The Transformation of Rod - Part 2

Rod crumpled up the foil wrapper and stuffed it in the lunch bag.  He did the same with the Diet Coke can.  He then tossed the bag on the passenger side floor.  There it joined other bags, evidence of previous identical lunches.  Even though the truck was state property, Rod treated it like it was his own personal vehicle.  Indeed, his own truck had a similar pile of trash on the floor from weekend and after hours meals.  No one had complained about the mess so Rod figured it was not a problem.  Rod was correct about this.  The road kill trucks already reeked from hauling rotting carcasses.  The department saw no advantage in enforcing any sort of interior cleanliness.  When it came time to replace these vehicles, it would be difficult to unload them due to their foul odor.  A little bit of trash on the floor would not make much of a difference.

Rod pulled out on the highway and began to plan his afternoon route.  He was required to travel each of the major highways in his coverage area at least twice during his shift.  He tried to time things such that he would check the busiest roads just after the busiest traffic times.  No matter how carefully he planned things, the execution was often disrupted by a dispatch.  The department policy was that if someone called in a road kill incident, it should be cleaned up within twenty minutes.  After all, they were servants of the tax payers and people liked to see an efficient use of their money.  In reality, it would have been more efficient to have each truck stick to its route and make the pickup as part of the normal course of their activities.  But then, sometimes perception trumps reality.  Rod didn't mind the dispatch policy.  He rather liked the notion of dropping everything and rushing to the scene.  He only wished he had more commanding lights on the top of his truck so he could race through traffic like a fireman.

Rod turned east onto Sun Valley Parkway.  This stretch of road often yielded a critter or two.  Rod reasoned this was due to the proximity to White Tank Mountain Park.  Over the years, he'd kept detailed records about this particular section.  He was particularly obsessed with whether more animals were killed trying to get into the park or trying to leave it.  He felt like this was valuable data that someone should care about although he had yet to find that someone.  According to his data, the vast majority of critters were killed leaving the park.  Rod had a number of theories about why this was so.  He dutifully expounded on these in his log book, which few others ever looked at.  He had been on the road less than a mile when he noticed something on the shoulder ahead.  Even from a distance Rod could make out the unmistakable ears of a black-tailed jackrabbit.  It was laid out on the right shoulder as he approached, it's head just crossing into the lane, it's distinctive dark tail pointing back toward the park.  Rod nodded knowingly.  Why did this creature feel the need to leave the park?  Rod parked about ten yards away from the rabbit and flipped open his log book - he'd wait to make the actual entry after he had the carcass in the truck.  "On board", as he liked to refer to it.  As he looked down at the book he realized he never made an entry for the coyote - a serious oversight on his part but given his desire to get away from Roy, understandable.   Oh well, he'd just fill it in when he did the jack-rabbit.

Rod stepped out of the truck, hiked his pants up a bit, and grabbed the shovel from the back of the truck.  Sometimes he handled the critters by hand, sometimes by shovel.  It all depended on his mood.  Right now Rod was in a shovel sort of mood, for no particular reason.  As he stepped toward the jack-rabbit, it kicked its rear leg.  Rod froze and stood motionless watching and waiting for any further signs of life.  Another kick.  Rod dropped the shovel and hurried back to the truck as quickly as his shortened stride would allow.  Every couple of steps he turned and looked back at the rabbit.  This really was turning out to be a special day.  When he reached the truck, he went to the passenger side door and opened it.  Rod leaned in and opened the glove box and pulled out his weapon.  It had been four months since he'd had occasion to transition a creature from road maim to road kill.  Rod relished any opportunity to brandish his Desert Eagle Blowback pellet pistol.  Sure, it didn't fire actual bullets but it looked like it could.  Rod felt like it completed his uniform.  Years ago he had petitioned the department to get permission to wear a holster so he could have it with at all times.  Much to his dismay, the department denied his request and stuck with its glove box policy.  Rod was disappointed at the time but the policy only served to make the allowable usage times all the more special and sweet.

Rod pulled the pellet gun out of the glove box and checked his ammo.  Plenty of pellets.  He stepped around the door and looked at the rabbit, or at least where the rabbit had been.  There was no sign of the creature anymore.  Disheartened, Rod shuffled along the shoulder, pellet gun in hand.  When he reached the spot where the rabbit had been, he stopped.  There was a little bit of blood on the shoulder but not much else.  Rod scanned the side of the road figuring the creature could not have gone too far.  The terrain was covered with bowling ball sized rocks and a few larger boulders scattered about.  Rod was torn.  Technically, the jack-rabbit was no longer a road concern and he should just leave.  On the other hand, if it was near the road there was a reasonable chance it would wander back out again.  Why make a second trip when he could just get it now?  Rod stepped off the road and began searching.  Up ahead he thought he saw what might be blood on a rock.  Rod clutched the pistol and headed toward it.  The ground had a slight incline to it, and stumbling over the rocks was difficult work.  Having a restrictive stride did not help matters.

Eventually, Rod reached the blood stain and stopped to look around.  There was no sign of the jack-rabbit anywhere.  The sun was in full force by now and Rod was drenched in sweat.  The intense smell of purple filled his nose.  Rod was aware of his breathing, much more labored than he was accustomed to.  He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax.  There was a large boulder nearby, nearly as big as his truck.  Rod stumbled over to it, looking for some degree of shade.  The sun was directly overhead and he found little relief.  Rod sat down next to the boulder and leaned against it.  He decided he needed to rest before trying to make the hike back to his truck.  The sun was blazing down on his face and he closed his eyes against its glare.  His uniform included a hat but Rod refused to wear it, claiming it mussed up his locks too much.  How he wished he had it now.  Rod sat there, drifting in and out of consciousness.  He never noticed the crippled jack-rabbit hobble past.