My name is Tim.
I drive a bank truck.
Every Thursday night, we're supposed to pick up the week's cash from the bank in Garrisburg.
It's one of the six or so that control the Canadian money system, or something.
Doesn't matter how fast I drive; it's a long trip.
A full night, from the main branch driving to each little outpost on the way.
Nine stops in all, in about as many hours.
I was born and raised here, in Garrisburg.
I volunteered to be put on the team when there was an opening.
The familiar bare streets at two a.m. brought back memories.
Good ones, mostly, of driving down the centre of the street.
Panicking when someone spotted a cop.
Relief when it was just the kid tripping out on pcp and there was no one in the car anyway.
There's only one other face on the eight-hour shift.
That's my partner, Jamie.
Sometimes I think he hates me.
Sometimes between midnight and two thirty he stares.
I don't know what to make of it.
When he watches me so closely that my face burns and my eyes water, I blink and look away.
I'm grateful then for the darkness on the road in the middle of nowhere, no streetlights rivalling the glow on my face.
Right now, I'm waiting in the truck.
I'm parked across three parking spots, and he's inside talking to some of the bank staff.
They're open until eight on Thursdays, and that means I wait.
He socialises, takes the money, does his job.
I wait, and stare at the coffee shop just across the street.
I wish that I had something to do.
I change the radio station several times.
I always end up on the same one, some hair metal station that Jamie enjoys.
Refuses to listen to anything else.
Dances a bit in his seat when he thinks I'm not watching.
But I do watch.
I'm just not as obvious about it as he is.
He's pretty obvious about everything, but it's just another thing I watch him for.
I don't mean to, but it's like trying to stop a car wreck.
I can't stop watching his face, tonight.
His eyes are bright.
The streetlights reflect in his eyes, but there is something else.
I don't recognize it.
The back door slams, and its Jamie.
I slowly start backing up, because he sorts things as we drive.
We can't lose time as much as I want to drag it out.
This is all the time we spend together.
We are not friends.
We do not meet each other for coffee.
Or for beer.
We simply work together and say good night before we drive home at three thirty a. m.
Times like this I want to—no, I don't want to kiss him, I tell myself.
It's perverted and wrong and things like that don't happen to guys like me.
Guys who seem to have a few things figured out.
Liking girls, driving cars, eating hamburgers.
Not sudden concern with what he would say if I leaned over and—
I don't finish the sentence.
He swings through, lands next to me on the passenger seat.
Coffee? he asks.
I park and he goes in for coffee.
He knows what I want.
I pull onto the road, and drive across town.
It takes forever to get across Garrisburg.
We stop at a red light.
There are no cars around.
I clear my throat.
He looks at me.
I open my mouth to say something.
Instead I find I'm kissing him.
I enjoy it.
So does he.
I have my tongue in his mouth.
Then he says no and pushes me away.
I can't swallow or breathe and its wrong to be worried more about words than imminent suffocation.
He turns to face out the windshield.
So do I.
We, ah, get off at three, he says.
I shift into gear, but don't say anything.
I live on Spencer Street, he says.
And I smile.