Chapter 5

Beautiful Loser

"Can I borrow your radio?" she asked, approaching me slowly. I could not see her very clearly; the bright spots lights put up to discourage illegal activity in the parking lot were behind her and they glared intensely. Blinded by the backlighting I could only see a vague silhouette. I approached her cautiously before answering.

Ontario , California is a legend. It is the place where one of the largest economies in the world hides one of the links which allows it to prosper. Much like the trash stockpiled in the back alley of an exclusive neighborhood, the trucking industry, a huge supporter of the LA economy, is relegated to an out of sight, out of mind no mans land in Ontario. Each day tens of thousands of truck drivers converge in Ontario in the many truckstop and diners as if waiting for the "city of Angels" and its high monarchy to grant permission for this lowly court to finally enter.

It is ironic that those who are so desperately dependent upon the constant flow of goods and services in and out of the city are so ashamed of the presence of those who make this possible. And so, nestled outside the great safe walls of The Beautiful City lies Ontario, the place which either acts like a magnet for the thickest smog or the catch basin for the Santa Ana winds.

I have always hated Ontario. Idle hands and idle minds always find distractions. Distractions that capture the boredom and cultivate the desires of all those rugged wayward mavericks running the hated but necessary 18 wheelers. These men and women live their lives on the edge of society. Speaking another language through the electronic voice of the CB radio, they adopt CB handles that lean back into another century. With handles like "Lady Outlaw", "Bad attitude" and "Montana Drifter" espousing not the most civilized and well heeled images, they do not promote themselves as society's highest achievers. Scrambling to see who has the most powerful radio, they battle each other over the air waves to earn 'Radio Rambo' honors.

These are radios that are so powerful that they disrupt television reception and make communication impossible between other drivers. It is the same 'old West' mentality that Hollywood has romanticized about the West but here the cowboys don't fight with Colts and Remington. Instead it's Cobras, Linears, and High Wattage radios which one driver uses to battle another. And, in the process, murdering the English language to a point where their communication celebrates the least common denominator and ignorance is not only the common bond but the standard bearer of all communication.

It is the only place I have ever been where everyone tries to sound dumber than the next person and actually thinks this is an effort that sets them proudly apart. There is a whole breed of drivers that proudly aspires to this lack of achievement; they are called "Chicken Haulers" and they look at Ontario as Arkansas West.

In this Wild Wild West, a truly remarkable service industry exists which also owes much of its history to the taming of the early frontier. Although it is often called the oldest profession in the world, in Ontario it has definitely learned some new "tricks". And on this evening although I was parked at an adult bookstore having discovered that the truckstops were already full, I was going to get a close up look at such a huge industry.

In the darkness I tried to study her closer. She was young but yet she was also very old. It was an unsettling combination. "Can I please borrow your radio?" she asked again. "I'm safe...I promise." Her husky and scratchy voice trailed off and I realized that she sounded very much like Kim Carnes.

How could such a young girl have such a raspy and sexually experienced quality? I was intrigued by her. I nodded and pointed towards my truck.

Having agreed to let her use my CB we both walked back towards the idling truck lit up like a Christmas tree that I had pointed towards. Although small and meek in appearance she moved with determination and when I opened up the shotgun side door for her I was surprised at how easily she entered the cab. There was no awkward fumbling. She had been in 'large cars' before.

Once inside the truck I gave her the mic and she keyed up a very sexy "Break: one-seven anybody got a copy on the Beautiful Loser?" She and I listened as the radio came alive with the responses of horny truck drivers.

I was amazed as she held the mic with long red painted fingernails. The way she held the mic was almost as if it was a crystal ball that she could see into. Her detached state was oblivious to the rest of the going ons in the parking lot. The only activity that mattered to her in the here and now was the invisible activity that her voice speaking into that mic was inspiring.

"Anyone looking for some company? Commercial company? Commercial Love? Bring it back to the Beautiful Loser..." Her gazed remain fixed upon the mic she cradled in her hands. It was a hypnotic state that I found myself drawn into as well. Now I too was watching the mic as if all the activity of the evening would originate in the cab of my truck conducted right out of the CB mic. She was lost inside that mic and there was even less life in her eyes.

I still do not know how old Beautiful Loser really was. She was a study in contrasts. Her leather vest seemed too tough for her but the black Harley t shirt underneath it did not. Big brown eyes stared down without seeing, long delicate fingers poking out of fingerless Madonna era gloves. Lightly highlighted hair curled and bounced down across shoulders and played against the folds of her leathers. Petite motorcycle boots gently swayed against the air seat. She looked sweet and innocent and she looked like trouble.

She looked like she'd seen too much and yet she appeared to have not seen enough to protect her from danger. None of it made much sense by itself but putting it all together she carried it off. This 35 year old woman who was yet to turn 16 who would turn over the course of the next two hours over 20 truck drivers.

Our silence was interrupted by the voice of another woman who asked for the channel and as Beautiful Loser and I listened to the woman's attempt to contact several drivers on the radio and set up rendezvous, Loser rolled her eyes and for the first time made eye contact with me. "Would you listen to her. She'll talk to anyone. Anyone! No class. None."

Loser shook her head and stared back out into the parking lot watching the old men entering and leaving the bookstore from the parking lot. Finally she said to no one in particular in a quiet sad voice, "She is just a lot lizard. That's all she is. That is all she'll ever be. At least I'm not that..." and she turned back towards me and softly met my gaze as if seeking confirmation. I could only shrug. I didn't see the difference.

Lot lizards. Sleeper Creepers. Pecker Wreckers. Commercial Love. And every other description. To me they are all the same. The lowest order in the world of sex for sale, these girls do not work for a service. Many of them do not have even have the 'luxury' of a pimp. They are on their own and they are very much alone except for those few minutes when someone exchanges for a sexual act. It could be for drugs. Or a ride. Sometimes its for a meal and sometimes its for nothing. I have even heard of drivers offering to trade a girl that they had riding with them for a clean shirt and a new pair of socks. But even here at the bottom of life there was a pecking order and a level not yet reached by the self acknowledged Beautiful Loser.

As a long nose Pete pulled in, headlights cut, Beautiful Loser nodded at me and jumped into the new arrivals truck. She would return again soon and do the next truck and the next again and again. Each time she was not an active participant in her life...just those same nearly vacant eyes.

But At least she was not yet a lot lizard in her own eyes. She was the Beautiful Loser and she was going to go for some rides and be some kind of commercial love tonight to those drivers who thought her price was right. Then she would do it again and again until the soft light of dawn was merging into full daylight. Finally Beautiful Loser did not return to use the radio again and as I pulled out to try to deliver my load, I pictured her in some far away truckstop. Cradling the mic but not seeing it, advertising on the radio for sexual customers but not as a lot lizard, being beautiful and losing it. All at the same time.