Chapter 15 

Knocking on Rubber

The knock came unexpectedly startling both Dallas and I. Lying next to me in the sleeper bunk, he pleaded "Just ignore it".

I nodded. Frustrated when the knock came again, Dallas shot me a warning look and I shrugged. The rapping on the door was louder this time. Whoever it was, they didn't seem to believe that the truck was unoccupied.

"If I don’t answer it, they'll just keep on bugging us. They can see the CB antennas waving or have you forgotten that we are in an air-ride truck?" I asked.

He groaned. Pretending to pout while I threw on a pair of running shorts, he said, "You better make it fast".

There is no such thing as privacy in a semi truck. Pulling the sleeper curtain open, I climbed forward. Having no idea where my glasses were, I squinted. Attempting to adjust to the blinding daylight, I didn't recognize the woman that was now standing on the side of our truck, perched on the catwalk directly above the fuel tanks. Shirtless, I sat in the driver's seat and blindly studied the woman who was peering in at me. I wondered if she was a Jehovah's Witness working the truck stop.

"That would be a first," I thought and if she was, I considered inviting her in. Let her try to convert Dallas in his present mood right now. If she were successful, I'd be a believer too.

Smartly dressed in muted professional clothing and fashionable black wire framed glasses, she stood patiently on the catwalk looking into the truck. She wasn't going to go away. I squinted at her and tried to identify who she was. African American with light skin, she didn't appear all that threatening. Still my guard was up despite the fact that when she saw me, a warm, red lipstick framed, perfect white smile spread across her face. She motioned for me to roll down the window. I rolled it down a crack. This was Oakland, California after all. The only description for the neighborhood defined it as scary as hell.

She motioned for the window to come down farther. I shook my head no. She motioned with fingers held slightly apart; asking if the small crack could be increased just a few inches more. I considered the options and weighed them against the danger that might be lurking outside the truck. Finally, I relented and rolled the window down a little more.

Immediately her body filled up the space created by the open window. "You are so lucky. Do you know how lucky you are?" she asked. "Well," she continued, without letting me answer, "You are very, very, VERY lucky. I am a representative of the Oakland visitors bureau and I have been selected to personally welcome you to our VERY fine city." She grabbed a hold of the handrail, leaned out from the truck and spread her arms, stretching them out wide over the dirty, stink of the truck stop lot. Her movements reminded me of a TV game show model showcasing a new sports car for some screaming father of twelve. My blind eyes followed her arms and tried to discern whatever it was that she was so proud of amongst all the industrial debris. Returning my gaze to her face, she licked her lips seductively. "Beautiful isn't it? Every time I look at it, it just takes my breath away." She sighed for added effect.

Incredulous, I stared at her. This had to be a dream. Dressed in a short beige cotton skirt with soft white nylon leggings and matching beige heels, this woman could not possibly be standing on the side of my truck representing the Oakland Convention and Visitors Bureau.

Again, she motioned for me to completely roll down my window. I hesitated. She responded by giving me this touchingly sad look implying that I was hurting her very sensitive feelings. I finally relented, rolling the window all the way down. "That's much better," she said softly, "now we can talk about us."

Putting both arms on the window ledge, resting her chin not five inches from my face, she looked wistfully into my eyes. "You know, you really need to know me. I can make your stay in Oakland so truly memorable." Still in shock, I was unable to do anything but stare as she went through the slickest routine I'd ever seen. I knew now that I was not dealing with a representative of any of the city's sanctioned organizations. Nor was she out 'tracting' for the Jehovah's Witnesses. The purpose behind her presence wasn't about saving souls. It wasn't about selling Oakland as a business and vacation destination. What she was selling was far more compelling. She was pushing "commercial love" as they call it on the CB. She was selling afternoon delight. She was hawking booty. Smiling as the realization washed over me, I laughed.

"You have got to be kidding." I said grinning at the absurdity of the situation. "You are too much," I added.

"Yes. I am. But better to be 'too much' than not enough?" Pausing for a second, she finished, "Don't you think so?"

Her question caught me off guard and stunned by the polished brilliance of her approach, I had no idea what to say next.

"I am a very sought after, oh how should I say it, travel consultant? I am here specifically to make your stay in Oakland a memorable one. For a very reasonable fee of course." She licked her lips slowly and then before my widening eyes, did something with her fingers and her mouth that made me blush. I'd never seen anything like it and I made a mental note to see if I could imitate the same talents later.

Of course, I understood that her work was not performed pro bono. She was too talented and highly specialized to just give her skills away. With her stylish outfit, smart glasses, and well-spoken, professional sales pitch, she was not an amateur. Truly specialized and at the top of her game, she was the best in her field.

Leaning further into the cab and doing 'that mouth ala finger thing' inches from my ear, I became convinced that this technique was the perfected fatal rock that the resistant crashed upon. Here was where normally strong men cemented a deal with this very feminine devil. My mind raced towards a graceful exit while at the same time she totally captivated me by her spell.

"Look, I think you should know I'm not interested. I'm gay." I said it matter of fact.

Stopping in mid motion, her head slowly turned towards me. Severing the hypnotic effect of the finger and mouth act, now it was her turn to be stunned. Her composure temporarily failed. But, her lapse lasted less than a few seconds in time. Quickly regrouping, she assumed that this excuse was merely an attempt to cut her off at the pass. Gay was merely a weak substitute word utilized to cover for perpetual shyness or maybe inexperience.

Addressing my intimidation at facing such a skilled woman she responded, "Look, I can tell that you are hesitant to experience the talents that I offer you. Although I appear sophisticated, I am also incredibly personable. I am after all, in the hospitality industry and I don't bite. Unless of course you want me to." I nodded while she looked into the cab as if she'd misplaced something on a previous, yet imagined visit. Satisfied that she hadn't, she licked her lips slowly and resumed her pitch.

"I know that a woman of my talents is rare, but someone of your caliber deserves the best and that's why I understand your hesitancy to step up to a higher, more discriminating type of service. One that only a woman with my dedicated training and constant devotion to higher education can provide." She resumed the oral calisthenics. It took every effort of strength to concentrate on something else. I had to learn how she did that. Eventually, I interrupted her mid sentence.

"I am not kidding. I really am gay. I won't be able to utilize the fine service that I am sure you are offering." I smiled. I tried to be polite and let her down easy, telling her that although I knew that I was missing out on a once in a lifetime opportunity, that I really would have to 'pass'.

Her head dropped and the fashionable glasses she wore slid to the end of her nose. Her eyes focused on me. The look was severe. I held my breath and finally her face relaxed. She became a little less professional. Actually, a lot less professional.

Suddenly her southern roots were showing and I imagined her making a plate of hush puppies and fried Okra for a whole gang of screaming kids. Maybe that's where her oral skills originated. Efficiently wiping jam off of the cheeks of twelve sticky kids at once. Her voice interrupted my thoughts again. Gone was any trace of formal English. Instead, she replaced her speech with a thick Georgia accent.

"Honey, I am serious. I do not for one minute believe that you are gay. Uh uh. You simply can not fool me. I am an expert. I have been to San Francisco and I noticed that in spite of our lovely sister city's convenience," she pointed in the direction of San Francisco and the delights of the Castro, "that you have chosen not to spend the night there. You are here. In beautiful Oakland where our hospitality is second to none." She was getting way to emotional about all that Oakland, East Bay beauty. Beauty that for the likes of me, from my present vantage point, I just couldn't see. I gave her a puzzled look and she became frustrated and almost desperate.

"You're just afraid that once I show you all of Oakland that you won't want to leave. MM mm." I shook my head while she went for the grand finale, hoping to change my mind.

She was doing that thing with her mouth again. Occasionally pausing long enough to tell me about some Oakland landmark that I just had to see, her every move was sensuous. Describing the sights from her perspective, even the dirt lot we were parked in became erotic. I couldn't figure it out. Dallas was back in the sleeper waiting for his own grand finale, and I was slowly being hypnotized by this vision of female inequity. I rubbed my eyes again while she licked her lips slowly. Beads of moisture glistened against blinding red.

That's it! It was those lips. thee lips. Her power was centered in her mouth. Even when she paused, I noticed that they were never still. They quivered. They puckered. They pursed. They had talent. I wondered if mine could learn from hers.

Then, I wondered if I'd lost my mind.

"Look I really appreciate all the effort and trouble that you've gone to just to welcome me to Oakland but, I am not kidding. I am gay. I'll prove it. My favorite Village People member was the construction worker followed by the cowboy. I had all of their albums. I even know the construction member's real name. Its David!" I stopped and waited. She still seemed unconvinced so I added the clincher. "When they talk about the Lone Star in the South of Market, they aren't talking about the state of Texas!" Abruptly she recoiled. Considering what I said, I could see that she was still skeptical. But, just barely. Yet, she was also quick on those heels and countered before losing stride. Her recovery was brilliant and once again caught me off guard.

"You know, I have gone to an awful lot of trouble to personally welcome you to Oakland. Here, it is customary to show one's appreciation for service above and beyond the call of duty in a very meaningful and demonstrative way. I am sure some sort of compensation would be justified for all of my efforts. I could even be persuaded to leave you alone so that you could go back to sleep. I am, after all, a lady of my word." She waited.

I scrambled in my blindness to find some cash. "How about a dollar for your time?" I asked hopefully. She briefly pouted then agreed to that figure. I grabbed a crisp bill off the dash and handed her what I thought was a dollar. She looked at it and then looked at me grinning.

"THANK YOU very much! I can see that you know the fine tradition of generous rewards in exchange for fine, impeccable service. It has been most enjoyable making your fine acquaintance. Should you be in Oakland again and need my professional assistance, I am sure that I can accommodate your demanding schedule and offer you the finest accommodations!" She daintily stepped off the truck and began working her way towards another idling truck. I said a prayer for that innocent sleeper driver. Slipping back into the sleeper I had no idea that I had just given the grinning vixen our last twenty and that Dallas had smoked his last pack of Marlboro's the night before.

"What was that all about?" Dallas asked.

"It was just a lot lizard working the truck stop," I answered looking down at him.

"Well you sure were up there long enough. What were you doing with her? Giving her a safe sex lecture?" he asked irritated.

I was inches from his lips, ready to kiss him and ready to resume rocking his world. I froze. Shit! I hadn't told her about safe sex. I'd let an opportunity for outreach slip by the pulpit of that Peterbilt. My mind raced as unmet opportunity grazed my conscience. I had to find the smartly dressed prostitute. The one with the bottomless red lips that had just cat walked across our catwalk. I had to tell her about safe sex. I began putting back on my shorts. Dallas groaned.

"What are you doing?" Dallas asked in alarm. "You aren't…" He put words to a question that I could tell by the frustrated look on his face that he already had the answer to. "No Tim…just leave her alone…I am sure she knows all about safe sex…." I never heard the rest of what Dallas said. I was already out the door to find the mysterious black woman in beige.

Over the years countless prostitutes endured my "the wonders of safe sex" lecture. If they wanted to use my CB radio to solicit drivers to "…bring it on up to channel 32 for that fallen angel…" hungry hookers were obliged to listen to five minutes of 'Latex. And slip and slide'. I figured it was a fair trade.

Waking me up from a sound sleep, they pounded on my door at 3 am asking if I needed 'any tools cleaned' or some 'commercial company'. I'd say no. Next they'd ask if they could use the radio. It was a simple proposition: You want to talk on my Cobra, I get to talk to you about the rules of the rubber road. Directly handing out donated boxes of condoms and lubrication samples to hard to reach sex industry workers, these safer sex products were the unofficial gifts of various county health agencies. Specifically targeted by social workers that didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't speak the unique language of the lot lizards, the various health agencies knew that I drove something that neither government nor volunteer organizations had access to. Even more importantly, it was a rig that the lot lizards couldn't resist: A large car 'hood' with an even larger sleeper. It was the perfect bait.

Reaching sex industry workers in truck stops and rest areas has never been the forte of social service organizations. These women live on the very edge of the edge. Life doesn't get much cheaper than their existence. Trading sexual favors for money, a ride, or even drugs, these women are both the scourge of an industry and an ever-present reminder of the nomadic nature of trucking. Their presence went unacknowledged until a 2002 article in Overdrive magazine, and even federal health officials missed these risks groups until a massive National Institute of Health study was launched in conjunction with Arizona State and later Emory Universities 2001.

Prostitution has always been a part of trucking, just as it was once one of the most predictable entrepreneurial enterprises to accompany the early settlement of the West. Starting out as easy riding partners, the relationship between trucking and prostitution was a civilized one. More often than not, the ladies were poised stationary over CB radio base stations, 24/7/365 and the drivers came to them. Located in the deserts of Nevada, the recently closed Mustang Ranch, or the still operating Hacienda Sugar Shack and Donna's Ranch were some of the more notorious cat houses that depended on a steady stream of drivers for their survival as much as the drivers depended on them. Today with the exception of the state of Nevada, many of the old brothels have closed and the working girls are more transient. This is hardly a positive development.

The more transient, unregulated, and uncounted these sex workers get, the more larger public health problems will emerge. According to the Overdrive story, Nevada is one of the few states actively addressing prostitution. As a result of state mandated sexually transmitted disease testing, check ups and education, officials monitoring Nevada’s working girls boast that not one sex worker has tested positive for HIV since the program began.

Yet that doesn’t mean the problems surrounding truckstop prostitution are by any means solved. In the late 80's, truck stops became "travel centers"; well lit, modern oasis with familiar corporate themes. The old standby choke and puke, chicken fried menus were replaced by fast food franchises. Security patrolled the notorious party rows lining the back parking spaces of the lots. Suddenly working girls and the 'go fast' crystal 'meth' dealers advertising on the CB, could also be moonlighting, disguised local vice cops. Overnight the old vices suddenly had a bounty on them. Finding the real McCoy, hawking the real thing, became a crap shoot of entrapment, secretive codes, and possible jail time. The whole cat and mouse game simply went a little further underground while the industry claimed a cleaner image.

Drug testing became standard in the industry, husband and wife teams were encouraged, and trucking turned from solo to family value in the space of just a few years. Management attempted to civilize the untamed. Or at least that was the spin the industry trade associations, trucking magazines and trucking company recruiters put on things. Instead, the party just relocated a little further out of sight but just as real and ever present.

Concentrated efforts by industry associations focused great energy on eliminating lot lizards and the cowboy mentality from the truck stops. These battles were only partially successful largely due to the overlooked reality that the conditions that created the demand for the prostitute's services were simultaneously ignored. Much of the decline and blame falls on the trucking company managers, who for years encouraged illegal logbooks, along with Utilization and Profit Centered Dispatching which forced drivers to be away from home, girlfriends, wives, and significant others for long periods of time.

A weary driver who might ordinarily have strong resistance against temptations at 2 pm was hardly as capable of 'just saying no' to a knock at their lonely, defenses-down, door at 2 am. Especially, when the knock came from a pretty young lady. One who could slip in and out of a truck, without anyone being the wiser.

At the same time, many drivers didn’t even claim to have a “defenses down” defense. Those drivers actually went looking for trouble. Doing all they could to perpetuate their anonymity and their lack of personal accountability, some preferred to be known by their company driver number rather than their name, enjoying the freedom provided by their invisible status. Even with the advancement of satellite tracking, DAC reports (an industry wide driving report, similar to a credit report), and increased scrutiny, many truckers engage in activities on the road that they would never dream of pursuing in their hometowns. The “500 mile rule” applies: Anything goes as long as it is at least 500 miles from the home base.

Enter the brave new world of the "new minimum". Requirements that flourished under deregulation increased emphasis on economic quotas, and bigger is better, monster 12,000 unit trucking companies where the order of the day became recruiting bodies, anybody, to fill empty truck driving seats. Minimum age 21. Minimum experience none. Minimum English language abilities. Maximum of three tickets and one accident in the last three years. Minimal criminal record. Minimal hygiene, manners, and civility. Minimal supervision. All of these “credentials” were exchanged for a less than minimum wage job performed under the maximum amount of hours.

Often industry managers know little to nothing about the personal lives of the employees they charge with operating a $200,000 piece of equipment and they prefer to keep it that way. At many companies, on the rare occasion where a driver is actually at the home terminal, he or she communicates either by keyboard or through bulletproof glass with their operations managers. Assigned six digit numbers to identify themselves, many truckers aren't referred to by their names. Weeks can go by without any human communication. Dispatched via computer, a driver’s personal life loses all importance, becoming the sum total of an electronic image on some computer screen. Rarely invited to company functions, drivers are treated with less than the same respect that a sub contracted janitor commands. Yet it is their hard and diligent work that makes or breaks a transport company.

Probe deeper, and the picture becomes even murkier. For many trucking companies, yearly driver turnover exceeds 100%. It is exceptionally rare to find a large national fleet where the majority of the drivers have remained employed by the same carrier for more than a year or two. Many companies actually profit through this endless turnover. If a trucking company is able to “retrain” and retain a driver for a year, they receive federal funds reimbursing them for creating a job. Yet there is no matching federal incentive promoting a carrier to keep that same driver employed beyond that first year. Rather, it’s in the interest of the carrier to keep an endless turnover in motion guaranteeing a steady pool of new trainees and federal revenue.

On the driver side of that equation, once a driver has a year under his or her belt, the same nomadic tendencies that attract people to the lifestyle of trucking produce a constant flow of drivers moving from one company to another. This grass is always greener “churning” is another factor encouraging lack of accountability between management and drivers. Drivers are nomadic. Their endless desire to know what the grass is like on the other side of the fence is the same character trait allowing truckers to be away from home for weeks at a time. But it is also a factor in the constant job hopping plaguing the industry, because many of those same drivers attracted to the constant change of driving are always looking for a better deal at other carriers.

The "see no evil," "hear no evil" and "for God sakes don't get to know your employees because they won't be here tomorrow anyway" policies practiced by many carriers are directly responsible for the inhumane actions of some in the industry. When people are treated like animals long enough, they will act like animals.

Trucking is as much a lifestyle as it is a career. But to read the trade magazines, one would assume that every driver is straight and a virgin, or part of a traditional, nuclear, married family complete with two kids, a dog, and a shiny SUV parked in the drive. Read the trucking company recruitment ads in just about every trucking publication and one senses that every driver has sufficient home time, they are all well compensated and they are never compelled to violate the law. That rosy picture is far from true in the real world.

Reckless behavior, whether done on the part of management or truckers, influences everyone's attitude. In trucking, the behavior of the minority truly influences the well being of the whole and the actions of the few have dramatic repercussions. Many localities, shopping centers, and neighborhoods ban trucks altogether because of the elements that they attract. As compensation, public respect, and management/driver relations have decreased, litter, hygienic issues, and less than ideal conduct among some outlaw drivers has increased. These collisions are creating a horrible public image problem for drivers, management, and society.

Although illegal log books are far less common now, today's sophisticated technology, which is increasingly optimized to make truck driving more efficient, seems to perpetuate abuses. The more technologically advanced the operations get, the more inhumane they become. Drivers do not schedule their loading and unloading appointments yet they are held accountable for meeting those JIT (Just In Time) Schedules. Dispatchers use threats of unfavorable DAC reports as coercion to run illegal. At the same time, the US Department of Justice has begun prosecuting drivers under federal statutes for hours of service and logbook falsifications violations. Under new regulations slated to take effect in 2004, drivers will be expected to be available to work over a hundred hours in an eight day period or be subjected to disciplinary action from management. Year in and year out trucking continues to be number one way to die on the job in North America.

Something had to serve as a pressure valve and for many truckers, the patronization of lot lizards is endemic. It shouldn't surprise anyone that the oldest profession in the world would come knocking on the idling door of one of the most technologically innovative ones.

Until very recently, no one was willing to address the continued presence of lot lizards working the truck stops and rest areas. But looking at the law of supply and demand, if there wasn't demand for these girls to be out hawking their wares, they wouldn't be out walking the "cat walks".

Never condoning prostitution, I've also found it difficult to turn a blind eye to what I have seen on a daily basis. During the infancy of the AIDS epidemic, word spread about my extracurricular activities promoting safer sex practices among prostitutes. As a result, company drivers I'd worked alongside with for years gave me a surprising education in human behavior. Many of the married truckers that I knew confessed their infidelity while sheepishly standing alongside truck stop fuel islands or over late night, off normal channel, CB conversations. Nervously asking if this or that activity was dangerous, they wondered if sexual acts they'd done in the past might have compromised their or their spouse’s health now. Many truckers who had strayed were locked frozen in a secret panic. Getting tested for sexually transmitted diseases by their local doctor was out of the question.

When the AIDS epidemic reached its first decade milestone, word finally began to spread into straight communities that AIDS could hit anyone. If the lot lizards could be convinced to use condoms, maybe innocent family members waiting on a driver's return to their home base could be spared HIV or other STD infection.

__________________________________________________________

Armed with condoms and lube samples, I jumped out of the cab. I had to find the smartly dressed prostitute. The one with the fire engine red lips, three alarms and blazing. As I made my way among the idling trucks checking c. b. antenna's to see if any were in motion, I considered the best strategy to use with Our Lady of the Immaculate Welcome Wagon. It had to be sophisticated. Fun. Something that would remind her long after I was gone about safe sex.

It didn't take me too long to realize that the lot was deserted. I didn't see her anywhere. Heading towards the front of the truck stop, I looked back at the trucks parked on either side of our rig, double-checking and confirming her absence. The trucks were quiet and devoid of any movement. The truck stop was deserted as well. Where could she be?

Walking over to the truck wash rack, where the fish hauler's were getting their trailers washed out, I hoped to find her loitering there. The place reeked of rotting fish and the heat made it all that much worse. Remembering the strange woman's earlier gesture commenting on the beauty of the place, her humor seemed surreal, and moving all at the same time. I wondered how she, so intelligent and smart, got stuck working a place like this. Certainly, even in her present career, there had to be better places to work. Maybe for an escort service? Through an ad in an alternative paper? But why here? I could just as easily imagine those long, pretty legs stretching out from the valet opened door of a big black 'limo' as I could see her jumping out of a beat up old Mack truck. Whatever the details of her story recounting her journey to this run down Oakland dive, I knew it would be interesting.

I Approached the African American men working in the truck wash. Aware that I was the only white man within eye range, they turned silent as I approached. They extinguished their pressure hoses. Studying me with hard glares and distrust, I asked them if they had seen this one particular woman. A fair skinned black woman to be exact. Explaining that I'd last seen her in the back lot wearing white leggings and beige clothes, including nice high-heeled shoes and expensive eyeglasses, I added that she looked like a powerful businesswoman.

My voice trailed off to nothing as the men stared at me in silence without saying a word.

Finally a man with arms the size of my entire body stepped forward. "What do you want with her?" he asked abruptly. I looked at him and figured that four of my legs could fit into just one of his arms.

My voice got shakier the more I spoke. I tried to explain the unexplainable to the man with the Mr. Clean arms and the others. I acknowledged the obvious stupidity presented by the sight of me trying to chase this mysterious woman down in this neighborhood. Especially, as I explained to the huge bodied men why I was looking for her. The cold stares I received in return reinforced my questionable sanity. It didn't matter how I phrased my story, none of it sounded legit. Nobody in their right mind wandered around Oakland hoping to talk to some truck stop tricksy about safer sex.

The silence of the men was deafening. Studying me with skeptical expressions, the dripping water and the occasional whoosh of passing traffic was all that occupied the roaring hush and the spacious absence created by a noticeable lack of any other sound. I could hear my heart beating and that sound alone threatened to drown out my voice. I prayed for some sign that the dirty, wet men gathered in front of me didn't think I'd lost my mind. Or worse, that I was lying to them. Was I a vice cop or was I merely afraid to confess my true rational for trying to find the woman? Did I not only want to tell the lady in beige about safer sex, or did I also hope for the opportunity to receive a personal demonstration?

Jacknifing my thoughts, the same huge man asked me, pointing over my shoulder, "That who you looking for?"

I turned around and there she was, walking across the parking lot in a manner that could only be described as one part sashay, two parts shuffle. It had to be the heels. They must have been killing her in that gravel.

"Yep, that's her!" I responded to the massive man as I turned and jogged over to the approaching woman.

"Hey!" I shouted at her. She stopped in her tracks and then recognizing me, she flashed that red lipped framed smile. In her mind I must have reconsidered her generous offer to "show me the delights of Oakland."

"I knew you weren't gay!" she yelled across the truck stop lot. I felt redness overtake the whole of my face and some other places that aren't worth getting into. Reaching where she was standing in the middle of the lot, I struggled to correct her in spite of my heavy breathing.

"No, really, I am. I swear," I took a deep breath and continued, "It's just that I realized that after you left," another breath, "well, I realized I forgot to tell you about safer sex."

Catching her off guard again, she looked at me stunned. "You wanna talk to me about what?" she asked.

"Safer sex. I want to show you how to protect yourself from AIDS. Keep you from catching it. Really, I mean it." I tried to look sincere but it came off as guilty as hell.

She studied me with one hip slouched, covered by an outstretched hand. Dropping her chin, for the second time that morning, I found myself starring into those hard brown eyes over the rim of her glasses. "I. Do. Not. Believe. You." Each word was pronounced separately.

"I'm not kidding." Thankfully my breath was coming back to me and my voice steadied. "If I was kidding would I be carrying all of these?" I asked as I pulled out of my pocket a handful of brightly colored, unused condoms still in their wrappers.

"Oh my God! Put those away!" She looked around us rapidly and then looked over my shoulder towards the wash crew behind me. I turned, following her gaze and realized that all of the men were watching us, silently. "C'mon, put them away before we both get arrested!"

Turning back to face her I responded patiently. "We are not going to get arrested. A handful of condoms is not against the law. Hasn't anyone ever talked to you about safer sex?" I asked with a smile that I knew might be compared to the same one that used car salesmen are sometimes accused of displaying to someone that they are trying to con. I was nervous and the smile was forced.

"Safe what?" she asked severely.

"Safer sex? Here I'll show you," I said excitedly.

"Here?" she asked as she backed up a step.

"Sure. C'mon. Put three of your fingers together. I'll demonstrate what I mean." Kneeling in front of her, I ripped open one of the condom wrappers. Hesitating, she finally followed my instructions and put her fingers together. "See condoms suck. No one wants to use them! So, you got to make it fun. Exciting. But first you have to make sure it isn't going to break. So you take this stuff, this lube, which will help keep the condom from ripping, and you put it on a guys'…well…you know…his uh, unit…." Grabbing a lube sample from another pocket, I ripped it open with my teeth and poured it over her fingers.

"Hey! What are you doing? What is this shit?" She stepped back, pissed at me. Lube hung from both our fingers in long sticky streams.

"Just rub your fingers together. You'll see." For some reason she followed my instructions and within seconds she smiled.

"Hmmmmm I see what you mean. That feels nice." Stepping back, closer to me, she was ready to resume the demonstration. She waited for further instructions.

"Put your fingers back together. Yeah, just like that. Now you always want to use a water-based lube cause anything else will break the condom down. No Vaseline or Crisco or anything like that.

"Crisco?" she asked. You've used Crisco? For sex?" She asked in disbelief.

"Never mind…Just don't use it. And don't use animal skin, like lamb skinned condoms either. The virus can pass through that. Always use latex." I looked up at her, to see if she was still listening. She stood over me, one hand on her slouched hip, the other extended as if there was something nasty and disgusting on it.

"Um hmmmm," she responded to let me know that she was still with me.

"Now condoms taste gross. I try to use flavored ones but even they are pretty bad…" she interrupted me before I could finish.

"You weren't kidding me. You are a homo!" she giggled. "You’re one of those down low boys. Only a homo would know this shit."

I couldn't answer her because my mouth was full. Placing the still disgusting tasting cherry flavored condom in my mouth, I held her hand steady as I worked the condom with my mouth sliding it over her three fingers. She did not move but stared at me wide eyed with fascination. Looking up while I demonstrated, we both forgot where we were for a minute.

Breaking rank first, she looked wildly around the circumference of the parking lot. Pensive and anxious, her anxiety heightened when her eyes locked with those of the men who were staring at us from the wash rack. Snapping out of a complacent, cooperative spirit and coming to her senses, she yanked her fingers out of my mouth.

"OH! MY! GAWWWWDDDD! I can not even believe you just did that to me. And here! Right here! In my beautiful Oakland parking lot in front of all my associates! Oh my God. OH. MY. GOD!" The pink condom flew off of her fingers landing in the gravel where it looked more obscene than it had when it was shrunken and loose on her hand. She stood in front of me, half in shock at what I'd just done, and half amused at the craziness of it all. I wondered if she was about to slap me or kiss me. Standing back up, I brushed the dust off of my pock-marked knees. Knees that were now pretty dirty. I wondered how I would explain any of this to Dallas.

"So that stuff really works?" she asked. "It will help protect me from AIDS?"

I nodded. "But you have to use condoms every time that you have sex. Regardless if they, uh your partner, look healthy or not." I watched her face to try to judge if she was really listening to me and if her sincerity was genuine. Maybe she just wanted me to disappear so that she could get back to working the area.

After studying her for another minute I decided that her expression was sincere. "You got any extra of that stuff, that lube that I could have?" she asked.

I told her to follow me and we walked past the incredulous wash rack gang. No one said a word as we passed. I imagined that as soon as we were out of sight, one of them would run over to where the condom lay on the gravel lot to see if it was real.

Reaching the truck, I gave her several packets of lube and even more condoms. She quickly stuffed them into the pockets of her suit. Dallas was up and dressed and he'd gotten out of the truck. Standing next to the steer tires, while I got additional safer sex supplies from the truck, he quietly listened to us talk as I told her to be careful and reminded her about always using protection. As she turned to leave, she reconsidered and stopped. Hesitating in front of us, as if she was about to say something really important, she just smiled shaking her head. Dallas remained reserved in the background, slowly smoking his trademark cigarette. Studying this strange woman dressed to the nines in her beige business outfit with the white stockings and matching beige shoes, he said nothing. Finally accompanied by that blinding red lipstick smile, she held out her hand.

"I just want to thank you," she paused and then she giggled, "For letting me welcome YOU to Oakland." Then she turned and began walking across that gravel lot in those impossible heels. Momentarily, I saw one of those rare peeks the good Lord sometimes gives us, letting us know that for once we've done something right. I couldn't help but grin.

I looked over at Dallas who was shaking his head at me. "Only you Tim. Only you."

"C'mon. Let's get out of here and go load us some salad," I said.

We both got into the truck and began rolling south toward San Jose and all the various types of lettuce that waited on us down in Salinas. I thought about the smartly dressed woman and wondered if she was going to be ok. I wondered if she was still healthy or if she was already infected. And I wondered how she could live so close to one of the epicenters of the epidemic yet be so uninformed about safe sex.

We were just outside of San Jose when Dallas looked at me strangely and then asked, "Hey, do you know what happened to that twenty that was laying on the dash? I'm out of cigarettes. It's the last of our cash until tomorrows draw." I thought for a minute and then remembered the "dollar" that I'd handed to the woman.

Then I remembered the grin she gave me as she took the money.

I swallowed hard.

_____________________________________________________________________

This story took place over a decade ago, in 1993.

Knocking on Rubber took place before the death toll from AIDS reached 100,000 in the U. S. Before the worldwide, AIDS death toll hit into the millions. Before the rate of HIV infections in some nations would be over 40% of the population. Before the mortality statistics from the disease actually began first to slow, then reverse the population growth of several continents. Before the United Nations World Health Organization estimated that by the year 2020 over 20 million people will have died. Before, the Names Project Quilt had gotten so big that no place was large enough to accommodate it in its entirety. Before, I knew a single truck driver who was infected.

I now know many.

That was a very long ten years ago.

People know about AIDS, and although the disease is as deadly as ever, they deny it’s far reaching threat. Somewhere along the way safer sex talk just seemed pointless. The interest disappeared. Not because sexually transmitted diseases went away, but because people became immune to the message. For awhile it seemed productive to inform folks about the risks that they were taking and how to minimize them. And although HIV and numerous other diseases remain just as lethal as they once were, there is a feeling among many that the new drugs arriving on the scene in recent years are a cure all.

Recklessness abounds. As a result we live in an age where people carry ‘super infections’, the result of continued reckless behavior after contracting AIDS, going on the protease inhibitor drug “cocktails” and then going back to unsafe, multi partnered sexual experiences. The emphasis on safe sex has been entirely abandoned in some quarters. We live in a new age of “barebacking” where some individuals purposely pursue anonymous encounters that do not include safer sex. HIV transmission among minorities is up. HIV transmission rates among people under thirty continues to increase. Even the gay community which for many years had experienced decreasing transmission rates, has experienced a reversal of that encouraging trend. The development of stronger and more effective pharmaceuticals does not mean that basic biology will change. The AIDS virus mutates. Drugs are expensive and tedious. Even if a vaccine is created, except in truly monogamous relationships, it remains a jungle out there. Other infections much worse than the ones we now face may be waiting for their opportunity to have a staring role in the health crisis spotlight.

What we know today, may not be the rule tomorrow. When Overdrive Magazine, a trucking trade publication geared towards truckers, finally broke the trucking industry’s silence on the world of the lot lizards, truckstop prostitution and the reality of modern trucking life, twenty years had passed since the emergence of AIDS. Devoting an entire issue to studying the crisis, everyone involved acknowledged the continued presence of truckstop related prostitution. World Health Organization studies were cited from all over the globe linking prostitution, and truckers to the spread of AIDS. Drivers were noted in the Overdrive piece, admitting they’d paid extra for women to engage in unsafe sex. Preachers were quoted who blamed the problem on pornography. Trucker’s wives were cited relating how prostitution had ruined their marriages. Yet none of the blame fell on trucking company managers who keep their drivers away from home for months at a time, destroying their personal lives and their marriages. No mention was made of the economic pressures placed on drivers and the pressures to keep running and away from home. No mention was made of the inhumane situations ever present in the trucking industry which contributes to inhumane behavior on the part of the truckers it employs.

The new millennium marks the 20th anniversary of the emergence of AIDS onto the radar screen of society. Granted we have learned much because of the encroachment of AIDS into our lives. But obviously, there is much that we still have left to learn.