I Always Wanted To Be a Truck Driver!
On especially wonderful nights, Larry and I would go out to eat after the bar closed.
I was never awake in the morning so I only got breakfast in the middle of the night. And the one place open late that offered breakfast at 4 a.m. was Denny’s.
Being the only place open after the bars closed meant that Denny’s was always crowded. We would stand in line and wait for “party of two” to be called – or “party of four” if we could get Leo, the bass player, and my best bud Ronnie to come along. Often Larry and I were the only two who were willing to wait in the line.
After an hour or two, we’d waddle home, still sluggish from drinking, full of nutrition-less food, and pass out.
But one night, while we were in line, we met a guy and started chatting with him. Larry enjoyed conversing with him, so we invited him to sit with us.
Gus was a truck driver – the kind who actually drives for a living, using an 18-wheeler as both an apartment and a job.
“I always wanted to be a truck driver!” I announced.
When I was in 8th grade, my friend’s father drove a truck, and her mother drove a Bookmobile. These sounded like thrilling occupations, always traveling, making deliveries.
Listening to Gus talk about his travels, I was fascinated. I wanted to know a million things about driving a truck. Where did he eat? How far did he drive? What did he listen to on the radio? Did he have a CB? Did he have a CB handle? Did he have a dog?
Most of what I knew about truck drivers, I’d learned from Smokey and the Bandit.
The three of us walked out together and Gus said, “Wanna go for a ride?”
“Now?” I looked at Larry. “Your truck is here?”
Gus laughed. “Where else would it be?” He pointed to a semi parked in the back of the very large lot.
“Yes! Yes I do!” I was jumping up and down with excitement, quite literally. “I wanna go!”
Then I remembered Larry.
“Can I go?”
“Sure, Baby,” he said, kissing me and waving me off. “See ya at home.”
Getting into the truck was the most exciting thing I’d done in eons. I had to climb – literally climb – hanging onto a metal bar and yanking myself into the passenger seat. It was like climbing a tree, but cooler.
I plopped myself down and waited for the ride of a lifetime.
Gus hopped in and started the engine. It was absurdly loud. He pushed a bunch of buttons, grabbed the giant steering wheel, and the truck started moving.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Just over that hill!” I said. “Just go straight and I’ll tell you when to turn!”
“10-4,” Gus said, then pulled out onto the very dark road.
It was so loud!
“This is great!” I squealed, unable to contain my excitement.
Gus turned the truck onto the rather steep hill. Technically, it was the side of a mountain.
We inched forward.
The truck groaned and spit.
Rrrrrrrrmmmmffffrrrrrrrrggggg….
Inch by inch, climbing that hill.
Inch.
By inch.
Still climbing.
We’d gone maybe a hundred yards before I was bored beyond belief.
“Is it always this slow?” I guessed.
“On the hills, yeah,” Gus laughed.
It took us a million years to get to my house, right over that hill.
Larry was still awake when I got home. “Still want to be a truck driver?” he asked.
“No,” I said. And I meant it.