Samuel Chairstraddle hopped into his 1990 GMC Jimmy and cranked the engine.

“Please start; com’onnn…baby, START!”

{WRiii, WRiii, chik, chick, vwirrrrr, VROOM}

Sam crossed himself and looked up to where he supposed the heavens were; he blew a kiss. Resting his arm behind the passenger headrest, he backed quickly down his icy driveway — checking briefly for oncoming motorists — fairly certain there wouldn’t be many at this hour: 4:00 am.

A giant thermos rested snugly in his cup holder — he’d long ago worked it just right with a soddering iron. Now, steam emitted from the tiny opening. By the time he reached Flavettesville, it would be sippable. He whistled to the radio — a country Boyz 2 Men remix — drumming his thumbs on the cold brown leather steering wheel.

The heat in the truck was on the fritz again; he never could keep it working for long — the experts down at AAMCO gave it a terminal thumbs done — “needs a transplant,” they’d said.

His down-lined camo hunting gloves would work for now…and forever if they had to — jacket could’ve been warmer, but a little frost helps shake the cobwebs out in the morning.

Save a few lonely truckers, the road was deserted — just his highbeams blasting the road into daylight and the occasional disc jockey joke. It wouldn’t take him too much longer now — he’d been sipping the coffee for miles. Nothing out of the regular. A solid morning of hard work was in-store. Of course, there were variables: How many packages in that truck? Team lifts or a trillion tiny boxlets? Would Bill call in sick?

He arrived at the store and let himself into the rear entrance. Gabe, the team leader, was there already — moving wooden dollies into place. The toy truck has just arrived. It beeped its way into position — backing snugly into the loading dock. Sam strapped up his velcro back brace quickly.

“Let’s get this over with…” droned Gabe.

Sam nodded and silently hoped for small trinket boxes — Please… nooo bikes, he repeated to himself. Come on…nothin’ heavy.

Gabe swung the truck open. They gasped. Wall-to-wall giant boxes: car seats, bikes, scooters, video games systems, dollhouses…

“Seven dollars an hour,” said Sam. “Think I might rejoin the union.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t blame ya. Today is gonna suck.”

They strained to unload the boxes — Gabe hoisting them over his head and Sam moving them into aisle stocking categories. Halfway through the truckload, Sam heard a pop in his back — an excruciating back shot up his spine. He dropped the Super Barbie Playset box and landed on top of it. Gabe hadn’t seen him fall; he hadn’t heard any of the crash over the early morning radio. He dropped the next box right on top.

He didn’t have sirens on his truck — just flashers. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but work traffic was on the way. He weaved in and out; the spedometer climbed to 95 mph.

They made it to the hospital and went straight into the emergency room. The diagnosis: severe concussion and two ruptured verterbrae.

Santa visited the hospital, but found him cursing in Yiddish. The morphine drip kept him drunk, but not altogether happy. His spirits lifted somewhat to learn that young Kaeli received her Super Barbie Playset.

Sam was laid off on January 3rd — no paid time off. Happy New Year.