Trucker turned wendigo, struggling against the hunger
I ain’t never been called nothing but homely. Straight shoulder length hair (that’s tragically getting more salted with gray every damn day), blue-grey eyes, white as bread. A little on the portly side, but that’s more a solid build than fat. Can’t really work out in a cab while driving sixteen hours a day, but gotta be able to haul the load too, ya know?
Been mistaken for a dyke given my penchant for plaid sweaters and comfortable jeans, but that’s just some men folks’ limited perspective on what a gal should look like. It ain’t like I got room for curlers and make-ups in the cab. To be honest, if I dressed more “feminine”, I’d probably be treated like some poor lost ol’ granny when I rolled into a truck stop for the night.
Been on occasion told I resemble that Annie character from that movie Misery. Still trying to decide how I feel about that score.
It’s hard being a truck driver. The long black slickness of the never ending road burns into your eyes until it gets to where you see it even in your damn sleep. Sometimes you forget what a regular bed feels like because the only mattress you’ve used enough to mold to your butt is the back seat of your cab. The concept of a home cooked meal means picking the restaurant’s specialty. Holidays means pay and a half and awkward calls to relatives you haven’t seen in years. But no matter how lonely the trip gets, no matter how dark the path is, there’s always the chatter of the CB.
At least until three weeks ago.
Now there’s nothing but the silence. There ain’t no more Howard Johnson or Hotel 8 to keep the light on for ya. Bustling rest stops are now nothing but death traps, although there are some who would say that the food at Nellie’s was always your last stop before your funeral. My gas tank has gotten lower than it ever has. Now I gotta wonder if the trip is finally at its end.
Or if I gotta figure out a new way to convoy.