Celia was a waitress. She had curly red hair and soft green eyes. She worked at the truck stop four nights a week, where she picked up the name Strawberry, because of her red hair. Her favorite truck driver was an old man from Baton Rouge, named Howie. He came through about twice a month and always stopped to refuel and eat with Strawberry. They developed a lasting friendship and both looked forward to seeing one another. This was not in any way a romantic relationship. It was a matter of two souls connecting in that special way that transcends age and gender.
Howie had a family back in Louisiana and owned a double-wide mobile home on ten acres of land. He was real proud of his place and always returned home with some new acquisition for his home - a coffee grinder, a set of plates, etc. He was a large man, big boned and healthy. He had a hearty appetite and ate whatever he wanted without ill effect. Though his hair was white, it was full bodied and shiny.
Strawberry was a twenty something high school dropout, who was interested in nothing in particular. Her parents were long since divorced and she hadn’t seen her mother in years. Her father was an alcoholic who drifted in and out of town. She was never very glad to see him, as he was usually broke and looking to borrow money. She lived in a small upstairs apartment in town, over a furniture store. Her one concession to home decor was a huge pink sofa that took up half of her tiny living room.
One night, Howie came in looking pale and shaken. “What’s up? Are you sick?” asked Strawberry.
Howie managed a faint smile and began his strange tale. “I was two miles out of Louisiana on a long haul. I hadn’t slept well the night before, so I brought along a thermos of coffee to help me stay awake. It was just past midnight when I saw a hitchhiker. I considered stopping, but decided not to. These days it’s just too dangerous. Still, I had a feeling I really should have given him a ride.
“I drove until noon the next day, then stopped to get some rest. Several hours later, I saw the same hitchhiker I had seen the night before. I decided to stop, but before I could, someone else picked him up. Something about him bothered me and it stayed in the back of my mind. Late that night, I ran into bad weather. It was raining so hard, I slowed to a crawl, looking for a place to pull off the road. Suddenly, in the glare of the headlights, stood the same hitchhiker. He was waving his arms and motioning for me to stop. So I stopped. I opened the door to let the hitchhiker in out of the rain, but he was gone.
“Not long after that, I was glad he stopped me. A state trooper came along to put up roadblocks and told me the river had overflowed and the bridge ahead was out. I got out to help set up the roadblocks and asked if he had seen a man out here trying to stop traffic. I said I’d like to thank him for saving my life. ‘He caught a ride back into town,’ the trooper told me. ‘This fell out of his pocket as he was running to catch his ride. It might have a name or address in it. Would you like to have it?’ So I took it."
“What was it?” asked Strawberry, intrigued by his story.
Howie reached into his jacket and brought out an old beat up, well-worn book. “It did have a name written in it. I thought you’d like to keep it,” he went on mysteriously. Strawberry’s eyes widened in the dead silence that followed. It was a small red book. In it was written ‘To Dad - from Celia’. It was her father’s pocket Bible - the one he always carried when he was sober.
