The Long Haul

by Finn Murphy

  “I’m not authorized to unload today. Do you know what’s going on?”

  She gave me a rueful smile. She was pretty in a wounded sort of way. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties.

  “Yes, I know what’s going on. I’m refusing to move here. My husband picked this place out. I haven’t heard from him since we left Nebraska, and the last conversation we had was that his job transfer probably wouldn’t happen for a while, so he’d be staying on base during the week and try to come to Michigan on the weekends, or some weekends.”

  “What’s his job out here? This doesn’t look like army territory.”

  “It isn’t army territory. All his work is online. He can work anywhere.”

  “You must have family here, or he does. I suppose it could be a nice place to live . . . if you knew some people or had some connections.”

  “Nobody’s from here and we don’t know anyone. It’s penance.”

  “I know a lot about penance. You must have committed a pretty big sin to be given all this.” I indicated the house with the peeling paint and the brownish hills.

  “My sin was that I wasn’t what he expected. My bigger sin was that our boy Trevor wasn’t what he expected either.”

  “I know a lot about sin too. Unfulfilled expectations doesn’t fit the definition. A sin is a grievous offense, done with sufficient reflection, with the full consent of the will. That’s Irish catechism class, verbatim, circa 1965.”

  “It sounds like you’re offering me absolution.”

  “Not at all. Absolution requires a sin and penance requires a transgression. It doesn’t look to me like there’s been either one. This looks like punishment. This is like dumping Napoleon on St. Helena.”

  “At least Napoleon got to bring a few friends along, and St. Helena had ocean views. That’s what’s got everyone running around in circles. An army wife is supposed to obey. They’re confused. So am I. I’ve been married for sixteen years, and I’ve always done what I’m told. I’m not a tough person. My mom was a military wife too, so I thought I knew the score. But my husband is a block of granite.”

  “How does it feel to be laying your line in the sand?”

  “Amazing. For the first time in my life the people in charge are wondering about what I might want. It’s fun.”

  “Congratulations on your first nose-thumbing at authority. It is fun. I’ve built my life around the concept. It can also be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous for whom? I might decide to just do whatever the hell I want from now on and to hell with the Colonel and the US Army and everything, except Trevor. It looks dangerous for them.”

  “Now you’re talking. The TO has me on waiting time. He said it might take a couple of days. They’re going to try and convince you to stay here.”

  “Good luck to them. Everyone’s scrambling down at the base trying to figure out what to do with the crazy wife. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Not at all. I think you were maybe a little crazy in Nebraska. Now it looks like you’re getting a little sane.”

  “Me too. What does a mover do on waiting time stuck in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Not much. I’ll find out if there’s anything interesting around and check it out. I’ll get a motel room in town. I’ve got a barbecue grill in my truck, and I like to make my own meals at night. I read a lot. This kind of thing actually doesn’t happen very often, so it’s a nice break. Besides, Uncle Sam is being very munificent. I think they’ll lose patience with this whole deal in a day or two if you hold firm. What will you do in the meantime?”

  “The realtor said there’s a nice lake up the road with a swimming dock and picnic area. I’m looking at this like Trevor and I are on summer vacation. If you can find the lake later, come on by. I’ll give you the latest breaking news from the army about the crazy wife.”

  I had no answer for that. I paid off my crew, dropped the trailer in the driveway, and bobtailed to the local motel.

  The clerk was polite but curious as to what I was doing in Lakeland. I told her just enough, and she told me if I was on waiting time with nothing to do I should go to the lake because it had a swimming dock and picnic area. There wasn’t anything else to do or anywhere to go.

  That afternoon, I drove up to the lake in my tractor. Sure enough, there were Mrs. Howard and Trevor under a picnic canopy. The lake was a lovely spot and practically deserted, this being a weekday afternoon.

  They looked pleased to see me. Mrs. Howard smiled at my approach. “You came to the lake after all.”

  “It’s a highly recommended place. Your realtor and my motel clerk both gave the place high ratings.”

  “That truck looks funny,” said Trevor. “Like a midget.”

  “I know it does. When there’s no trailer connected, it’s called a bobtail. Wanna see the inside?”

  “Nope.”

  “No interest at all? That’s un-American. I thought every kid wanted to see the inside of a big truck.”

  “Not me, and I’m not a kid. I’m fifteen.”

  “Sorry. How’s the water?”

  “Cold.”

  “You’re just a bundle of sunshine.”

  “This place sucks.”

  At that point Mrs. Howard jumped in: “I’d like to see the truck.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK.” I was glad I had cleaned it up. After a few travel days the interior can get pretty raw. Nothing horrible, but there will be empty coffee cups, fast-food wrappers, full ashtrays, Gatorade bottle chamber pots, and dirty bed linens that can coalesce into a distinctive aroma unnoticeable by the primary occupant. I unlocked the passenger side and helped Mrs. Howard climb up the monkey bars into the cab. She sat in the shotgun seat and looked around. “You sleep back there?”

  “All the time.”

  “It’s so cramped.”

  “Not as cramped as my last truck. This is a palace, believe it or not. But yes, it gets tight. That’s why I’m at the motel in town. I can spread out a little.”

  “That’s the opposite of my experience. I live in a big house with a cramped life. You live in a cramped house with a life that looks big and exciting.”

  “A lot of people think that about truckers’ lives. If my life is big, then a lot of other lives are microscopic.”

  “You don’t see it because you’re in it. Many other people’s lives are microscopic. Mine is, or was. You have to understand that my husband’s plan was to exile Trevor and me out here. He was never going to come. He wasn’t going to divorce me or anything. That would have hurt his career. He was just going to live on base, and with a bit of luck and time we’d just dissolve. Kind of like putting an unruly dog out to a farm family. You tell yourself the dog got a good home and then you forget about it.”

  “It sounds like this has been going on a long time. What prompted the move now?”

  “Trevor.”

  “How?”

  “He just turned fifteen. He doesn’t want to see your truck. He doesn’t play Grand Theft Auto and he doesn’t want to shoot guns, hunt ducks, or do calisthenics.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty tough on the Colonel, eh? He didn’t get the playmate he wanted.”

  “He didn’t get the wife he wanted either, but that’s just how it is. Reality is at odds with his idea of what should be. Rather than adjust his views, he finds it simpler to remove the impediments. And they’re calling me crazy?”

  “I think I understand.”

  She stood up, leaned over the doghouse, and kissed me on the lips. “Thank you. You’re a nice man.” Then she hopped out and joined her son.

  I was somewhat taken aback but not totally shocked. It’s happened before. There’s something about the combination of the mythic lifestyle, the proximity of the carefully made double-sleeper bed, and the privacy that makes the truck, under certain conditions, a jolly fine aphrodisiac. It’s an immediate alternate universe.

  We spent a
pleasant afternoon on the beach. It was a lovely July day. Trevor loosened up, and we swam out to the float and splashed around playing Marco Polo. We got out and we skipped the flat stones that were all over the beach, and I bought him an ice cream sandwich. I sat for a while with Mrs. Howard and learned her first name was Alice. Later that afternoon they went back to town to camp in the empty house and I ate an excellent meatloaf and mashed potatoes at the local diner. I fell asleep reading Mansfield Park in my mushy motel bed.

  A little after midnight I heard a knock on my door. I threw on a shirt and some shorts. “Who is it?”

  “Alice Howard.”

  I opened the door. “Where’s Trevor?”

  “Asleep.”

  She lunged in, shut the door, and pulled me into her arms hugging me close for a long time. Then she turned her face up and kissed me. It was a deep, passionate, needful, longing kiss. Then she pulled my shirt off. She led me to the bed, took off my shorts, and lay next to me.

  “Undress me, please.”

  I complied, with mixed feelings. Maybe she was crazy. On the other hand, she was obviously someone starved for a human touch and so was I. We made love quickly on the cheap motel bed. She came in like ninety seconds, which is something I’d never experienced before. We lay there awhile, silent, and then we started in again. About 3 a.m. we woke up and she said she had to leave. I kissed her goodnight and she was gone.

  The next morning I called the TO, and he said the situation was developing and I was to continue standing by being paid waiting time and to expect developments soon. I was pretty sure Alice would be seriously regretting the night before, so I decided to fill my day elsewhere.

  I hooked up my trailer and headed out of town to the Goodyear tire dealer. I’d been neglecting my tires, and that always spells trouble. I have eighteen tires and they’re always in flux. The wear varies and the air pressure changes. Just checking that all tires have the required 95 psi is a dirty job that takes at least 45 minutes. I knew I needed a new inside left on my front trailer tandem and I wanted the tire guys to check my front tractor tires.

  I’ve had lots of flats over the years. Usually when it happens I hear a bang like a close-up pistol shot and then, depending on which tire blew, a certain amount of new vibration. If I’m running empty and the flat is a trailer tire, I won’t feel much at all. If it’s a drive tire on my tractor and I’m full, then I’ll feel it a lot. I can drive a certain distance with one of these flats but not far. The flat tends to heat up, and if it gets too hot it will catch fire. The last flat I had was in Texas. I heard the bang and saw the gator in my mirror taking up the roadway. I pulled over to check it out. It was the Fourth of July and I was in the middle of nowhere. I looked up and saw I was right at an exit. Next to the ramp was a Goodyear truck tire dealer. I limped over to the yard and there was a sign with a phone number for emergency service. I called it and ten minutes later a guy showed up from his holiday barbecue and changed my tire in about seven minutes. That’s the way to get a flat. The bill was $600: $350 for the tire and $250 for the holiday service call. That’s why I lease my truck. I don’t buy tires and I don’t pay for repairs.

  The real problem with flats is when one of the front tires blows out. All of a sudden the truck lurches hard over to the side that blew. It grabs the steering wheel and yanks it. Hard. There’s no holding it. The tractor goes into a rapid deceleration and the trailer momentum has a tendency to want to ride over the tractor. The range of possibilities is that the truck will go into the adjacent lane out of control, careen off the shoulder and into a gully, or jackknife and flip. Other trucks or four-wheelers anywhere near will be sucked into mayhem. All drivers are terrified of front-wheel blowouts. For four-wheelers driving next to trucks, I’d recommend never staying near the front wheels with your car. When passing a truck, pass it fast and get ahead of it. I’ve had one front-wheel blowout in my career. It happened in South Carolina, naturally, late at night. I was lucky and I wrestled it to a stop without incident. I had to call TC for a Comchek that night for over $1,000. When I was finally towed to the tire place, I purchased two brand-new Michelin X Line steering tires. Never again, I hoped. Trucker legend has it that flat tires come in threes.

  I returned to Lakeland in the early evening and ate my dinner again at the diner. It was fish-and-chips night. Then I walked back to the motel.

  I’d been thinking of our little romp pretty much all day. Alice was sweet and vulnerable, and I figured I’d pretend the whole thing never happened. Movers aren’t supposed to sleep with their shippers. I lay down on my motel bed and tried to sleep when just after midnight I heard the knock on the door I’d been half hoping to hear and half dreading. Alice was there, wearing a short skirt and tank top. I pulled her inside, shut the door, and pushed her against it while reaching under her skirt. She grabbed my arms and pushed me onto the bed, yanking at my clothes.

  Afterward, we lay in bed talking, making love, talking. I didn’t really learn anything new. Her husband was a control freak with no emotional life, no sex drive, and on a career track. That was pretty much it. Alice was a warm woman whose self-confidence, never strong, had been shattered by him.

  On day three the TO said to continue standing by, with pay. Alice and Trevor went back to the beach. I drove to the Brunswick pool table factory and took a tour. Making a pool table was pretty interesting, but I couldn’t really pay attention. I was looking at all the skilled white union workers knowing they were dead men walking. All I was wondering was how long it would take for this factory to move offshore.

  That night, Alice showed up again just after midnight. She was wearing a short print dress. When I opened the door she pushed me back and put her finger to her mouth, imploring me to be quiet. She walked back to the doorway, turned around to face me, and slowly released the shoulder straps of her dress. She turned again and let the dress drop to the floor. She was wearing nothing underneath. I stood there mesmerized as she told me to lie down.

  “Do you want me?” she asked.

  “I do,” I croaked.

  On day four the TO called me and said the load was going back to Nebraska. I returned to the Howard place to say good-bye. Alice and Trevor were loading the car for the trip back. Alice sent Trevor into the house to get something and we talked for about a minute, maybe less.

  “So,” I said, “it’s back to the base?”

  “Yes. Incarceration is better than exile.”

  “Are those your choices? Don’t you have any others?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. That part of this conversation is over. I want to thank you though. I knew there was something fantastic and strong and feminine and powerful inside me. I don’t think I’ll ever experience it again, but I’ll hold it close to me for the rest of my life. It’s locked in here and it belongs to me and nobody else.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Thanks again. Have a safe trip.”

  I never saw her again.

  Chapter 12

  PARADISE

  There are some places that regular people just shouldn’t go if they haven’t developed a taste for low company. This motel is one of them. I found the place by accident many years ago, having popped off an airport exit looking for a place to park. I was sitting at the light at the bottom of the ramp, and across the street I saw a line of bedbug trucks. Mayflower, Arpin, Wheaton, North American, Atlas, Allied, National, Bekins. It looked like a convention. I pulled in, parked, and went into the office. The sign there said to check in at the bar. Excellent info. Into the bar I went and sat down. The bartender looked at my van line shirt, nodded, and brought me a Coors from the tap.

  “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes, driver. You OK with that?”

  “I am now,” I answered, looking at the beer. The décor was perfect—shirts pinned to the walls and ceiling, hundreds of them. Every shirt was from a moving company. I saw one for Pickfords (London and Nottingham), another for Leos/UmZug (Düsseldorf), and one for Froes
ch (Russia). Hot diggity dog, this was movers’ heaven. It’s the only place I know in the whole USA where movers rule the roost. Looking around I could tell by the tired eyes, the big arms, and the T-shirts that everyone in this bar was a mover. It was love at first sight. Ever since then I’ll stop there if I’m even close to it, close being within two hundred miles.

  On this particular trip I had settled my rig in the capacious motel yard and headed straight to the bar to get a room. I’ve never once seen anyone at the reception desk. I hadn’t been here in a while, but the décor hadn’t changed. I sat down and looked around for a Callahan Bros. or Joyce Van Lines shirt, but it would’ve taken me a week to find one. Well, I was going to fix that.

  I sat on an empty bar stool near the cash register and waited to check in. It was early evening, and the place was crowded but manageable. Within a minute or two the bartender dropped a draft beer in front of me and went away. A minute or two later a guy sat down next to me and started talking. This is a total trucker thing I never experience anywhere else: Whether it’s a bar, restaurant, truckstop, or repair shop, a trucker will just start talking to another trucker without introductions, names, or social niceties. It’s almost like he’s continuing a conversation that got interrupted. This driver was a white guy about my age. Maybe a little younger. All of them are younger.

  “Joyce,” he said, reading my shirt. “That’s in Connecticut, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “I heard the guy that owns that place is a maniac.”