by Linda Sands
People who say you can never go home again did not spend their childhoods on a big-ass plantation outside of Bunkie, Louisiana.
As soon as we turned onto the long dirt road leading to the house, I relived the best parts of my youth—something I wished I could capture, bottle, and pour over myself at will. Especially since our stay would be much too short, with only the time to eat a meal seated at a real table, secure our trailer in the barn, and hear about the latest with Manny and his fiery girlfriend, Pilar.
“Père,” I said, “do you really think it’s wise at your age to go eco-camping in Brazil?”
“Oh Shâ, you think no one is as strong as you. Remember where you came from,” he said, reaching over and pinching my cheek.
Boone grinned at seeing me reduced to a surly teen in my father’s eyes.
We said our good-byes, promised to be in touch, then climbed up into Old Blue and rattled down the dirt road under the shade of live oaks.
We made good time, driving light without a trailer. Bobtailing. For a trucker it was like going outside without your pants. You might feel light and free, but you knew you were missing something.
We found the truck stop just off the Interstate. The dirty white Kenworth was right where Charlene had said it would be. Boone pulled into an empty spot nearby and shut down Old Blue.
From the outside, Southland Freeway Truck Stop looked like any other gas station convenience store, except for all the semis at the pumps. Inside it smelled like diesel and donuts and looked like a mini Walmart meshed with a Korean bathhouse. You could get a shower, wash your clothes, play arcade games, catch episodes of your favorite TV show, buy a new shirt or some thicker socks, enjoy a cappuccino, or reheat your grandma’s special chicken potpie in the rows of microwaves.
Boone jerked a thumb toward the manager’s office. “I’m going to get the Kenworth key. Meet me at the truck?”
“Sure,” I said, scanning the row of gum and candy at the front counter. I grabbed a chocolate bar, two packs of gum, and some chewy mints and waited for an old-time trucker to pay for his coffee and newspaper. He was the kind of guy who thought flannel was a color. I imagined the interior of his rig: it would include a cigarette-laden ashtray, a well-used CB with mic dangling, and on the passenger seat a tattered atlas with dog-eared pages for Idaho.
I watched him leave, then stepped up to the counter.
The girl at the register said, “Is he in trouble?” her eyes darting toward the manager’s office.
“Who?” I asked, thinking she meant Boone.
She leaned in and whispered, “Edwin.”
She must have mistaken the confused look on my face for concern, because she kept talking.
“Not that anyone calls him Edwin. He only lets his woman do that. She’d beat the shit out of me if she heard me.”
“Edwin?” I said cautiously.
She tapped my hand. “Yeah, The Baconator. Is he in trouble?”
She said “The Baconator” so seriously that even though I wanted to laugh I leaned in to meet her and said, just as seriously, “Trouble? What makes you think that?”
“Well, the last time you TSA people came around, that driver was screwed.”
“TSA?” I said. “I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m a driver and we’re—”
“You’re a driver?” she scoffed as if I’d told her I fart sunshine.
I smiled. “Yeah. I am. And, I’m sorry, but ‘The Baconator’? Really?”
In retrospect, I could have played the whole thing a little smoother. I mean, bursting out laughing probably wasn’t that cool.
She rang up my candy, looking at me sideways the whole time. It was easy for her, with those wide-set reptile eyes.
I searched for the right thing to say, some snappy comeback, a way to win her over, but her body language said she was done with me. I’d seen that same posture in a hundred bars.
I added up the candy cost, checked the numbers on the register readout, and threw some bills on the counter.
The girl kept one eye on the money and one eye somewhere east of my right ear. She hesitated long enough that I turned to look in the same direction, the way you do when your friend tells you some hot dude is checking out your ass but don't look now—too late, you’ve already looked.
There was a guy at the postcard rack. I wondered how long he’d been standing there. He was big and bald in a sideshow strongman way and wore sunglasses. Inside. On a cloudy day. He snatched a card from the rack and walked toward us, whistling a country tune. I should have known the title, but I never remember stuff like that. I could tell you who I’d been dating when a song came out, or even which hairstyle I’d been wearing, but not song titles or lyrics. My brain didn’t work that way.
I thought about asking the whistling guy what it was called, but when I turned around, I changed my mind. It wasn’t how he looked up close as much as how he made me feel when I looked at him—like I was one of those big plastic toys the keepers toss into the gorilla pit at the zoo.
“Thanks,” I said to the girl as I grabbed my bag of candy and change, then scooted to the door.
I made my way through the parking lot, turning down the last row of trucks just in time to see Boone backing our truck under the strange trailer. I was close enough to hear the kingpin slide into position.
He waved as he climbed down to verify the hookup, couple the gladhands and electrical line, raise the landing gear. There was nothing left for me to do but get in the truck and look pretty. Like a truck driver should.
Five miles down the road from the truck stop, Boone said, “Someone’s awful quiet. You okay?”
I told him how I was offended when the girl at the register said I didn’t look like a truck driver.
He looked at me, raised a brow.
“I’m serious,” I said. “I don’t want to have to gain thirty pounds, start parting my hair down the middle, and go around in Velcro sneakers and elastic-waist jeans from Sears. I thought people were more open-minded these days.”
“You’re in the South, pumpkin. Don’t expect too much. Besides, that description sounded more like someone’s grandpa than a trucker. You’d need some steel-toed boots in there.” He motioned to his own booted foot on the gas pedal.
I stared out the window.
Boone reached over and grabbed my hand. “Listen. I love you, Jojo. I love the way you smile. I love that little dimple. Yes, that one,” he said as I touched the side of my face. “I love your long legs and those beautiful green eyes. But more than that, I love who you are inside, the part I’m just getting to know. You might have hidden it from everyone else, but I know you have a soft spot, even if it is for every stray dog in Bunkie. You can’t feed them all, you know.”
“Well, not all,” I said, blushing.
“I don’t care if you don’t look like someone’s clichéd idea of what a truck driver should be. You know what you look like to me?”
I shook my head.
“You look like the kind of girl that could make a man happy for the rest of his life.”
Boone had never talked like that before. He was a man of few words, and usually those involved food or engine parts.
“What are you saying, Boone?”
He stared out the windshield, gripped the wheel a little tighter, then turned to me and said, “Nothing. Just, I love you, Jojo Boudreaux.”
I leaned over and gave him the best kiss I could while still strapped into the passenger seat.
“Me too,” I whispered.
We rode in comfortable silence the rest of the way, me calling out the route until Boone made a slow left turn, rode the Pharmco fence line—high, barbed, wired—then pulled up to the guard shack. I muted the GPS and noted the miles in the logbook as Boone handed the paperwork and our credentials to the guard. We both had to answer whether the vehicle had stopped within the first two hundred miles of trailer transfer. We said no, followed by an “of course not, we know the rules.” I was about to tell the guard h
ow our GPS and also any trailer we hauled were monitored, but Boone shushed me. After a minute, the guy waved us through. The second stop was shorter, the guard barely rising from his chair to give us the once over. Maybe the first guard had already cleared us or maybe this guy was too interested in his lunch to be bothered. He pressed a button that opened the interior gate and went back to his sandwich.
We rolled away, gaining speed as we approached a hub of buildings where dark-suited workers rushed through parking lot rows looking like busy ants. Farther down the road, a construction crew hammered, cut, and hauled prefab pieces, erecting what looked like a modern four-story metal-and-glass structure.
I was trying to take an artsy picture with my phone of a yellow crane dangling a sheet of reflective metal when two black SUVs marked security came up fast beside us, running on the right shoulder of the road. We’d done nothing wrong and weren’t planning to, but I still got that nervous twang—the one I get when there’s a cop driving behind me for a long stretch of time. It’s an instinctual fear, or maybe something born of experience. Usually, when you mix power and weapons, you get abuse.
“You see that?” I said to Boone.
“Yep.”
He was so cool. I almost hated how nothing rattled him. It wasn’t normal.
In a synchronized move, the drivers gunned their vehicles and swerved onto the road in front of us.
“Always in a damn hurry here,” Boone said.
“Have we been here before?” I asked.
“Don’t think you have. I used to run this route before we met, when I worked as a company driver for Enahel. These guys are sticklers about time.”
I looked out at the window at the clear blue sky, sharp beams of sun cutting through the row of trees. A hawk made lazy circles in the sky. I began to whistle the song that had been in my head since I’d heard it at the truck stop. Boone chimed in, adding lyrics about a highwayman, a sailor, a dam builder, and a single drop of rain. He sang so nice with his pure, honest voice, that by the time we’d backed into our dock to offload the cargo, I’d almost lost that nervous feeling.
I got out with Boone, partly to stretch my legs and get some air, and partly because I’m nosy. Some drivers take pictures on the road, like of landscapes, sunsets, or road kill. I like to get people shots. Usually of other truckers or warehouse workers—something funny. We caption them and send them to Charlene. She posts them in the break room at DTS, where other captions are added. It’s good clean fun—well, mostly.
But at the Pharmco warehouse, they were all business, giving me the evil eye when they saw me hold up my camera phone. A white-haired guy in his air-conditioned office smacked on the glass and yelled in my direction.
“No cameras!”
The forklift driver dropped his load and retreated, saying, “Sorry, miss, but this is a camera-free zone.”
Before I had a chance to give him any shit about what exactly I could and would be doing, I heard Boone.
“That’s it, guys. Come on, Jojo, we’re out of here.”
The dock gate dropped as Boone pulled on his jean jacket and rolled up the sleeves.
“Damn, that was quick,” I said as we secured the trailer doors.
“Yep. Told you,” Boone said, putting his arm around me as we walked back to the cab. I looked around, unable to shake the feeling we were being watched.
In the next bay, two guys in Pharmco uniforms got out of a white van. One guy wearing a beanie and wraparound sunglasses used a key card to open a door near the dock. A skinny dude followed him, checking the area, then dragged over a rock with his foot and wedged the door open.
Boone draped his arm over my shoulder. “Sure be glad to drop this ugly thing.”
I smacked his arm. “What the hell?”
“I’m talking about the trailer, Jojo.” Boone laughed.
“Oh.”
He gave me a peck on the head, then held open the door to Old Blue.
“I’m going to use their restroom,” he said, tipping his head toward the warehouse. He seemed apologetic, but whether it was for making me wait or because he had to go, I wasn’t sure. I was going to yell some smart-ass remark, thanking him for thinking of me and our confined quarters, but I didn’t. Instead, I admired the receding view.
As Boone slipped through the propped-open door I thought about the guys I’d just seen. They were overdressed compared to the other warehouse workers. Sunglasses, hats, and gloves? This was Texas. In summer.
Distracted by chiming tones coming from my phone—someone’s baby news blowing up my feed—I climbed up into the cool interior of the truck and quickly forgot about the men. By the time Boone returned, my mind was on tiny fingers and toes.
“That song of yours must be playing in a loop on some radio show today,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Even the guy in the bathroom was whistling it.”
“Is that right?” I said, barely listening. I punched in a call to our leasing company’s office in Houston as Boone grabbed us some cold waters from the fridge.
“Hey, Charlene. Just wanted you to know we delivered the load in San Marcos.”
“Thanks, Jojo. No problems at Pharmco?”
“Nope. They sure are busy, though.”
“You’re telling me. I got a truck out there every other day it seems.”
“And who says the trucking business is dying?” I asked.
“Not me,” she said. “Thank God.”
I smiled, imagining Charlene in her little wood-paneled office, the fan blowing her permed hair while she crossed herself north and south, then making a wide left-to-right pass over her enormous breasts.
“Hey,” she said like she’d just thought of it. “I’ve got a special load for you guys. Consider it a thank-you for saving my ass. That is, if you want it? You’ll have to move on it right away.”
Boone shook his head, but when I heard what it was paying, I saw dollar signs that translated into chrome and chicken lights—or maybe a well-deserved vacation.
We agreed after some discussion to use The Baconator’s trailer for the run. We’d pick up the load at a paper warehouse near Corsicana and drop in Dallas. Easy-peasy.
Boone stripped off his boots and jacket, tucking the shoes under the seat and the coat over the back of my chair. He yawned and stretched. “I need a nap. You got this, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, driving away from the warehouse.
Boone pulled down the bed in the sleeper, clicked on his iPod, and inserted his headphones. I took a minute to admire the lump of man on my bed, hugging the pillow. Boone would hate that I thought he was cute. He preferred to be called hunk, stud, or beast.
True to form, the interior gate guard barely gave me the time of day, opening it before I even got close. The second one was better, doing a cursory look-see before letting us leave. Pulling away from the guard shack, I adjusted controls to send cool air into the sleeper, increase the volume for the radio, and dim the dash backlighting. My hand brushed the knob for the ashtray we used as a change collector. Something rattled. I slid the drawer open, reached in. If Boone hadn’t been wearing his headphones, he might have woken when I squealed.
A diamond ring.
It looked like the one I’d admired in an antique shop in New Orleans.
Boone.
I quietly returned the ring to the ashtray and accelerated to the highway entrance, trying to keep my focus on the road, not the sudden appearance of jewelry in our ashtray. It wasn’t easy.
The paper warehouse’s loading docks were lit up and bustling as I drove in. No dogs or gate guards here.
Backing Old Blue into the bay, I might have been a bit distracted by all the activity. I had to be directed in twice before getting the green light. I hopped down and handled business with the receiver, exchanged some pleasantries, and was assured I’d quickly be on my way. Two forklifts waited to load the trailer with pallet upon pallet of paper, and an automated ramp stuck from the dock like a metal tongue. I headed back to
the cab to wait for them to finish.
Inside, I glanced into the sleeper, resisting the urge to wake Boone and have a little chat. Instead, I clicked on the GPS and began searching the delivery route for road changes or construction. The chat could wait. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere.
When the dockworker waved his arms, letting me know they were done loading, I slipped on Boone’s jacket and hopped down to lock and seal the trailer. I thanked them before driving off.
It was a straight shot to the highway. Not even a stop sign. It was almost too easy. I merged onto smooth asphalt and settled back.
Heading north at this hour, traffic was mostly big trucks or happy-hour drunks. I preferred the company of trucks—like the long orange semi out of Arkansas two lanes over. We kept enough space between us to be safe, and to allow for passing, but the road cleared out after two exits, and it was just us. Until the Hummer.
I was used to seeing all sorts of overgrown vehicles in Texas—as if the residents felt obligated to personally uphold the state’s claims regarding size, but this guy seemed to have an attitude the size of his vehicle as well. I didn’t care for the way he jockeyed with my rig, nosing the big Hummer forward, falling back. I couldn’t see into his windows, but I didn’t try too hard, thinking giving him attention would be tantamount to giving him power.
Guys who drove big cars could be dicks. As could guys who drove fast little cars. But that was a whole different kind of dick.
I hit the gas, checking out the vehicle as I passed: chrome wraparound grill, shiny roof rack and spotlights, big-ass wheels with big-ass tires. The driver was either a serious off-roader or a failed rapper.
The Hummer hung back, running even with the end of the trailer. There were three open lanes and plenty of room for him to pass, but he seemed content to inhale my exhaust. I mumbled the little forgive-the-driver-for-he’s-an-idiot prayer known to all truckers, then reached into the ashtray and pulled out the ring, slipped it on my finger. Cool metal, glittery stones. I tapped the steering wheel, quietly singing along with the radio.