Allan
They call it a fleet, like naval ships or something noble, important. I like that, because we are. We’re a fleet of trucks bringing goods to the people, hell we’re like a bunch of Santa Clauses, not that anyone would think to say that. We are the heroes of these little towns. Who’s gonna bring their food and supplies? Don’t you talk to me about trains. I know damn well what trains do, and I’m not inclined to respect them. Anybody can drive a train, now that they’re all electrical or whatever. And those tracks? No way in heck you’d get me on some set railroad. Now, trucks is trucks. There’s a calling, or at least for me there was. And there’s the roads, you know? The roads that go anywhere, if you really want to.
Let me get this straight beyond any reasonable doubt – I love my job. I love my routes, I love my stick-shift, I love my cab and the air horn and I sure as heck love the blue tint along the top of the windshield – you know, it’s supposed to keep the sun out of your eyes but it never works? Yeah, I love that. I like my buddies all right – the guys in my fleet, they come and go, they’ll share a light, maybe they’ll buy an old timer a drink if they’re feeling well off. But biggest of all I love that wind-whipping, coke-in-my-hand, tacky-hat, big-moustache, open-road freedom.
This is my life, darlin’s. It’s like a perpetual road trip; sure, you got deadlines but it’s like Damn I gotta hit Mason City before sunset ‘cause I’ll be outta gas, wouldn’t mind a motel, you know? I mean, it’s the same, only you gotta hit Mason City before sunset if you wanna get paid. Me, I don’t mind too much anyway. If the road was bad and made me late, you sure as heck better pay me. But if I’m just moseying along at my own pace, knowing damn well I’m late, taking time to smell the hot air and the hay, well then I’ll take that as my payment, yes sir I will. No complaints. I’m not a complainer.
We’re outfitted beautifully in this business. Come rain, I’ve got windshield wipers. Come snow, I’ve got chains – a bugger to put on the 18-wheeler, takes all day, but I gotta say there’s a rhythm to it that I love. And come summer, I’ve got open windows.
Hell, I’ve even got my own lane – brakes fail, you get a moment of what do they call it, adrenaline, and then you’re looking for a trucker’s best friend, that’s the run-away lane.
Yeah, I’m getting on in my years, but when I feel I’ve made my last delivery, I’ll leave my pension in my boss’ name and drive this old rig right off the biggest cliff I can find in whatever state I’m in. I’ll smash it up so bad you won’t be able to tell what’s me and what’s the truck. And that’s how it should be.
Samuel
The filthy windshield corrodes the light as it struggles to reach my face, hampered by the dust clinging to the maple sap that drips from our trees in spring and coats the truck in a sticky, sickly sweet glaze. I squint through this neglect-fashioned fog, rubbing ineffectually at the window in an instinctive desire to see clearly. My fingers leave streaks of oil but clear some condensation so that I can better see the brown-grey haze and the faint lines of ditches that I know I must keep between. I never wash the truck because there are no cars here; the only danger of driving blinded is forgetting the turns. I could probably drive this road with my eyes closed, but the slightest chance of losing control keeps my adrenaline higher than stagnant along these brutally unstimulating miles.
And besides, my hose split in the winter when it froze.
I’ve often considered (in my frequent but fleeting rages) cutting down those maples, just to keep the sap from my truck. But their reds and greens and even their dry, dusty browns are too beautiful, their gnarled trunks too old, their propeller seedpods too childish, too reminiscent of long-ago. The nostalgia might kill me.
No, they will stay. A windshield can only get so dirty.
Kim
She gurgles quietly on the seat beside me, tiny little fingers and tiny little toes. Beautiful, I’d say, if I didn’t know it was a demon what lives inside of her. Or it seems that way, at 4 in the morning when she screams but no matter what I do; sing to her, hold her, offer her some milk, she won’t take. I try, I want to be a good Momma but nobody’s telling me how. Besides, I’ve got this rig to drive. They would have given me the time off but I need the money, and Bill’s not trustworthy.
Ain’t that a picture? Two trucker kids and baby makes three. Bill could have any girl but he chose me one night, bet he regrets it. One truck stop, an ovary and some sperm is all it really takes for life to begin. That’s a sad thought, but I’ll never forget it.
We named her Amanda, don’t know why. I’ve always hated the name but Bill wanted and Bill got. They’ll call her Mandy, I can just see it. Mandy whose parents are truck drivers. If we don’t watch her she’ll get fat – obese the doctors will call it, as if it softens the blow. Maybe she’ll be ugly but I’ll have to tell her she’s beautiful because she’s my baby girl.
See, this is what I’m talking about. I can’t be a Momma. I’m a bad person, not a terrible person, but bad enough that I’m not good. And only good people should have children.
She’s whispering something, like a language I can’t understand. She’s supposed to sleep while I bring this load from the docks to the little towns. An easy route for an easy woman.
I’ve got to stop running myself down, the doctor says. He and I were having a bit of a talk about me, you see, while the baby got weighed. I said I’m not fit for this, I’m just a drinking, swearing girl who drives trucks. I’m not cut out for this. He said if I can hold a job this long in a ‘male-dominated occupation’ then I must have One Thick Skin.
See, that’s what I’m afraid of. Maybe my skin’s so thick, she won’t ever get to feel me. I know I never felt my Momma, except for cold.
So I don’t know what to think. Except that she’s curling those little toes and her big blue eyes open and gosh! my heart’s a-pumping with this tingly feeling and we’re both smiling and maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
And then her diaper smell fills the cab and I pass a sign saying rest stop eight miles and she starts crying ‘cause she’s soiled and I have a deadline so I smack my head against the doorframe to clear it and crack a window and I want to yell at her because she’s ruined the moment. But she won’t understand, she’s just a baby.
[There are a few more, I'll post them later if anybody likes these. I was bored, I like trucks, I like character studies. There you go.]
