One thing truck drivers do is line up really well. Parking and mirrors are points of pride. They angle up,kissing the bumper of the truck in front, push the gear lever into reverse. Inch by inch they place that back trailer corner a breath from the trailer alongside. The driver leans out the door. The driver hops out and rechecks. Leaps back in. And the trailer glides backwards.
No one paints parking lines for truck drivers.
Morris Illinois, mile marker 112, interstate 80. I always call this truck stop Romeos. The sign says R Place. It's as dark outside as it's ever going to get. The rain blows sideways. It clings to me like jelly on toast. The parking lot is big and always full. We have to park back row. Starting out, I step right in a puddle and ice water crawls up my ankle. Up in front, water skids off the roof in a solid curtain.
When the door shuts behind us it's so quiet we might be packed in cotton. There are a few people, clean dressed, but not enough to make me nervous. At the register they fork to the right for a seat as we cross to the left, drivers' section. The waitress comes right over, flips the coffee cups and starts pouring. She looks at you.
Men come first in truck stops.
Chicken Pot Pie you say. You've been thinking chicken pot pie since crossing from Davenport into Moline. I wanted to stop at Iowa 80. Iowa 80, there's a walk up the hill behind, a gravel road, farm land. Just cut behind the truck wash. But you want chicken pot pie. What the hell, I order chicken pot pie too then I slip out the booth.
There are only a few truck stops that sell anything except USA Today.
USA Today.
You got a lot of truck drivers listen to AM radio too. Subtlties don't hold up in a working cab. There's too much noise off the engine. You miss every third word. Your eyes are always keeping up with the outside. There's only a small piece of your brain open. USA Today, AM radio, holds up a simple standard, direct and unswerving. They're not asking you to think past the next mile marker. They're nothing but a pep-rally.
Romeos sells the Chicago Tribune. If they still have yesterday's I buy that along with tonight's. In our booth I read outloud. Chicago is looking at the frigid depths of Lake Michigan as a piped in conduit for cooling office buildings. The pot pie comes. I read inbetween mouthfuls. Outside the window the rain splashes down. Truck lights richochette, cross like light sabers, as they pull in one after the other and snake back out. Few parking places left you got to blind side. Not many tired truck drivers want to blind side at night in the pouring rain.
You finish and angle yourself against the corner with coffe, four sugars and cream.
I keep reading.
In the morning, after coffee, we stuggle up one at a time. There's only room for one at a time. Our clothes are damp, cold. They'll warm up in an hour. But the sun's out. You, Tip and I wander over to the open grass area. Tip noses into everything and we follow until I split off. My toothbrush in my pocket, I walk inside and into the women's room. There's another woman. She's wearing clean clothes. This is not where she brushes her teeth when she wakes up.
At least there's no one else.
On the way out I stop by the glass front bakery counter. Today they have pumpkin bread, loaves swaddled like babies in white tissue paper. I buy two and then in the Quick Mart I look for today's Chicago Tribune. But it's still too early.