reappeared and beckoned to Red. His sidekick climbed down from the cab, made sure the door locked and swaggered across the forecourt with his arms swinging at the unnatural angle forced by his custom sockets. A handsome man and his week’s growth of stubble gave him some maturity. Red held the door and they entered the diner.

 

It was heaving. Peak hour came early for truckers. They sat on the outside seats of an occupied booth, wishing the occupants a good morning and then ignoring them. They would soon be leaving, judging by the array of empty plates in front of them. They peered around hoping to catch the eye of a server. They both knew what to order—they ate the same thing every morning. Bacon, eggs and hash browns with black coffee. A server arrived, Travis ordered and the two original occupants rose and wished the amputees a nice day. They crossed paths on their way out with another guy wearing hooks.

            – Jesus, what is going on here? D’ya see that young guy? He had hooks too.

            – Yeah. Must be some convention goin’ on for vets, I guess.

The newcomer halted by the booth, surprised at how full the diner was. Travis saw the young guy looking round and called out.

            – Sit here, son, if ya like.

            – Thank you kindly. Ah believe ah will.

Kahndly. Wiyull.

The man sat and acknowledged the two men facing him. One middle‑aged, one his age, more or less. He rested his hooks on the table.

            – Have you ordered already?

            – Yeah, the server’ll be right here. I see you’re a hook user too.

Jared looked at the guy’s confused expression and lifted his own hooks alongside the newcomer’s. The two young men, both looking rough and ready with stubble and perfect teeth grinned at each other. The row of four almost identical hooks on the red and white check tablecloth looked surreal.

            – Fuck me! ’Scuse mah French. Wow! Ya sure don’t see that every day. You a driver?

            – No, I’m a writer. I’ve been travelling round with Travis here to L.A. and back. I’m heading home to St Louis.

            – Now that there is a coincidence. I’m heading there right as soon as I get my ribs around some breakfast. Is that where you’re heading, sir? St Louis?

            – No. I’m headin’ to Kokomo.

            – Well in that case, I’d sure be glad to give you a ride to St Louis, my friend. What’s ya name?

            – I’m Jared, or Red for short, I guess. This here is Travis.

            – An’ I’m Chet, short for Charles Montgomery. Been through many names. Chas, Chuck, Charlie. I like Chet. Short and to the point like my stumps, haha. Oh, hi! I’d like bacon well done and two fried eggs easy over. And coffee.

            – So are you leaving for St Louis right now?

            – Mmm, when I finish this.

            – Travis, would you mind if Chet gives me a ride back to St Louis instead of me comin’ to Kokomo first?

            – No. No, I don’t mind. Prolly a better idea.

            – Great! I get myself some company. I’m picking up my sidekick in St Louis and a cargo for San Francisco. I drive the truck, he does the heavy liftin’. I could do it mahself but hooks is hooks and hands is hands, if you see what I mean. An’ besides, I wouldn’t wanna get these scratched up or nothing.

The three of them laughed, Travis despite losing Red earlier than he had expected. But there was sense in Red travelling with Chet. He would reach home earlier and the two guys had something in common. He would have liked to hear the conversation.

 

Travis and Jared waited for Chet to finish and pay. They all exited via the men’s room. Chet pointed out his twenty‑five year old truck, its paintwork matt but clean. He watched the leg amputee walking elegantly on crutches and his new companion approach and enter a blue and chrome rig with a refrigerated trailer. Expensive and demanding to run. A minute later, Red reappeared wearing a white cowboy hat and with a carry‑all hanging from an elbow. Chet walked in the direction of his old rig, inherited from his father and the cause of his amputations, and pointed at it with his right hook. Jared lifted his free hook in acknowledgement.

 

Chet’s rig had curved door handles, easy to grip onto with hooks. He stood behind Jared and made sure the guy found his seat safely. It was a wide, well worn seat of red leather and Jared sank into it with pleasure. Chet slammed the door and climbed up into the driver’s seat moments later. He shrugged and stretched his prostheses, getting them into a comfortable position for driving.

            – Ready? Throw ya bag in the back if you want. We have a ways to go an’ ya might as well make yourself at home.

Chet twisted his body to turn the ignition key and reached up to pull on a cord to start the old engine. It caught with a roar and quickly quietened to a reassuring regular pulse. Chet pushed his right hook into a ring at the end of the gear shift and his other through another on the steering wheel and eased the vehicle into motion. He pumped the clutch, building up speed and power through the gears and Jared turned to see what was causing a rattling sound from Chet’s arms. He had noticed nothing out of the ordinary in the diner but Chet’s beat‑up old flesh‑coloured prostheses were decorated with several rows of chrome chains hanging from his brown leather triceps cuffs. His sockets were scuffed and scratched and there were torn stickers from football teams up and down both arms. At some stage, someone had painted a tribal tattoo design on the left socket. It was still discernible but added nothing to the sockets’ general appearance.

 

Chet put all his effort into spinning the steering wheel and getting the rig out of the forecourt onto the road. His indicators were in front of the gear stick and had elongated switches, easy to knock with a hook. Chet had a digital CB radio with a touch‑sensitive screen for messages to other truckers. He left it inactive. He set his cruise control for forty‑five and sat back with one hook on the wheel.

 

            – Ya from St Louis, Red?

            – No. I started out in Thermopolis, Wyoming.

            – Oh, sure. I been there. Hot springs and all that. Yeah, I know it.

            – An’ then I lived in the big city for a coupla years until I lost my hands and moved back home. And now I live in St Louis, right in the middle of things.

            – It sure is a place I seem to visit fairly often. Mosta my routes take me that way. What happened to ya hands?

            – Chet, no offence—I’d rather not talk about it.

            – OK, sure. Lost mine six years ago. I was on the road for my first run, Memphis to L.A. Got as far as Denver and the rig started chokin’ and jerkin’ so I got out and had a look under the hood and all of a sudden it gave another jerk and pulled my hands into the innards. Well, my sidekick called an ambulance and I was taken off to hospital but there was so much shit in my wounds that they festered up and I opted for amputations above mah wrists. Course insurance had to pay up an’ I got outta there pretty quick. Soon as mah stumps could take it, I had these arms made and I been wearing ’em ever since.         

            – So was it an accident, Chet? Why didn’t you turn the engine off first before poking about?

 

Chet shot a look at Red. There was something in his face. The guy was doubting the explanation. He might be a wannabe himself. He looked pretty happy with his hooks. Usually arm amps complained or apologised about being disabled. Red had said nothing.

            – If you promise not to spread it about, Red, I’ll admit to ruining my hands. The thing is, the engine only did half the damage I thought it would. I expected it to chew my hands right off. Instead, it was the infection what made ’em amputate. Is that what you wanted to hear?

            – I sorta guessed. I can tell if someone is OK with their amputations. I did mine with ice.

            – Yeah, you want hooks and there’s nothing for it but to have your hands off. There’s different ways. Reckon you an’ me have got a lot in common that way. You happy with yours?

            – Sure. I wouldn’t wanna go back. Even when it’s hard and you wish you had a hand to help, as soon as the problem’s behind you, you’re glad you overcame it with two hooks. No need for hands.

            – I know that feelin’. You ever go without your hooks and use ya stumps?

            – Not really. Odd you should ask. The guy I was travelling with wanted to see them and I’ve been using just my stumps for the past few days. How about you?

            – Naah. I can’t just flick mah prossies off like some guys do. I have fairly long stumps, long enough to reach my dick at least which helps a lot sometimes, if ya know what I mean. How about you?

            – Too short. Can’t reach, not without bending over.

            – That’s a pisser. How d’ya jerk off?

            – I don’t. That’s behind me. But I’ll tell you one thing. Travis insisted I get myself a pair of farmer’s hooks when we were in Anaheim. There’s a shop there which sells hooks and shit over the counter. So I got myself farmer’s hooks and he bought me a big hook. Looks like what you think of if someone says ‘pirate’s hook’. I noticed that the farmer’s hooks have this like round hole in the middle for holding onto a broom and I reckon they could hold onto a dick too.

            – I’m beginnin’ to understand why you are in a hurry to get home, Red. I can take care of things with my long stumps. It’s somethin’ I always wanted to try ever since I saw photos on the net of a guy jerking himself with arm stumps. I musta been about fourteen when I first saw it. I just couldn’t get the idea of losing my hands outta my mind after that. And thank the dear lord, that’s what he gave me.

            – You don’t believe that religious stuff, do you?

            – Course not. It’s just a way of speakin’.

            – Thank god for that!

            – Haha!

 

 

 

Jared described the non‑movable hooks he had found in Anaheim. Chet was immediately interested.

            – I always use these two. They’re what ya call symmetrical. I can hold a can of soda with ’em. I have farmer’s hooks too but I don’t need ’em unless I’m fixing something on the truck. I might take a look at this store in Anaheim. Sounds like they got a good deal goin’ on stump socks.

            – And liners. You can never have enough liners.

            – True. Listen, I wanna see your non‑movin’ hooks.

            – Ya wanna see me wearin’ ’em?

            – Sure!

            – I can’t change ’em on both sockets. You’ll have to help with the second one.

            – I’ll do that for ya, Red. I’d like to help ya.

 

Chet smiled at Red reassuringly to promise his assistance. To his knowledge, Red was the first other successful bilateral wannabe he had met. He wanted to get to know the guy better. They already had an easy rapport, sharing the lust to wear and use artificial arms with steel hooks instead of natural hands. The deep satisfaction of wearing mechanical arms on concealed stumps and sensing nothing from the hooks was erotic and exciting. The hooks were hyper‑masculine, exclusive and horny. Jared leaned back to fetch his bag and hooked out the smaller inert hook and the odd extension terminating in the big steel ball.

            – I’m gonna put this hook on the right.

            – Can you do it yaself?

            – Reckon so. As long as I don’t try and rush.

Jared opened his right hook and wedged it open against his thigh. The long fingers of the worker’s hook nipped the retaining ball at the end of the cable and after a few seconds, it came free. Jared clipped it into the rubber fixture on the socket and began the long process of unscrewing the hook with the other. Steel clacked against steel and Chet watched with half an eye. A few minutes later, Jared held up his right socket to show the hook to Chet.

            – It looks cool, Red. Ya gonna keep it on?

            – I don’t see why not. It’s real peculiar to try and open it but nothing happens.

            – Yeah. Yer disabled. That’s yer problem, man.

            – Ha! I reckon you could drive just as well with the other one on your left. You’re not actually using the hook, are ya?

            – Naah. It’s just on the wheel.

            – Ya wanna try the other one when we stop for coffee some place?

            – Sure. Is it in ya bag? Show me!

Jared hooked onto it and let it dangle.

            – On wow! It’s big! Yeah man—I wanna try that. It looks fantastic, don’t it?

 

Chet got his opportunity to try it when they stopped in a burg south of Chicago. Chet parked on a slip road leading to a small truck park in front of the Pontiac Diner. It was too early for lunch. They sat facing each other in a red leather and chrome booth, elbows on the table, hooks in the air. A teenage girl smiled shyly at them, revealing a missing front tooth.

            – Get ya anythin’?

            – Two black coffees and ya got any cheesecake?

            – We have blueberry and plain vanilla.

            – Two of the blueberry. Honey, are you OK? Ya got a tooth missin’ from ya sweet smile.

            – Ah know. It was my own fault. I was roller skatin’, see?

            – You sure it weren’t ya boyfriend beatin’ on ya?

            – Oh no! Nothin’ like that. Anyways, I don’t have a boyfriend right at his moment. I’m savin’ to afford an implant. I don’t reckon the boys here in town want to see me till I do.

            – Well, it’s their loss, honey.

She smiled with her lips closed and hurried to fill their order.

            – That was thoughtful to ask how she lost it.

            – Well, I look out for that sort of thing with a few other guys. We got together and started a campaign to reach out and help waitresses and the like we meet across the country who look like they might be in trouble. You know, bruised faces, split lips, black eyes. You musta seen ’em.

            – Fortunately I haven’t. Don’t forget I’m not in the truckin’ business.

            – Oh yeah, I forgot. Have you thought about getting your own rig? Is that why yer on the road?

            – No, this trip has been research. I’m a writer, see? A journalist. I’m working on an article about the new regulations concerning the truckin’ business and how it effects truckers like you. I’ve been interviewin’ truckers in places like this when they have a few minutes to explain their views. And when I get back home, I’m gonna sort through the material and use what people told me as quotes. I’ve learned quite a lot in the past week. Met some great guys. And there’s so many amputee drivers! I never had any idea about that.

            – Oh yeah. There’s loads of amps. Not so many like me and you, though. No sir. I only ever met one other driver with no hands, old guy shoulda been retired.

 

The shy girl brought them their order and stared at the four hooks for a moment. She felt like crying for their loss. It was such a shame. Chet twisted his hooks vertical and grabbed the sugar before swilling his coffee and tasting it. He twisted them horizontal and nipped the edge of his plate. He pushed the cheesecake over the edge and lifted it to his mouth.

            – Mmm man, this is good.

Jared, with only one working farmer’s hook, tried the same trick. He had never seen anyone eat like Chet before. It was fun slapping a hook from one position to another. It was attention‑grabbing but extremely practical. No need to faff with cutlery. Another thing he had learned by being on the road with a trucker. Jared drank his coffee carefully, his solitary functioning hook being the least suitable for holding the handle on a mug of coffee. Fortunately he had enough rubber bands on it to grip anything.

            – I need the john.

            – Same problem.

            – Come on then.

Chet left a twenty dollar tip for the tooth implant fund and the amputees were soon back in the cab. Chet replaced his left hook with the big five incher and laughed at its absurd appearance. It was the most extrovert thing he could imagine wearing and he could see it was ideally suited for driving with. He poked it through the hole on his driving ring and twisted it to point up. It held securely, big enough not to slip around.

            – I may get maself a hook like this. Let’s see if it can steer.

 

It could. Although it had been a gift from Travis, Jared doubted he would use it. He had no way of using two inert hooks and he preferred the look of the smaller one he was wearing. It was a challenge—using something even less practical than a normal split hook. He was intrigued by learning to use it. It was like when he got his first pair of hooks after his amputations. The hooks were simplicity itself to operate. The skill was in learning to put them to use. Both he and Chet were capable of functioning with such simple prosthetics. Chet kept his eyes on the road with one hook on the steering wheel and the other in the manual shift. From where Jared sat, Chet’s face was backlit and Jared admired the outline of his nose and how the sunlight filtered through his moustache and beard highlighting his long eyelashes. With his cowboy hat tilted forward, Jared admired him and hoped they could meet again, travel again, sharing stories again of life as bilateral amputees. His article would take up the remaining ten days to his deadline and after that, Jared wanted to be back on the road again. With Chet.

 

St Louis’s landmark arch was visible from the freeway for a few seconds. Jared had lived in the city for too short a time for it to hold any great sentimental meaning for him but it did mean, on this journey, that he would be alone again very soon. He felt no sexual attraction for Chet and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. But he had met a friend he did not want to lose. Chet rocked his upper body, forcing his hooks to alter gears and turn the steering wheel. The oversized hook performed perfectly. Chet pulled in to the truck park from which Jared’s road trip had begun.

 

            – I’m goin’ inside to wait for my assistant. Whyn’t ya come with me? Have a coffee while we’re waitin’. How’re ya gonna get home?

            – Taxi, I guess. I’ll call for one.

            – Gotcha. Ya got all ya stuff? Hey! I forgot about this!

He lifted his left hook.

            – Keep it, Chet. It looks better on you and you can use it better than me. Think of it as a gift.

            – Well that’s mighty kind of you. If there’s anything you’d like in return just be sure to let me know and I’ll bring it to ya.

            – Chet, are we gonna meet again after this? I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.

            – Red, yer always welcome in mah cab. I told ya already I pass this way all the time. Anytime you wanna ride with me, yer always welcome if I’m drivin’ solo. Come on. Let’s get some dinner.

 

Chet’s sidekick was waiting and spotted his mate arriving. The two amputees, looking much like western cowboys, saw him and strolled over to introduce Jared, Red, to Calvin, a short bodybuilder with a conspicuous squint. He was surprised to meet another man with two hooks but held out his right hand to shake.

            – Have you eaten?

            – No. I was waiting for you. You can explain the schedule while we’re eating is what I thought.

            – That won’t take long.

Chet noticed how much more disabled the big hook made him. Calvin noticed it but said nothing. He was curious to know who the other man was and how he came to lose his hands but was too circumspect to ask. Maybe Chet would tell him later. They ate their meals in near silence after Chet briefly mentioned his route and pick‑up points. The final destination was San Francisco and they had a week to get there. It would be a much less strenuous run than that which Jared had experienced.

 

Jared ordered a cab and the three men waited until it arrived before leaving the diner. Jared said his goodbyes and expressed his wishes for a safe trip. The two amputees stared at each other for a moment and spread their hooks wide to hug each other. Jared got into the taxi and watched the two truckers crossing the forecourt behind him. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at his apartment and sat for a few minutes acclimatising himself to solitude and silence.

 

He unpacked his bag, placing his new prosthetic gear and his pipe paraphernalia on a table. He emptied his bag of dirty laundry and used stump socks and dumped them into his washing machine. The used liners he would deal with later. He turned his laptop on and downloaded all the interview material before feeding it to an AI app for a transcript. He would begin writing next morning after reading through the interviews. Having started the actual process, if only the preliminaries, he felt better about being alone. All the same, he thought about Chet in his old rig with Calvin beside him where he wanted to be, enjoying Chet’s easy companionship.

 

Jared picked up the butane lighter he had bought. It was larger than a Zippo and had a adjustable nozzle. The greatest difficulty he faced in smoking his pipe was manipulating the lighter. It was superbly ergonomic for a man with hands. Less so for use with a split hook. He had to hold it, light it and aim it towards the bowl of his pipe. He toyed with it for a while and discovered that if he reversed his farmer’s hook, he could press the button to light the flame with his upturned standard hook. Then he could bring his hooks closer to aim the flame and light the tobacco. That was the theory. The lighter was slippery and treacherous to grasp. It slipped often or his right hook slid off the button. Maybe if he put three or four rubber bands around it, he would have better purchase. More precisely, maybe if someone with hands put rubber bands on it. He solved the problem with the grip a little later by wrapping the lighter in duct tape.

 

Jared hung the clean laundry to dry and disinfected the interiors of his silicone liners with alcohol. He placed an order for groceries to be home‑delivered the next morning and tried to think of what else he needed to do. He went to his bedroom, shucked his prostheses and lay down for a catnap. He slept for two hours.

 

He checked the transcript of his interviews and highlighted sections which were especially relevant to what he wanted to express. He was sure of his viewpoint, the angle he wanted to emphasise. Everything was ready. The article merely needed to be written.

 

Over the next three days, Jared crafted a contemporary report on the reality of life on the road and the way the new regulations were affecting the trucking profession. He conjured descriptions of hard‑working men whose only interest was in earning an honest living. He described the realities of tightened deadlines and resulting stress and sleeplessness behind the wheel. The voices of his interviewees were pertinent and distinct, and Jared pictured each of the men in person as he archived their words. His hooks beat out a rhythm on the keyboard and his AI spellchecker worked overtime. He wrote for four hours and the outline was complete. He had over two thousand words.

 

So it continued. Jared rediscovered the joy of writing and despite the handicap of typing with the tips of two hooks he maintained a good flow and succeeded in transcribing his thoughts. When he finished writing at the end of the third day, he had eight thousand five hundred words and a significant report, over twice as much text as requested. He still had to read and reread his work for editing and anticipated no problems in paring his work but before doing so, he contacted his client for confirmation, explaining that the subject matter had lent itself to a longer article which he felt was significant enough to deserve more column space. He promised to tender the edited text for evaluation in two days.

 

Chet and Calvin arrived in San Francisco well ahead of their deadline. They had carried many cubic metres of used school textbooks from St Louis to a collection point. Chet’s old rig had confronted the climb over the Rockies in its trusted way—slowly and reliably. Chet used both hooks on switchbacks, his right hook clattering against the tall manual shift at regular intervals. Chet had the impression he was part of the machine at such times, coaxing the truck through its paces with no feeling or sensory feedback. It was the lack of sensation which Chet appreciated most about losing his hands. His hooks were more than mere replacements, they brought a deprivation of touch which was deep, permanent and intensely erotic to experience and to see. He glanced from the road to his hooks to check where they were, rocking his body and moving his shoulders to open each hook in turn as he negotiated the way over the mountains. The decorative chrome chains hanging from the cuffs on his upper arms jiggled and slapped against the leather.

 

Chet took a minute waiting for Calvin to run an errand to tap out a text message to Jared stating that he had completed his run and was negotiating for a new load east. He wanted to say that he missed Jared’s companionship and the easy‑going solidarity he had enjoyed for a few hours with another guy his age, another bilateral arm amputee who preferred owning steel hooks instead of hands. Instead he finished simply with miss you and to Jared, they were they most heartfelt words he had ever read.

 

The magazine’s chief editor was impressed with Jared’s full‑length article and regretted that five thousand words was the limit. Jared replied, saying that he understood and would submit a final draft the following day. He chose to edit his work himself although AI could have produced a shorter version in seconds. Jared wanted to keep the cadence of his sentences and the progression of his argument. After another six hours of proofreading and checking, he forwarded his article headed On The Road Again under his pseudonym.

 

The amended version appeared in print three weeks later. He was contacted almost immediately by other publishers requesting permission to print a version and Jared sold his full‑length article to a nationwide news publication. His name was noticed and he was in demand for interviews for tv and print. He appeared by video link on news broadcasts and his article generated attention in government departments.

 

The attention was gratifying but the highest praise appeared in an accompanying article for a regional newspaper. The nameless author reminded his readers that autocratic government directives had real‑life consequences and he commended Jared for taking the time to delve deeper into the effects of this one.

We learn not only of increased jeopardy on our roads, he wrote, but also discover an insight into the lives of ordinary working folk, people like us. Do we have a new Steinbeck in our midst?

 

Jared was gratified by the attention he had received. He had succeeded in concealing the fact of his disability so far, assuming his hooks would attract irrelevant attention and detract from his message. He allowed himself a few days leisure, spending time online only to follow the widening effects of his prose. He filled his huge Oom Paul and fired it up after breakfast, enjoying the simple pleasure of pipe smoking again, satisfied with his skill at handling the butane lighter. He clenched the pipe in his teeth and allowed the bowl to rest on his chest until he removed it for a moment with his farmer’s hook. The combination of the enormous black pipe and the black socket of his artificial arm looked horny and Jared’s libido strengthened again after being ignored after he gained his stumps. He had tried jerking off with all his hooks and discovered the combination which worked most reliably. For the first time, Jared made it a habit not to remove his prostheses before he went to bed. With his farmer’s on the left and the non‑movable hook on the right, he learned the best way to manipulate his genitals, edging himself gradually toward orgasm, and how to move his short stumps for the most pleasurable sensations.

 

Chet announced he would be in Independence, Missouri to pick up a cargo which would take several hours and suggested Jared ride out to meet up. There was nothing Jared would have wanted more. He collected his bike and leathers from winter storage, inspected it to ensure the major components were still connected and set off for Independence. Jared had earned a gratifying amount of money from his article and related interviews and had a proposal for Chet which, if he was agreeable, might alter their working lives. Jared sped northwest from St Louis with the future and the image of his fellow amputee in mind.

 

Jared’s Kawasaki ate the miles. The flat landscape was as monotonous as ever but farmers would appreciate the vigorous growth of the young crop of corn. Jared had set his cruise control at fifty‑five, his worker’s hooks rested comfortably on the handlebar and a pleasant breeze penetrated his helmet. The traffic was sporadic, mostly contraflow semis hauling loads towards St Louis. If he had been in a truck, he would have gestured a greeting at the drivers. On his bike, it was wiser to keep both hooks firmly in front of him.

 

Ten weeks had passed since he and Chet had last seen each other. Jared’s article on the effect of new laws and regulations concerning haulage had been published in several lengths and had caused rising commotion in both political circles and publishing. Jared’s human approach and easy style encouraged reprints in a far wider range of newspapers and periodicals. He had been called a modern day Steinbeck, a commoner fighting for the rights of the common man against an overbearing legislation. It had been a huge surprise to discover the considerable percentage of physically disabled truckers who had personal concerns and worries beyond those imposed by the government. Jared had been toying with a few ideas with the intention of improving their lot but felt he understood too little about the everyday worries the profession encountered. His week long journey with Travis to California and back had been eye‑opening but not especially revealing.

 

Chet was alone this time. His sidekick freelanced between several drivers and was currently accompanying a double leg amputee driver on a long‑distance haul to Alaska. The driver’s semi was adapted to hand control and he drove without his below knee prosthetics for most of the day and it was the sidekick’s job to do the run‑around crossing the Canadian border and fetching a endless diet of cheeseburgers and coffee whenever the opportunity presented itself. Chet had read Jared’s article and heard it mentioned several times during meals in diners right across the country. He was hatching an idea which might interest Jared. It was probably too idealistic to be practical but Jared might have his own slant on it.

 

Having ridden for five hours, Jared paid closer attention to the GPS map on his phone. He had the street address and zip of the truck park where Chet was laid up and after explaining his business and giving Chet’s semi’s registration number to the truck park’s security guards, he was allowed in and circled in front of the many trucks parked up. Chet’s ancient cab stuck out like a sore thumb. Jared parked right in front of it, almost touching the rust‑speckled front fender, killed the engine, prised off his helmet and strode around to stare up at Chet, who had just finished a burger. He switched his stereo off and jumped down from the cab. They stared at each other for a few moments, taking in the changes in the other’s appearance. Jared’s dark beard rose high on his cheeks and darkened his neck, melding with his chest hair. Chet had allowed his sandy moustache to fill out. He brushed it to each side of his mouth and looked both untidy and impressive. He was training it, as best as he could with two hooks, to curl upwards. They both hugged, their artificial arms pointing in random directions.

            – It’s great to see you. Thanks for coming.

            – Good to see you too. A ride out here was just what I needed. A good reason to get out of the apartment.

            – Are you working on anything new?

            – Playing around with a few ideas. I’m sort of planning a piece about how small towns are being run down—you know, jobs disappearing, stores closing down, people moving away. What life is like for the people who can’t get out.

            – That sounds interesting. It would be a good follow‑up to On The Road Again.

            – Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. The only trouble is finding the burgs worst affected.

            – You should hitch a ride with a trucker. You’d see plenty of burgs where people are having to scratch out a living.

            – I guess so. Not a bad idea. Have you got a specific trucker in mind?

            – Ha! Jump in, Red. We’re going for a ride.

 

Chet hauled himself up into his worn driver’s seat, comfortable as a living room armchair. Jared walked his bike to the rear of the truck and joined Chet.

            – I thought we could go into town and have us some lunch.

            – Great idea. My treat.

The old semi rattled into life and Chet fired the engine, sending two parallel plumes of black exhaust into the still air. He drove slowly towards the exit and stopped to show his credentials to security.

            – Be back in a hour or so.

The guard saluted and the gate slid aside to allow passage. Chet worked through the gears, heaving on the steering wheel with both hooks and the truck gained speed on the straight road into the centre of Independence, Missouri. Chet knew of a restaurant on Lexington and parked up nearby on Walnut Street.

 

            – Where are you headed next, Chet? Anywhere interesting?

            – I been doing local runs for the past weeks. Seem to have gotten myself into a maze of short runs around the Midwest. Don’t often know where I’m gonna be on any given day but this Independence gig was sorted a coupla weeks ago. That’s why I gave you a call.

            – I’m glad you did. It’s good to see you again.

            – There’s another thing I’ve been thinking about and you’re the only person I could think of.

            – So what’s on your mind?

            – There’s been more attacks on single trucks. Few weeks ago, one of the crew was held up outside Tucson while the bandits emptied the trailer. Legless guy and he was pretty much helpless. They’d have taken the rig too, he reckons, but it’s all kitted out for hand operation and they couldn’t figure out how to work it.

            – That’s too bad. Is he OK now?

            – He’s OK. Bit shaken up and is battling with the insurance right now. But I was thinking that it would be real good if there was a way of letting other truckers know of risky routes in advance and maybe getting two or three trucks moving in convoy for better security across the desert.

            – Some sort of app, I guess. Feed in your route and schedule and location or whatever and see if other truckers turn up at a prearranged time.

            – Yeah, something like that. And then they all head off together keeping an eye out for each other. I reckon the amputee drivers would feel a lot better.

            – I guess so. So how do you want me to help?

            – You’re the only guy I know who knows how to use tech. I figured maybe you could make an app for us. Don’t have to be anything fancy.

 

Their server approached to enquire if everything was to their liking. Both men had ordered twelve ounce steaks, medium rare with French fries. The chef had sliced both steaks into a dozen pieces, as requested. It became finger food and the chef surreptitiously watched the two amputees manipulating their hooks to feed themselves without cutlery.

 

            – I don’t know, Chet. I’ve never made an app before. Maybe I could get AI to whip something into shape. Are you willing to try it out with me? I need someone to send test messages to, see?

            – Sure. Course I’ll help. And once we’ve got something working, I can show to other drivers and get their ideas.

            – That’s the way it works. Dev plus feedback. Tell you the truth, Chet. I need a break from thinking about my next story. It’ll be a welcome diversion.

 

As promised, Jared paid the bill. Chet left a generous tip. It was a good meal in good company. Chet drove them back to the truck park, where they continued chatting, touching often on the social repercussions of federal and local policies affecting the trucking industry.

            – It’s difficult to keep track of how the business is changing. The media never reports on matters which only impact on working folk. I’m sure I’d get better leads if I was closer to the subject.

            – If you want to do another tour like you did with Trapper, you only need to ask. You’re always welcome to accompany me for a ride west if you wanna meet other drivers. D’you ever hear from Travis these days?

            – Not really. He sometimes sends an email when he gets home to Kokomo but otherwise I never hear from him. We don’t keep in touch otherwise. But about joining you on a ride out west—I reckon I’d enjoy that. I could do some research for my article and find out what truckers think about your app before we start.

            – Great! Listen—I’m gonna look around for some long‑haul jobs outta the Midwest and as soon as I get something, I’ll let you know and you can come join me. How’s that sound?

            – It sounds great, Chet. Let’s do it.

 

Jared left Chet to resume his work at four o’clock. Chet had only to hitch his semi to a ready‑loaded trailer and haul it to Salina, Kansas. Then empty to Wichita and back to St Louis via Springfield. It would take a week. They agreed to meet again when Chet was back in town and Jared would join him on a long distance haul. Jared adjusted his hooks to align with his bike’s handlebar, forced his helmet onto his head and headed back home to St Louis. He opened a beer, fired up his laptop and began to type a detailed prompt for AI to digest. With luck, he would create an app for amputee truckers, letting them arrange convoys over the vast distances between the beating heart of America and the population centres on the coasts where customers lived.

 

Jared rarely used AI and had not tried to generate an app before. He was surprised by its simplicity. The AI itself made suggestions, some of them practical, some surreal or unnecessary. Jared wanted a system which outsiders could not access with ease. That way, bandits could not gain foreknowledge of convoys to lay in wait for a convoy piloted by amputee drivers, easily subdued with a little extra force. The AI gained access to the national commercial drivers’ licence register and suggested that only users who input a valid registry number should be granted permission to use the app. Jared thought it a good idea and prompted the addition of the disabled driver certificate number. It was as good an unbeatable combination as possible. After four hours work, Jared downloaded the first version as html and sent Chet a copy by email.

 

The app was simple enough. A driver could input his route and departure date and time. The app generated a code based on state name abbreviations and a three digit number. The coder could be displayed in the cab somehow so drivers for the same convoy could recognise each other. A tally of drivers would increment every time someone joined up for the relevant convoy. Settled in a Kansas City motel for the night, Chet played around with the app for a while. He thought highway numbers could be included for drivers who might join when the convoy was already under way. The app only provided information. It could not be used for communication. Chet wondered about the need for it. There were already enough communication channels available. He input his next prospective long distance route, from Missouri to California. The app shot back with MOCA 001. Maybe the app could generate its own display. Big white letters and numbers on a black background.

 

Chet typed a reply to Jared over breakfast the next morning with his suggestions. Jared generated a photo for the landing page showing a generic truck and trailer with the Stars and Stripes in the sky behind it. Boxes for the initial login were at the bottom of the screen followed by a warning that the ID had to be verified and might take a few minutes. The login system was as yet unactivated. The display generator worked perfectly. Jared imagined a trip from Florida to New York and got the code FLNY 011 in large Helvetica characters. Obviously Chet had been generating his own test codes. He sent Chet a copy of revision one and waited for further suggestions. He settled at his desk and continued researching sources for his article on rural economic decline until he realised that the app had no name. Let Chet come up with one! He sent a brief text and returned to the economy.

 

Chet was amused by Red’s request for a name. He rejected names which played on the idea of disability and a few which sounded like video games. It should be something memorable and short. The purpose of the app was not only to help drivers create convoys, it was also intended to wreck the likelihood of any bandit attacks succeeding. That was it! Wrecker! Or maybe it should be Wreckr. He thought it sounded macho enough and texted a one word message to Red.

 

Two days later, Jared submitted his work for approval to the app stores with a brief explanation of its purpose. He learned that a free app would have to feature advertising and a paid app would generate ten per cent for the hosting companies. He decided on an annual fee of four ninety‑nine and Wreckr 1.0 was available for download almost immediately. The next thing was to advertise it somehow, to let drivers know about it. He sent emails with links to the few drivers whose contact details he had, including Travis.

Chet parked in the giant truck park on the outskirts of St Louis. Red was already waiting for him, straddling his Kawasaki near the entrance to the diner, watching out especially for disabled drivers. He had printed fifty pages, each divided into quarters containing a brief description of how Wreckr worked and links to the app stores. Chet lowered himself from his cab and sauntered over. The decorative chrome chains dangling from his triceps cuffs caught the last of the afternoon sun, low on the horizon. He faced Red with a grin on his face, amused by Red’s old‑style marketing method.

            – How’s business?

            – Not too bad. Most people actually take it and read it. There ain’t any lying around on the forecourt either, so I guess that shows some kind of interest.

            – I think it’s brilliant. You just open it up and input your route and you can see immediately if there’s already a convoy forming or if you’re starting a new one. And you get the number so when you look around the truck park, you can see the trucks with the same number. It was a good idea to leave out the states, I reckon. Outsiders can’t guess the route that way. But enough of that. What do you want to do?

            – I thought I’d cook you a steak. I have a few beers on ice too. Interested?

            – You bet.

            – Jump on.

Chet glanced back at his truck, sure it was locked. He had paid for security until noon the next day. He and Red had the next eighteen hours together in the privacy of Red’s apartment. Red twisted his hooks into the driving position. Chet lifted himself onto the passenger seat and snuggled close to Red. He placed his beat‑up artificial arms around Red’s waist and squeezed tight as Red powered the machine into action and headed for the exit. Red could not feel much but Chet was leaning against Red’s back with his head askew, looking at a blur of passing evening traffic and admiring Red’s skilful mastery of the big bike.

 

Chet rarely spent time relaxing as someone’s guest in their home. It was a novelty and he gave it more significance than it deserved. Jared defrosted two steaks and grilled them with frozen French fries. It was as good a meal as any. Jared packed a bag with enough shirts and underwear to last a week or so, including two extra hooks and rubber bands. Chet watched and nodded his approval. You never knew what you were going to confront on the road. It was best to have a wide choice of tools for any job. He intended swapping out his left split hook next day for the large inert hook which Jared had given him. He preferred using it for driving long haul. It hooked firmly into the steering wheel adapter and stayed there effortlessly.

 

Chet insisted on helping to clear up the kitchen after their meal. Jared made a feeble protest.

            – Let me help. Many hands make light work, my grampa used to say.

            – Is he still around?

            – No. He passed years ago. Well before I got these.

He lifted his worn sockets to show what he had got. Jared grinned at him. Many hands. Yeah right. It occurred to Jared that they had both destroyed their hands around the same time. Chet had been an amputee only as long, give or take a few weeks, as Jared himself.

            – That’s a shame. What would he have said if he saw you now?

            – He’d prolly come out with some other old chestnut. Guess he’d be real sorry about me losing both hands.

Jared nodded. This was as good a time as any to discover more about each other’s experiences and attitudes towards their deliberate maiming.

            – How do you feel, Chet? Are you ever real sorry about losing ’em?

            – Gee, that’s a hard one, ain’t it? You know the frustration when you can’t open a bottle or a packet of snacks or when you have to do something which calls for your other set of hooks and have to spend ages trying to swap ’em over. That’s when you can lose your temper and get angry with yourself for being so blind even though you thought you could see your future as a man with hooks. But then you have days when everything turns out the way you want it. You’re have the right hooks, they do exactly what you need and maybe you have someone beside you lookin’ at them in amazement and you feel so goddamn proud of yourself. You look down at your sockets and all the paraphernalia, the straps and cables and hooks and think how beautiful they are and you fall in love with them all over again. That’s when it all feels worthwhile and makes sense all over again. You know that feeling?

            – I guess I do. You use your hooks much more than I do. I mean, you’re more reliant on having an operating pair of hooks than I am. All I do is sit over there at that table and type out my articles and stuff. Not very demanding. Not like you, driving your big truck around the country and fixing the loads, doin’ repairs on the road and that kind of heavy duty stuff. I mean, you can see from the state your sockets are in that they get some real heavy use.

            – What’s wrong with them? I reckon they look real pretty. Or they would be if I gave ’em a clean. But they’ve served me well for the past six years. They still fit real good and I like the way they’re so thick and heavy. They were only s’posed to be temporary. My learner pair, I guess. But when it was time for a pair of light carbon fibre arms like your’n, I said I’d prefer to keep these. I didn’t guess I’d still be wearin’ ’em all this time afterward. How about you, Red? Why d’ya ask? Are you ever sorry about havin’ hooks? I reckon you look real fine, a real city gentleman with a touch of the country boy about ya.

            – My hooks make me a country boy?

            – I reckon so, don’t you? Ya see a lot more guys with hooks on the farm than in downtown St Louis, that’s for sure.

            – Ha! I guess so. I’ve never considered it that way. It’s true. You’re more likely to see a guy like us somewhere away from the city. Maybe I am a country boy at heart.

            – Sure y’are. I’ve read your writin’. You set to carry on writin’ on the road, Red? Gonna bring ya laptop?

            – I think I will this time. I was relying on my camera last time when I was with Travis. It would have been easier if I’d had my laptop with me. Let’s see how it goes. Tell me about the route, Chet. Where we goin’?

            – We’re off to Californy, Red. City of Angels. They have a burnin’ need for some healthy home‑grown literature printed right here in St Louis. We’re haulin’ three tons of books to a warehouse, then drivin’ to the other side of town to pick up another trailer full of bathroom fittings for the good people of Seattle after their little earthquake. Rebuildin’ in style.

            – Are the roads open already?

            – The one I’m drivin’ is open. It’s only single lane for ten miles though.

            – How does that work if there’s no passing?

            – Half an hour traffic north‑south, half and hour south‑north. Simple.

            – They really got hit hard, didn’t they?

            – Sure but it weren’t the big one they’d been predictin’. They still have that to look forward to. Same for Vancouver but we won’t be goin’ that far.

            – It must be dangerous on the roads in the north west right now.

            – Guess so. That’s why your Wreckr’ll be a real boost if it catches on.

            – Thanks, Chet, but it’s as much yours as mine. It wouldn’t have worked without your ideas.

 

Talk continued after the kitchen was spotless and the men relaxed in Red’s small but comfortable living room. He had good furniture. The seats were broad and wide, comfortable to curl up on. The men gradually opened up about their pasts and revealed anecdotes intended only for the closest of friends. It was an enjoyable evening and both men were grateful to have an intelligent companion. They finally decided to call it a night. Chet insisted on sleeping on the couch. Both men would shower in the morning and stroll the kilometre or so back to the truck park before it got busy.

 

They slept well. Jared had been prepared to make room for Chet in his bed but Chet had been adamant that the couch was fine and Jared did not want to press the point. They had not spoken about their sexuality. Jared assumed Chet was straight. He himself was as asexual as it was possible to be. He was aroused only by seeing stumps and prosthetic limbs in connection with the usual erotica. He had learned to suppress his homosexual desires and lost any desire to feel a man’s stubble and run his fingers through thick black chest hair before gripping an insistent penis in his hands, ready to obey his partner’s wishes and demands. His arm stumps were not up to the job and he gradually lost interest in physical sex. He still loved to see men overcoming amputations and their prosthetic limbs, especially, naturally enough, men like himself relearning to live without hands.

 

Chet awoke first and walked naked around the apartment with morning wood, looking at the collection of personal items Red had on display. He read the titles on books standing on the set of shelves dominating one wall and would have pried one or two out for closer examination except for his lack of hands. Chet’s stumps were little more than a third of his former forearms. He heard a sound from Red’s bedroom. The man was awake. Chet stood frozen to the spot, like a thief caught in a torch beam although he had been doing nothing wrong. He was acutely conscious of his erection but could not reach it to cover it. But neither could Red, who appeared moments later similarly encumbered, naked.

            – Ah! I didn’t know you were up. I have to piss, sorry.

Red kicked the bathroom door halfway closed and sat on the wc seat. He called out.

            – Do you wanna shower with me?

Chet ran a stump across his eyes and mouth.

            – Sure!

Jared enjoyed the luxury of a large shower stall. The plumbing had been adapted for his use. Chet stepped in carefully beside him, unsure of his footing. He placed his stumps on Jared’s waist for support. Warm water rained down.

            – Hold on and I’ll wash your face. Lift your stumps.

Jared squirted soap from a plastic bottle and lathered Chet’s armpits with his stumps. Then across his chest and down to his genitals. Without asking, Jared bent over far enough to reach Chet’s cock and balls and kneaded them carefully with more soap.

            – OK, my turn.

Chet returned the favour and used his shorter stumps to clean Jared. He was much closer to Red’s cock and balls. They were a fine set, a nicely proportioned penis. Chet wondered if Red actually used it for anything. He had been ready for some physical contact the previous evening but the subject had not arisen. Since his maiming, his sex life had more or less ended. He enjoyed gay sex with a gentle man, someone who could find pleasure in the caress of a short arm stump instead of the power of a masculine hand. Jared turned the shower off and stepped out, reaching for a clean bath towel for Chet.

            – Do you want coffee before we leave? I thought we could buy some breakfast at a diner.

            – Coffee would be grand. Let me help.

            – OK.

They both dressed as far as they could without donning their hooks. Jared intended wearing his western clothes again, including the handsome white cowboy hat Travis had bought him. He had bought a less conspicuous pair of western boots, burgundy brown with square toes and medium heels which he occasionally wore at home. White T‑shirts on, both donned their artificial arms and continued dressing, hooking onto belt loops in their jeans to pull them up and shoving their prostheses into the short sleeves of plaid western shirts. Jared made two mugs of strong mocca and combed his full beard before it dried into an untidy frizz.

 

Everything was ready. Jared made sure his apartment was locked securely and the two men ambled along the cool dusty streets towards the truck park, a twenty minute walk. They both ordered subs with chicken and looked around for some indication of Wreckr in use. Nothing. Chet tapped St Louis Los Angeles and the date and departure time into the app and discovered to his and Red’s surprise that the route had already been allocated. MOCA 027. The departure time was half an hour later than Chet had planned but it would make no difference. They could wait for a partner, but who was it? Chet accepted the allocation and the count of vehicles in the convoy jumped to two. Jared took out his notebook and wrote the number with a fat felt‑tip pen which fitted his hook. He held his notebook up to display the number.

            – Hey guys! Who’s on route 027?

Truckers interrupted their breakfasts to stare at the guy calling out. Handsome guy in a white stetson and jeebus! He had two hooks. Someone from the far end of the diner next to the window called back.

            – Over here! I’m headed for Anaheim.

Jared and Chet strolled over with their subs to introduce themselves. Other truckers returned to their food, keeping an eye on what was going on. Jared thought he recognised 027 from somewhere but could not remember where or why. The man was tall and muscular. A pair of long aluminium crutches rested against his seat.

            – We found you on Wreckr. Looks like there’s only us two right now.

            – We might pick up a few more on the way. Everyone’s talking about this app and tryin’ it out.

            – Really? That’s great. I can see one problem with it, though. How people in the same convoy can recognise each other.

            – I don’t reckon that’s such a problem. If the app says the departure time, that’s when everyone leaves. You can soon enough work out who’s drivin’ with ya.

            – True enough, I guess. I still think we should come up with a way of recognising each other.

            – Some kind of a badge, you mean?

            – That would be one way of doing it. Shall have to think about it.

            – Why’s it your problem?

            – Oh! I developed Wreckr. I invented it. Well, me and Chet here.

            – Doggone! Well, I’m mighty proud to meet yas. I’m Larry. Legless Larry. And I’m just about ready. I suggest if you’re set, we head on out.

            – Sure. Let’s go.

 

Legless Larry lifted his prosthetic leg into the gangway and reached for his crutches. With a hefty push, he rose and simultaneously kicked his stump to lock his leg. He leaned against both crutches and balanced himself before carefully transferring his weight onto them. Jared and Chet moved back to give him room and Jared remembered where he had seen the man before. Travis had called attention to him in a diner somewhere as he departed. Larry lifted himself into motion and his artificial leg emitted the same squeaks and creaks they had heard before when he crutched past. True to his name, Larry was legless. The prosthesis was attached to a stump two thirds the length of his left thigh. His right leg had been disarticulated from the pelvis leaving him without even a short stump. Standing six foot three on a single artificial leg, he was a commanding sight, admired for his tenacity and popular because of his humour and intelligence. He had been a physics teacher until he discovered that driving a truck would earn him twice as much. A year into his new profession, he had lost his legs in a pile‑up in fog but was back on the road in a new adapted rig paid for by insurance on a short peg leg and crutches. As soon as his stump was robust enough, he had a flesh‑coloured artificial leg made with traditional mechanical fittings and had it serviced twice a year. He had worn the same leg now for over ten years and it both showed and sounded its age. Larry creaked across the forecourt to his truck, already hitched to a trailer.

 

            – We have to go by the printing house to collect our load. It won’t take long. Whyn’t ya leave now without waiting for us and we’ll catch up after a few miles.

            – Sounds good. I’ll wait here for ten minutes. I have a coupla emails to see to first. I’ll see you on the road.

 

Larry threw his crutches into his cab and hauled himself up with his arms. Jared and Chet continued along the row of trucks, reduced in number as drivers started their day. Chet made a brief inspection of his rig, checked fuel and oil levels and eased the old truck towards the exit. The route to the printing house was familiar enough. It was a fairly regular run for him. Chet checked his paperwork with the customer and signed off on his load. He reversed his rig slowly to connect with the trailer, manually adjusted the air line and checked the locking mechanism. Everything appeared in order and the long haul across to California could begin.

 

Larry had a custom‑made seat to accommodate his empty right pelvis. He was equally comfortable wearing his prosthetic leg or baring his stump. This early in the morning, less than two hours after donning it, there was little point in removing it. It rested on its heel on the cab floor, which was totally bereft of foot pedals. He drove using hand controls on a console in the middle of his steering wheel. Everything was electronic and automated as far as possible. The rig was eight years old, could haul seventeen tonnes over Donner Pass and was the apple of Larry’s eye. He kept its metallic blue bodywork gleaming and the extensive chrome was always spotless. Five magnum led headlights across the top of the cabin could throw enough light to illuminate not only the road ahead but also the immediate vicinity on both sides for over a hundred metres. Out of his line of sight, a sheet of foolscap bearing the number 027 was taped to the inside windscreen.

 

Larry left his radio on. Chet and Red were sending progress reports every few minutes. Passing through Junction City, Chet announced he was three miles away, closing in fast. Larry dropped his speed from fifty to forty.

 

Chet caught sight of Larry’s trailer with its big green and yellow logo ten minutes later. Cars overtook them on their left, taking advantage of new speed restrictions which allowed self‑driven autos to maintain ninety on rural highways. Traffic was sparse on the two lane highway this far from town. Farmland gradually metamorphosed into scrub as the elevation continually increased. Far in the distance, Larry spotted a white pick‑up truck making its way towards the road. He thought nothing of it until it pulled onto the road, blocking it. Someone in trouble? No. It looked like a hijack. Larry stopped and called Chet on the radio.

            – Looks like we got ourselves some trouble up ahead. There’s a pickup just parked up across the road. Reckon they saw me comin’.

            – Jesus! How close are they?

            – Quarter mile, I guess.

            – Wait for us to get there. If we run together in parallel, d’ya reckon they might clear the road if they see two of us?           

            – It’s worth a try. There’s no way I wanna try turning back.

 

Chet stopped his rig next to Larry, blocking the outside lane. Jared wound his window down and the drivers considered their options. The hijackers had no reason to believe that the two rigs now clearly visible were piloted by disabled drivers who would be at a severe disadvantage if attacked with any force. Neither truck carried firearms, although Larry had a taser and pepper spray, neither of which he wanted to use in his cab. Chet and Jared had nothing more than their hooks, which they knew could inflict the same damage as a pair of knuckledusters in a physical fight.

            – Are you ready to try? I suggest we get enough speed up to make it obvious we ain’t stoppin’. They either get off the road or they get bulldozed. What d’ya reckon?

            – Worth a try. Forty should be enough, right? Any more than that and we’ll be in trouble ourselves. Strap yourself in, Larry. This might get hairy.

            – Will do.

On Larry’s signal, both rigs lurched forward and accelerated towards the pick‑up truck blocking their path. Chet deliberately sent two plumes of black smoke billowing from his exhausts as a signal that they were not slowing. The four hijackers in the pickup had not expected to deal with two trucks, nor had they expected to be challenged. They argued frantically among themselves and pulled and pushed the driver, preventing him from gripping the steering wheel. He stretched himself and floored the accelerator, uselessly spinning the wheels. They suddenly gripped the asphalt and the pick‑up shot forward, clipped by Chet’s chunky front fender causing the pick‑up to roll onto its roof and come to a dusty stop in a gully.

 

            – Well, looks like we cleared that one. You guys wanna stop for a coffee at the next diner?

            – Sure. You OK?

            – Reckon so. Thanks to you guys.

 

Miss Lizzy’s Diner was an hour down the road. Chet was following Larry three hundred yards behind and saw his left indicator flashing in the enclosing dusk. They had been driving for eleven hours and it was time for a meal and a spell outside the cabs. They pulled in and parked up next to each other well away from the front of the diner. Jared recognised the name but was unsure whether it was the same place he had visited with Travis or another version of the same chain. Chet was busy reversing, changing gears and swinging the steering wheel with his enormous hook. He cut the engine and they sat for a moment, appreciating the sudden silence and their luck in avoiding trouble an hour or so before. Larry extended his artificial leg from his cabin and lowered himself carefully to the ground. He reached back to collect his crutches and the two handless truckers jumped out to join him. They were watched by other truckers caught by the oncoming evening, sorry not to have made it further but grateful to be in a warm friendly place with other men in a similar situation. Two amputee customers, both wearing artificial legs, took in the one‑legged man swinging his way towards them, accompanied by two strangers, who, by god, both had steel hooks. What had Legless Larry got himself into this time?

 

The trio enter Miss Lizzy’s and savoured the hearty smell of a busy diner. Coffee and bacon and men. Chet disengaged his big hook from the door as Larry passed him, calling out to familiar faces. Jared soaked in the welcoming atmosphere, surprised by the immediate camaraderie. Being a stranger himself, he was the centre of attention. Chet was familiar to many, raising a hook to greet men grinning at him. They turned their attention to his white‑hatted companion, kitted out with the same kind of hooks. Who was he? Some guy hitching on the road? They would find out.

 

Jared was keen to spread the word about Wreckr, especially as it had been instrumental in preventing a hijacking earlier in the day. He decided to play it cool. It was inevitable that a few of Chet’s colleagues would stop by their table to shoot the breeze. He could mention it then. With luck, word would get around. He had expected it to be slow‑going at the beginning, and it was.

 

Larry turned out to be their best proponent. As familiar faces stopped to catch up on news, he mentioned the afternoon’s threat and how he and Chet had dealt with it. And they were only together because of the new Wreckr app. Larry good‑naturedly insisted his trucker friends download it before they left the diner. Jared was pleased to see that his GPS tracking modification was working. Convoy 027 was marked on the map at Miss Lizzy’s location and the count had risen to three. One of the truckers present had decided to join them westward. Jared asked the others what time they might be moving out in the morning and carefully tapped seven thirty into the departure field. He used both hooks to widen the map and was pleased to see fifteen other convoys highlighted with their code numbers heading both in their direction and eastbound to Chicago and New York. St Louis had three convoys set for departure next morning. It was what Jared had hoped to see and, rather than pride, he felt a sense of accomplishment and burgeoning entry to a new community.

 

The two trucks were parked parallel to each other off to one side of Miss Lizzy’s. After spending too long inside, they returned to their cabs after ten and began to settle for the night and an early awakening. Chet’s cab was smaller than what Jared had become used to with Travis. Chet had a narrow bunk behind the front seats which he used when there was no motel room available. Jared settled himself into the front passenger seat and slept sitting up for six hours.

 

Legless Larry knocked on their cab door soon after six. Jared peered out to see him grinning up at him, accompanied by a stranger a few years older leaning on a cane. Jared glanced around at Chet to see if he had been disturbed and used both stumps to open the door.

            – Morning. Did you sleep there all night?

            – Yeah. Good morning.

            – Time to get up. I found our new addition to the convoy, or more accurately, he found me.

            – Yeah. I saw the convoy number on Larry’s windscreen and kept an eye on the cab until he got up. Thought I’d introduce myself. Mike Hackman, trucker, bound for Santa Fe. Thought I might join you after hearing about the hijack yesterday.

            – Good to meet you. Were you on the Wreckr app?

            – Yeah, I was. It’s real neat. Should have been done years ago.

Chet’s voice came from the rear of the cab.

            – Who’re ya talkin’ to? Ah, is it mornin’ already? Whassa time?

            – Ten past six. Larry’s come to take us to breakfast. And he has company.

Chet scrabbled on the floor to find his hooks before making an appearance. He struggled to don his equipment in the meagre space and squeezed into the front of the cab, where he sat in the driver’s seat wearing only his shorts. He could see Larry and Mike standing outside and raised a hook in greeting.

            – Give me five minutes to get decent and I’ll join you for breakfast. Red, whyn’t ya go on ahead?

            – OK. See you in a bit.

Jared pushed his feet into his western boots and jumped out of the cab. The three men left Chet to dress and visit the john.

 

He joined them when they were halfway through their bacon and eggs. Mike held out a hand to shake Chet’s hook.

            – You don’t often see two hook users together. You a team, or what?

            – Just friends. I write for a living and I thought I’d catch a ride with Chet to see a few things which might give me some ideas.

            – To get inspiration, like? I getcha. You wouldn’t be writin’ about limbless truckers, by any chance? I reckon us four could give you a few ideas.

            – Are you an amp too, Mike?

            – Sure am. Right leg, above the knee. Car wreck twenty years ago. Don’t let it slow me down none.

Mike’s truncated sentences explained everything. He had distilled his amputation story into a few words after hundreds of retellings. Jared was inevitably reminded of Travis who sported the same configuration.

            – You don’t happen to drive long‑distance with your leg off, do you?

            – You betcha. I always drive wearin’ these cut‑off jeans to get some air on my stump.

Jared glanced under the table to see what Mike meant. His meat leg was in a full‑length jeans leg, his steel prosthesis fully visible with the frayed jeans leg ripped off at the knee. He was wearing a scuffed pair of Timberlands.

            – I’ll kick the leg off soon as we get goin’.

Chet’s meal arrived and he manipulated a fork from one hook to the other until he could use it. Mike watched him with interest. He had naturally enough met many arm amputees on the road over the years but they had always been one‑armed men, usually with a bare stump. It was unusual to meet a trucker with two artificial arms, even more so seeing this pair with their different sockets. The older guy’s sockets looked real beat‑up, scratched and half‑covered in torn stickers. The young guy’s sockets were black, the same stuff as his own thigh socket. Mike looked away, grateful to have only lost a leg. He did not believe he would have recovered from losing even one hand.

 

Half an hour later, their three trucks roared into motion, one after the other. Mike led, then Chet and finally Larry. The road ahead was empty and promised an easy run as far as the California state line. But there were dangers. The presence of two other rigs provided considerable peace of mind to all three drivers. Jared opened his phone to check on Wreckr. It was difficult to operate the screen with a single hook. Jared was gratified to see one or two new convoys and that the system which he had coaxed artificial intelligence into coding was working reliably.

 

They rolled steadily west, rising into the foothills of the Rockies in late afternoon, slowing to negotiate roads which could be treacherous even in good weather. Mike chose a route through New Mexico, knowing a secure truck park in Albuquerque where they could rest up for the night after a decent dinner. There were no further threats on this leg of the trip, although any parked vehicles ahead by the side of the road caused additional concern. They had usually turned out to be camper vans parked near impromptu trailer parks within easy driving distance of a small burg. Sky‑high rents drove more and more city dwellers to abandon urban life for simpler, cheaper ways of living on the outskirts and beyond. Jared noticed the new phenomenon of well‑kept commuter cars parked up under solar panels to recharge beside weather‑beaten trailer homes. They were a sign that a new kind of population was emerging with far‑reaching social implications.

 

Mike announced his plan to lay up in Albuquerque to Chet and Larry, who agreed fully. They had skipped lunch in order to make good time and everyone was weary and hungry. The rigs backed slowly into a suitable corner of the truck park within easy walking distance of the washroom and diner. Several minutes passed while Mike and Larry donned their artificial legs in their cabs. Larry found donning his long prosthesis sufficiently awkward in the cramped space available that, not wanting to further delay the others, he reached back and retrieved his stubby and a pair of short crutches from a storage space under his bunk. The black carbon stubby slid easily onto his stump. Larry closed the vacuum valve and lowered himself to the ground. Six inches of black carbon poked out of his shorts. He checked his crutches for length and stumped across to the diner where his colleagues waited for him. He was an odd sight. Jared was as intrigued by the short figure swinging a single cylindrical peg leg as the latter had been at breakfast by his and Chet’s bilateral hooks. Jared was proud to be associated with such indefatigable men who went about their daily business in the most unusual of circumstances. Chet had swapped his worker’s hook for the big inert hook before they set off in the morning and was still wearing it. Its unconventional appearance attracted attention which Chet found gratifying. The big hook was his most conspicuous attribute and almost completely useless at dinner.

 

The four men found a recently vacated empty booth strewn with used crockery and settled themselves. Larry lifted himself, seeking a comfortable position for his carbon‑clad stump. He found it difficult to balance without his prosthetic leg when seated. A server appeared and apologised for the mess on the table. He was a fresh‑faced teenager, probably earning a few dollars after school. He piled the plates up and hurried to the kitchen with a promise to fetch the menu on his return. He handed one of the laminated menus to each man and was startled to see that both the younger men had hooks. They were his most reliable turn‑on. His penis sprang into immediate action and tented in his left pants leg. Fortunately his apron hid it. He felt weak, like just before an orgasm. He had never seen a man wearing two hooks before. Now there were two of them. He wanted to stand and stare at them, watching how the hooks opened and closed and how the horny artificial arms moved. He waited for the men to decide on what to order and noticed the huge steel hook on Chet’s left arm. It looked amazing. With a sudden grunt of surprise, he came in his pants and turned away in embarrassment. All four customers looked up at him, knowing well enough what had just happened and amused by the kid’s discomfort. The server made a commendable effort to regain his composure and smiled wanly at the tabletop, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes. Chet broke the silence.

            – Was it our hooks?

The server glanced at the man’s smirk and dropped his eyes. He nodded helplessly.

            – Thought so. It’s OK. Go and see to yourself while we make up our minds.

 

The boy almost curtsied and hurried off to swab the cum from his pants. The four men roared with laughter. Another server took their orders and brought their food. The handsome devotee appeared again after a short interval but stayed on the other side of the diner. He wanted to see the arm amputees again and stare at their hooks while they ate their steaks, fantasising about how it would feel if he had hooks too. Putting artificial arms on over his arm stumps every morning and going about his life wearing steel hooks in place of his hands. Studying, skateboarding, cycling. The image of the guy with the big steel hook was burned into his imagination forever.

 

Jared briefly considered touring the diner from table to table to advertise Wreckr but decided against it after first checking the app and seeing more new convoys marked on the map view than he had expected. It seemed that word was getting out some other way, probably by drivers telling each other and demonstrating the app on their own phones. It was great that there was a demand. He might never get rich from the downloads but it was gratifying to contribute to the safety of men like those with whom he now shared a table. Men like himself. It was warm in the diner and he had been wearing his prostheses for fourteen hours. His stumps were sweaty and his liners probably stank. It was one of the inevitable consequences of using hooks. He needed someone to wash his liners for him, although he could manage to wash his stumps easily enough. Maybe the handsome server who had cum in his pants might like to help. Jared looked around for him and saw him exiting the kitchen carrying two plates. The boy looked over at their table as he did every time he faced in that direction. Jared raised a hook and beckoned him over.

 

            – Hi! Listen, I need some help with something and I was wondering if you could take a break for ten minutes or so. I don’t know who else I could ask.

The boy was equally confused and intrigued.

            – OK. I’ll have to tell my super. Can you wait a coupla minutes?

            – Sure. No rush. Tell the super the customer specifically asked for you, OK?

The boy nodded and went back towards the kitchen.

            – Time we got some shut‑eye, I reckon. Red, come over to the truck when you’ve done your laundry.

            – Ha! OK, I’ll see you there.

The boy returned with a determined smile on his face. Jared stood with him while Chet left swinging the large heavy hook and Mike slid out revealing his cut‑off jeans and prosthetic leg. The boy’s eyes widened and he tried to avert his gaze. He had already embarrassed himself once. Larry grabbed his short crutches and used the tabletop to reach the edge of the seat, swinging his short fat peg leg around and lowering himself onto it. The boy’s jaw dropped as Larry hooked the crutches into his armpits and stumped along the gangway to the door, where Mike stood waiting for the legless colleague. Jared was impressed by the boy’s restraint, although he noticed that he was trembling.

            – I don’t know your name. I’m Jared.

            – Ah, I’m Jack Weissman. Jack.

            – Nice to meet you. Well Jack, the problem is this. The liners on my stumps need washing and I can’t do it myself so I wondered if you’d be interested in helping me with it. We need to go to the men’s room, I guess.

            – OK, sure. Er, this way.

 

Jared followed Jack to the men’s washroom and checked to see if there were facilities sufficient to wash a pair of liners. There were. A choice of paper towels and a hot air dryer. Hooks on the wall.

            – This’ll do fine. Do you want to help? Take my shirt off first.

Jack faced Jared and undid the buttons on the front of Jared’s short‑sleeved shirt. Jared turned and allowed Jack to remove the shirt from the artificial arms. He hung it up.

            – Next come the hooks. Have you ever seen a pair of hooks before, Jack?

            – Er, no. Not close to like this.

            – How do you like them?

            – Ah, they look fine.

            – They look more than fine, I reckon. You really like them, don’t you? It’s OK. I understand. Take a good look. You can touch them if you want. Go ahead!

Jared’s tone was calm and honest. He was providing an opportunity for Jack to acquaint himself with the prosthetic equipment which the boy obviously fetishised. Jared knew the mindset only too well. He lifted his hooks for Jack’s inspection.

            – You know how these work, don’t you? You can see how the cables are attached to the ring on the harness. I just need to shrug my shoulder, like this, and the hook opens. I’m lucky because I still have my elbows otherwise life would be a lot more difficult.

 

Jack took Jared’s hooks into his hands and felt their curved surfaces between his fingers. Jared opened them so Jack could feel the rubberised inner surfaces.

            – Mind your fingers. I’m closing my hooks.

Jack groaned again. What wonderful words! I’m closing my hooks. If only…

            – OK. Now I want you to grab hold of the ring on my back and lift it up slowly over my head, OK?

Jack nodded and did as asked. Jared raised his prostheses and the ring came over his head with the harness drooping over his chest.

            – Now all you need to do is hold onto my sockets and pull until the hooks come off. It’s alright. You can’t break them.

Jack grasped both sockets and pulled gently and then more forcefully. The sockets slid over Jared’s stumps until Jack was left holding two artificial arms.

            – Hang them up with my shirt, will you? Next we have to get my liners off. You need to roll the top edge forward and then roll the liner off. Do you know what I mean?

            – Yeah. I’ve seen this on YouTube.

Jack placed both liners into a wash basin.

            – Now if you could use some soap and hot water to clean the liners inside and out. That’s the bit I can’t do with my stumps. How do you like my stumps, by the way?

Jared held his stumps out and twisted them back and forth. Jack looked at them enviously.

 

            – They’re… beautiful.

            – I think so too. I’m guessing you’d like a pair too. Am I right?

Jack looked guilty. His fetish was no secret anymore but this stranger, this kind man seemed to understand.

            – It’s OK if you do. Like I said, I understand. I’m pleased with the way my stumps turned out. They’re long enough to be useful for using my hooks and short enough to make me disabled when I’m not wearing them. I get to choose. Disabled or not.

            – Did you want to be disabled?

            – What are you asking, Jack? Do you want to know if I wanted my hands off?

Jack was uncertain how to answer, not wishing to cause offence. He looked Jared straight in the eyes for the first time, man to man, and held his gaze while he composed his thoughts.

            – I think your stumps are great. They’re beautiful. I’ve always wanted to have hooks of my own. I think I’d do anything if I could have my own hooks. I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad.

            – No need to be sorry, Jack. I know what you mean. That’s how I felt too.

            – Really? You mean you wanted hooks?

            – Yup!

            – God! So how did you get them? Oh, please tell me! Honest, I’ll do anything.

            – I’m not sure I should. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. How are those liners? Are they clean?

            – I think so.

            – Yeah. Dry ’em with a paper towel but don’t rub ’em.

            – OK.

 

Jared wondered whether to tell Jack about freezing his hands to destroy them in favour of hooks. The aftermath of his maiming was still raw in his mind. The hatred and threats he had got after his amputations became known publicly were more traumatic than the maiming itself. Jack dabbed at each liner, inside and out. Jared decided not to don them again this evening. He could wear his arms without liners for a couple of hours.

            – Thanks, Jack. You’ve been a great help. Would you like to wash my stumps too? Or see how I wash them?

            – I’d like to see how you wash them.

            – OK. Stand back. This usually gets messy.

Jared knocked at the faucet until a modest stream of water ran out. He allowed liquid soap to dribble onto his left stump and rubbed his stumps together, using the tips to lather further up his arms. Jack watched, fascinated by the truncated arms. Jared rinsed them of soap and asked Jack to pat them dry with towels again.

            – If I tell you how I got my stumps, do you promise not to try yourself without having someone else’s help?

            – Ah, OK. I promise.

            – Good. I believe you. It’s too dangerous to try without someone being there to call for help if something goes wrong. You might pass out from pain or get too cold. See, I froze my hands in dry ice. I waited until my hands and wrists were frozen solid and then I went to the hospital with two blocks of ice. There was nothing the surgeon could do except amputate.

Jared lifted his stumps again to show Jack the results.

            – Can you hold the sockets for me? I want my hooks now.

            – How long did it take?

            – About seven hours. There was more tissue damage than I expected so my stumps are a bit shorter than what I planned but it’s alright. They’re long enough to use hooks with. And that’s the main thing for me. Hooks instead of hands. That’s what I wanted. I wasn’t really as interested in the stumps.

            – That’s what I want to do. I want a pair of hooks like yours. I want stumps like yours. They’re really cool.

            – Look, Jack. It’s a life‑changing event. You’d be an invalid, disabled for the rest of your life and helpless without artificial arms. Oh, you might be able to use your bare stumps for a few things but they’re not really very useful. Is that what you want?

            – Yes! More than anything. Honest to god. I’ll do anything.

            – OK. We’ll have to keep this secret from everyone. I don’t want word to get out. I’ll help you if you decide to go ahead with it but it won’t be soon. I want you to finish school first and then we’ll see what the future holds.

            – Really? Do you mean it?

            – Yes. I really mean it. I know how much you like the idea of being an amputee—you remember what happened earlier when you saw our hooks when you came for our orders, right?

            – Yeah. I’m sorry.

            – Don’t be. When you have your own hooks, you’ll gradually stop having enormous hard‑ons every time you see them. It’s quite a relief, let me tell you. You’d better give me your phone number so we can keep in touch. I don’t know when I’ll be in Albuquerque again.

Jack sent a message to Jared’s phone number, which he dictated. Jared replied, revealing his number in turn.

            – Right. Thanks for your help, Jack. You’d better get back to work now. Remember what I said about trying by yourself. Don’t do it.

            – No, I won’t. If you help me, I promise to wait.

            – Good. Come on. Let’s go.

 

Jack Weissman returned to work in a vastly improved mood. He had been forgiven for cumming in his pants and reassured that it was quite understandable. And one of the truckers had promised to help him get stumps of his own as soon as he graduated. That was next summer. He imagined himself serving customers in the diner using a pair of steel hooks and felt yet another erection starting. Jared joined Chet in the old truck and resigned himself to sleeping another night sitting upright in the passenger seat.

 

Jared looked around for Jack the next morning at breakfast but he was nowhere to be seen. He had given some thought to the enormity of helping someone mutilate themselves. It would probably lead to criminal prosecution if the secret ever got out. He thought back to his own freezing process, trying to remember if any of the medical team had shown any interest in discovering the reason for Jared’s injuries. He did not believe anyone had. He was relieved and satisfied with the way his arms had been reconfigured. As he had mentioned to Jack, he had not been so concerned about the final shape of his stumps. The main point of the exercise was to provide the opportunity to wear hooks. Jared could also remember the erotic feelings he experienced with his boyfriend after he returned from the hospital boasting two stumps. Then everything had fallen apart and he had to escape back to his mother’s home in Wyoming. Jared was determined not to allow anything similar to happen to Jack, whom he felt was very much a kindred spirit sharing the same urge to acquire artificial arms and become a successful bilateral amputee. Although he had warned Jack about the severity of his potential maiming, Jared personally disregarded labels such as disabled, crippled, disfigured. Even buck naked, he liked the symmetry of his body and his stumps.

 

The journey west continued. Mike left the convoy first, wishing his travelling companions good luck. Larry turned off for Anaheim an hour later, leaving Chet and Jared to brave the late afternoon Los Angeles traffic. They had not succeeded in making their destination that day and would lay up overnight in a secure truck park, actually the same one where Jared had spent a night in Travis’s company. It was where Travis had insisted that Jared wear the heavy pair of worker’s hooks which they had bought in Anaheim. Jared rarely used them, preferring the smaller and lighter standard hooks which he had become completely familiar with. Despite that, he had brought them with him on this trip in case he needed a manly grip.

 

They enjoyed another steak and fries in the diner, washed down with a couple of beers. Chet had replaced his large driving hook with a standard one and felt like he had regained the use of his arm. Both of them opened Wreckr to see the current situation. There were convoy markers on both coasts but none where they currently sat. They were too weary to circulate, socialising and persuading other truckers to download the app. Despite that, Chet initiated a new northbound convoy, number 221, for the next day and estimated that it might join Highway 210 East in Pasadena at midday.

            – We ought to work out a way for trucks in the convoys to let other drivers know they’re on the same route. You know, something like a destination board front and back like on a bus. Something you could see at a distance on the road.

            – I know. I’ve been thinking about that too. But that would cost money and anything on the back of a trailer would have to be removed and reattached every time. Give it some time, Red. I reckon someone will come up with a solution to that little problem before long.

 

There was far less interaction between drivers in this huge truck park. There were truckers from all over the country, many of them Spanish‑speaking, and less relaxed camaraderie compared with stops in the mid‑West. Their disabilities attracted less attention and no‑one recognised Chet. They tarried for half an hour, talking about inconsequentialities. They went for a quick wash and brush up before retiring to Chet’s cab, where they spent a quiet hour or two before shucking their artificial arms and settling down for a noisy night, disturbed by truck movements and the shrieks of airbrakes.

 

Jared had not been sure what kind of relationship might grow from this impromptu trek with Chet. He had become inured to a life without pysical contact and no longer sought a sexual relationship with another like‑minded man. But he had been prepared for some kind of closeness with Chet. Their physical attributes were immediate clues to the possibility of forging a closer relationship but Chet had shown no sign of approaching Jared for love or anything more physical. Jared knew it was not because they did not synch together. They got on well enough, chatting during the long stretches across the interminable tedium of the American west. They were good friends. But there was nothing more. Chet was now hauling a load of bathroom fixtures northward to Seattle. The bill had stated nothing more than ‘faucets’. Chet assured Red that he would detour via St Louis on the return east.

            – It’s the least I can do, Red. I don’t know where I might be goin’ after Seattle and if it’s the east coast, you might never get home again.

            – Thanks, Chet. I know it’s not exactly the shortest route but at least there are decent roads along the way and there’s less risk of hijacks east of St Louis. Too much traffic, Wreckr convoys or not.

 

Five drivers had used their intuition and Wreckr to join the convoy in Pasadena. Chet led the pack at an average of forty‑five through parched vineyards and pulled into a diner once again at seven in the evening. Chet backed into a vacant space and jumped down from his cab. He leaned against it on one hook with the other resting on his hip. Jared stood beside him, hooks locked in front of his crotch. One by one the following trucks pulled in alongside, their drivers saluting Chet in thanks for escorting them safely so far in good time. One by one, the drivers switched off their lights and descended from their cabs. One young guy looked around at his surroundings until he discovered that the leading team were disabled, whereupon he concentrated his entire attention on the pair’s hooks. Behind him, another senior driver and his side‑kick lurched along in a parody of disability. They were both wearing artificial legs and neither made any effort to walk naturally. They greeted the trio of convoy truckers and turned to watch the last of the trucks disgorge its driver.

 

A peg leg extended first from the cab and found purchase on a step halfway to the ground. The driver held onto grab bars along the door frame and lowered his right peg leg to touch the ground. He was wearing western gear including a black leather cowboy hat and black leather gloves. He lifted both hands and slammed the rig’s door shut and teetered on his peg legs to face the four men staring at him. He raised a hand and swung his pegs in a comfortable regular rhythm towards them. Jared thought the man must surely have wanted to lose his legs as insistently as he wad wanted to lose his hands. Nothing else could explain the accommodation to extreme disability which he watched in admiration. He had never seen anyone walk on two peg legs before, neither would he have believed it possible. The guy was about thirty, more or less his age. The rubber tips of his pegs kicked up tiny dust clouds with each step.

            – Hi! Thanks fer waiting for me. I know I’m not the quickest on ma feet. How d’ya do? I’m Chuck. Chuck Manson. How d’ya do.

The other drivers introduced themselves to each other and the entire group made their way at Chuck’s modest speed into the diner and settled themselves into a red leather booth.

 

            – How did you manage to find the convoy, Steve?

Steve was one of the older truckers riding with his sidekick, more or less his own age.

            – We was in Phoenix and there was a guy at the next table rantin’ about a new app which was gonna change the world. Anyway, after he left, the guys at the table explained that it looked pretty nifty and the guy weren’t just bullshitting us. Anyhow, I been using it for the past coupla weeks and met up with some fine guys. Including you all. Mighty fine bein’ behind the wheel knowing someone is lookin’ out for us. That road is getting to be a bitch to get through without hoodlums makin’ trouble one way or another.

            – Did you find the convoy on Wreckr by any chance?

            – Yeah, sure. Heard about it a few days ago and I reckon I’ll be using it every time I come west. The east ain’t so bad for hijacks but these desert people sure know how to kick up a hullabaloo for a lone trucker. Specially for a guy like myself past his prime.

            – Don’t put yourself down, Steve. There’s a good few years left in you from what I can see.

            – There’ll have to be. Can’t afford to retire. Used to have money saved up for a pension, like, but that’s all gone on truck repairs over the years.

            – It’s the same for all of us, Steve. Do you think a guy like myself, legless, would be still truckin’ if there was another way to earn a livin’?

            – Don’t take on so, Chuck. Look at Chet and his pal. I reckon a coupla peg legs ain’t nothing compared with what they put up with.

Both Chet and Jared, sitting across the table from Chuck, waved a hook at him. The group looked around at each other and laughed at the impossibility of their situation. When they were young, it would have been impossible to believe that bilateral amputees might still need to work for a living well past the average pension age. What had happened to society? The answer was obvious enough. The crippled men served its purpose every day. There was upheaval on the way. It was simply taking its time.

 

Effects of the earthquake four months previous made themselves obvious the closer to the Oregon/Washington state line they approached. Otherwise undamaged houses had been abandoned after they had shifted off their foundations, destroying access to utilities. The road was cracked and buckled in places, restricted to single‑file traffic. Makeshift traffic signals allowed several minutes of movement in alternate directions. It was slow‑going and more than a little frustrating. Only now, months after the disaster, practical help could begin to arrive, thanks to emergency repairs to bridges. Even so, they were also restricted to a carrying load of two trucks at a time. The convoy decided enough was enough for one day. They would stop at the next motel which they came across. A billboard soon proclaimed them welcome to the Prentiss Motel in Kelso, ten miles. With luck, it might actually be open for business.

 

It was. The forecourt was a generous size, optimistically designed to welcome a hundred cars, more than enough for the eighty rooms available. Business must have been good before the quake. The Prentiss was an ideal stopping distance between the two big towns on each side of the state line and was set in a picturesque location with attractive views to the west and north. Now only one wing was illuminated in addition to the semicircular reception and dining room. The five drivers of convoy 221 pulled in alongside other trucks. Apart from one or two pick‑ups, truckers seemed to be the only guests. One by one, the cabs emptied of their crews and the drivers stood in front of their trucks in a loose group, appraising the strangers who had joined the convoy along its route.

 

Chuck attracted the most attention, unsurprisingly. He had spent a good deal of effort in mastering his peg legs and knew the effect they had on onlookers. They were such a blatant statement of disability that people rarely passed comment or asked questions. Mike’s and Larry’s visible artificial legs paled into insignificance. Chuck took them all in, amused by their extrovert display. So conventional. The last two drivers approached and the group turned toward the motel.

 

Jared was more than relieved by the prospect of sleeping in a real bed after two night squashed upright in the rig’s passenger seat. It was comfortable on the road but less than satisfactory to sleep in all night. The truckers received their keys and were effusively wished heartily welcome several times by the proprietor who was more than happy to see custom picking up after the bridge repairs. They made their way to the dining room and sat around two adjacent tables. Other tables hosted one or two guests, almost certainly truckers themselves. It was an elegant art deco space and the atmosphere was completely different from the easy camaraderie familiar from the usual roadside diner. Even Chet and Jared sat demurely with their hooks in their laps rather than leaning on the table with their hooks in the air. An elderly woman, sprightly and heavily made‑up, approached their tables with an armful of menus and wished them welcome. She busied herself pouring water for each guest, taking in those physical disabilities which were obvious.

 

The menu had been adjusted several times since the quake to take into account the lack of fresh stuffs available and the loss of high scale visitors. The kitchen comprised one sole cook after the departure of the head chef for financial reasons. The fare was little more than what a diner might offer but the establishment tried to maintain standards. Their hamburgers were handmade from start to finish. The buns had been baked earlier in the day, patties were flattened into shape for each order. The sudden order of seven steaks and fries cast the kitchen into panic mode and exhausted the supply of steaks for the rest of the evening. The truckers understood the difficulty of the situation and waited patiently for their meals, They were quieter amongst themselves. Chet was itching with curiosity about Chuck’s peg legs but sat quietly, pressured into silence by the opulence around them.

 

The convoy agreed to start late next morning at eight o’clock. It would give them the luxury of enjoying a good night’s sleep and to take their time over breakfast. The day promised to be increasingly demanding. One of the new drivers had discovered that deliveries intended for Seattle were left at a truck park ten miles outside town. Local drivers took over distribution from there. Chuck led with the rest of the convoy following at two hundred yard intervals. Washingtonians on the road heading south raised their hands in greeting, grateful to see aid arriving at last. Life was getting back to normal, now that the ground beneath them seemed to have settled. Chuck kept a peg on his brake, anticipating blockages or other unexpected phenomena on the road. He had set his cruise control for just under forty, as had all those following. The single lane section on the final stretch towards Seattle was green in their favour with a few minutes left. It was enough time to negotiate the two miles of precarious one lane travel.

 

One by one, the trucks were allocated unloading bays in a logistics centre which was conspicuously bent in the centre. Bays One to Thirty‑One were out of use. The building half stood on ground which had tilted three degrees. After weeks of reconstruction, bays Thirty‑Two to Fifty were operational again. The forecourt was split and hastily repaired with asphalt. One by one, the drivers backed into their allocated bays and the drivers disembarked to deal with paperwork and then made their way to the coffeeshop facing the forecourt. Chet and Jared joined them last of all, when conversation had already turned to the growing need to find some decent food somewhere. Only one of the new drivers had been in Washington state before and that was well before the quake. It looked like the only thing to do was to head back south along the same route and head for a major city where there might be the chance of picking up a load heading east. Jared suggested they create a new convoy on Wreckr, and at four in the afternoon, WACA 010 snaked its way back south, heading for Portland, Oregon, where they might arrange for a load. Without trailers, the trucks were more agile and sped along unbroken sections of highway to the state line and arrived on the outskirts of Portland around nine in the evening. The sunset was orange with smoke from forest fires well to the north. It was both beautiful and terrible. The rigs parked up in a row opposite a low sleek diner, built recently. Its entrance curved towards them and the legless truckers appreciated a smooth tarred surface in contrast with the usual forecourt gravel.

 

Once again, there were few other customers. Most of the convoy’s drivers fired up the local logistic centre’s app to seek out suitable loads available in Portland for delivery east. One by one, they settled for something lucrative which would take them to another likely spot to pick up another load. Chet arranged to haul a refrigerated trailer to Phoenix from Eugene, Oregon. Chuck found a similar load. The two rigs would share the road and travel together.

 

Jared was aware that he had done no writing for several days. It was educational to pay attention to their changing surroundings and the excursion north had suggested new themes for future articles. At the back of his mind was the pact made with Jack Weissman. Somehow Jared would need to organise another session with dry ice, probably in his own apartment. He had stipulated that Jack should finish his education first, at least wait until after graduation. Jared imagined that Jack would turn up very soon afterwards. Helping Jack become a bilateral hook user would be the most significant outcome of Jared’s journey as Chet’s sidekick. They still got on well enough with each other but Jared had detected a devil‑may‑care attitude in Chet which he did not care for. It affected the way he treated other people. Perhaps it sprang from his voluntary amputations and how he was continually asked about them by complete strangers in the most unlikely of circumstances. Chet himself regarded his stumps and his well‑worn sockets as part of himself and disliked the apparent need of ignorant people to hear why he used hooks. The same deference bled into his friendships.

 

 

 

 

S U M M E R

 

Jared continued research into the way increasing austerity was altering social norms and the impoverishment of cities. Food deserts forced desperate working class citizens to seek sustenance further afield which almost always meant a retreat to surrounding rural areas. Gradually cities were ringed with tent cities whose main problem was the availability of fresh water. Between May and July, he crafted another article in much the same style as his previous prize‑winning work and submitted it to the same periodicals and magazines which had published it. They snapped it up, grateful for the chance to include a long and serious piece in perfect English. Jared began to plan a third part of what he hoped to turn into a series which he might later combine into a book. It would deal with the reconstruction of the North‑West. He thought it would be interesting to watch how Seattle especially reorganised itself in the current economic climate. Much of its population had already left, mostly to Utah and Colorado. Would they want to return to a city dominated by private business with little attention paid to reconstructing homes? It might be worthwhile following the situation over the next year. But there was another more pressing matter to take care of first.

 

Jared and Jack had kept in touch and learned more about each other. Jack was impressed to learn that Jared was not a trucker but was in fact the author of the article which his English teacher had recommended they read. They had discussed On the Road Again at length, touching both on the subject matter and the linguistic style of the author and how he alternated opinion with genuine quotes from people suffering the consequences of governmental ignorance. Jared in turn was impressed by the teenager’s lucid and logical explanation of why he admired arm amputees and why he wished to join their ranks. He occasionally overstepped the mark and wrote something which had Jared wondering about how serious Jack actually was but he always returned to the same need and intention after his forays into eroticism and sadomasochism.

 

He arrived with a carry‑all and a broad grin. He had allowed his moustache to grow after graduation and it was already an impressive blond handlebar. He looked older. Young men’s faces changed quickly in the late teens. Jack appeared to be a preppy young man with good prospects ready to face the world on a visit to impress. He certainly impressed Jared, who welcomed him and made him comfortable before explaining what he had planned. There was no longer any point in trying to talk Jack out of losing his hands.

 

Jared had another idea which Jack might or might not approve of. Jared was lonely and wanted the company of someone who could accept his disability and give occasional assistance when two hooks were insufficient. Jack was lively, intelligent, imaginative and would soon have a matching pair of stumps very similar to Jared’s own. He had no idea what Jack intended to do with his maimed future. It was something which would resolve itself after Jack’s stumps had healed and he had learned to use a pair of hooks. One such pair hung in Jared’s closet, his first pair. The sockets were pink, the hooks almost pristine. They had been used mainly to tap his keyboard. The prostheses he wore now were sleeker after his stumps had shrunk to some degree. There was no reason why they might not fit onto Jack’s stumps, assuming that his stumps were short enough.

            – Looks at these, Jack. I wore these for about two years until I got this black pair. I reckon they’d fit you well enough with a pair or two of stump socks and you could use them until you find a job and can afford a custom pair of your own.

            – Are you serious? I could wear those?

            – I reckon so. But if your stumps are longer than mine, they won’t fit. You can decide if they’re the sort of thing you genuinely want for yourself. I don’t want to try and deter you, Jack, but with everything else being ready, you only have a very short period of time to decide whether to go through with this.

            – Jared, stop worrying! Of course I want stumps!

 

Jared looked at the boy’s beautiful hands. The fingers were long and straight, with nails neatly clipped. His own hands had been stumpy to begin with—short fingers, continual hangnails which were sore when he picked them. His hooks looked better, and he loved the lack of feeling. The most delicate control he had over his hooks was from his elbows. He loved the mechanical precision of his prostheses, perfectly replacing his hands with his hooks’ two steel fingers. Jack never stopped watching him, free at last to gawp at a hooked man who would shortly help him create his own stumps. There was never a doubt in his mind that his future was as a hook user. He knew he was good‑looking. He was tall, well built with handsome legs exercised on regular runs, and his arms were well muscled with handsome hands. He hated the sight of them and wanted to see steel hooks instead. The day allocated for his transformation arrived. Everything was ready except for the dry ice. Jared had arranged to collect a big bag of it from a trucker who was running a refrigerated load from San Jose to Philadelphia. He agreed to pause in St Louis to sell Jared a quantity of dry ice which had proved unnecessary on his trek west. Jared met him at the truck park and they ate burgers together. Jared was surprised to see that the driver also used a prosthetic arm with a worker’s hook. The driver was just as surprised by Jared.

            – I’m guessin’ this ain’t for you. You got someone else lined up?

            – You mean for getting stumps?

            – Sure. What else are ya gonna do with a bagful of ice? I see ya might be of a mind to freeze a guy’s hand, seeing as you’re wearing a pair of hooks yaself.

            – It’s none of your business, bro. But you’re right. And it’s not for one hand. He’s losing both of them tonight.

            – Ha! Great! Another member of the bilateral club. You tell him from me he’s on the right course. I’m havin’ this off soon as I get back to Colorado.

He lifted his hand and waved the fingers.

            – I’m guessin’ there ain’t nothin’ better for a man than to have a pair of hooks to show who’s the alpha male around the place. You show up somewhere with a pair of hooks and everyone wants to do everythin’ for ya. It’s like ya rule the world.

            – Wow! Is that what you think?

            – Best thing ever happened to me. Was a bit unsure at first but as soon as I got my first hook, my life changed. Listen, tell the guy to use his hooks for everything. It’s the best way to learn how to use ’em, even if at first you think you can’t. I can't wait to get rid of this damn thing.

He raised his hand and twisted it from side to side. In the circumstances, it looked like an unnecessary mess of flesh tacked onto a prospective stump.

            – I’ll be sure to tell him. Thanks for the ice.

            – Don’t mention it. Anything to help another guy on the way to getting his stumps.

 

Jack had brought a packet of twenty pills which the seller assured him would knock out any pain and all his worries. Jared inspected the packet, which seemed to be genuine and sealed with a hologram. Jack swallowed two and waited for twenty minutes until he thought they began to take affect. He could no longer feel his body. He could move his hands and arms but they seemed to be insensate. He was ready. Jared asked him if he was determined to lose his hands. Jack looked at Jared with desperation in his eyes. He placed his hands through the holes in a plastic box intended to hold computer disks. Jared shook globules of dry ice from a scoop into the box, covering Jack’s flesh, destroying his skin, its lethal chill sinking into the flesh of his fingers and hands and wrists killing capillaries and nerves and tendons. Jack writhed in pain despite the painkillers. The cold was intolerable. But he knew that it was too late to pull out. Once begun, the process had to be seen through to its inevitable end. A quarter of an hour after the icing began, he had already lost his hands. Never again would he fondle his boyfriend’s penis or run his fingers over his stubble. He should have considered it before Jared started. It was too late now. He would have to cope with a disabled life. His hands protested in agony. The pain lessened as his nerves died. He hoped his stumps would not look unpleasant.

 

Jared visited him in St Louis General Hospital every afternoon. He was concerned with how Jack was healing. His stumps were wrapped in thick bandages making it difficult to judge how long the stumps were. Jack complained of the pain, to which Jared had no reassurance.

            – Of course it hurts. It gets better, Jack. Believe me. You just have to go with the flow. I know it’s difficult at first.

            – What am I gonna do when I get out, Jared? I can’t go home like this.

            – I thought everything was fixed. Are you telling me they wouldn’t have you back?

            – They’d kill me or kick me out on the street.

            – Jack, why didn’t you tell me the truth before? What are you going to do? I thought you’d be returning home once you had your hooks.

            –  I know. I’m sorry, Jared. I didn’t want you to stop the process. You do understand, don’t you? I wanted stumps more than anything else.

            – And now you have them. Jack, we’re gonna have to talk about this when you get out. You can come back to my place for a coupla weeks until your stumps heal but then we’re gonna need to talk about things.

            – OK. Thanks Jared. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.

            – Except for the fact that you won’t be doing a whole lot around the place.

 

Jack’s fish‑mouth sutures showed good signs of healing and the patient was discharged on the sixth day after his arrival. His stumps were protected under pliable translucent plastic shields. Jared collected him from the hospital lobby where Jack sat holding his stumps uselessly in front of him. The physical reality of limblessness was beginning to strike home. He had never felt so helpless in his life and was continually shocked at the absence of hands. His stumps were shorter than he had imagined, only a third of his forearms remained. He was afraid that they would be pretty useless even after they healed completely. He was never going to use his naked stumps for anything practical. He was condemned to relying on artificial arms all waking hours for the rest of his life—assuming that he could afford a new pair every few years. He had no idea about what work he might do.

 

They walked slowly through the centre of town avoiding the denser groups of homeless street dwellers. Jack was especially wary. Those who were awake eyed the two amputees without interest. Jared’s apartment was a haven of sanity and they were both relieved to arrive without being accosted.

 

Jared was annoyed with Jack because of the way he had been misled. Jack had initially assured him that he had plans for further education during which time he would learn to use his hooks. By the time his studies were complete, he would be adept at doing everything for himself. Now the truth was revealing itself. Jack not only had no intention of continuing his schooling, he was also barred from returning home. His parents would never accept their son as a bilateral amputee. He dared not confront them. It was certain that he would break under interrogation and admit to freezing his hands deliberately in order to gain stumps. Jared blamed himself for being so gullible and taken advantage of, having experienced a similar situation himself. He remembered how he had also misled others and been devious about his plans. The desire to replace healthy hands with steel hooks required total secrecy and a considerable amount of lying. But when he was working on his laptop, he frequently admired his accuracy and speed. He enjoyed using his hooks and appreciated the lack of sensation in his non‑existent arms. The rigidity of the sockets was an additional bonus, a crippling obstacle to dexterity. The continual physical challenges gave him a sense of personal accomplishment which he knew he would never have experienced without stumps.

 

Jack’s presence was not as inconvenient as Jared had anticipated. It was true that Jack had to be fed and watered, not always easy with bilateral hooks, and the regular visits to the bathroom we co‑ordinated so that both men urinated at the same time. Jack was an avid reader and patiently read sitting at a table, coaxing pages to turn with the blunt tip of his right stump. His stumps were naked for most of the time unless he wore the plastic shields. They made his stumps sweat. Jared’s annoyance lapsed as the pair of them unavoidably shared intimate moments. Jack’s libido had not recovered from his trauma and it was easy to conceal his homosexuality from Jared. He was not overly concerned by the brevity of his stumps. It was going to be quite a challenge for him to masturbate. Maybe it was something else he would have to use his hooks for. He put the thought from his mind. There were more urgent worries to confront first.

 

Jack’s stitches were removed two weeks later and he was presented with a sizable hospital bill. His surgeon enquired about prosthetics. Jack replied that he had already made arrangements to be fitted with his first pair of hooks. It was another untruth. Jared had carefully compared the flesh‑toned sockets on his first pair of hooks against Jack’s arms and believed that they could be adapted to suit the shorter stumps. It was quite possible that the prosthetic arms would last several years with careful use and maintenance. Jack was impatient to test them for the first time. He believed they would allow him his independence again.

 

Jared was equally keen to see Jack fitted with hooks. Jack had a steep learning curve ahead of him and with luck, Jared’s old set of arms would allow him to start. Jared spent an hour loosening buckles and straps in order to accommodate Jack’s broader shoulders. The loose ends of the straps had been annoying but Jared was glad he had not cut them to size. The hooks would not have fitted Jack otherwise. Jared laid the hooks out on the table before Jack and invited him to insert his stumps carefully into the sockets. He was to stop immediately if there was any pain.

            – It feels tight. Is it supposed to?

            – Yup. Tight is good. OK. Take your stumps out. You need stump socks. Put these on.

He dropped a new pair of soft cotton stump socks onto the hooks. Jack looked at Jared to see if he was serious. He was. Donning his prostheses was something he had to learn to do alone and putting socks on his stumps was the first step. The first obstacle. Jack leaned forward and fumbled with the socks. Somehow he had to work out how to do it.

            – Use your teeth.

Jared watched Jack struggle and fail after several attempts. It was almost impossible to open the sock wide enough and hold it in place. Jared’s hooks were the only available assistance. He picked one sock up and inserted the other hook which he opened. Jack succeeded in pushing his stump into the opening and used his teeth to pull the sock further up his stump.

            – There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Jack laughed.

            – Easy peasy. Will you hold the other one for me?

            – OK. New socks are usually a bitch until the opening stretches a bit.

Jack used his teeth again and admired the appearance of his white cotton stumps. He used them to pull the right socket towards him and coaxed his stump into it. As before, it felt tight but the sock helped. It was more comfortable. Jared checked the harness and reminded Jack that he needed to take care not to tangle the straps.

            – Lift your arms up. I’m going to pull the harness over your head. This is something else you’ll have to learn to do yourself, Jack. Practise doing it alone.

The control cables were about right but the canvas straps needed readjustment. It was a slow process but gradually the harness sat firmly over Jack’s shoulders. The sockets were tilted with the hooks resting on the table.

            – That looks about right. How does it feel?

            – It feels fine. What do I do now?

            – You’re good to go.

Jack stood up and went to a mirror to check his appearance. It was great to see arms again. The pink sockets looked mechanical and lifeless like on a store dummy. He pushed his stumps deeper into the sockets and the hooks clicked open. He relaxed and they snapped shut. And again.

            – Try opening a hook by pushing your opposite shoulder forward. That’s how to open the hook if you don’t want to change its position.

Jack experimented a few times until he discovered the proper movement. Jared was still concerned about the fit. Jack’s stumps were shorter than his own and the sockets were custom made.

            – Are your stumps moving down inside the sockets, Jack?

            – I’m not sure. I don’t think so.

            – OK. We’ll have to keep an eye on that.

 

Jack had expected his first time to be different from what it actually was. The prostheses and harness demanded a lot more attention than he had imagined. He had to plan his movements in order to open the hooks. He could not simply open them at will. It was going to be difficult. He returned and sat down at the table, inspecting the appearance of his arms. This is what all the pain had been for. Instead of elation, he was disappointed and anxious. It was not what he had expected. He stared at the arms and at the steel hooks. Their cool inhuman glossy surfaces emphasised their artificiality. There was so much of it! His arms were completely covered by these things. Everyone would notice them first. They were the most obvious thing about him. Everywhere he went, he would be the guy with hooks. The old Jack would disappear and he would be seen only as the crippled guy who no‑one wanted to know. He would never be able to join in a game of softball or throw a frisbee or play tennis again. Jared watched the expressions flickering across Jack’s face. He was coming face to face with his new reality. He had purposely destroyed his future in favour of an alternative. He would need to make a major effort to achieve whatever laid ahead. It was going to demand dedication and determination from a teenager without natural arms and hands. Jared stretched his arms and shrugged his harness into a more comfortable position and returned to his computer screen. He had a few ideas to help Jack out of his funk but he wanted Jack to become familiar with the sensation of severe disability regardless of wearing prostheses. His old pair of arms looked pretty cool on the guy. The flesh colour accentuated the other components. The cable and straps became more obvious, contrasting with the simulated skin tone of the sockets. He preferred the completely artificial appearance of his carbon fibre arms. His hooks looked impressive with the glossy black.

 

Jack toyed with his hooks. They pointed in random directions. He wanted to turn them so they looked more tidy and thought about how he might do so. He shrugged a shoulder and one hook opened a little but it closed as soon as he moved his arm. He tried it the other way. He moved his arm so the hook was where it needed to be and then tried shrugging. He pushed harder and the hook opened all the way. Now he could move the hook and close it onto the other one to twist it around how he wanted it. The hooks interlinked and Jack tried twisting his wrist. Nothing happened. He had no wrists. Jared looked up, alerted by the sound of steel on steel and watched Jack concentrating on the hooks. It was good he was exploring his new capabilities, or lack of them. Jack’s exaggerated movements to manipulate his hooks were entertaining. Jared remembered his own experimental attempts before the arms began to feel familiar and part of himself. His movements had gradually adapted to the minimum necessary to open a hook but it had taken about a year before he suddenly realised he had mastered the skill. After that, his rehabilitation had been much faster. He no longer needed to consciously think about controlling a prosthetic device. He simply manipulated his hooks as and when they were needed. Jack had a way to go before he reached the same level and it gave Jared an idea.

 

            – Jack, why don’t you get yourself a glass of water? You should stay hydrated.

Jack seemed to be surprised by the concept of actually using his new hooks for something.

            – OK. Will you help if I can’t do it?

            – Oh, you can do it if you try. Come on. I’m going to brew some coffee.

 

Jack’s hooks were still in odd positions. Jared showed him a trick to move them. Now his left hook was horizontal, his right vertical.

            – Open the cupboard door with your right and reach in with your left. You should be able to grab a glass.

Jack contorted his upper body, persuading the hook to do what he wanted. The door slammed when he tried closing it.

            – Sorry.

            – No problem. Try turning the faucet on.

Jack knocked against the lever until cold water flowed and he filled the glass.

            – Not so difficult, was it? Try drinking from it without spilling any.

It was much more difficult. He raised the glass towards his face and tried turning his wrist to tilt the glass. The socket and hook remained as rigid as ever. He had no wrists. He lifted the rim to his lips, leaned back and drank. It felt unnatural but it was a minor victory, maybe the second one after learning how to twist his hooks around. Jared busied himself filling the coffee machine with espresso grounds. That also involved a considerable amount of physical movement which Jared noticed for the first time in months.

 

            – I had an idea and you might be able to earn a few bucks from it. How about starting your own video channel showing how a complete novice learns to use his hooks? You could wear the camera I use for interviews on your chest and record yourself doing stuff. I don’t think anyone has a channel like that and I’m pretty sure you’d get an audience. Charge five or ten bucks per view. I reckon you could easily get an hour of decent video every day if you set your mind to it. What do you think?

            – What sort of stuff do you mean?

            – You could start off with a video showing how you put your arms on in the morning, starting with the stump socks.

            – But it was so difficult!

            – So video it and show people how difficult it is! That’s what I’m saying. No‑one’s ever made a channel showing anything like that. You wanna start now? Shall I get the camera?

            – OK.

Five minutes later, Jack had Jared’s miniature camera pinned to his T-shirt. The wide‑angle lens would pick up his sockets and hooks and give viewers the impression they were wearing prostheses themselves. And Jack might be more motivated to try using his hooks for different things.

            – Will you help me set up a channel?

            – Sure. We’ll get AI to do it and it can edit the material too. There’s a ninety‑six giga memory card in the camera so that should be enough for a few hours every day. I don’t have time to sort through it myself. I always get AI to pick out the good bits.

            – Alright. You’ll have to show me how to use it first, though. I’m not sure how to prompt it.

            – Don’t worry about that. Are you going to drink that espresso?

            – I don’t think I can pick the cup up.

            – Just lean over and slurp. Turn the camera on!

 

By the end of the day, Jack had six hours of video showing him using his hooks and he was beginning to enjoy himself. Jared uploaded the material to the Cloud and checked that it was accessible by prompting AI to prepare a five minute edit of an interesting sequence which showed skill in manipulating prosthetic hooks. They sat together and watched Jack’s first efforts at feeding himself. The images were stabilised and colour graded. It was a professional result. Jack was surprised and pleased. Even his struggles looked impressive.

            – Maybe if we ask it for fifteen minute long videos, they might be about right? What do you think? You wanna carry on?

            – Sure!

 

A week after first donning his prosthetic arms, Jack had generated twenty hours of video material, including his first independent attempts at dressing, including squeezing his stumps into stump socks. Jared was always willing to help with the proviso that Jack should make an effort before asking for assistance. On Friday evening when Jared was tired of writing, they sat together and worked together on prompts for the AI, asking for explicit sequences of struggle and effort, failure and success, in a logical chronological order.

            – We need to think of a good name for your channel before we upload anything. Any ideas?

            – Hands to hooks.

            – That didn’t take long! Not bad. OK. Shall we ask it for a title sequence and a logo?

            – Let’s have two hooks linked together in a circle.

            – OK. You’d better start thinking about how to advertise your channel. You need to find the sort of people who enjoy looking at other peoples’ stumps and artificial limbs. Devotees and admirers. People who can afford to pay twenty bucks for an hour’s entertainment.

Jared checked the new folder in the Cloud and renamed it Hands2Hooks. It contained five AI‑generated videos, each twenty minutes in length. They watched a long version of Jack’s procedures to don his prostheses, not his first efforts. It ended with him holding his hooks in front of the camera and inspecting them. They looked enviable.

 

F A L L

 

Jared was impressed by the way Jack had rallied after his initial uncertainty. He dismissed his intention of allowing Jack to stay only as long as it took for him to acquaint himself with a pair of hooks. The old Jack re‑emerged, good‑humoured and vital, enthusiastic about using hooks and satisfied with his short stumps. He still encountered difficulties but had enough experience to know that he could beat them with a little extra effort and some lateral thinking. Jared exposed him to public view by short day trips on his Kawasaki to various small towns where they always stopped for burgers and something to drink. Jack became less self‑conscious about his disability and began to feel proud of the additional attention his hooks earned him. He liked it best when a good‑looking guy stared at him, just as he used to stare at the disabled truckers in the diner back home. Jared had suggested that Jack let his parents know that he was doing OK, he had found his vocation and wished to be independent from now on. His mother replied several days later with an acknowledgment dripping with religious dogma and irrelevancies. The main point was that they would not be causing any trouble by notifying the sheriff about a missing person.

 

Hands2Hooks was gaining in popularity. The camera was almost a permanent feature of Jack’s attire when Jared did not need it. The dozens of hours of weekly material allowed AI to select langurous slow‑motion sequences of close‑ups and otherwise trivial details which were nonetheless fascinating insights into the life of a young man without hands. The first cheques arrived from the platform host. The first for just under a thousand bucks, the second for just over three thousand. Jared was amazed and indignant that his idea had proved so lucrative but Jack needed an income and had begun to share the rent and foot half of the other domestic bills. He still had an unpaid hospital bill.

 

Jack’s stumps slowly shrank. His stumps extended further into his sockets and affected their use. Jared solved the problem by pouring some quick‑drying plaster of Paris into the sockets before making Jack wear them until the plaster dried. The prostheses were a little heavier to wear but Jack’s stumps were finally supported on a firm surface and he noticed the hooks seemed more responsive. He decided to save as much money as possible for a custom pair of prostheses similar to Jared’s. Black carbon sockets made to fit his stumps exactly.

 

There was another reason why Jared allowed Jack to settle in his apartment. Jack had regained his libido soon after he came out of his funk and experimented with both his stumps and hooks to masturbate. When his penis was fully erect on his belly, his stumps reached his glans but not the shaft without leaning forward. Jack found his situation extremely erotic. His penis strained for attention and he longed to grab it and jerk off but his stumps could not. He could sense his hands and fingers but he felt only chaotic sensations high on his forearms as the rearranged and displaced skin relearned how his penis felt. It was easier to wank with the hard inner surfaces of his sockets. One evening, Jack asked if he could borrow Jared’s working hooks.

            – What do you need them for?

            – Well, I’d rather not say. It’s sorta private.

            – You’re gonna try jerking off with ’em, right?

            – Er, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll wash ’em before I give ’em back.

            – Darn right you will. OK. Go ahead. Where are you gonna do it? In the bathroom?

            – Yeah.

            – You know where I keep my hooks. Help yourself.

            – Thanks Jared. I’ll make it up to you.

 

Jack made it up later after Jared had gone to his room. Jared had shucked his arms and lay awake thinking. Jack tapped gently on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. He reached down and pulled the duvet from Jared’s body. He kneeled and balancing on both hooks, leaned forward and took Jared’s semi‑hard penis into his mouth. Jared was too surprised to protest and anyway, it felt grand. Just like with his boyfriend nearly ten years ago. Blowjobs were their regular thing. Jack was a skilful lover and paced himself in parallel with Jared’s mounting excitement. The inevitable happened. Jared tried to smear his jizz away with his stumps until Jack fetched a hand towel from the bathroom and cleaned Jared’s stumps and belly. Jack cleared the debris, pulled the duvet back over Jared and returned to his own spot on the couch.

 

It was the start of their sexual relationship. Neither man enjoyed penetration but there were plenty of games to play featuring stumps, prostheses and insistent erections. They started referring to the worker’s hooks as jerker’s hooks.

 

Jared invited Chet to spend a day or two with them over the Christmas holidays. They could eat and drink well and catch up on news. Jack had become an adept hook user and wanted to show off to Chet and maybe learn a trick or two from an expert. Chet accepted and parked up at the secure park on the outskirts of town. Jared met him and they rode back on Jared’s motorbike.

 

Chet met Jack for the first time since Jack’s amputations. The transformation was perfect. Instead of a self‑conscious preppy teenager, Jack was now a self‑assured young bilateral amputee who displayed his artificial arms to all and sundry. Thanks to the continuing series of video productions, Jack had attempted to use his hooks for things which an ordinary recovering new amputee might not consider. Jack had learned to move his upper body in tandem with his unsophisticated prostheses, forcing his hooks to obey his will. Chet was impressed.

 

            – Listen, Jack. I want to propose something. I need a permanent sidekick. I’m takin’ on a contract for long‑distance haulage from Chicago to LA and back with a strict timetable. I was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in joinin’ me in a partnership. Unless you’ve got college ahead or somethin’.

            – Nope, nothing like that. You mean I’d be riding with you and we’d be a team?

            – Sure. But I want you sharin’ the work. I want you to get yourself a commercial driver’s licence so you can take over the drivin’ some of the time.

            – Wow! Jared! I’m gonna be a trucker.

            – Good. I think it’s a good idea. You’ll learn a trade and earn some good money if you work hard.

            – And best of all, we’d be two double amps working together. That would be great. How do I get started, Chet?

            – You need to retake your drivin’ test, the normal one, as an amputee driver. After that, there are courses for a commercial licence and qualifications for tankers and combos and doubles and the hazmat course if you wanna be real flashy. It’ll take a few months, I reckon, but you have time on your hands, don’t you?

            – Sure.

            – You don’t mind if I steal your boy away from you, do ya, Red?

            – It’s his life. You can keep this place as your base, although I reckon you won’t be seeing much of it if you’re on the road.

 

It was decided before lunch. Jack suddenly had a new purpose in life. He already earned enough from his video channel to regard himself as financially independent. He had started to pay his hospital bill to clear his debt and had a realistic payment schedule spread over the next thirty‑six months. He was welcome to regard Jared’s apartment as his home and they could continue creating new videos. Maybe he could broaden Hands2Hooks to include his new life with Chet.

 

Jack watched the easy camaraderie between the two older men. They were both much older than he was. Chet was nearly forty although he did not look it. Jack was fascinated by his sockets. He treated them roughly. They were scratched and buffed silver where the control cable continually rubbed against the surface. There were torn stickers from various sports teams and someone had painted something like a tattoo into the socket. Best of all were the decorative chains, a row of three on each socket, which rattled quietly whenever the prostheses moved. Chet had no compunction about drawing additional attention to his artificial arms. He had lost his hands at sixteen in a freak triple collision between three motorbikes. Somehow his hands had been forced between the upended but still powered rear wheel of one of the bikes and his hands and wrists had instantly been ripped to shreds. Eight weeks later he returned to school proudly displaying flesh‑toned sockets and gleaming steel hooks. He had always been one of the alphas and remained so, popular with the guys who indulged their urge for voyeurism in his company.

 

Jared had ordered in a quantity of seasonal food but due to the unique physical restraints imposed on all three diners, it was served on plates with the invitation to dig in. They ripped apart turkey breasts and ate using hooks rather than cutlery. It was easier and more efficient. After they were sated, Jared produced a bottle of bourbon. Alcohol was rarely seen in the apartment but Chet and Jared both enjoyed a drink on the rare occasions when the opportunity arose. Jack was young enough to regard bourbon and other spirits as an acquired taste, something older men drank. Jared skilfully manipulated the bottle and poured the first three shots.

 

They discussed Chet’s prospects as a new contractor. Terms and conditions had recently been eased, possibly as a result of Jared’s investigative work into the trucking business. Chet assured Jack that he would soon learn the ropes. It was one thing to handle a truck and something else entirely to juggle timetables and deadlines, as well as learning the network of highways and their condition. Jared asked what had happened to Calvin, the short body builder who had ridden with Chet.

            – He left last summer. Found a companion, as they call it, a driver with no legs who talked Cal into joining him. Last I heard, Cal was recovering from having his left leg amputated above the knee and was learning to walk on crutches. He’s gonna have to wait a while before he can be fitted with a pros, assuming he wants one. His big muscles have to atrophy down to something he can stuff into a socket first.

            – Wow! Voluntary, you mean?

            – As far as I can make out.

            – I bet he ends up legless like his boyfriend.

            – Wouldn’t surprise me. Once you get stump lust, you never know where it’s gonna lead.

 

Jack explained about his video channel. How Jared had suggested it, to show off Jack’s learning process as he learned to use his hooks.

            – Some of the early ones are really embarrassing to watch ’cos I was so awkward.

            – I’d like to see that, if you don’t mind.

            – I was thinking maybe I could make videos while we’re on the road.

            – Sure! You can shoot me too if ya like but don’t show my face. I don’t wanna be a movie star.

 

Jack soon became intoxicated and relaxed into a semi‑stupor. He watched the other men, especially Chet, and how they moved their hooks as they explained stuff. It was something he had not learned to do yet. It was something he could work on. He closed his eyes and slept.

 

W I N T E R   T H R O U G H   S U M M E R

 

Jack looked into retaking his driving test. He found a driving school which had experience with amputees but Jack was the youngest bilateral his instructor had met. His steering wheel was fitted with a ring. His licence would stipulate that Jack could drive legally only wearing two prosthetic arms in a vehicle fitted with such a driving ring. As he had expected, he passed the disabled driver’s test with flying colours and shortly embarked on a series of short courses designed to qualify him as a truck driver. Chet kept in close contact with him and encouraged him to study all the voluntary extras like the hazmat course. Jack could then legally drive a fire or rescue truck. He was a little worried about some of the practical tests like handling a fire extinguisher or dealing with various connectors but with determination and two extra rubber bands for an intense grip on his hooks, he passed the hazmat requirements and was now an unusually well‑trained commercial driver.

 

Jared and Chet congratulated him and promised him a slap‑up meal in town the next time Chet was around. Chet was eager to have a relief driver after several strenuous months on the road alone. Almost before he knew what was happening, he agreed to accompany Chet on his current run and continue from there. Jared was prepared to lose Jack’s company. They would meet only sporadically. Jack was anxious about how they would continue making videos for Hands2Hooks. Jared suggested filling several memory cards before Jack dropped them off in St Louis for Jared to upload. The channel proved so popular that it had won a gold plaque, and it was recommended to new amputees as a demonstration of how practice makes perfect. The monthly cheques continued to arrive and Jack felt that his new career as a trucker’s sidekick was more of a hobby than proper work. His channel brought in far more money. He invested in new miniature cameras and demonstrated new ways to use his hooks. Chet kept an eye on the boy. He was still a novice with hooks and vulnerable to the frustration of new situations. The prostheses were Jared’s old original pair, glossy pink sockets with standard hooks. Jack ought to get his own custom pair. He could afford them.

 

The two amputees gained some notoriety along their routes. The occasional one‑armed hook user was common enough among the amputee truckers who inevitably formed a close‑knit clique and who were regular users of Jared’s Wreckr app. But bilateral drivers were unusual. It was unheard of for there to be a pair working together. They both wore denim jerkins with miniature cameras recording wide‑angle views of their arms and hooks and beyond. Their prostheses were on full view and attracted considerable attention in public places. They basked in the friendly companionship of fellow truckers and never tired of demonstrating how their hooks worked. But neither man spoke of how they had lost their hands. Chet, because it was a painful memory, Jack because he feared the reaction if he admitted to destroying his hands deliberately. Not only his hands, but most of his forearms too. His short stumps were adequate for prosthetic use and he was mostly satisfied with how things had turned out. Sometimes people were too inquisitive. Jack and Chet had a private code—both hooks held open meant enough. It was time for them to get back on the road.

 

BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN