The Truck Driver
Johnny eased the Freightliner into an empty spot. One hundred seventy-five miles since the last stop and his bladder was about to stage a protest. Sometimes a rest area was what he craved. Other times a truck stop. Johnny didn't need fuel, but he could see the driver bays from the interstate and this sprawling stop seemed a good place to stretch his legs.
As he engaged the brakes, he looked into the cab of a neighbor, a woman, young with a backwards Reds baseball cap on. She was attractive and Johnny immediately felt protective of her. Then another woman emerged from the bunk area and sat in the passenger seat holding a bag of chips, laughing. Johnny felt a little better.
He was seeing more women drivers, gratefully. But he kept thinking of his daughter and all the things he didn’t see as she grew up. Things he missed. He was on the pavement then locking his door and walking gingerly toward the truck stop. It always took a few steps to feel the muscles and cartilage, the ligaments and joints decided to cooperate. Another long hauler was headed there, too; a heavy set, but shorter man with a light blue muscle shirt, gray sideburns and a blue cap with the American flag sewn on it. They exchanged a nod
“Raining an hour west of here,” the man said.
“Yep, can't win them all.”
“Nope.”
The man hurried ahead of Johnny but held the door for him anyway. Johnny felt the air conditioning surround him like he was immersed in it. The humidity that had risen from the asphalt a thing of the past. On overhead speakers country music played.
Two lines were formed near registers in the market section of this stop; to Johnny's right was a restaurant. He was hungry but wasn't sure a sit-down meal was going to work with his deadline. He watched the waitress move effortlessly between the tables in her fitted white blouse and faded jeans. Listened to the familiar sounds of glasses and silverware being handled by a dishwasher. The pies in the case looked inviting but Johnny moved to the back of the store where the restrooms were.
Women were on the right, men on the left, and as Johnny walked in a tall, black man wearing a dark blue cowboy hat exited. They nodded at each other.
At the urinal, Johnny could hear the same country music booming from the speaker directly above him. As the relief of 175 miles of contained urine desperately fled his system, he restrained the urge to sigh heavily. After he shook himself off, he made his way to the sinks.
The interior of the truck stop was larger than it looked from the outside. In the center were the restrooms, video games and other coin operated novelties and showers. To the right was a restaurant with an outdoor seating abutting it. To the left was a grocery store with standard road food, and a few pantry staples for locals who might be there for fuel and realize they were low on something. A souvenir shop was beyond that which seemed to spread for acres, Johnny thought then, as he looked at t-shirts.
Two children were playing with regionally important toys on the floor not far from Johnny. Their father eyed him casually, cautiously, carefully.
Maybe the tattoos, Johnny thought. Or the Guns and Roses t shirt he wore. Johnny found a t-shirt he liked for his son back home and paid for it at the register. The young woman who helped him reminded him of someone. “You look a little like Naomi Watts,” Johnny said.
She smiled. “Thanks, but she's a lot older than me.”
“A resemblance,” he said taking his receipt. “Have a good day.”
There wasn't time for a sit-down meal, but Johnny knew he needed a slice of one of those pies. He made his way to the pies on the restaurant side, passing a small group of Japanese girls in hairbows and short skirts. He thought of the comics his son used to read when he was little. The woman at the counter where the pies were had a name tag with Melanie on it. She had wavy red hair tied in a loose ponytail, blue eyes.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Slice of the coconut cream if I could,” Johnny said.
“For here or to go?”
“Three hundred miles to go.”
She nodded knowingly. “I'm going to give you a free coffee.”
“That's sweet of you.”
Melanie blushed. “I like to keep you folks awake. I used to say ‘you guys’ but a lot more girls are driving now.”
“Thank God,” Johnny said.
“I was gonna say…” She handed him the slice of pie in a plastic container, and the coffee in a paper cup in a sleeve.
“Three-seventy-five, sir.”
“It's just Johnny.” And he paid her five, told her to keep the change.
On his way out the door heading back to his truck, a breeze sliced across the open land and Johnny felt an inexplicable sense of happiness. The road was his enemy who kept him from his family. But the road was also his friend. It connected him to others and provided for his family. It was cruel sometimes, a taskmaster that demanded everything. Other times the road was a confidant, a reliable friend, and a doting lover. It gave him possibilities far more than it gave him problems. And the slice of pie he carried represented more than a snack. It was a feeling he was home. Something he could taste and think of his wife and children and his own bed.
.