 |
|
|
A
Trucker’s Life |
|
|
It was getting dark. We were tired of sitting on the cold curb for hours,
breathing in exhaust. We were somewhere near the California-Oregon border
waiting anxiously for someone to notice how desperate we were to get out
of this town. I have always heard stories from friends about getting picked
up by a big rig, but it was rare. It was against the rules to pick up
vagrant hitchhiking kids like us, but he did anyhow. His name was “The
Lizard.” Why? I can’t remember now, but when he pulled over in his dirty
black Peterbuilt big rig, I was scared. We had two choices, get in or
stay stranded in this desolate, little town. I looked up at the cold sky that was almost black from the nightfall, and at the truck’s windows that glowed with steam from the warm heater inside. Needless to say, we grabbed our bags and got in. He asked us where we were going. We told him, and that was all that was said for awhile. I tried to look straight ahead at the white lines on the road as we drove in silence, but I couldn’t help at times looking over at him. He was rough looking. His greasy hair was tucked under a dirty mesh cap with Budweiser written on the front. His face was scruffy from years of shaving with disposable razors at truck stops. He was wearing what was a white tee shirt and old faded blue jeans. He was living a life I was a complete stranger to. I have always lived in cities and never knew any truckers before, so I was fascinated by them. It was a tough way to make a living. You were on the road a lot, driving endlessly from town to town. You were away from your family (if you had one) for weeks. It seemed depressing and lonely. I was curious why he chose this way of living, so I asked him. He told me he had been driving for 15 years and it was just something he fell into. He came from a small town in the South. There wasn’t much there and he wanted out of Dodge. This was the only way out he could think of. At first it was exciting meeting new people and going to new places. He had a wife when he started, but those long lonely nights on the road made her stray. He told me how he finished early from a job and thought it would be nice to go home and surprise his wife, but instead he got a surprise. Blinded by rage, he slugged the guy in the face, grabbed all he needed, and packed up his truck. He called his boss, told him he only wanted the long hauls, and it’s been 15 years since. He now has a new home base and hasn’t remarried. He said the first years were hard. He got lonely a lot, but soon got into the swing of a trucker’s life. He told me how in every town you could find a lady for the night on the CB. He went on to explain how; he said, “All ya do is get on that CB and start talkin’ like you’re lonely and sooner or later some broad would get on the radio and tell me where to meet her.” Surprised to hear how easy it was, I asked if we could try it. And, sure enough, after a couple of tries, we heard a lady of the night with a rough voice say, “I know where you can park your Big Rig, cowboy.” I was shocked! He said you could also get any kind of substance you desired over the radio. There was this whole language of codes for wheeling and dealing on the CB. It made me remember how every time I would be driving in the middle of Kansas or somewhere and by accident I would stumble onto a radio station for the truckers. I would hear all this jibberish talk as though they were just giving each other directions or something, not ordering whores and drugs! It was a strange life that I felt less a stranger to. |
|
|
|
| Newsletter Main Menu | Project Read's Home Page | San Francisco Public Library |