HANK THE TRUCKER

Hank downshifted, then glanced at the hula girl on the dashboard shaking her hips. For luck, he flicked his finger against the stomach of the Wile E. Coyote figure wearing a trucker hat with the Confederate flag on it.

Hank had found it funny to see a character known for always losing repping the Confederate flag, and even funnier that the piece of non-licensed merchandise was made unironically.

He looked out the love bug smeared windshield at the sign reminding him to take exit 130 to get to Mable’s Diner, which was open twenty four hours, welcomed truckers, and was only four more miles away.

He checked his mirrors and began switching lanes as he thought about pancakes.

Hank had made it a tradition to stop at Mable’s when his route took him out this way.

Seven minutes later, Hank pulled into one of the long parking spaces as the hula girl danced to the squeal and hiss of the brakes.

Hank slid out of the cab and removed his hat as he stretched and ran a hand through his hair. He checked to make sure the driver’s side door was shut and locked, donned his hat, and headed into Mable’s.

The sign was flipped to “please seat yourself,” so Hank chose the third booth in by the window.

His fingers were met with a bit of residual stickiness on the plastic menu cover as he flipped through the menu, though he already knew his order.

“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, hun.”

Hank looked up at Angie, as the nametag pinned on her blue apron proclaimed, and felt his head involuntarily shake slight in confusion.

“Well, it is my favorite place to eat when I’m out this way,” Hank played along.

Angie smiled.

“So what can I get ya? Or do you need more time.”

“I’ll do the four stack special. Over easy. Bacon.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“You got the exact same thing last time,” she noted with a smile as she finished writing the ticket.

“Creature of habit, I guess.” Hank smirked as he furrowed his eyebrows, then raised one.

“I’ll try to remember for next time.” Angie tapped her pen against her temple and smiled again. “I’ll be back with that coffee.” She turned to head to the kitchen, her platinum blonde ponytail swaying as she walked.

Hank shook his head and replaced the menu back between the napkin and syrup dispensers.

It had been six months since that last time he had taken a job out this way, and he was pretty sure Angie hadn’t been his waitress, or even working that day.

“Just tired maybe,” Hank mumbled to himself as he rubbed his forehead. “Driving too long.”

“Here’s your coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course! I’ll be back with your food as soon as it's ready.”

Hank picked up the sugar container, and watched as the white mass pushed through the little silver flap and then separated into cascading crystals that landed in the hot, black void.

He took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, placed his elbows on the table, arms folded toward him, and squinted out the window.

“And here you go.” Angie placed the plate in front of Hank. “More coffee?”

Hank looked down at his empty mug.

“Uh, yeah. Please. Thanks.”

Hank took off his hat, placed it on the table to his left, and rubbed the heel of his left hand just above his left eye.

He looked down at his half eaten meal, and half drunk coffee as the feeling of disembarkation sickness stirred inside him

Hank grabbed his hat, threw a twenty on the table, and strode quickly to the bathroom. He clipped the snapback to a belt loop and stuck his hands under the faucet to trigger the sensor.

The left side of his face felt hot, like the sun was beating down on him. He grimaced uncomfortably as he felt his skin tighten and begin to feel like it was being tugged away from his body. The sensation rubber banded back, and he felt a dull thump ripple through him from left to right.

After steadying himself, Hank pressed down the cold water button with the side of his hand, splashed water on his face, then wiped the excess away with a paper towel before leaving the bathroom.

Hank glanced at the third booth in by the window as he headed toward the door to the parking lot.

Angie smiled as she wrote down the order. Her platinum blonde side swept pixie cut stood out against the red of her apron.

The man seated at the booth looked up to thank Angie, and Hank saw his own face.

Hank rushed out the door, stumbled a few steps forward, and managed to turn toward the bushes just in time for the chunks of pancake, scrambled egg, and sausage to erupt from his guts.

He closed his eyes, and felt the world turn around him like a funhouse tunnel.

The sensation eventually stopped, and Hank wiped snot from his nose as he returned to his truck, red faced and teary eyed.

Hank pulled the folded note that was taped to his door and read it as he sat in the driver’s seat while swishing mouthwash from the little bottle he kept in his toiletries bag.

The note simply said “Urgent. Need to talk.” followed by a frequency that shouldn’t be tuneable.

Hank spat the mouthwash out onto the asphalt and tuned to the impossible frequency.

“Hello?” A panicked and excited voice came through immediately. “Can you hear me?”

“10-2,” Hank replied. He coughed and cleared his throat before continuing. “What the hell is going on? And who the hell are you?”

“I’ll try to be as clear, and quick, as possible and answer the questions you’re more than likely going to ask. I’m Thomas Creely. I work for the pretentiously named Lucht Féachana to watch for events like yours. I know what’s happening to you because I’m in a location outside of space and time. You are caught in the middle of what we call a Divergence. Realities, timelines, whatever you want to call it, have split and are interfering with each other. Think of it like a Chinese fan. A straight line when closed; everything in order. But something caused the fan to open, spreading out all the realities. Problem is, the fan is bent, and folding in on itself. So, like the fan, reality is becoming non-functional at best.”

“I read you. Well enough anyway.” Hank squinted out at the horizon and chewed at nothing. “So how do we fix it?”

“Well. I am detecting an anomaly three hundred fourteen miles east of Gemison. You’ll need to drive through it and that should pull everything back together. Close the fan, if you will.”

“Why me though? Aren’t you ‘outside of time and space’ and all that? Don’t that make you God, or something?”

“I definitely don’t have that kind of power. And I certainly wouldn’t want that responsibility. Or take the pay cut.” He chuckled slightly.

Hank simply stretched his jaw.

“But, uh, to answer your question,” Creely continued. “Based on all the data, you, or one of the other Hanks, were at the epicenter of the Divergence. Unfortunately, it has to be someone directly connected to the event to reverse it. You seem to be the most aware of what’s going on and, well, quite frankly you’re the only Hank I’ve been able to actually get in contact with.”

Hank lowered the microphone and hesitantly raised it back up.

“Since I’m so aware of everything, does that mean I’m like Hank Prime, or whatever? So when the fan closes, will I still be here? I… I don’t want to die. Or disappear. Or whatever is going to happen to me.”

“In all honesty?” Creely replied. “I don’t know. I’m not going to lie to you, Hank. It’s possible you’ll blink out of existence. Or you’ll become an amalgamation with other Hanks. Or remain as you are. But what I do know, if we don’t fix this, reality is going to tear. And there are things lurking at the edges waiting to step through. And that, well, that ends badly for everyone and everything.”

“Fuck it.” Hank gritted his teeth. “If it’ll stop whatever is happening to me, and save the world in the process, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Hank.” Creely sounded relieved, and just a bit sad. “Sincerely.”

“Stay loaded, Creely.”

“Stay loaded, Hank.”

“10-4. Hank out.”

Three hundred fourteen miles outside of Gemison, a semi barrelled down the highway, duplicated and spread like an accordion, then collapsed back into one.

Hank downshifted, then glanced at the hula girl on the dashboard shaking her hips. For luck, he flicked his finger against the stomach of the Porky Pig figure wearing a trucker hat with the Confederate flag on it.

He adjusted his own hat, checked the time, and thought about pancakes.