"What's up, Mon?" asked Deep Red as Monica
slid her ample self onto the seat across from
where D.R. and Stal were wolfing down breakfast,
legs touching. A waitress approached, but Monica
warned her off with a glare and quick shake of her
head.
   "Thought that sounded like your Shovel,"
offered D.R., brushing crumbs off her red leathers.
   No response.
   "Your old man not up yet?" asked Stal,
winking.
   When the usual ribald reply was not
forthcoming, D.R. peered closer at her friend's
face, noting a frown furrowing the tanned
forehead, how the full lips were pressed together.
   D.R. put down her fork.
   Stal salted his hash browns.
   Reaching across the table, D.R. touched the
other woman's hand, felt her own grasped in
return. Studying Monica's eyes, D.R. sensed neither
grief or shock, only sadness.
   "What is it, Mon?" she asked softly. "What's
happened?"
   Monica sighed, freeing one hand to reach
inside her black leather jacket, retrieving a
small scrap of newsprint. She placed it on the
table, turning it so the others could read it.
   "Oh shit," breathed D.R., recognizing the obit
clipping for what it was. "Not another bro gone?"
   Stal had to finish swallowing a bite of toast
before he could comment. "I know him. Rode up to
the races a couple of times with him."
   "Did you know him, Mon?" inquired D.R., peering
for a reaction in the other's eyes.
   "Not really," rasped Monica, her throat dry.
D.R. slid her water glass over.  Monica drank
deeply, gratefully. "My ol' man and me met his
brother down in California a few years ago."
   "I think the guy is . . . was an independent
trucker," mused Stal.
   "He have any other family up here?" asked D.R..
   "Like it says there," Monica nodded toward the
clipping. "Brother, sisters, mother."
   "Is there going to be a service we could
attend?" queried D.R..
   Monica shook her dark wavy hair. "Not much to
show for a life gone," she sighed.
   "Five inches of newsprint."
   "At least he went out riding," put in Stal.
"Hope it was quick," he added, more to reassure
himself than comfort others.
   D.R. glanced sharply at him. "It could happen to
any of us any time," she stated, fighting back the
upwelling tears in her eyes.
   "Yeah, it could," admitted Monica. "And I
don't want to lose any of us."
   "Me neither," put in Stal, his deep voice
oddly husky.
   "Hold me?" pleaded D.R., trying to slip an arm
around him. He put down his fork to comply. "You
too, Mon."
   Monica slipped out of her seat and scooted
around the table to scrunch in next to D.R. and
Stal, all trying to be as close as they could, all
staring down at the small obituary before them.

                         -- Pat Henderson
                            10 September 1996