The Strap Told On Us

The load looked immaculate. Two spares, a jerry can, a toolbox, and a cooler, all strapped down in the bed in a pattern that took twenty minutes and got photographed. Tomás did the last strap, felt it go one click past snug, decided that was plenty, and got in.

Washboard is a machine for finding slack. It doesn't yank things loose; it vibrates them loose, one imperceptible increment at a time, over about six thousand small impacts.

Twenty miles in, the sound started. Not a bang — a rhythmic knock behind the cab that arrived only over rough sections and stopped whenever they slowed down to listen for it, which is the single most infuriating behavior a noise can have.

They ignored it for eleven more miles, which is standard. Then the jerry can made a break for it, went up about four inches on a hard hit, came down on the corner of the toolbox, and everybody heard that.

Nothing was lost. The can was dented and the strap was still hooked at both ends, doing exactly the job it was set to do, which was hold a load that had shrunk half an inch since the trailer. That's the whole failure. Half an inch.

They pulled off, re-tensioned everything, and Tomás went around the bed a second time on his knees checking each hook. Then he did something better: he pulled off again forty minutes later and checked them all again, which is what people who've lost a cooler on a highway do forever after.

The rest of the day was silent behind the cab. There's a real pleasure in that — a load that just sits there for a hundred miles while the country goes by. Cheap satisfaction. Costs one click.