Bob Grimes has a history of drinking beer while on the road. Driving eighteen wheeler trucks was something that he always dreamed of doing. At forty years old, he still looked like Will Smith in Independence Day, but he was a darker the berry, the sweeter the juice version.
He was six foot, seven inches tall with a track runner’s body. He loved the gym and shied away from greasy foods, never eating over nine hundred calories a day.
He was well barbered and prided himself on being a ladies man, but that cost him his eighteen year marriage to his middle school sweetheart.
Recently divorced, his ex-wife left him.
A circuit court judge gave her the four bedroom house in Florida City, Florida, custody of their two youngest sons, ages seven and ten and his nineteen year old son joined the Airforce and still loved and admired his Playboy father.
Oh, and he had to give her half of his ninety thousand dollar savings; plus pay her eight hundred dollars a month in child support and alimony.
He made three thousand dollars a week.
Eight hundred bucks was chump change.
He had sixty thousand dollars in cash in a fire proof safe in his new condo in Kendall, Florida.
No one knew where he lived and he preferred it that way.
He’s been in a constant stupor, drinking his pain away. His friends turned on him and no matter what city and state he delivers moneyed freight, he lived and breathed strip clubs. Pricey hoes were his addiction.
After Samantha broke his heart he vowed to never date a white woman again. Truth be told, they were no different from his black queens.
Checking his cooler for another beer, he locked the cab of his truck and broke company rules by renting a car to enjoy Miami. South Beach was live in effect the night before and the King of Diamonds strip club became his favorite place out of all two hundred strip clubs he’s been to in twenty States.
He’s never seen black women so curvaceous, in person, in his life. Even though he lived forty minutes south of Greater Miami, he never has any free time. He’s always on the road or making freight deliveries in other states, cheating on his wife.
He lived the life, recklessly.
That was until his cell phone automatically dialed his wife when he was banging a stripper after hours on the bed in the cab of his truck.
She heard everything.
Being from Boise, Idaho wasn’t something he bragged about. He was brought up by an alcoholic Caucasian family that spoiled their black son to the core.
After he and his ex-wife graduated high school, he joined the Marines while she was pregnant with his son, Bob Jr., and provided for his family.
He was an incredible father and a lousy husband. For over a decade he hated himself for letting his adoptive parents talk him into a marriage he wasn’t ready for and he took it out on Samantha.
Now he missed his family. And he had no one to blame but himself.
He placed a call to Frank Jessup, his supervisor, and lied to him, saying his truck, carrying four million dollars in electronics, wouldn’t start.
“Keep it locked up, Bob and I’ll call Best Technology and explain the situation to them. Make sure you stay by the phone. A technician will assist you first thing Monday morning. I also alerted the truck compound. Security will guard the merchandise so you better grab a hotel room for the night.”
“Sure thing, boss. I’ve been telling you for weeks that our service guys have been doing a bang up job on my freight truck. I’ve filled out all the forms. Driving all over the United States in a flawed truck isn’t safe.”
“We’re working on getting you a brand new freight. You’re one of our best drivers. You never give us any problems. Send us the hotel bill and you’ll be reimbursed. Try to get some sleep and stay out of trouble.”
Bob disconnected the call.
It was still early. About 3:20 pm. He turned the key in the ignition and gunned his rented Yukon onto Florida’s Turnpike.
He was on his way to bang a chick he met on Facebook. She said she could suck a basketball through a straw and he was about to make her put her money where her mouth is.
Running into rush hour traffic, he braked, stopping behind a Ford F-150.
Opening a small bottle of apple Cîroc, he poured some into his thirty two ounce beer bottle, chugging on it.
Staring at a picture of his ex-wife...
It was a quarter past five when he turned onto SW 268th Street, Moody Drive from Allapattah. Intoxicated, he mashed on the gas pedal, passing a couple random cars, trying to get to his booty call.
Running a red light, he gradually pressed on the brakes, making a left on 137th, Speedway Road. He turned up Tupac full volume, racing past a few motorbikes.
His head spinning, he illegally changed lanes, turning left onto an unknown road, completely lost. But he didn’t care.
A woman was running up the block in a pink robe and furry slippers...