Riding high in the Mack truck, every part of me would stick to something – the hot vinyl seats, the door handle, the Mountain Dew bottle I held. It would seem like the whole world was melting into one big pot of hot, sticky goo intent on sucking me in. I’d lift one leg then the other, holding each as long as I could so the sweat would dry. 

            My grandpap didn’t seem to notice the heat. He always wore his work uniform, once-white shirt and pants, now covered in cement dust, and his billed cap stitched with the words Kelly’s Building Materials. 

            “I’m a company man,” he would say. “The Teamsters never did nothin’ for me.”

            His buddies would argue. He would shrug, staying true to that company right up until the day he died of a heart attack pulling his mac into the yard for reloading. 

            I eventually understood that he was both stubborn and simple, not simple-minded, just uncomplicated like a child or the Buddha. But when I was little and rode with him in his Mack truck, I thought he was right about everything. He was my grandpap.

            At the place where we’d drop off the haul, men with cigarettes hanging from their lips unloaded stacks of plasterboard from the truck’s bed. I used napkins from the glovebox to wipe at streams of sweat that ran down the sides of my face. Hair slipped from the rubber band my grandma took from the morning newspaper plastered my neck. 

            “Who you got with you, Gumps?” someone always asked.

            Only people who really liked my grandpap called him by his nickname. My grandma called him Andy.

            “That’s my favorite girl. You remember Jillie!” he would say.

            “No! That can’t be her! When did she get so grown up?” 

            My cheeks pulsed even hotter. When I was out with my grandpap, he was Gumps and I was special. Not like when we were home.

            Before turning the truck around, we’d go eat at the truckstop diner. Grandpap would get spaghetti and black coffee. I’d get grilled cheese and Mountain Dew. Sometimes I’d forget to chew, as I rattled on about life in second grade. 

            “Joey Hood is the cutest boy in my class, but Brenda, she’s my best friend, told me not to like him cuz of the police going to his house last weekend.” 

            Any time I talked about boys, my grandpap would pause with fork or cup midway to his mouth and raise his tumbleweed eyebrows.

            “I know. I’m too young for boys.”

            “You got a future” he’d say and then go back to eating.

            “But Joey Hood is cute,” I’d say before pulling apart my sandwich and grabbing the elastic cheese with my tongue.

            The lines by my grandpap’s sky blue eyes would crinkle, and I’d be off and running with my next story. 

            When he pushed his plate toward the edge of the table to make it easy for the waitress and then lit a cigarette, I knew it was almost time to go. I’d say a prayer in my head, as hard as I could. I always asked Jesus to stick my legs to the seat so tight we couldn't leave