Chapter 1
No Experience Required
This story is dedicated to Chris Haebe And to Rob Allen
At the end of the workday, long haul truckers don’t jump in the family minivan, lunch box in hand, and head home. They remain in their work environment, sleeping in a tiny metal box located right behind their “office.” It’s a cramped existence at best, and doubly so for team truckers. Sharing personal space, cohabiting, and exploring the many ways one can experience another person's hygiene, are the norm. Manners, severe personality disorders, and digestive gasses are other challenging situations presented free of charge to team truck drivers. All of these sensory opportunities enjoyed in the space of a shower stall. Conflict resolution, boundary setting, and annihilation incorporate some of the Darwinian tools that enable the survival of the fittest. Which is a long way to make a short point: compatibility with one’s co-driver is the key to quality of life on the road.
"Are you sure?" "Yes Tim, I’m sure." "I don't believe you. You said that before. You promised. You said, ‘this time it will be different.’ And it was different. Instead of crushing a Trans Am in an intersection, we buried a 53-foot trailer in a ditch. Or you put me in a truck with a psycho. And how about the co-driver before last? You remember him, don't you, Jan? The one who abandoned the truck down in Bakersfield so that he could join the freedom fighters...the contras, or whoever the hell they were down in El Salvador?" The large woman stood up, pushed back her chair and leaned against the desk in her cubicle. Jan removed her telephone headset, folded her hands across her chest and sighed. "I know, I know. We haven't been having the best of luck finding the right match here, Tim. But I really worked hard on this and I am positive that you will like THIS guy. He doesn't smoke, he's your age, and he is very quiet. And what's more important, I’m sure that Derek will like you. "You know, I used to believe I could get along with anyone. "But Jan, do you realize in the last 8 months you have teamed me up with 7 different drivers? Three have been fired for accidents. Two of them you said yourself you were pretty sure 'weren't right'. The very LAST one was arrested crossing a Nebraska scale while I was sleeping in the sleeper. Don't laugh Jan. It was Bumfuck, Nebraska! I wake up and, POOF! No co-driver. Just this bright orange ‘OUT OF SERVICE’ sticker on the window of the cab, and my logbook all locked up in that scale house! "I know, Tim. Look, we are trying to be more selective in our hiring but..." "Can't I just run solo? Please?" "We don't have enough power units. And you know as well as I do that we have no idea when headquarters is going to shake loose with any more tractors. We have to team you up. Besides, look at the odds. What else can happen? You've already used up your bad luck. And several other people's as well." Jan smiled, reminding me of one of those Mother Superiors who always know what's best for those they lead. Her grin immediately turned to a frown. "Tim, straighten up your shoulders. You look like you’re pouting." "I am, Jan. I am seriously pouting." Head down, I walked out to the yard looking for my truck. I didn't have a good feeling about any of this. I was stewing. Jan told me I was acting like a victim. Well, I WAS a victim. Of her! As I left the office, she added the last detail. Next week, she started two weeks of vacation.
"I know things will be fine, Paul's going to dispatch for me while I’m gone. I told him your one of the best drivers on my board. Don't disappoint me.
Betrayed! Yet as much as I wanted to, I did not argue. And pissed as I was, I couldn't remain mad. Jan did her best to look out for the drivers on her board. Especially me, it seemed. Being a lesbian, she made sure that if I got laid over, it would at least be in someplace interesting. Someplace where I wouldn't get too bored. Someplace like San Francisco. One time over our monthly lunch of Chinese food Jan told me, "The Gay Bay is like Disneyland when you were a kid. But better. Only in San Fran, when you get lost, you don't want to be found. " She understood the loneliness of being a gay driver on the road. She'd been there. Back when she was married and trucking all across the country. With a man. Rounding the corner of the building, I gazed beyond a row of dropped trailers, looking for my cab. On the opposite row, a long string of cab-over tractors lined a back fence. Each tractor seemed identical to the next. Painted "BUTT UGLY ORANGE," as the driver's referred to them, the big trucks looked like giant pumpkins. A man standing in front of my tractor watched me as I approached. His gear was haphazardly thrown together in a pile next to the steer tires. He reminded me of one of those wild-eyed hitchhikers who reside at the foot of so many interstate highway on ramps. I felt my gut go through a mix. Should I pick him up or just keep going? "Are you Tim?" "Yep. You Derek? He nodded his head in the affirmative. "This all your stuff or do you have more?" Derek shook his head no, and I motioned to the jockey box. While he threw his gear beneath the sleeper, I caught the flex of his muscular arms under his tee shirt. Watching him, I noted he was a year or two older than me. Taller, too, and good looking. And judging from the amount of hair on his arms, I figured he'd gone through puberty at two. Dark hair curled across his forehead and his chiseled features already sported a dark five o'clock shadow. "Jan told me you're first seat driver. Guess that makes you in charge, right? You have more experience. How long you been driving truck? "Almost two years. I started in Alaska then came outside and..." "You've been to Alaska?" He interrupted. "I've lived up there a couple of different times." "What's it like?” "Big. Very big." "Really?" I looked at him trying to determine if he was sarcastic. "Yeah. It's the largest state in the nation." "Oh cool. I'm originally from Texas so I know what big looks like." I said, "Well Texas is small compared to Alaska.” I motioned toward the shotgun seat. "Get in. We have to hook up to that 53-foot trailer over there and then we got us a load going to Shaky Town." "Shaky Town? Where's that?" "Its slang for Los Angeles. You know, earthquakes? How long have you been driving?" "A couple months." Jumping up into the cab, I turned the engine over. Waiting for Derek to get in, I stared straight ahead through the windshield, across the yard and toward Jan's office. If I started that orange cab-over in third gear, I might be able to gain enough momentum to blast through the wall, cross the break room, and arrive in her cubicle. The thought was delicious. I glanced at Derek and he returned my look with a sort of puppy dog expression. Pausing, I met his eyes over the “doghouse” that covered the engine separating our seats. "Guess I'll drive first shift so you can get used to..." Derek interrupted, "Hey Tim, do you got a light? I really need a cigarette." Swell. I handed him the cigarette lighter from the dash, turning on the CB, while he lit up. Putting the truck into gear, Jan's description of my co-driver echoed in my mind over and over again. "He's your age, he doesn't smoke, and he's very quiet."
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November. It was friggin' November, but here we were rolling down I-5 with both of the windows down. Heavy Friday night traffic ignited a ribbon of red taillights ahead of us as we trucked out of Portland, Oregon. With less than an hour together with Derek in the truck, I'd already counted nine cigs into his lungs. And mine, of course. My nipples were so hard they could cut diamonds and I knew my balls wouldn't drop again for at least a year. And the "he's real quiet" bit? Right. The man could not shut up. "Hey Tim, you know I used to be one of those male strippers. I almost got to dance with Chippendales." I looked over at Derek in the darkness, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah. It was cool. I'd dance at parties and stuff. Chicks loved me. I boned some of them and figured that maybe I should do that." "Do what?" I asked studying him. His dark brown curly hair suited him and he was pretty muscular. But for the life of me, I had a hard time visualizing him stripping for a living. Not that I was an expert on stripping but... "Become a gigolo" he answered. "For rich bitches. When I danced, they loved me. Especially the hitched ones...babes whose husbands were always away on business." I couldn't take it anymore. "Didn't you just tell me that you had a girlfriend, your fiancée, or whatever...anyway some lady that you're gonna marry in a few weeks and that she has a couple of kids that are yours?" He took a drag of his cigarette. In the darkness, the light from his cancer stick made him seem demonic. "Yes, but I hustled before I met her. She made me quit." "I see." I didn't know what to think. I was trying to give doubt plenty of space to maneuver through all the angles of his story. Benefit was getting no room at all. I didn't believe him. I didn't even want to believe him. There was just no way. How many women hire escorts anyway? In Portland and Seattle combined? "Did you work for a service or, well uh, like a pimp or something?" "Nope. It was all word of mouth. I am very good." He blew a smoke ring that immediately vaporized. Taking another very long drag before tossing the remains out the window, he exhaled like a dragon. "Man I sure miss all that snatch. Cool, huh?" he asked. "Oh yeah. Very cool." I hoped he heard the admiration in my voice. I wanted to be just like him. I was ready to start smoking myself. He wouldn't shut up.
Finally, south of Eugene, Derek crawled back in the bunk. I rolled the windows up. Derek was entertaining all right, but as he told me about his kids and his escapades two things were very apparent: First, he was an untalented liar. And secondly, if he'd ever been paid for sex, I was damn sure his compensation was in beer at some tavern within walking distance of a trailer park. As I drove, my thoughts returned to Jan. Drama. This was going to be drama. I could just feel it. Jan was SO not going to get my “dispatcher of the year” vote. Driving through Cottage Grove, accompanied by the chatter of the CB radio in the background, I plotted revenge. I decided that the best retaliation would be for the three of us to have lunch when Jan returned from vacation. I'd give her a taste of her non-smoking little bundle of quiet. We'd hit our traditional Chinese buffet and as I slurped chicken chow mein, Derek could tell Jan all about his misogynist escapades. Further visualizing the spectacle of 'doing lunch', I took great pleasure picturing Jan and Derek bonding over pork fried rice, egg drop soup, and sweet and sour fired driver. ______________________________________
“Derek, damn it wake up!" Silence. Staring at the vinyl curtain that served as the buffer between the cab and the sleeper, I visualized movement. In the darkness, the mercury lights illuminating the Phoenix, Oregon rest area parking lot were of little help. I considered my alternatives. Derek lay on the other side of that curtain. Silence. The man continued sleeping, lights out to the world. Nevertheless, it was his turn to drive. Calculating, I concluded if I stayed behind the wheel, I could legally get us into California. But I was tired. My eyes said so. My logbook said so. But my common sense desperately tried to veto the other two. Just keep driving, common sense argued. Of course I ignored it. Pulling open the sleeper curtain, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness until Derek's sleeping form appeared. He lay naked and uncovered on top of the bunk. Face down, butt up, oblivious to the world. His quiet breathing seemed too peaceful. Looking away, I stalled until I devised a plan. Thinking I heard him stir, my eyes returned to his figure. Did I mention he was naked? I am a graduate of Bible college. The Bible is full of these little tests. Man minds his own business until some little temptation presents itself. God or Satan, or sometimes the two of them working together, create little life lessons. But for some reason they are never satisfied to demonstrate their lessons without human teaching aids or teacher's helpers. Nope, they always volunteer an assistant. The stranger from the audience. The innocent victim. The man. Now humanity for the most part, never lets them down. He, she, or we, through our bad acting, always make God's case. Whatever the “life lesson,” these live sermon illustrations usually involve some very complicated, ghastly, but in the end, obvious choice. One that any idiot with a half a brain would have known how to make correctly. If it wasn’t happening to him. Once again I pondered my situation. My moment of temptation. My opportunity to do the right or wrong thing. I hesitated with options, as inches from my face, God's gift to testosterone slept. Derek, so peaceful and content. So angelic. So not wearing a stitch of clothing. I knew others faced my dilemma. Familiar with the whole "don't ask, don't tell" military policy? A tap dance through the wavering tulips of choice, the policy mirrors the dangers of choosing the wrong path. Sexuality, in all its manifestations is not as simple as "don't ask don't tell." Many straight men are far more excited than threatened by lesbians. Some men think nothing of sharing the same woman, in the same bed. Yet enter a guy who just happens to dance better than they do or mention dropping the soap in the shower and everything gets complicated. It's all about fear. And what's to fear from a guy like me? Let’s review. In my bunk lay Derek, a handsome, self-admitted ex-male prostitute, wanna-be-future truck driver. I did not choose to share my truck, my bunk, or weeks on end with him. But here we were. Don't ask, don't tell. With more vices than Caesar, Derek slept not just naked. But he slept nude, on top of my comforter, humping my pillow, and laying completely exposed. His furry butt cheeks demanding attention. This was not just confusion junction. This was “The Last Temptation of Timmy.” I crawled up onto the bunk, trying to straddle Derek without actually touching him. I reached down and gently prodded his shoulder.
He sighed. "Derek?" I said softly. Derek, you need to wake up. It's your turn to drive." He moaned. And then he did something I wasn’t expecting. He rolled over. I gasped. I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the wall. But eventually, I looked down. "Holy Shit!" Losing my balance, life became an episode of “The Bionic man.” Everything went into slow motion. I heard this rhythmic, flexing steel sound, exactly like Steve Austin used to make. I tumbled down. Plop. I lay still, waiting for the first fist. Nothing. Well not totally nothing. Somehow my leg was now pinned under his. My head dangled close to his chest. One free arm, propped on my side, kept me partially elevated. Lifting my neck, I tried to avoid making contact. As I attempted to wiggle free, an arm came out of nowhere and embraced me. Then he whispered my name. Softly. Tenderly. Within inches of my ear. "Julie." I screamed his. "DEREK! Get your lazy ass up! NOW!" Derek sat up, startled. I fell out of the sleeper onto the doghouse. My head slammed into the gearshift. My leg remained pinned under his. Nearly bent in half, I met Derek's eyes. Confused he looked at me, trying to register who I was. "Derek, it's your turn to drive. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn't..." He continued staring at me. Then he yawned. Followed by a prolonged stretch. In case you’d forgotten, he’s still naked. When dressing, most people look for their pants first. Most nude folks are embarrassed. Humble. Self conscious Not Derek. Oh no, he’s a “T-shirt first” sort of guy. Not a bit modest about it either. I reconsidered my previous skepticism. Maybe he was an ex-hustler. But who was Julie?
Derek sat up, and finally put his jeans on. Leaving to take a piss, he gently shut the door behind him and I watched him walk across the parking lot. My heart raced. No longer tired, I stared out into the rest area. My leg remained numb from the lack of circulation and as I sat in the shotgun seat trying to regain my composure, I wondered if anyone would believe this. I'd done nothing wrong. But I still felt guilty as hell. Returning to the truck, Derek hoped in and updated his logbook. "Where are we?" he asked. "The bottom of Ashland... Siskiyou Summit. Have you done mountains yet?" "Yeah. Piece of cake." "Cool. Well, I'm ready when you are." Putting the truck in gear, Derek eased out onto the freeway. His shifting was smooth, double clutching at first. Gaining momentum, he let out the clutch and speed shifted his way up into the top-side of the gears. "Sleep OK?" I asked. He yawned. "Uh-huh." Throwing a drowsy half smile my direction, Sighing, I leaned back into my seat. Already the elevation changed. We began climbing Ashland grade. Derek dropped his first gear. The truck began losing speed. Big national trucking companies are often run using management teams and consultants. White collar and college-educated, these professionals have never driven a truck, much less driven one in the mountains. Famous for under-powering or castrating their tractors, these managers spec rigs with enough standard features to get the job done and little else. Because drivers are paid by the mile and not by the hour, wages are not an issue for them. Fuel efficiency is priority one. When a trucker making 25 cents a mile pulls a 15 mile long hill at 25 MPH and, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to do the below minimum wage math. So long as the fuel mileage remains high, management cares little how long it takes to get over the mountains. Powered by a "fuel efficient" 350 horsepower Cummins, our truck's progress up the hill seemed immeasurable. As Derek shifted into low range, his entrance to the bottom side of the transmission was ill-timed. He missed the gear. Desperately looking for any hole he could find, the truck quickly lost all momentum. We stalled halfway up the pass. Dead in the water. Worse yet, we were parked in the middle of a blind curve. "Turn on the flashers!" I screamed, tense all over again. Halfway up Ashland summit, dark as hell, traffic shot by us on both sides of the truck.. Cussing at us on the CB, truckers scrambled to grab another lane without losing momentum. "What do I do?" Derek looked at me panicked. Trying to sound calm, I spoke slowly. "OK Derek, just find first. It's under reverse. Release the brake and slowly let out the clutch. Keep a little pressure on the accelerator. Just go easy. Don't panic." Imagining all 80,000 pounds of truck sliding backward into the night and plunging off the edge of the mountain, I held onto the seat. I imagined our driveline turning inside out, as the torque did somersaults over the force of gravity. I imagined shutting down the pass in a huge chain reaction collision as numerous gear-jammed rigs and trapped four wheelers plowed into our back doors. I imagined Derek accidentally throwing the truck into reverse. I imagined Jan somewhere in Portland, packing for her vacation. I imagined joining her in the Caribbean. With a electric cattle prod. The truck shuddered and the driveline made a wretched sound. For the second time that night I remembered bionics as I listened to metal shuddering against metal followed by a deafening lurch.
"We can rebuild it. We have the technology." "Tim, the truck's still not moving!" Don't stare. That's what my mother always used to say. And it's not nice to point. But, right now I couldn't help but stare. "Of course the truck’s not moving. It's not in gear!" "What do I do?" "Put it in gear. Let the clutch out slowly. Easy on the accelerator. Ease off the brakes." I realized I was pointing. "And pray!" I said under my breath. Finally, he found first gear and managed to overcome gravity without killing the engine or destroying the driveline. "Don't try to shift until you get to the top. I'd rather crawl up this mountain at 5mph than risk going through what we just went through again." Derek nodded. 25 minutes later we finally reached the top. He eased off onto the shoulder of the freeway and we found ourselves parked among a dozen or so rigs. Engines idling, their clearance lights were a thousand points of light in the alpine darkness. "What gear should I use to come off the top? Turning on the cab light, I pointed to the lowest gear in high range. "Standard rule of thumb is you come down the hill you just climbed over using one gear higher than whatever gear you used to climb over the top. But in this case that won't apply. We should definitely come off the hill in something higher than second gear unless you want all those drivers screaming at you again. Remember, use light steady pressure on the brakes." Recalling Derek's description of running the mountains as "a piece of cake" I felt uneasy. I'd hate to see him challenged with snow on the hill. Ruling out any shut-eye until we were safely off the mountain, I watched as Derek found the right gear. But his hand remained nervously on the gearshift as he descended the mountain. Bad. "Oh yeah, and another thing. Never try to downshift on a downgrade. You may not find that hole again. Always use engine compression to help keep things under control. Once you miss a hole, you are totally reliant on the brakes. If you choose the wrong gear to head off a mountain, don't try to correct it. Any hole is better than no hole." Derek smiled. "Ain't that the truth." I turned and stared. What did he mean by that?
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"Tim, I don't feel very good." Looking up from the Overdrive Magazine I was reading, I turned toward Derek. "What’s wrong?" "I don't know, I just feel sick. I think I may be coming down with something." "Are you nauseous? "No. I think I am getting a sore throat. He rubbed his throat. "And, I feel achy." We were laid over in Fontana, east of Los Angeles. The truck stops were all full. We'd settled on waiting for our next load in a rest area off the westbound I-10. Every two or three hours I got out of the truck and called headquarters to find out if they had a load for us. Not allowed to idle the truck to stay warm, Derek and I sat savoring any heat we could get still rising from the engine. Once again I cussed those aloof managers sitting in their climate-controlled offices while their drivers sweat or freeze in their trucks, stuck in the middle of nowhere, engines shut down conserving fuel. I wondered if they treat their pets as badly. "You want me to see if I can get a ride to a store to grab some cough syrup or something?" Derek cleared his throat. "That would be cool. Thanks, I'll owe you one." Jumping out of the cab, I walked toward the section of the rest area reserved for four wheelers. Numerous men loitered near their cars or close to restrooms. The scene was embarrassingly obvious. The men hanging out were definitely not travelers, truckers, or tourists. The energy went way beyond "Something About Mary." The Fontana rest area revealed “something” about Harry, Jerry, Terry, Cary and Bob. Approaching a young man standing next to his 4x4, I tried to avoid looking too much like a con artist, a panhandler, or a missionary.
"Excuse me, but my co-driver is sick. I was hoping you might give me a ride to a store?" I paused. "I'd be glad to give you some gas money. I'd drive to one but I don't know the area and I don't think big rigs are allowed off the truck routes down here." The man scanned the truck parking area. "Which rig is yours?" I pointed toward the orange cabover. "Sure, I can give you a ride. Where you from?" I explained we were from the northwest and that we'd been laid over in the rest area for most of the day. Freight was dead and the truckstops were full and... "Dude, I don't need your life story. I just asked where you're from. Hop in. I need to get going." I jumped into the man's truck.. Clad in a T-shirt, 501's and Nikes, he seemed about my age. "What do you think you partner needs?" I explained that whatever medication I got for Derek couldn't make him drowsy, drunk, or dopey. The man nodded and pulled out of the rest area.
I recalled all the warnings I'd ever heard about the dangers of taking rides from strangers. The problem with such well-intended advice was most strangers don't look like strangers. They just resemble people you haven't met yet. Case in point here. The attractive man giving me the lift could have been one of my high school buddies. Laughing to myself, I realized the ridiculous nature of such fears. In a pinch, we all may have to rely upon someone we don't know. Yet. After a few exits, we got off the 10. "This work?" The man pointed at a convenience store a few blocks north of the freeway. "Perfect. Thanks. They should have something that will do the trick." We pulled up in front of the store. Jumping out of the truck, I ran inside. Quickly finding some cough syrup, I paid for the purchase and ran back out to the young man and his trusty 4x4. Opening the door, I put the sack containing the cough syrup on the floor and handed the man the remaining change from my twenty. Without warning, he reached over and slammed the door shut, threw the truck into reverse, and peeled out of the parking lot. Stunned, I stood in the same parking spot where two seconds previous Mr. Knight in White Toyota 4x4 had been parked. I couldn't believe it. I'd given him all my money, Derek's cough syrup lay on the floorboard, and my working demonstration of the kindness of strangers was history. Quickly calculating the distance from the Circle K to the rest area, I discovered it was a mere 5 miles. No big deal. I could run that in a heartbeat. In running shoes. But right now I had on cowboy boots. I began running as the sky turned orange and the southern California smog bathed everything in sick, surreal colors. My lungs burned with each breath. As the light faded, I could feel my clothes drench in sweat. My legs dissolved into one massive charlie horse and each step was a study in born again blisters. Man was not meant to run a 10k looking like the Marlboro Man. I was exhausted and still a mile from the rest area when a man suddenly pulled over in front of me. Getting out of his Honda, he stood in my path. "Hey! Are you OK?" I could barely see him. Stinging sweat poured into my eyes. I tried catching my breath. He was Asian and about a foot shorter than me. My eyes watered and I couldn't focus. Placing both hands on my knees, I bent over trying to reclaim my breath. "I was just rolled," I managed. "Rolled? Where? Here?" I gasped trying to get as much air as possible into my lungs. "No, not here. Back a few miles at the Circle K." "You want me to call the police?" I shook my head no. Sign language time. I held up one finger, signaling him to let me catch my breath for a minute. He didn't speak sign language and continued to question me. "Are you in trouble? Do you need a ride someplace?" I nodded, looking up from my crouched position. "Where?" "The rest area" I answered between breaths. "The one on the Ten?" I nodded again. "Why you want to go there?" "My truck...is...there. I...hitched...a ride...from a dude...at the rest...area to get...some cold...medication...for my co-driver. He is...waiting for me...there." I swallowed hard. My heart was still racing. "The man...who gave...me...a ride to...the store...took my money...and the cold...medicine." The Honda driver studied me. I figured he was in his early forties. Well dressed, impeccably groomed, and compassionate, he opened his passenger car door for me. "Get in. I can give you a ride back to your truck." I took one last look at my predicament. It was now completely dark. I was drenched, thirsty as hell, and tired. For the second time that day, I found myself getting into a complete stranger's vehicle. For some sick and twisted reason, the theme song from the Mister Roger's Show came to mind. Something about the “beautiful day in the neighborhood” and “won't you be my neighbor.” Sighing, I looked out the window as the man got behind the wheel, then eased his Honda into traffic. Embarrassed out of my mind, I knew I stunk to high heaven. Self-conscious, I leaned against the door, hoping my Good Samaritan wouldn't pass out from the smell of me. If only I'd been so lucky. Without warning his right hand landed on my knee. I tried to ignore it. The man happily carried the conversation, oblivious to where his hand rested. "You look very young to be a truck driver. Where is your home? Far away? Oh, Washington. Very nice." Maybe he was trying to reassure me that things were OK. Maybe his actions were an Asian custom from the old country, a gentle symbol to embrace the victim and lessen their sense of stupidity. These thoughts became irrelevant when his hand moved higher up my thigh. He began to make kneading motions. Looking down at his hand, I stiffened. I recognized this custom! While maybe it was ancient, it certainly wasn't limited to Asian people from the old country. Lecture upon lecture about getting rides from strangers circulated in my mind as his hand worked higher. This simply could not be happening. But it was. I gently took his hand. Placing it on his leg, I looked at him and smiled. "Not tonight, I have a headache." He looked hurt. Almost as if I, were the one propositioning him. "Look man, I really appreciate the ride and everything. And it's cool with me that your gay. I am too. But I'm just not in the mood for sex right now even though you are a really handsome man." Liar, I thought to myself. I could hear the voice of my father, Mr. Pastor dad booming out of my subconscious, "Tim, do you know where liars go?" "But Dad..." I stared out the window as the man drove. Now came the awkward silence. I felt his pain and embarrassment while I simultaneously felt my own rage. Things simply could not get any worse. I’ve sometimes thought that God left an important rule out of his Top Ten list. An eleventh commandment to cover those times when things are really going south. Simply stated, "Thou shalt not say 'It can't get any worse than this.' Ever." Because, it can always get worse. And it usually does. Natural laws abound which prove this out. Men should never mess with fate by uttering stupid dares to the Gods. It can't get any worse? Bet me. The flat tire becomes the flat tire without a spare and without a jack. The innocent fender bender morphs into the chain reaction collision complete with the 'due to computer error' lapsed liability insurance. The jerk that stood you up on that all-important second date is the same guy your sister claims to be falling in love with. Trust me. I repeat, it can always get worse. And it was about to again.
As we pulled into the truck parking side of the rest area, something seemed to be missing. Something obvious. Something important. Something that was just there a few hours ago. Something like my truck. "Stop!" "What’s wrong?" "My truck...it's gone." "Gone?" "Yes, gone. I parked it right here. Shit. That stupid son of a bitch. I am gonna ring his..." "Where do you think he went?" "I have no idea. Look, if you need to get going I understand. I need to make a phone call." "Don't worry. Make your call. I'll wait here. Getting out of the car, I made my way over to a bank of pay phones. I called the 800 number for central dispatch. After being on hold for 15 minutes, I finally heard a live voice. "Tractor number?" a cold, disinterested voice asked. I recited the truck number. "Driver number?" I replied with another number. Silence. I could hear the anonymous voice reading his computer screen on the other end of the line. More silence. Something was not computing. Finally the voice returned, "With whom am I speaking?" This is Tim. I'm first seat driver on that truck and I'm standing here in Fontana, California missing not only my truck, but my co-driver. "Mr. Anderson, were you aware that you have been reported as dead?" "Dead?" Incredulous, I was beyond reason. "Dead? How can I be dead? I am talking to you..." All around me, men loitered outside the restroom and around the phones. Several of them now stared. Realizing that I was making a spectacle of myself, I made a conscious decision to lower my voice. "I understand your confusion Mr. Anderson, but the notes on my screen list you as missing, possibly dead." The dispassionate voice continued in his monotone 'whatever will be will be' voice. "Your co-driver called in to dispatch two hours ago. He said that you'd disappeared and that he feared you were dead." "Trust me, I am not dead. Did anyone bother to call the police or look for me? Did my co-driver bother to tell you that I hitched a ride out of here in order to get him some cold medicine? Did..." "Mr. Anderson, do you know how many drivers go missing while working here? Most just abandon their trucks. We do not have the resources to keep track of all of our drivers." "Never mind. Just tell me where he is." The lifeless night dispatcher went silent again, returning with an address and the load information. He recited the address of the shipper while I wrote the information on my hand. Concluding our conversation, he routinely admonished me to drive safely and watch my following distance. I hung up the phone and turned back toward the truck parking area. A large African American man stepped in front of me. Looking me up and down, he smiled. With one hand on his hip and the other against the wall he clucked, "Hon, you don't look dead to me. Mmmmm Hmmm. No honey, you are alive. Praise Jesus!" Brushing past him totally speechless, I wondered what was next. The night was young. God only knew at the rate things were going, if I'd be alive come morning. And as for thinking things couldn't get any worse? Not on your life. Returning to the parking area, I was relieved to discover that my volunteer chauffeur was still waiting for me.
"I think I found him. And the truck. Would you mind giving me another ride? I mean, hell, we are practically family now." The man grinned. "I hope so." Jumping back into his car, he followed my directions to the shipper. Hopefully the truck would still be in the process of being loaded when we got there. Within twenty minutes we arrived at the address I'd been given. Looking toward the loading docks, I saw the big orange truck lit by the bright yard lights. "That's it! That's my truck!" We pulled up alongside the tractor. Getting out, I climbed up in the cab, dug around in my duffle bag and found a five dollar bill. I gave my rescuer some gas money. "Man, thanks. I don't know what I would have done without your help." "No trouble. Here’s my card. Call me sometime." Taking his business card, I waved goodbye, as I ran toward the loading dock. Pulling myself up onto the dock, I looked for Derek. Nowhere to be found. I paced in and out of the nearly loaded trailer. Getting angrier by the step, I wondered if he'd disappeared now too. Finally Derek emerged from the shipper’s office and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God, Tim. You're alive!" "And you're dead. Derek, I'm not sure what you were thinking back at the rest area. I don't think I want to know. But I do know that I don't want to hear one more ‘I'm sorry.’ Don't ask me again if I'm still mad at you. Just crawl in that bunk and go to bed. I'm gonna get us over the Grapevine and then you can get us up to Corning." Pulling the truck out of the dock, I could already feel my legs cramping up. Engaging the clutch was agony. Getting out of the truck to close the trailer doors, I discovered my clothes were still drenched with sweat. Exhaustion made every thought and movement lethargic. But for every fatigued sensation coursing through my body, I felt empowered fury pushing me on. Once you finally get a Norwegian pissed off, the revival produced by thoughts of retaliation inspires an impressive second wind. ____________________________________
Wheeler Ridge , California isn't the sort of place developers build condos. It’s a lonely and isolated patch of desert in the midst of the lush San Joaquin Valley. I figured the rest area north of the last decline of the Grapevine was the easiest place to give Derek the reins of the truck. Pulling over, I prayed I wouldn't have to crawl back into the bunk and wake him. "Derek, you up back there?" As I eased the rig into the rest area a huge tumbleweed danced across the exit ramp, teasing our headlights. "Derek?" The curtain yanked open and Derek looked out. Squinting into the brightly lit parking lot, he stretched, his shirtless arm making contact with my shoulder. I shivered reflexively. "Jumpy?" "No, just beat. Sore as hell too." I attempted to lift my legs up onto the dog house but they seemed like one giant muscle cramp. "Augghhhh." Derek quickly changed the subject. "Where are we?" "Wheeler Ridge or thereabouts. Roughly 300 miles south of Sacramento...give or take. You're driving to Corning, which is another 120 miles north of Sac. All you have to do is stay on I-5. "I-5". Got it." "Do not head toward anything that starts with "San." That includes San Jose, San Raphael, or San Francisco. Think you can handle that? Remember to stay on the 5. Always follow the signs to Sacramento." "Sounds easy enough. I won't let you down, Tim." He softly punched my arm and shot me his rendition of a killer smile. "I still feel pretty bad for everything so far." "Derek, I just need to get some sleep. Wake me up when we get to Corning so I can grab a shower. I have some serious sleep deprivation going here." "Sure thing man. You're in good hands now" Crawling back into the bunk, I lay down. I could smell Derek on my pillow and the bed was still warm where he'd slept. Immediately I was lights out to the world. I never felt the truck move.
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The funny thing about dreams is one never knows if they are real or not. Usually reality presents itself only when sleep is over. They say most people only remember a small fraction of their dreams. I don't remember dreaming much as Derek drove into the night. I slept deeply but in the midst of my slumber, I thought I heard the strangest conversation "That is eight dollars." A soft woman's voice. "How much?" "You have five axles. Eight dollars is the toll." "Eight bucks for one bridge? So this is what highway robbery feels like". Derek's laughter. I remembered nothing more until the abrupt setting of the air brakes followed by the curtain slamming open. "Tim, you have to wake up! I mean wake up now! I think were in trouble or lost or...Tim, can you hear me? Tim!" Sitting up, delicious pain seared through every muscle. I felt as if I'd just gone to sleep. Crawling toward the doghouse, I looked out from the sleeper. As I focused, three simultaneous temptations struggled for control. Scream. Kill. And hide. Women inherently understand that men can not follow directions. Men always know better. We know a secret short cut. We have a “plan.” We plot much better routes using our advanced male brains. Men intensely dislike having to explain our plans. The questioning, the ignorant, the doubters, so tiresome is their lack of faith. WE know where we are going prior, midstream, and/or post “I have a plan” tow. We are leaders and our authority should go unquestioned. Make a wrong turn? Ha! That was part of the plan. Run out of gas? Sheesh, silly! This was part of the plan. Looking out from the sleeper the view was glorious. Sunshine streamed into the cab and all around us were views of deep blue bays, tall towering skyscrapers, and a lively urban shopping district. Looking to the left, I found a very steep hill heading nearly straight up. Looking to my right, I observed an equally steep hill going straight down. Ahead was a picturesque cable car. Heading straight toward us. I was now VERY awake. No coffee. No stretch. Just a bone tingling rush of pure adrenaline- inspired panic. The toll dream now confirmed reality. Already acquainted with the wonders of the narrow streets of San Francisco, I viewed our future from the delightful vantage of a cabover tractor pulling a 53-foot trailer. I glanced at Derek, who shrugged back. "I think I missed a turn." "No? You? Derek, you are unbelievable." Men. Directions. Not compatible. Does not compute. "Very nice, Derek. Anyone ever tell you that you are good at surprises?" I looked at Derek. He shrugged again. "Guess this means I'm driving." Nodding, Derek scrambled out of my way. "Do you remember how you got us here? Can you lead me back to the bridge you used? Derek pointed behind us, where I could hear the sound of honking horns increasing. Looking out through the windshield I could see the cable car was getting closer. Forcing my hand, I turned the truck around in the middle of the intersection. We became a huge orange billboard to incompetence.
Why is it that whenever you need to do something in a hurry, like cease and desist in blocking an intersection, the air brakes take forever to release and the truck will simply not go into gear? Turning the truck around, the tandem axles on the trailer created a serious grinding noise. Those people who weren't aware that a big orange pumpkin was completely blocking the road, suddenly had no choice but to turn our direction. Numerous upheld fingers extended from delayed traffic confirmed that we were indeed Number One. Three hours and then some later, I finally got us up to Corning. I showered. I fueled. I called dispatch and vented. Already the computer notes on their screen recounted an amazing adventure. "Tim dies." "Tim isn't really dead after all." "Truck stalls on the Siskiyous." "Truck goes 100 miles out of route into San Francisco." And we were only still in the middle of day three. I spoke with Jan's replacement, Paul. Now it was Paul who was saying he was sorry over and over again. Just like Derek. Derek met me as I returned to the truck, a bag of McDonalds in my hand. We stood facing each other across the fuel islands and where we'd parked the rig. "I need to ask you a favor." I glared at him. "I know we've only been gone a few days, but I was hoping when we get back up to Oregon we can take a day or two off. I just called my fiancé and she...or well we...uh see the landlord is evicting us. I need to move them. Us." Have you talked to Paul about this?" Yeah. He said if it was OK with you, it was fine with him. "Derek, right now I don't give a shit. I just want to go to sleep. In the last three days, I've had seven hours of sleep. In this case, seven is not a lucky number. Do you get what I’m saying? Now, I'm real tired. I just want to go to sleep. Without being disturbed, without drama, while you get our butts up to Portland." "That's cool by me." As we pulled out of the truckstop, I returned to the sleeper. Merging onto I-5, Derek was already chatting on the CB radio, talking to some young girl. I vaguely listened to their banter. The girl was riding with her uncle. She sounded about twelve. Thirteen tops. Derek flirted with her. She flirted back. The last bit of conversation I remembered hearing was something about the uncle confessing that the young girl who rode with him wasn't really his niece but some runaway he had picked up in Reno. He was only going as far as Red Bluff and she was hoping to make Seattle. Did Derek by any chance know someone who could give her a ride? I never heard his answer.
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It was dark. The truck sat stationary. Rolling over, I squinted at my watch. Ten hours since we'd left Corning. I peeked out of the sleeper curtain, trying to discern where we were. The cab was empty. Rubbing my eyes, I recognized the big green Petro truckstop sign. I rolled onto my back. We were just outside of Medford, Oregon. I fell back asleep. Had I been more awake I would have immediately realized that it had taken us ten hours to go roughly 240 miles. We should have covered that ground in a little over four hours. Still exhausted though, I returned to sleep.
Once again disturbing dream sequences filled my mind. Voices. I heard voices. Opening doors. Closing doors. Male voices. Female voices. Giggling female voices. Very young giggling female voices. The brakes released with a whoosh and motion rocked me back into a deeper sleep.
Motion also awakened me. Not the motion of tires. Nor the rhythms of a big truck tapping out time over expansion joints. No, this was a different motion. An erratic motion. A slow, getting faster, motion. Opening my eyes, I allowed my senses to catch up with each other. Eyes grew accustomed to the light, aching muscles reminded me of a previous, long winded sprint. Ears listened, confirming heavy breathing. Turning my head, I looked out through a crack in the curtain. By the light, I figured it was early morning. Bodies moved in and out of my view. Breasts. Hair. Shoulders. Hairy arms. Older man. Thirteen year old girl. Mentally filling in the blanks, I sat up with a start. Derek, Mr. Wonder Trucker, was in the act of committing a felony inches from where I had been sleeping so peacefully. And in addition to statutory rape, there was transporting a minor across state lines and God knows what other things he could be charged with. And asleep or not, I was probably an accomplice in the eyes of the law. Throwing open the curtain, I tossed my sweatshirt to the startled young woman straddling Derek. The two of them froze. "Put it on." The girl grabbed the sweatshirt and covering herself, looked at Derek. "Uh Tim, this is Lisa. She's an old friend from high school that I ran into...can you believe it?" I stared at Derek unable to comprehend how anyone could be so stupid. The girl was barely through puberty. High School graduate? Right. "We were just catching up." "Derek, get dressed. Save it. I know what's up." The girl, still covering herself, looked hopefully at Derek. "Lisa, I am really sorry, but I need to ask you to leave. I'm getting dressed and by the time I get my pants on, I want you out of this truck. Derek, where are we?" "I think we're at someplace called Rice Hill." His voice seemed softer than before. Shaky. Lisa reclaimed her clothing and a small travel bag. Slipping from the cab, she quietly closed the door behind her. Derek remained in the shotgun seat, naked as a jay bird. At least he was modest. He'd parked the rig behind another trailer. We were also surrounded on both sides by other trailers. At least they hadn't broadcast their encounter. "You know, I should just throw your ass out of this truck, without your clothes. You stupid son of a bitch! Get your clothes on, grab your shit, and let’s go call dispatch." Derek pulled on his jeans. Rummaging around the truck, he collected his gear. Waiting until he jumped out of the cab, I followed, locking the door behind me. "I need your keys." "Tim, I am sorry man. I..." "Derek, you don't get it do you? You aren't sorry. You don't know the definition of the word. I told you to save it. You aren't getting back in that truck. Now do you want to call dispatch or do you want me to?” "Fuck it. You talk to them. I don't even know what to say." "Imagine that. Well you might start with "I'm sorry." They haven't heard that one from you yet. The first couple times it can be convincing."
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I never saw Derek again. The company bought him a bus ticket back to Portland. Upon arrival, he borrowed $50 bucks from Paul to rent a U-haul truck. Paul never saw Derek or his money again. After delivering our load, I arrived at the company yard. Paul apologized over and over for Derek's behavior. "What can I do to make this up to you, Tim?" "I want my own truck assigned to me. And I want to stay on Jan's board when she gets back from vacation. She instigated all of this. Paybacks are a bitch. And I am her bitch from here out. I'm gonna use this to my advantage. I mean it, Paul. Jan is gonna give me a month of drop and hooks, easy loads that don't need fingerprinting. And next time she buys lunch." "Tim, we can make that happen. Anything else? You want a new company hat or a jacket?" "Nuh-uh. Paul, I just want to truck solo. No more co-drivers from hell." "Got it." Paul looked out the window for a minute and then turned back toward me as two trucks out in the yard nearly collided. "Jesus. Damn students. We keep hiring them, no experience required." "That's your problem Paul. No experience required." "I know. But it's not my decision. That's up to headquarters." "What about the girl? Did anybody check on her? Call the authorities? I think her name was Lisa or something." Paul's expression turned serious. He stepped closer to me. "What girl, Tim? That never happened." He waited. "Right?" "No experience required. Saves the company a lot, doesn't it." I was pushing it, but I didn't care. He shrugged and stepped back toward his desk. Oh yeah. The California state highway department eventually closed the Fontana rest area on I-10. They said something about it being a public nuisance.
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