Bertha was driving her rig down the interstate. She let out a big belch as she listened to a country music station. She was tired of hearing songs about getting drunk and everyone dying on you, or leaving. Bertha switched to her guilty pleasure, which was a radio station that was all musicals. Her truck driving pals would laugh at her if they knew. Bertha knew it was corny, but she loved it.

Bertha was the prettiest of the truck drivers, she looked like Marilyn Monroe with her soft, wavy, blond hair and curvy body, which enhanced her uniform in a way that was pleasing to the other half. All the guys wanted to date her. Bertha had her rules though, no dating people she worked with. Kingsley Beer considered her their best driver, she delivered their product cross-country in the record time, and more deliveries per week than any of their other drivers. The others all envied her, but wanted her at the same time. The one thing they liked about her the most was that she was one of the guys. Bertha swore, farted, belched like the rest of them. She could beat just about all of them in an arm - wrestling match, and could out drink them all and still be sober. She knew more about sports than any of them. They considered her the “perfect broad.”

Just as Bertha was getting into the music, a male voice came on the CB Radio. “Breaker, Breaker, Jig of Salt here. Can you hear me?”

“Roger, Jig of Salt, this is Bopping B …” said Bertha as she lifted a cheek and let out a toot, hoping he hadn’t heard the music as she turned it down.

“Rig Wipin’ feet ahead. Roads are slick! Be careful.”

“Roger that, thanks Jig of Salt. Is that what you’re carting, salt?”

“Roger, Bopping B. Did I hear, “It might as well be Spring” in your rig?”

She could feel her cheeks getting warm, she didn’t have to look in the mirror to see she was blushing. Bertha was about to turn off the radio when he said, “Bopping B, Turn it up. I love State Fair. Big into musicals. Don’t tell the guys though.”

“Roger, Jig of Salt, Thanks for the warning. What’s your handle outside of work?”

“Hush on that, little lady. Heading into the barnyard now, calling it a night.”

He started singing, “I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams. . . ” Over and out,” said Jig of Salt.

"Hmm, baritone, nice,” she muttered to herself, but thought he just had to be gay. Had to be, but if he wasn’t, wouldn’t it be nice to have a guy she could listen to My Fair Lady, or Carousel with? She belched in contemplation. “Naw, there’s no way he’s straight,” Bobbin B voiced to no one but the cab.

Later that night Bertha was drinking a beer at a bar at the last town on her route. It was near closing time. No matter where she went the guys, truckers or not, wanted to chat her up. It was no different tonight. She had about four non-appealing men hanging around her.  If the guy was cute, she’d go home with him and get her thrills, but she never met anyone she liked well enough to consider a relationship. Tonight, there was no one she was remotely interested in, except for the bar tender. He was cute, in a Tony Curtis sort of way, and had a sparkle in his grin, that she had to admit turned her on, but he had a harem of his own.

There were about six girls across the bar trying hard to get his attention. They all dressed like they worked in a strip joint. Each shoved their phone numbers in his direction.

He went about his job serving drinks, even though one of the girls clearly had had some kind of relationship with him. The other girls eventually gave up, but this one did not.

He told her quietly, “You know we broke it off, sorry Lil, but my mind can’t be changed. You were drunk, when you got here, you need to go home.  I’ll call you a cab.”

Lil frowned as he made the call. While he talked to the cabbie, she leaned over the bar with her boobs popping out of her tight tank top. She ran her hand up and down his arm, cooing, begging him to take her home.

Lil was making a scene and even Bertha’s hangers on noticed.

“The cab driver is two minutes away. He’ll take you home.” He dug into his pocket and gave her a twenty. “This should cover it.”

“But Joey, you told me you wanted me!” She screamed in his ear. He pushed her away, and nodded to the bouncer, who walked over to take charge. Lil resisted and tried to fight the mountain of a man, but he was too strong, and he brought her outside.

“Look, it’s time to close. Everyone, go home,” said the bartender with the fan club.

“But it’s not even one yet,” said a guy near Bertha.

“It is by my watch,” said Bertha, as she belched in his face. “You heard the man. Time we all leave.”

The bouncer returned and told Joey that Lil got to the cab ok, then he ushered the others out of the bar.

Bertha threw some money down, and asked, “You ok?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

“Anytime.” She got up to leave.

Bertha nodded and waved goodbye.

“I think I’m just going to stick to my regular job now, instead of helping my buddy out here,” he said as she started to walk out.

He turned some music on as he cleaned. He played, “If I Loved You” from Carousel. Bertha stopped in her tracks. She turned and looked at Joey as he grabbed the phone numbers, crumbled them up, and tossed them in the trash. He was even more good looking to her now as he started to sing along. Her jaw dropped.

“What IS your regular job?” She asked.

“Driving rigs,” he answered.

“Jig of Salt?” She asked. He nodded.

“Bopping B?” He asked. She nodded.

They shook hands.

Their two faces lit up as they acknowledged each other.

Bertha reached into her pocket and pulled the phone numbers from her own fans, and gave them to Joey to toss. He did so with all the fun and finesse of the Harlem Globetrotters.

Joey pulled out a couple of cans of beer, came around and joined Bertha and gave her one. They gulped them down and they both belched simultaneously. Then grinned at each other.

“I was thinking if I ever met you face to face, I’d love to see if you would like to go to a show. How long are you in town? Bobbin B.?”

“Just this weekend, and you can call me Bertha. Showboat is playing here on Saturday.”

“Yes, I know, I plan to go. Would you like to go together, it’s general seating?”

“Sure,” replied the blonde”

“Then it’s a date.”

Bertha sat at the bar with Jig of Salt, or Joey Jig, as she learned, and they got to know each other. It was the beginning of the road to romance with lots of music, sports, driving, drinking and gas . . . and they sure had a real swell time.

Ten – year - old Alex gazed up at the stars with his father one August night in an open field near their farmhouse in Maine. They had brought the high - powered telescope with them as they stood on the hill in wonderment of the constellations.

“Wow, I see millions of stars,” Alex said taking his turn at the lens. “I see the big dipper and the little dipper. I even see the moon clearly. It’s bright but not full. I see the man in the moon,” he chuckled. “I know it’s not a man, just the reflections of mountains and sky. Wish I could fly to the moon someday in my own rocket ship.”

“Well, who knows, maybe you will, son. Did I ever tell you about Robbie, my childhood friend in the mid - west? He claimed he went to the moon one night and even had proof.”

“What?” Alex stepped away from the telescope. “No. You never told me that story.” Alex’s father told him lots of stories, he fancied himself a writer and sometimes Alex didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He was at the age where he didn’t “believe” like in Santa Claus. He’d known it wasn’t real for some time, but kept up the pretense for his younger sister. Now, he wasn’t sure about any fantastic tale he told him.

“So, what happened Dad?” He asked in a skeptical tone.

“Well,” his father sighed, looking up at the waxing moon. “Robbie was a believer first of all. He had quite the imagination. He liked to invent things and even made a rocket out of used metal and various parts his father had on hand in the garage. Like his father, Robbie liked to tinker. I suppose it supported his dreams and imagination.” His dad smiled in remembrance.

“So, did he fly to the moon?” Alex laughed, once again looking through the lens. The moon’s bright surface glared back at him. It was so powerful yet out of reach. What might it be like to fly to the moon, he thought, listening to his father.

“Well one night Robbie, myself and a few friends went to a clearing in the woods near Robbie’s house. It was this time of year when you see lots of shooting stars. The Perseids, named for the constellation Perseus, it’s the brightest meteor shower of the year. It was spectacular. It is said if you make a wish on a shooting star, it comes true. As long as you don’t tell anyone.”

Alex pulled away from the telescope. “I saw a shooting star earlier. But I didn’t make a wish.”

“Tomorrow night will be the peak. We should see plenty if it’s clear.”

“I’ll keep it in mind and think of a wish. So, what happened with Robbie? Did he make a wish and did it come true?” 

“He did.” His father looked up as if he could see that night clearly in the stars, a boyhood friend remembered. Now Robbie was looking down at him from the constellations. “Robbie,” he said in a sad tone, “made a wish to go to the moon one day. Said if he didn’t, he wanted proof that the moon would come to him.”

“What? How can that be?” Alex asked, incredulously. 

 “Well, it happened.”

“How?” Now Alex was intrigued but still skeptical. His father once again telling tales.

“Robbie claimed when he got home that night there was moondust on his pillow.”

“What?” Alex laughed.  “Dad, really. How do you come up with this stuff? I certainly don’t have the imagination you or your friends had. I guess I’m more practical, like Mom. I do like hearing your stories though, so go on,” Alex said, not wanting to hurt his dad’s feelings.

“Alex, my boy you are growing up too fast. Just promise me you’ll never stop believing. It’s what gets us through the hard times. Belief is a powerful thing.”

Alex made a face, not sure what his father meant.

“Well, we should call it a night and pack up the telescope. We’ll come back tomorrow as the meteor shower should be more active.”

Alex agreed. “But first tell me more about Robbie and the moondust.”

“Okay,” his father said as they folded up the tripod and headed home. “It may sound far - fetched but we all went over to Robbie’s the next day and saw the gray dust on his pillow. We thought it was ash from the fireplace but there was something different about the texture. It even glowed. The amazing thing is it changed color right before our eyes and turned amber. It’s hard to believe, but we all saw it.”

“Really?” Alex cocked his head not sure it was true. It couldn’t be. This was one of those times his father sounded convincing, but it was hard to believe. Then his dad told him the rest of the story. He said Robbie had died the following summer from a rare form of cancer. Alex was surprised and saddened to hear that and figured his father believed in the moondust in order to hold on to Robbie’s memory. It was his way to honor his childhood friend. Alex had a newfound respect for his dad’s stories.

That night Alex saw a shooting star from his bedroom window and made a wish. He wished to go to the moon someday, but if not, he wanted proof of Robbie. Something to hold on to his memory. Something for his dad.

The next morning, he saw amber moondust on his pillow. It sparkled. He knew at once he would have to show his father. Indeed, believing is powerful.