Clayton Weatherton was a semi-truck driver. That was the job he got straight out of high school thanks to his dear old dad, and that was the job he was gonna stick with until the day he died. In a couple of months, it would be fifteen years to the day since he started. Clayton’s old high school friends never seemed to understand. The biggest mistake he’d made in his life after graduation was going to the ten-year high school reunion. He thought it would be nice to see all the faces that had been absent from his life for ten years, but instead of friendly smiles, he was greeted with upturned noses when he told them the career he’d dedicated his life to.

“So you’re not doing anything music-related anymore?” was a question he heard at least five times that evening. The question made him so livid that he left the reunion an hour early. He polished off a six-pack by himself while staring at the hotel wall, fuming for the rest of the night.

His old classmates asked him that question as if he’d absolutely and finally hung up an entire lifetime of love for music. All of these old slackers and stoners who had turned into bankers and programmers overnight seemed to be under the impression that you could only have one true love in your life and it had to be the thing that made your whole career and put food on the table. Clayton never fell for that philosophy for a second. Just like truck driving, Clayton would love music until the day he died. He was a snare drummer in the marching band in high school, and even if he wasn’t a rock star or a career musician now, he still drummed every night while he traveled from one city to the next in America’s asphalt bloodstream. 

Before pulling out onto the highway, Clayton always made sure he had his earbuds firmly in place, with music blaring loudly. His truck was so noisy, he couldn’t hear the music properly on his stereo. He always made sure his long hair covered his ears so he’d never get in trouble with nosy highway policemen. It wasn’t a safety hazard because Clayton was a professional. He knew what to listen for over the music. He knew what to look for. While his music blasted and his truck sped down the road, Clayton drummed away on his steering wheel, playing along with whatever popped up on shuffle in his classic iPod he’d had since 12th grade. Clayton was ready for anything while he drove and drummed, except the night the world ended.

On the night that the world ended, Clayton noticed the skies turning a beautiful fiery red. He thought it was just a particularly beautiful sunset. While he drummed along with Dave Brubeck, he didn’t see the cities on fire off the side of the highway, or the unidentified flying objects that were slipping through the dimensional crack in the sky. He didn’t notice the green beams that fried up the buildings and sucked the rest of humanity into the unearthly glow of the alien machines. He didn’t even notice as his semi-truck was lifted into the sky while he performed his own jazz solo. He never noticed the end of the world due to one very important reason, one that his old classmates would never understand: 

Clayton Weatherton was happy.

This week's story was inspired by Drums On The Wheel by Aesop Rock