No Name

No Name

The pig truck swayed in the lane in front of me, tires careening close to the gravel edge of the road and swaying back to the dotted white line. I'd already driven alongside the truck, checking for pigs. Sure enough, I'd seen the thick pink skin sticking out, cut and bleeding, as it chafed against the sharp metal air holes. All the little piggies shoved in, open wound to open wound. Their pain, their fear, roiled my stomach. Watching the wheels of the truck veer right and left didn't help. I forced my eyes away from the spinning wheels, checked in the mirror of the nondescript Ford Focus I'd pinched. The blond wig was hot and made my head itch.

"Pay attention," I told myself. "Stay tough." That's what my daddy used to say when he'd wallop me upside my head, catching me unawares. And he'd laugh.

I'd been following this truck a while now, waiting for the driver to stop. Everyone needs to pee sometime. This guy must have a drum-sized bladder or else he was going in a bottle. Some truckers do that, especially if they're on a deadline.

My daddy always said, "Be patient, girl. You can do whatever it is you want, but you have to be patient. Do your homework." He said you have to find what gives you purpose or life ain't worth living. He had lots of sayings, my daddy did.

I opened the window, wondering if the pigs were squealing; I could only hear the roar of the truck's engine. The rush of air sent loose papers flying. Some people. Can't stow their shit properly. Why spend thousands of dollars on a car then treat it like a trash can? Just sayin'. Not complaining, though. It's the slobs that usually leave their doors unlocked. I can take it from there. Daddy told me you can learn anything at the library. I found out about dent pullers and how to start a car without its key.

The drivers of the passing cars didn't look at the pink flesh squeezing out through the sharp metal holes of the trailer. Did they even notice? Turn their heads away in disgust? Did they just see bacon?

Finally, the truck's indicator light came on. I followed it into the truck stop. He headed around back where the other big rigs were parked. I drove to the car lot and parked between two SUV's so the car wouldn't be seen too easily. In case there was a camera aimed at the lot. I didn't check; that always looks fishy.

I headed to the washrooms in my sensible pumps and trouser suit. I carried a gym bag with my costume in it. A camera would see a respectable blond woman, traveling on business perhaps. I changed into ridiculous stiletto heels, a tiny jean skirt and a tank top. I shook my hair out, glad to be free of the wig. It was useful though, the purple streak in my hair stood out a bit, especially for a business woman. I carefully rolled up my clothes and packed them into the gym bag. Daddy taught me to take care of my things. When I walked out of the bathroom I was a different woman, like Superman, but without the phone booth. Except I'm not always sure whether I was changing into or out of my costume.

The rest stop was crowded with people. The main highway I was working cut right across the country. It's always busy. Easy to get lost in a crowd. Dressed like a truck-stop girl, I was invisible. I could see it in people's eyes. Ladies' eyes would slide right off me, like I wasn't there. The men would look, lick their lips and quickly look away. Probably how they looked at the pigs in the truck, too.

I headed over to the truck parking lot. A handful of girls, dressed pretty much like me, gathered at a picnic table, posing hard. It takes more gas to turn off and re-start the big rigs than it does to leave them running. The trucks loomed over me. Most had their running lights on and their engines purred like cats.

I walked by the trailer crammed full with pigs. Now I could hear them squealing and grunting. I told them they'd be okay. Stay tough. Then I climbed up into the cab and shifted the engine into first. The girls were staring at me, their mouths all open. I finger-waved at them. I wasn't worried they'd rat me out. Girls like them don't talk to the police. I didn't feel sorry for them like I did for the pigs. They had choice; the pigs had none.

I'd put my mind to learning how to drive these big rigs. Traded a few sexual favors with the drivers, the kind of things men like, and they'd been happy to teach me. I'd started with that two and a half years ago, just after Daddy passed on. He'd been digging a new plot for the garden and his heart quit. I dug his grave behind our cabin close to where the field meets the woods. I can tell you digging is hard work. Heartbreaking, even. I missed him. I wanted his life to mean something and the only way I could think to do that was to make mine meaningful.

I loved riding high in the cab, looking down on all the little cars. I kept an eye out for a convenient place to dump the truck once I'd let the pigs go. Any rest stop or secluded spot on the side of the road, like the trucker was sleeping, would do. Then I hoofed it back home. Daddy and I hiked a lot through the woods and a day's walk didn't bother me.

Hell, it's not even like I don't eat meat. My daddy taught me to hunt and fish and cook it, too. We were self-sufficient, he'd say. Thing is, with all the pigs I'd freed around our place in the back country I had to hunt some of them myself. They were always rooting around Daddy's grave. He wasn't a religious man, so I marked the site with an Inukshuk I built from field stones. I picked an Inukshuk 'cause my daddy was a man who traveled his own path.

But the pigs would come out of the woods and knock it over. They could smell Daddy's bones, I guess. It didn't take long for the pigs to adjust to the wild. Shooting one every now and then is better than the slaughterhouse.

I think he'd be proud of the path I'm on. I'm like a super-hero. Super-pig-girl doesn't have a ring to it. Pig-girl, neither. And, anyway, I might branch out into rescuing other animals from a sure death. Give them a chance to live and die free, too. I really should have a name. I'll think of something.