The Blogger, Part Three

Part One | Part Two

Bertram sheepishly walked across the road, not turning around to acknowledge the driver until he reached the other side.

“Sorry, man, “ said Bertram. It was at this point he really took a look at the vehicle that had also made he day really bad. It was an old Dodge pickup, with a noisy engine, a pock-marked windshield, and more rust than paint on its body.

The driver of the truck wasn’t in much better shape. He was an old man with a long white beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He was wearing a dirty tank top, and was missing some teeth. He looked like many of the down-on-their-luck old men in the area, except for eyes betrayed a sense of fiery intelligence.

“Well, just stay out of god damn fuckin’ road next time, jackass.”

Bertram looked like he was going to add something, but instead just turned and headed down the sidewalk next to the side street. As far as he was concerned, this was all he would be seeing of that disheveled, foul-mouthed old man. And his shitty truck.

Unfortunately, fate and that old man disagreed with Bertram. Before he had made it a block up the side street, the old fart was back.

“What the hell was so god damn important that it would take priority over watching where you were fuckin’ going? Having troubles with a girl? Money issues?”

“None of your damn business, sir, but no, neither of those.”

“Sheeeit, you weren’t having writing troubles, were you. Please don’t fuckin’ say that.”

“Well, yeah, somewhat.”

“Damnit, its always with the fuckin god-damn writing troubles. You must be the fourth ‘writer’ I’ve almost killed this week. Sheeeit, fucking writing problems.”

Bertram could tell this guy had experience with writing, other than an abnormally high level of near accidents with them. Judging by how the old man had said the word “writer” he didn’t sound like a fan of them and their craft.

“Look, buddy, I know a bit about the writing game. I’ve got some time and gas to kill, hop in and we can work out your problem.”

Bertram could smell the interior of the cab, and it wasn’t pleasant. It smelled like a mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and old man BO. He wasn’t quite sure if this guy was even sober, let alone if he was sane. A reasonable person would be expected to decline the offer of help.

On most occasions Bertram was a sensible man. He rarely spoke up, rarely took the road less traveled. He paid his bills and his taxes, and didn’t complain if his food was poorly cooked. However, every once in a while, Bertram would turn off that switch in his brain that prevented taking stupid risks, and would just go with it. It’s how he had ended up self employed, how he had ended up in this small town on the eastern edge of Illinois. Sometimes you just gotta go with it.

“Why the hell not?”

To be continued...