“So you’re the writer who wants to hear my story?”
Yessir. I’m the guy. Thanks for taking my call, I know you’re a busy man.
“Busy? In a retirement home? Yeah, I’m slammed. Say, I knew a Dietrich when I was in high school, ‘bout 70 years ago. In Chicago. Bill, Bill Dietrich. You related to him?”
No.
“Well, good for you. Bill was a sorry piece of work. Nobody would wanna be related to him.”
Your daughter Janell told me you have a story.
“Story? Aw jeez, I wish she wouldn’t have told you that. I don’t like telling that story on account of people think I lost my mind. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I want to tell it today. I’m just not in the mood.”
Okay. I absolutely understand.
“It all started like this, you see. I’s working in sales in Chicago, I never got to see my family. It was real hard, my kids hardly knew me, I missed their birthdays and everything. But when you’re a young guy, you only care about money.
“Well, back then they didn’t pay for salesmen to fly
unless you were a hot shot, so I drove everywhere. Had a ‘66 Chevy Caprice, I’d driven it to almost every state.”
That’s a lot of driving.
“Don’t I know it. So one night, I’m driving, and I’m missing my daughter’s birthday because I’m on the road to some little Indiana town. It’s late, I’m riding over this big, tall bridge over a river or creek or something. Listening to the radio. And I see an enormous light coming toward me. I mean big.”
A light?
“Yep. And the closer I get, I can see it’s actually TWO SETS of headlights, coming at me.”
And you’re on a bridge?
“A very tall bridge.”
So what happened?
“Well, right away I can see it’s two delivery trucks, and the idiots are passing…