My eyes don’t work!

“Tell ‘em ‘aww simmer down, I ain’t the snake that bit ya.’” Grandpa holds his cigarette so the smoke blew out the truck cab’s slightly open window.
“What?”
“Tell those guys to simmer down, say ‘I ain’t the snake that bit ya.’”

I click the button on the CB’s handheld microphone. “You simmer down. I ain’t the snake that bit you.”
Grandpa’s crackling laugh bursts out.
“Now just a god damn minute,” a voice comes back.

“Well, time to turn it off. You got ‘em riled now.” He turns a knob until it clicks. The CB goes dead. “You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. I’ll pull in at the next truck stop. I want pancakes.”
“Scrambled eggs.”
“Sounds good.”
“And a milkshake.”

We sit in the smoking section. The waitress calls me darling, brings my shake out with the metal cup, asks if I can finish it.
“I’m good at eating icecream.”
She and grandpa both laugh.
“You gonna share that with your grandpa?”
I look at her, him, the milkshake, him. “Okay.”
They both laugh again. He pats my hand. He takes two sips from the straw. I drink the shake so fast my head feels for a moment like it will split open.
He pays the bill, hands me several green pieces of actual paper money. My eyes get wide.
“Run this money back to the table.”
“Why?”
“That’s the tip.”
“What’s a tip?”
“It’s money for the waitress.”
“Why do you leave it on the table?”
“You just do. Go run it back.”
“How come nobody else takes it off the table?”
“Because that’d be wrong.”
“But someone COULD take it - ”
“Only a bad person would.”
“Okay but what if a bad person tried -”
“People would see them and stop them.”
“Okay.
"Listen, you tip good. Remember that. Always tip good.”
“Okay.”
“Now run that to the table like I told you.”
I do. The waitress sees me, smiles, “thank you darling!” I run back to where my grandpa stands by the cash register.
“Let’s go to the toilet before we get back in the truck.”
“Okay.”
“So I don’t pee the seat.”
I laugh at his joke.

It’s dark now, the highway lit by headlights.
“When you wake up tomorrow we’ll be real close to home.”
“Okay.”
“Your grandma will be happy to see you.”
“Me too.”
“You too?”
“I’ll be happy to see grandma too. I like grandma.”
“Good. She likes you too. You’re mom will be happy to see you too.”
I look out the window at the outlines of trees going, darker shadows against a dark backdrop. I turn and climb over the seat into the truck’s sleeper. “I’m gonna play with my cars.”
“Okay.”
I stage car crashes and car chases - bank robbers fleeing police - until my eyelids feel heavy. They keep falling closed. I open them, push my cars around on the sleeper’s matters, my eyelids close again. I open them as my chin dips forward.
“My eyes don’t work.”
“What?”
“My eyes don’t work!”
“Your EYES don’t WORK?!”
“Yes!”
“Jesus Goddamn Christ! Hang on buddy.”

As he pulls the truck off to the side of the highway I lay down in the sleeper, close my eyes. The truck stops moving, he clicks on the overhead light, turns around in the seat, leans over me. “Let me see your eyes.”
I look at him.
“Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
He leans in close, “your eyes look normal. You can see now?”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t see before?”
“No. Yes. I could see when they were open but not when they kept closing.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t see when my eyes kept closing.”
“Your eyes kept closing?”
“Yes.”
“You mean you couldn’t keep your eyelids open?”
“Yes. My eyelids would not stay open. They kept closing. Just on their own they would close even though I was playing.”
“That’s when you said your eyes didn’t work?”
“Yes.”
“God damn. I’ll be god damned. Come here.” He pulls my face into his shoulder, wraps his arms around my back. I feel the sharp scratch of his cheek pressing into mine. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you was going blind.”
“Well, I couldn’t see for part of it.”
“Because of your eyelids.”
“Right. I can’t see with my eyelids closed.”
“Nobody can.”
“I know.”
He laughs again, turns back around to face front. “You’re tired. Your eyelids keep closing because you’re tired. You should sleep.”
“But I want to play.”
“You want to play but your eyelids want to sleep, they’re tired because they been standing up all day, being open.”
“Maybe I could close one of them for a while and that one could sleep and I could keep the other one open.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll try that.”
“You do that.”

I close one eye as he begins to drive the truck along the emergency lane at the highway’s edge.
“This feels funny having one eye open.”
“You’re like Popeye.”
“That eye keeps opening now.”
“Maybe it would be easier to practice laying down.”
“Maybe.”
“Try that.”
“Okay.”
I lay back down as he pulls the truck back into one of the the highway’s regular lanes. With one eye then the other I look at the play of highway lights making shadows on sleeper’s ceiling until I fall asleep.