Truckers

             With the orange glow of the early morning sun in his eyes, he was driving down the big road that ran from Texas to Alabama, with the windows down about halfway, the radio on, but not loud enough to really make out the words.  The rig was all shiny and freshly waxed, tires shinning, the load tarped and secure for the weekly haul.  Needing fuel, he pulled into a large Marathon Truck Stop, parked in the front row, checked his load, and went inside for some breakfast.  Upon looking around, he noticed that there were several different drivers.  

Setting at the bar was a cowboy looking gentleman casually having breakfast. Smelling of a fresh shower, which cost five dollars at any truck stop, and still wet, neatly combed hair, he had on a worn out pair of Levis, and a new red and blue flannel shirt and his half-worn out cowboy boots.  With a chain-drive wallet that had a picture of an eagle on it, and a leather cigarette case, hooked to his Harley-Davidson belt, he was truly representing the ‘redneck-cowboy’ image of the trucker.  Now, finishing off his third smoke with breakfast, being some soggy eggs, greasy bacon, and too crisp toast, he jumped into his truck and headed out to finish the trip to Alabama. 

Setting at the booth right beside him was a clean-cut, cheap aftershave smelling gentleman, wearing a blue pinstriped sportcoat; he was working on a laptop computer. With his small rimmed glasses and tapered haircut, the kind that gives him a military look, he was efficiently planning his routes for the day’s haul.  After having toast and orange juice, he saved his routes on his computer for easy access later, and headed out to his truck, which was still at the fuel isle.  Placing the computer on its specially designed holder and plugging in the charger, he performed an appreciable pre-trip inspection of his truck and load, which was also going to Alabama. Holding himself to the ‘business-man’ image of the truck driver, he headed out on his journey, with plenty of time to spare.

Almost cutting him off, in pulled another truck driver, driving way too fast with his load only half-secure. This is the young ‘Hot-Dog’ that has only been driving six or eight weeks, but already knows everything.  With his blue jeans cutoff, tee shirt of some punk rock band, and radio blaring so loud, everyone in the fuel isle stopped to look. He pulls in to fuel his rig, which is almost on fumes by now. Always in a big hurry, but never getting anywhere, the ‘hot-dogs’ usually stop at every truck stop and trash house, to party with ‘Lot-Lizards,’ they come to.  Carrying themselves like the king-of-the-road, they need the attention from others to fuel their egos. Always behind schedule, now, with rig full of fuel again, this typical ‘hot-dog’ heads for Alabama, with a vengeance against anyone who gets in his way. 

While still fueling, the lady driving the black Peterbuilt, which was glistening in the sunlight, was talking to the fuel attendant, about how annoying the ‘hot-dogs’ can get while on the road.  The ‘lady-drivers’ have the hardest time, because the macho image of the truck driver is to try and outdo the women.  With a single unattached way of life, the ‘lady-driver’ carries herself with a butch, one-of-the-guys attitude.  Thirty-five percent of drivers are now women, and for the most part, women are just as efficient, if not more, than the men are. 

Now, being done with breakfast and finished fueling my rig I will check my load, making sure none of the straps have worked loose and head on down the road for Alabama.  Being the ‘old man’ or ‘career driver’ I’ll probably meet again, with the ‘business-man’, the ‘lady-driver’, and perhaps the ‘redneck-cowboy’, as we are all going to the same dock.  We will all watch as the ‘hot-dog’, as usual, gets there just before they close the gates for the day. 

By Tony Clarke

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