Chapter 14

Northern Exposure

The following is all true, but written under protest. If I didn't write about it, others promised they would. I took their threats seriously. I feared they would exaggerate the whole thing further. This story needs no exaggeration. It’s damn near impossible to believe as it is.

They say the truth shall set you free.

Bet me.

Northern Exposure

I was running behind. Way behind. I had this sixth sense that it was a doomed trip from the start. I tried talking myself out of that hunch. I'd reasoned, pleaded and rationalized the whole deal to the point where I'd almost convinced myself that all was going to be OK. But there was a nagging sense it was NOT at all OK. If only I'd listened to myself when I was trying to ignore myself, none of it would have happened. At least that’s how I got it all figured in my mind now. You do what you have to do.

For the last two weeks I'd been training Julie, a woman who was thinking of becoming a man, on the fine art of hauling produce. It ain't really art. Not like hauling cows, or petroleum, or even, I dare say, chickens. But it’s not something you pick up overnight either. There are just some things about produce that need a little more attention than, say, a load of toilet paper: How hot to run strawberries and where not to load them in the trailer. That carrots are heavy and cauliflower ain't. That lettuce will freeze even when it’s above freezing. A lot of stuff that, once learned, will keep you from buying a load of bananas or whatever you happen to be trying to get from point A to point B “fresher than just-picked.”

It’s knowledge that won’t take you anywhere in life other than to a lot of long waits at a thousand produce sheds trying to get loaded. And a lot of even longer waits at grocery warehouses while the produce buyer tries to convince the produce broker that the asparagus on his dock is so close to rotten that the broker should give it to charity. Eventually the game is over and the broker drops the price of what everyone knows is perfectly good asparagus. The grocery company makes a little extra profit while the produce broker charges the shortfall back to the farmer. The asparagus is finally allowed off the trailer, into the coolers, and eventually children all over the place will be hating everyone who made it possible for the dreaded vegetable to land on their unfortunate plates.

I never wanted to be an expert on hauling produce for sure. And I certainly never considered myself to be a trainer. But here I was. And so was she. Stuck together, with me providing the higher learning that Julie needed if she was ever going to be running a trailer full of salad all over the place. And no, I didn't stutter. She was seriously wanting to be a he.

The whole deal turned sideways as soon as we got on the truck together. But you're gonna need some background on this before we go any further. Not only did the woman have an interesting little history, but that truck did as well. It was a light purple, long-nose Pete. Custom paint. More custom sleeper, older than my driver’s license with a mechanical 470 Cummins under a 13 speed transmission. It was the old school version of, “large and in charge.” And it was complete with chrome naked ladies on all the mud flaps. Very not me. It wasn't her either, but she thought it was ironic. Julie would be the first pre-op, post-lesbian, transgendered trucker to ever drive an Arkansas redneck’s Peterbilt.

The truck had been in Washington State only a few weeks and it already had a history before we got a hold of it. Or rather, it got a hold of us. So far my boss Darren had not found anyone who could keep the rig running for more than a few days. It was constantly on some road call list, stranded out in the middle of nowhere. Darren had only recently inherited the truck from his soon to be ex-best friend. Darren had restored the truck to life from some chicken hauler graveyard back in Arkansas. He had wonderful intentions of adding the truck to his fleet, operating it profitably, and splitting the proceeds with his friend. The two of them spent way too much time together and by the time it was all over they both believed they were destined to greatness via that purple Pete.

So to make a long story even longer, somehow this bad idea blossomed into an even worse plan of action. Darren and friend landed in Arkansas quicker than you can say, “bimbos swallow better in Little Rock.” Not that I would know anything about that. The two of them retrieved the Pete, and with an ample supply of bailing wire, fuses and good old fashioned luck, set off for the northwest. Somehow they babysat that rig from the mid south to Washington state, running every back road they could find to miss the “chicken coops,” aka scales. The Pete never once broke down, and by the time they arrived in Washington, Darren was convinced that this was one fine truck.

But, the Gods of deceased chickens everywhere had laid claim on that truck and it should have just stayed put in Arkansas, but we in the West are known for being unchurched and sinful and we don't listen to chicken gods as much as we should. So what if the truck did make the trek west and was now licensed under the state of Washington. Its heart was in still in Arkansas. Along with most of its original parts.

The first driver hired to run the truck was well schooled in produce and somewhat experienced with older, more sensitive equipment. But he also had the good sense to be superstitious enough to realize after three weeks that 'that truck ain't right.' In that short time, he broke down at least once every other day, got mugged in Stockton while broke down and he broke up with his wife. I figure all that breaking up and breaking down done broke his spirit. He quit the purple Pete.

One thing that isn't well known about the chicken Gods is that sometimes they like playing with those that mess with the order of all things chicken before they devour us as we lay surrounded in our own stupid foolishness. They sit there in those fluffy, heavenly, poultry clouds watching us peck ourselves to death under their inspiration. Sometimes this takes the shape of ideas that we believe are either our own or divinely inspired. They sound too good to be true. And they are. But we as mere mortals don't know this. The chickens do and it is their revenge upon us for being crammed in those tiny pens, hauled off to slaughter in trucks with naked ladies on the mudflaps and the ultimate insult to their divinity, being marketed in grocery store meat aisles as "free range chickens".

Guilty conscience consumers snap up these feathered brethren reassured, that the free range chickens didn't really die. These wonder chickens just 'shed' those unneeded parts that the consumer drops with a careless 'plop' into the shopping cart. The shoppers visualize that somewhere out there, there is a happy "free range chicken" still riding off into a western sunset, mounted high in the saddle, on a Shetland pony, with a Marlboro upon its lips. Or rather beak.

I believe it was the chicken gods who inspired Dallas to approach the innocent woman that he had noticed that was "so good" with older trucks in the Sacramento Kenworth dealership. With our boss' encouragement and permission he told her about this great job up in Washington driving a Purple Peterbilt pulling produce. She should have slapped him. Instead she took the job. Only one hitch. She'd never run produce before. She'd never run the mountains. She'd never run in Canada before. "Thats ok", said Dallas "My partner Tim can train you". Up in chicken heaven the fowl were hi- fivin each other and if I'd known then what I know now I'd have slapped Dallas.

Thus it came to be that Julie and I were thrust upon each other. Innocent and unaware and unable, in spite of dark premonitions, to disappoint those who had so much faith in us. Darren had spent hours on the phone trying to convince me that training her would be "fun," and that I was the only man for the job. I accepted this praise, allowing my ego to shout down what little remaining common sense I still had. And knowing full well the reputation of the truck, the boss man assured me that whatever happened, Julie had the mechanical aptitude to fix it. I actually believed him.

I met up with her and the purple Pete in Moses Lake, Washington. Less than an hour after I climbed onto the truck Julie told me about her plans to change her plumbing. I'd met drag queens before, but I'd never met a straight man trapped in a lesbian’s body. She wasn't overtly dyke-ish, but she wasn't a lipstick lesbo either. Julie was warm and friendly; without being too enthusiastic or manic either. To describe her features would be to compare her to Dustin Hoffman as Tootsie. Which was quite disturbing in itself.

I would be spending two weeks in close quarters with this woman, and feared I would forget to tell her something that she needed to know. I didn't want to fail her, Darren or myself. The irony of the situation was incredible. The boss man didn't even want his best friend in Arkansas to know that the hand training his new driver was gay. I could only imagine what they'd both do if they learned that the trainee was a lesbian on her way to becoming a straight man.

I liked Julie straight up. She was self assured and strong. Her smile and sense of humor freshened every coffee counter and drivers’ lounge we entered. Yet she was also no pushover. People just sensed that you didn't want to get on her bad side. She reminded me of all those Lutheran farm wives from my father’s church in Oregon. Standing on the other side of the potluck line. Smiling at you, but letting you know you could only take ONE of the “good” deserts. That meant Mrs. Heinz’ “heaven can wait” brownies, and not Mrs. Karsten’s flan.

Julie was a good driver and right away we eased into pleasant conversation. Wearing a flannel shirt, minus the sleeves, and no makeup, she rolled down the window letting the hot desert air wash over the interior of the truck. The long oxidized purple hood shimmered before us in the hot sun. Hours passed quickly as lives were spread out across the dash, examined and explained, then tucked quietly back away. Some dreams we acknowledged. Others we walked around. Hinting at their existence but never defining their boundaries. Talking dreams with a stranger can be easier than with someone you know better. They accept you in the right here right now, without past history held over you to judge the real life chances of those dreams ever comin' true.

She was a dream catcher. She listened and took them in as if they were her own. It all seemed sacred to her. The miles passed quickly and that purple Pete carried us across the Washington scablands, down into the Columbia basin country and across the high arid Horse Heaven Hills. We played tag with the dark blue waters of the mighty Columbia River. It was summer and we had 18 hours of glorious warm daylight to examine our lives and the scenery. She was taken with these new surroundings and spoke of how her partner Nancy would react. More dreams and then some fears were spread out in the cab amidst the noise of the wind blowing through open windows and the changing gears of the powerful Cummins motor.

Near Biggs, Oregon, wind surfers beat us across the river, pivoted, then flew back across the white-capped waters to the Washington side. We watched in awe as they displayed great skill against the wind, the giant swells of the river, and the treacherous rocks. Back and forth between the shores, they rode without destination, subject only to the whims of the gales ripping up the Gorge. The coffee thermos was long drained as we left the Columbia River a shimmering image in the mirrors.

Julie talked quietly to the truck on our long climb out of the gorge. "C’mon baby. Stay cool. You just take it easy and run quiet." The truck had a history of overheating. The temperature gauge rose as we gained elevation and Julie looked over at me sheepishly explaining her tactic of speaking softly to a 470 horse-powered Peterbilt. "She's a decent lady and she wants to work, but she's got miles on her. I gotta talk to her and let her know I understand. She's a good truck."

I looked at her and looked at the temperature gauge which seemed to be holding steady and looked back at her. "Whatever works," I said, resolved not to mess up any mechanical karma that might be working for us. Soon enough the pull eased and we relaxed as the truck picked up speed and cooled down. The Oregon high desert spread out before us and in all that barrenness, Julie’s demons came roaring out of the closet in which they'd been hidden. She told me about her battles dealing with day to day life, her physical body, and her mental depression. She was, in short, a very good friend of Ms. Prozac.

The Oregon Trail once traversed these parts near its final destination of the lush Willamette Valley on the other side of the Cascades. I suppose weary travelers unable to stomach the thought of crossing one more mountain range or riding the unpredictable waters of the Columbia formed the small isolated communities such as Moro and Grass Valley that still dot the highway. Over a century later, the few inhabitants still cling tentatively to the land, one disaster away from the history books. The railroad is long gone. The grain elevators competing with the wide open sky and occasional glimpse of Mt. Hood are in disrepair. Most outsiders no longer stop. Instead, they drive curious and silent through the one street towns, barely slowing on their way to more prosperous and scenic places such as Bend and Yakima. Other towns further down the road fare worse. Kent and Shanico seem to be in the midst of their own last stands, just a couple diehard residents shy of joining the proud tradition of ghost towns.

The first major excitement of our trip contained all the major ingredients of a near death experience. The adrenaline rush, the life passing before your eyes, and the “peace that passeth all understanding” that there is nothing you can do about any of it, anyway. Cow Canyon is not a huge hill. But she ain't small either. Sort of one of those in-between hills.

Deceptively, the downgrade starts out friendly enough. Long sweeping corners and lots of places to ditch the truck should things get, pardon the pun, carried away. Pretty soon you forget you're on a hill at all. You start thinking about other important matters. Does Donna's have the chicken fried steak or the meatloaf on special today? Is it healthy to go four days without a shower? How did that huge man who just passed us manage to fit inside a Yugo? Important stuff.

The truck picks up speed. You start grabbing gears. Then things start “going downhill.” Hence the phrase, and again, pardon the pun. You start to brake. The brakes get warm. The truck wants to go faster. You brake harder. The brakes get hot. The truck makes friends with gravity. You bond with the brake pedal. The brakes smoke. Then you see that innocuous little sign. It’s discreet. Quaint. Blink and you miss it. You didn't. You wish you had, but you didn't. You saw it. The sign that takes your breath away. Sharp Curve. 20 mph. You look at the speedometer. You are doing a snappy seventy. Ain't we got some kind of fun going now?

This is the rule Mother Nature came up with to call day dreaming truckers prematurely home to heaven. It says simply: All 6 mile hills with 6% grades must have a 20 mph corner at the bottom. Now Ma Nature likes diversity, so here's where she dices things up and adds spice and variety to the mix. Some of these corners have drop-offs on both sides. Some have a solid walled cliff on one side and a drop off plunging 200 feet onto a chicken barn on the other side. Some have a stop sign at their conclusion. Others have railroad crossings, sewage treatment plants or dynamite factories. Whichever kind of corner has your name on it, it’s gonna be a hoot no matter how you look at it. You are all but guaranteed fame, and the undertaker will never forget you.

Cow Canyon ’s final corner is the two cliffs, one on each side, variety. This allows the driver to explore any unfulfilled curiosity as to what it might be like to be an 18 wheel, forty ton pinball. The canyon walls can be thought of as the pinball machine bumpers and chances are, they most definitely will light up when hit. And to make it challenging for all, the State of Oregon, in celebration of its recently passed assisted suicide law, threw in an escape ramp right smack-dab in the middle of the approach to the corner. If you have enough presence of mind to aim for the ramp, hit it, and not jackknife, then you can explore the “Bonus Round” option. With enough speed and not enough brakes, the truly advanced driver can totally overshoot the end of the ramp. Unfortunately, trucker pinball players do not get extra balls for successful completion of this high achievement.

Now in my defense, Julie and I previously discussed proper braking. I explained the right way to come off a hill, passing along wisdom my father had once shared with me: You can come off a hill too slow a million times. But you can only come off a hill too fast once. I went over proper gear selection, proper use of the Jake Brake and most importantly, proper brake application. All of this vital information was reviewed once again at the rest area at the top of the hill. After a lengthy lesson, we resumed our trip.

We started down the hill under control. Then something inspired us to explore the topic of color draping. I was sure that Julie was a Winter, and she was just as sure that I was a Summer. She confessed that she really felt more like an Autumn, and I allowed as how I saw myself much more a Spring than a Summer. We talked about which colors were us and which colors weren't and then I looked in the mirrors and saw a lot of blue gray smoke. I thought, "Hey, those are cool winter colors." Which I also thought was ironic, considering how hot brakes have to get to produce that kind of “cool” smoke. And then I realized we were gaining speed quite rapidly and that Julie was colorless.

Which brings us back to that corner at the bottom of the hill. I tried to sound calm as I reminded Julie about it. But it’s really not that easy to sound calm while you are screaming and frantically trying to hang on and the truck is wound up with the engine racing as it bounces against the governor and the tachometer is buried into the next century. Julie was doing a remarkably accurate impression of a person freezing up. This, in spite of the total terror of the moment, I made a mental note to remind her of later. Winter people freeze. Autumn people do not. They blow. Julie didn't even look like she was breathing. Her color was late January.

I felt 46,000 pounds of apples pushing us down the mountain. We hit the corner, brakes fully applied, and clouds of smoke trailing behind us. I looked at the blurred rocks flying by, a mass of outcroppings, cracks, boulders and abrupt solidness. I tried to focus on the rocks. I visualized the apples and I combined the two. Applesauce on the rocks. I stifled a laugh. “Remember that thought,” I told myself. Then I felt the load behind us shift and the trailer wheels say a gentle goodbye to the roadway. Life paused. There was a moment of perfect silence, followed by a truly amazing sensation of weightlessness, tranquillity, and two people simultaneously messing their pants.

Eventually, time resumed, the chaos spun back into control, the wheels regained contact with the pavement, and we reached the bottom of the hill upright. The truck made its grand entrance onto the valley floor with all the subtlety of flamingos crash-landing in Duluth. Even the cows noticed the commotion and lifted their perplexed heads to acknowledge the transsexual-driven purple Pete, complete with a pooped poofter praying profound prayers of gratitude and promises of perfect future church attendance.

I looked over at Julie and told her I knew she must really want to stop and kiss the ground at this moment. I felt the same. But we couldn't. The brakes were so hot that if we were to stop, the tires would most likely ignite and burn the truck to the ground. So until things cooled off, we just had to keep on trucking and try to relax. She looked at me, still ghostly white, and nodded. I looked into the mirrors and came to the unsettling realization that I could mark our progress across the valley by the gray-blue trail of smoke that hung where we had passed.

We rode on in stunned silence for a long time; two lives forever altered. We knew that living through this terrifying experience together would change our perspective on the world. I felt exhilarated and spent and deeply moved. I felt connected to her. Yet this sharing of souls and life experience was also deeply troubling. It seemed entirely possible that the strange lump I now felt in my throat was her ovaries. I wondered if she had my prostate.

We stopped in Madras and I told her that I'd drive for a few hours and let her take a nap. I inspected the truck and its cargo and everything was good to go. The rig stank of burnt brake. I knew nothing short of a good rain would get rid of that. As I eased the truck back out into traffic, I wondered what the rest of the week had in store for us. Never ask yourself a question you don’t really want the answer to.

This particular answer came later that night. Julie woke me from a sound sleep. "Tim, we have a problem. She’s acting up. I need you to hold the flashlight for me...I think I know what’s wrong, but I don't know if I have the tools on me to fix it."

I crawled out of the sleeper into total darkness. We were pulled over to the shoulder of a two lane highway. It was dark as far as I could see in either direction. The only source of light was the twinkling stars high overhead. The truck seemed mortally wounded. She was obviously overheating, displaying skyrocketing temperature gauges, seconded by leaking coolant and the sickly smell of fried green antifreeze. The only sound, besides the mental roar of my cussing, was the hissing coming from where Julie stood bent over, her hair silver, and occasionally lost in the steam escaping into the chilly high desert night. I asked her if she remembered the last town we'd been through.

"Chemult."

"Do you remember how far it was to Kalamath Falls on the last sign that you saw?" I asked this in a hopeful tone. Always think positive.

Instead, she confirmed my worst fears. We were as far from help in either direction as we could possibly be. The truck, her "lil' baby" as she called it, had gone on strike in the very definition of “the middle of nowhere.” At moments like this, I have always felt that one should choose language and action which totally fits the seriousness of the situation.

I asked her if she might be willing to introduce me to her friend, Ms. Prozac. Somewhere above us a bunch of Chicken God’s were doing the Petercar Chicken Dance.

It was at that moment that salvation arrived in an unlikely form. Two beer bellied men transporting monster trucks on flatbed semis pulled in front of us, four-ways flashing. The monster trucks were equipped to perform very necessary and very death defying feats such as driving over old junker cars, jumping parked school buses, and splattering their pimple faced redneck offspring with mud. They had huge tires and giant lift kits, making it impossible to climb into their cabs without the aid of a ladder. The two trucks hauling those oversized monster trucks seemed to dwarf our own rig.

Approaching the Peterbilt with its hood up in the darkness, they were quite surprised to see a greasy woman emerge from underneath. My standing there holding the flashlight just made for more curiosity. I reckon they were downright befuddled when she diagnosed the ancient truck’s problem of the minute, and then asked for a specific set of tools to remedy it.

Julie would not accept their offer to get under the truck and help turn the wrenches. She shrugged them off, saying, "There’s some parts of a lady that should only be seen by another lady." They looked at me perplexed, and in the darkness I could almost visualize shattering light bulbs over their heads as they tried to comprehend the fact that some woman was under a truck acting like a gynecologist for a Cummins engine. Tempted to further confound them, I almost mentioned that Julie had no right to be under there either as she was about to become a man. But instead, I decided my best plan of action was to be the world’s best flashlight holder. As a result, Julie had any tool she asked for almost as soon as the words left her lips.

With the aid of those tools and the assistance of the two good ol’ boys in holding up the tires (and in spite of their getting in the way as they tried to watch what she was doing) we were up and running in less than an hour.

The two angels graciously asked if they could escort us for awhile in case we broke down again. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In fact, it seemed downright generous of them to be so concerned about our well-being. Laying back down in the sleeper in a state of wonder, I considered the odds that those two had come along when they did. And that they would be willing to run with us, one in front, the other behind. And that at this very minute they were asking Julie if she would be willing to ditch her son and party with them at Molly’s Bar and Truckstop in Klamath Falls. I sat up in alarm. Those two bozos thought I was her kid? They wanted to party with her? They thought that in exchange for their tools they would get a piece of the rock? This was not happening to us. This could not be happening to us!

This was happening to us. Two men pulling monster trucks were coming on to a dyke, who soon would have a dick. They thought I was her child. I stuffed my head into the pillow, thinking, "No. No. No!" This just could not even be real. We hadn't even been on the truck together for twelve hours and I was going to have to defend the honor of a woman who was twice as big as me, against two men who were twice as big as she.

I listened as Julie keyed the CB mic and tried the “aw shucks, boys...you don't really mean that” approach. They indicated they did. We were both stunned.. Our ears burned as we listened in shocked disbelief and dismay as they described in intricate detail how they would love to treat Julie like a “real lady.” The lady that she “really” was. In terror we noted that their view of the pathway to a woman’s heart left no room for a candlelight dinner, flowers or even a “g-spot.” Instead, they were from the “three-B’s” school of advanced lovin': Beer. More beer. Bed. "Gosh," I thought, "How can she refuse an offer as appealing as that?"

Well, Julie really wasn't of a mind to stop at Molly’s. They tried guilt. She said no. They tried bribery. "We'll even buy ya breakfast!"

“No.”

They started into advanced coercion, Arkansas style. She responded with advanced rejection, California style.

"What, you too good for us?"

"Look, I appreciate all you've done for us, but this is my first day on this truck and I can't be late. I'm sorry." Julie put the CB mic back into its holder

"Not even for a quickie?" one of them asked desperately.

Julie groaned. "No! I am already late. I know you two handsome men will be able to find yourself lots of pretty ladies at whatever that place is you want me to stop at. Me, I've got to go!"

"You really think so? You really think we'd find us some action?" the other asked hopefully.

"Sure." Julie could hold her own, that was a given. And she could lie with the best of them. For the next hour I listened as Julie informed them of the ways to a woman’s heart and I swear by the time we parted company at Klamath Falls, they actually thought of her as one of the boys. Hot damn.

The next few days went about the same as the first. Partly nice with scattered “Oh my God, how are we going to get out of this?” I discovered Julie was dyslexic in the middle of a Los Angeles cloverleaf freeway intersection. I said left. She went right. We took a fascinating tour of inner Watts and East LA with a 70 foot tractor trailer.

Loading produce in Santa Maria, we discovered that their water supply had little itsy bitsy grains of sand in it. And after washing my glasses, I now had itsy bitsy scratches all over the lenses. It was now a literal reading of the blind leading the blind.

We loaded for Edmonton, Alberta. The next major test: US and Canadian Customs. I began my pre-border lecture with, "Now Julie, if you've ever been in trouble, I need to know now. If you've ever been arrested, been in jail or been in court for anything that was a criminal proceeding, I need to know about it.

"Nope."

I then told her about the procedures on both sides of the border. Paperwork, Customs brokers, how to deal with the Canadian verses the US officials, and what to do if things aren't properly documented. She seemed to grasp all of this with little difficulty. So imagine my surprise when her conversation with Canadian Customs went like this:

Customs Official: "Where are you from?"

Julie: " Woodland, California.”

Customs Official: "Are you a US citizen?"

Julie "Yes."

Customs Official: "Have you ever been to Canada? If so when was the last time?"

Julie: "No."

Customs Official: "Do you have any alcohol, cigarettes, or firearms?"

Julie: "No."

Customs Official: "Are you traveling alone? Besides Tim, of course."

Julie: "Yes, we are alone."

Customs Official: "Have you ever been arrested?"

Julie: "Yes."

I stared straight ahead, shocked. All of the other officials lifted their heads and studied us. They knew me. I had crossed at this crossing for years. But Julie, she was a different story. I felt the ice cold reality that said this day was going to be truly unforgettable slowly descend upon me. I felt like a roller coaster that had just broken free of the track. It was a light-headed, giddy feeling. The rush just before the dread of impending death hits. I fought the impulse to start laughing hysterically. Laughter that would definitely assure no end of enjoyable scrutiny. She had just said one little yes. Now she said a few more:

Customs Official: "You have been arrested?"

Julie: "Yes."

Customs Official: "Was the offense a felony?"

Julie: "Yes."

Customs Official: "Were you convicted?"

Julie: "Yes."

Customs Official: "What was the charge?"

Julie: "Embezzlement."

I wanted to look at her. I wanted to see the guilty look that had to be in her eyes. I wanted to see the look of "I'm sorry" that she would give me. I wanted to wrap my fingers gently around her neck and squeeze all the manhood that was supposedly lurking there right into oblivion.

Customs Official: "Would you please step upstairs to immigration?” Then to me: “May I have the keys to your truck?"

I handed him the keys and pondered whether I should call Darren. I wondered how Darren would explain to his friend in Arkansas that their truck had been seized by Canadian Customs. I wondered how I would tell Darren that Julie was a convicted felon. I wondered how, if I ever got out of Canada, I was going to repay Dallas for putting me in the front seat of this horrific road show.

Dutifully I followed Julie up the stairs. We were sent to separate rooms and asked many questions. The officials disappeared, probably to compare our stories. I did not know what Julie was telling them. Should I acknowledge her plans to become a man? The Prozac in the truck? The fact I had just met her a few days before? And wasn't that the music from “Midnight Express” playing in the background? The official questioning me suddenly got a very serious look on his face. How can you see through those glasses with all those scratches on them?

Eight hours later it was over. Julie posted a bond that would allow her to enter Canada. A letter was forwarded from the state of California, proving that the Governor had pardoned her. Our truck, now thoroughly searched, sat quietly waiting for us. The final comment made to us by the official was a piece of advice. "In Canada we can overlook prostitution and barroom brawls. Those are forgivable offenses. Drunk driving or other violations of the law are not."

"Well, isn’t that handy information to know?" I thought as we proceeded out of the compound.

Julie and I did not talk. Cranbrook, Fernie and Sparwood, BC rolled by and the cab of the truck was silent. Through Frank Slide, Alberta the silence remained. I was humiliated. Angry. And we were now very late. I went to bed as she drove. I'm sure she had a lot to keep her mind occupied as we rolled north towards Calgary and the perpetual twilight of the summer night in the far north. As I went to bed the Northern Lights came out. I didn't care.

The next day after getting unloaded, we were too late to get reloaded, so Darren wisely bought us a motel and rescheduled the load. Julie suggested we check out the West Edmonton Mall. We got a taxi and for the next several hours I learned the secret rituals of Lesbian Shopping. It occurred to me that there was a troubling possibility that there could be a gay man trapped in that woman’s body, and it was all I could do to keep up with her. The refrigerator magnet store was a hit. So were the fashionable kitchen appliance stores, where I learned a lot of other uses for certain kitchen implements beyond the obvious turkey baster.

OK, she was getting back on my good side. When she suggested we stroll through Toys R Us I was done won over. We had a nice dinner that night at the Road King Truck Stop (aka Road Kill Truckstop). I had toxic teriyaki chicken with synthetic gravy over artificial potatoes. Julie had the meatless meatloaf and the “don't ask/don't tell” vegetable of the day, which from all appearances was yesterday’s and the day before's as well.

Amazed that it never really got dark that night, we stayed up late and entertained ourselves. We each did our best "Queen" imitation in the quiet of the hotel room. Flailing Wrists, Helpful cooking Hints, and Fashion for Flames were subjects explored in way too much detail. In the end, we decided unanimously that she was a much better at “light in the loafers” than I. She got the “Boy Oh Boy George” award and I got the “k.d. lang Sensible Shoes” award. God only knows what the truckers in the next room were thinking.

The next day we reloaded and ran south into the high country to avoid the notoriously nit-picky Sparwood, BC scales. We chased the sun through the Rockies, passing through Banff and Eisenhower Junction, and bouncing our way over the frost heaves that skirt Lake Louise. As we blasted down the canyon and into Radium Hot Springs, BC a whole herd of mountain goats, white in the twilight, raced ahead of us. Julie had already seen elk and moose and now this. It was too much and in that perfect paradise she burst into tears, moved to sobs by the splendor.

Thankfully, the purple Pete was behaving. As we neared Cranbrook, Julie sighed and said, "She’s being real good. I think she likes us and we won't have no more trouble." In hindsight I would like to correct the record. She liked Julie. She had a death wish on me.

Our trip down to LA went smoothly. On the way, we stopped in Spokane so I could pick up a new pair of glasses. It was nice to be able to see again, and I thought briefly that our luck had turned. We ran the truck hard, like a real team would. Julie didn't need to be told anything twice and she learned fast. I did too. I told her left when I meant right.

We finally hit LA and dropped off our cargo. Then turned around and took on a twelve pickup load of produce for, you guessed it, Edmonton.

A 12 pickup load is where drivers have to make separate stops to round up various parts of a load. One pallet here, three pallets there. We call these tail chaser loads “mixers.” You can start putting your load together in Yuma or Nogales, and not really be finished loading till 600 miles later in Salinas. Then you start your run.

It was late Friday afternoon and Julie wanted to stop in Sacramento to see her partner Nancy. It seemed like a good idea. I could go run a few miles and they could spend some "alone" time together. And besides, we were running team and had plenty of time to spare. Or so I thought.

When I returned from my jog along the American and Sacramento rivers, all of Julie’s stuff was out of the Pete and in Nancy’s car. Julie informed me that she just couldn't be apart from Nancy, and tearfully gave me a goodbye hug. I was stunned and shocked.

And pissed.

Still, in spite of feeling abandoned, I could understand Julie’s emotions. I hadn't seen Dallas in weeks and missed him. Our trip had been a rough one. I reluctantly said I didn't have any hard feelings and climbed back into the truck. Alone. And, for the second time in two weeks, once again running late to Edmonton.

Julie gave the truck a final talking to, telling it to be good and work hard. I still thought no one in their right mind talks to a truck. It’s a damn machine.

I drove all night and passed through the dry plains of Red Bluff and Redding. I climbed up through Dunsmuir Canyon and played tag with the flanks of Mt. Shasta, then crossed Grass Lake summit and dropped down onto the plateau south of Dorris. Night fading fast and the moon almost a memory, dawn hinted across the northeastern sky. I had been drinking can after can of diet Pepsi, but not even another gallon of caffeine would keep me awake. I eased off the highway and into a pullout on the west side of the road in Worden, Oregon. Across US-97 from where I parked, there was a small truck stop with a separate diner. Crawling into the sleeper, I pulled off my T-shirt and jeans and lay sprawled across the blankets wearing only in my white Calvin Klein briefs.

An hour later my bladder woke me up. I had to piss like a race horse and there wasn't much time to debate anything about when. It was a now sort of thing. I had to piss yesterday. I got up, and although it was still fairly dark, decided to jump out the driver’s side door so that no one in the restaurant across the highway would see me. I scrambled urgently out of the truck. Clad only in my underwear, the early morning air was cold against my bare skin. Tiptoeing alongside of the truck, I ducked in between the cab and the trailer, desperate to, as we say in the business, “water the tires.” I didn’t have a second to spare, and soon felt the sweet relief that only a truck driver who has put off nature’s call for too long can appreciate.

Once finished I tiptoed back up to the cab. The Pete seemed almost pretty to me in the dawning purples and pinks slowly spreading across the high desert. I reached up to open the door and retreat back into the warmth of the sleeper. I tried the handle. Nothing. The door had locked. I reassured myself that the other door would still be unlocked. I gingerly made my way across the sharp edges of the gravel lot to the traffic side of the truck, hoping nobody in the diner would see me. I tried the door.

Having been raised in a good Lutheran family, I can’t recall very many times that I ever heard my parents cuss. When they did it had to be for a good reason. Mom driving off the road at 60 mph through the Karstens’ wheat field while trying to retrieve something from her purse, only elicited a "Shit." Dad, the Lutheran minister, only cussed once that I heard, and that was when he was stepped on by a horse. He thought no one was listening.

It was my native American grandfather who taught me the fine art of true cussing. He was a master. In the midst of one of his moments, passersby would stop in awe. On and on he could go. Never taking a breath, never using the same combination of words twice, he was something special to behold as he celebrated the more trying moments of his life. Moments that would invariably involve auto body shops, insurance claims adjusters and having to say he was sorry hours later to my grandmother, a sweet woman who always got the initial blame for whatever misfortune occurred. Even if she was across the state it would somehow be her fault. Obscenity became art when gushing from his lips. He taught me the basics. I perfected his style and added my own touches. Lutheran Cussing. Liturgical style.

Now was the time to cuss. "Shit Almighty and damn it to hell!" I yelled. If one has the occasion to cuss, I believe that it is always best to involve all possible forces that might be responsible for whatever current predicament one is facing. This is good sense, it is good Lutheranism and it makes sure all the bases are covered. It makes no sense to only be in trouble with the heavenly hosts. Might as well get the devil pissed at you as well. Call them all forth! Getting everyone’s attention is the best way to make sure you aren't ignored by the divine.

As the reality that I was locked out of the Pete in my underwear sunk in, I'm sure there wasn't a divinity from Buddha to Allah to Lucifer, and even the Big Guy upstairs who did not know I was unhappy.

In true brilliance, I also managed to wake most of the other nearby drivers from their sound sleep. They stared out at me groggily from their warm cabs as they comprehended the spectacle of this fool hopping around in the soft light like some crazed human Easter bunny. I was kicking tires and throwing rocks and just plain making a ruckus. When the coldness finally overcame my hot temper tantrum, I settled down. So did they. They were in for a good show and not one of those boys bothered to budge an inch to help me. I saw several of them key up on their mics. Anyone who hadn’t previously been aware of what was going down next to the purple Pete, sure as hell was now.

Shivering and out of options, I faced the unpleasant proposition of streaking across the highway, past the diner and over to the truckstop. I have never seen so much traffic on highway 97 at 5:30 in the morning. It was a good five minutes before there was a break big enough to allow me to scramble across the highway. Let’s face it, cattle ranchers and people on vacation just aren't used to seeing nearly naked people standing on the side of the road in eastern Oregon by the dawn’s early light. Mouths gaped open and people stared. Fingers were pointed as husbands said "Quick, honey. look at that," to still dozing spouses.

I took Julie’s name in vain and said some unkind words to the truck she was so fond of. “Great. Now you’re talking to trucks,” I thought. Once across the highway, I proceeded past the huge picture windows of the diner. Local ranchers paused, loaded fork halfway to mouth, as I scampered by. Running past the fuel islands and the staring truckers filling their tanks, I finally made it into the convenience store part of the truckstop and asked the hysterically laughing cashier if I could please borrow a coat hanger.

She found one, and between sobs of laughter, warned me to be careful. Retracing my steps, I traveled back past the fuel island and the diner picture windows. A waitress inside gave me a “thumbs-up,” which I tried to ignore. Once again I waited for the traffic to clear, and once again tiptoed through the tulips back to the truck.

Standing on the truck’s cold metal catwalk, I was again the center of attention of the drivers in the lot. They watched. They laughed. They did not offer assistance. I stood tall and tried not to shake as I delicately pushed the coat hanger through the rubber seal of the wing window. Easy. Easy. I had it around the knob. I could see the knob turning. I could visualize the wing window opening. Almost there. I pushed a little harder. I pushed the coat hanger all the way through the seal. I watched in disbelief as it fell onto the driver’s seat. Oh no.

I looked into the truck through the still-closed window. I fantasized that this was just a dream. I wondered what I would do next. I wondered what Dallas would do if he was in a similar situation. Then a most horrific revelation swept over me: Dallas would never be in a situation like this. At least not without some help from me.

I stepped gingerly back down onto the ground, walked around the cab, and back over to the diner side of the truck. I waved at some of the diners. Some waved back. That’s it. Act like nothing’s wrong. Like you always take early morning walks around the truck in your underwear. Pretend this is normal. Pretend you are normal. Cling to that hope. My thoughts did little to console. I just knew that everyone witnessing this had one thought on their minds. That boy ain't right.

I opened the jockey box directly under the sleeper. Maybe there would be a tool or something I could use to get into the wing window. There was nothing. Just some flares and warning triangles. I studied the interior of the jockey box and then I saw it. High above, almost hidden, was a small handle that, if I could reach it, I was sure would open the sleeper’s emergency exit door. I was home free. A way back into the truck. I was getting excited again. I felt hopeful.

I was in denial.

The handle was just out of reach. I jumped, but it was still too high. I jumped again. No luck. I felt like a cat trying to get an elusive toy mouse. In desperation, I backed up against the fuel tank. It was cold against my butt. Reaching up into the top of the jockey box, I pulled and inched my way higher up the tank. I was close. The handle was nearly in reach now.

I inched and squirmed higher. And then my progress abruptly stopped. I tried to move higher, but for some reason couldn’t. The cold stainless steel tank seemed to have a death grip on me. I pushed up gently. Nothing. I pushed harder. Still nothing. I was hung up. My feet no longer touched the ground and I was stuck against the tank.

I looked across the highway at the people in the restaurant. They were looking back at me.

Feeling like a human trophy buck mounted on a feminist Peterbilt, I decided if I didn't do something I would be there until Dallas eventually passed by. His response to this predicament would be a fate worse than death. I could see him laughing. No, he would not get to see me like this.

I lunged hard and suddenly felt a strange freedom. I was unstuck. I reached the handle, but as I did, I heard this awful, unmistakable sound. Ripping fabric. I felt cool air. Cool air against my butt. Or was it stainless steel? I didn't care. I pulled the handle and the sleeper emergency escape door popped open. It knocked hard against my head, causing me to lose my balance. More ripping fabric cut the silence as I fell to the ground. As I stood up, a most disturbing awareness overcame me. It was sort of enlightening, this unsettling sensation. Like something important was happening.

I looked down. A white flapping something caught my eye. I gasped. It was too horrible to believe. No! We were way beyond Lutheran Cussing. Long past salvaging any pride. All the fabric had separated from the waistband of my briefs. The little fabric that was still attached hung limply from the elastic around my legs. There was not an inch of fabric covering my butt. In fact there was very little fabric covering anything.

Looking up at the opening to the sleeper, I realized that with a good jump I could hoist myself inside. But there was no doubt I would flash my considerable audience in the process. The diners would be eating chicken fried steak and eggs over easy as they viewed a bare butt, if not more, wriggling into the sleeper. Definitely not over easy. The underwear was in such bad shape I feared it would totally disintegrate before I was inside.

I made the leap, pulling and pushing myself in. Made it. Closing the door behind me, I felt the warmth of the sleeper. I also felt like screaming. And crying. And hiding. I pulled on some jeans and went forward into the cab. Releasing the brakes, I pulled out. Drivers got out of their trucks and applauded. I couldn't look. I was just to horrified at the morning. At the week.

Then some driver called out to me on the CB. "Hey you! Northern Exposure! Thanks for makin’ my morning. That was the funniest damn thing I seen in a long time."

I acknowledged his praise. "You’re welcome. Glad I could oblige."

That trip never got much better. Over the next several days I ran into several people who had either seen it all or heard about the locked door episode on the radio. Seems I was suddenly quite famous in those parts. And before long, other drivers started calling me by my new handle: "Northern Exposure."

And the Chicken Gods? Well, they ain't ever happy.