An Epiphany on US 95

"Breaker 19. Anyone got your ears on?" Coming right back to him from out of the desert night, Jessie heard a warm voice. The CB voice was jiggling, probably along with a rig's cadence bumping fast over the highway's seams.

The Peterbilt driven by Sore Eyes

"Howdoo! Come on back. You got me awake." (Chirp.)

"Hey, back atcha. Good t'hear a voice. Been lonesome last few hours. I'se beginnin' t'think this Peterbilt and I were the only ones out here. What's your handle?" (There's a chirp at the end of the transmission.)

The Kenworth driven by Roadrunner

"You got the Roadrunner here. What's yours? (Chirp.) (The chirp at the end of each transmission on the CB told Jessie this other driver had lots of extra power behind his transmitter.)

"Yeah, howdoo, Roadrunner. You got one Sore Eyes on this end. Tell me your 1020, Roadrunner. I'm headin' south, about an hour south of Jordan Valley. What's your 1020?"

"I can't tell ya right now. I been driving through this desert for a while out of Lovelock, headin' north. I guess three in the morning on Christmas ain't too popular for bein' on the road. It's been dark and lonesome out here. Only passed one car. That was about an hour back, come back." (Chirp.)

Jessie changed gears, into thirteen, letting the Cat. 450 diesel loaf on this level road. His speedometer showed sixty-eight. There was nothing in the mirrors and no sign of radar ahead on his warning box. He was making good time. He keyed the mike, "Your right about that. The sheriff in Imlay was sound asleep at the only light in town. These barking twin stacks didn't even wake him up. Even with turbos, this KW barks like hell near eighteen-fifty revs. Doesn't quit barkin' 'til about two-thousand, come back." (Chirp.) Jessie lit his pipe and waited for the jiggling radio voice. There was a long pause.

"Sorry, Roadrunner. I was reachin' under the dash, tryin' to tighten a loose switch. It's hard to steer this thing with my knees, talk on the CB, and fix all the stuff that's comin' loose at the same time, come back."

"Hear you there, Sore Eyes! No matter how they're screwed together they shake loose eventually, dont'cha know?" (Chirp.)

The chatter went on. There were lulls in the conversation, but the two were getting more relaxed with one another, each rig at about 65mph. Their closing the distance mile after mile at a combined speed was about one-hundred-thirty. It wouldn't be too long until they would see one another's clearance and headlights.

Jessie keyed the mike, "Hey, Sore Eyes,how come you're workin' on Christmas?" (Chirp.)

"I could ask you the same thing, Greedy. I'd sure as hell rather be out here then facin' the mixed up family. I ain't seen my dad since I was eight. My mom's dead. My first wife has the kids this Christmas and she hates my guts. My present wife is with her kids in Oklahoma for the holidays and her mom don't like me and her dad's a belligerent drunk. I guess,I'd rather be out here in this Nevada desert, with the stars talkin' to you, come back."

"Guess I could tell you the same story, Sore Eyes. Only the names are changed to protect the guilty. This two-story Kenworth and I get along better than anyone at home. My kids are grown and I wouldn't know 'em if I saw 'em. My second wife died last July. My first wife is snooty, married to a white collar guy in Minnesota. Just like you, this road and I get along better on holidays than anyone I know. Guess there's lots of us out here been poundin' this pavement for years. We don't even know how to get it on with people, come back." (Chirp.)

Jessie knocked his pipe bowl out on the mirror bracket in the freezing sixy-five-mile-per-hour wind and rolled up the window. He thought to himself it was cold enough for black ice north of him. Keying the mike, "Sore Eyes, how far you goin' ?" (Chirp.)

"Hey, thought I'd lost you, Roadrunner. I was down in a hole for a while. I'm goin' to Sacramento, droppin' off there, then deadheadin' to Seattle. Pickin' up some airplane engines, then to L. A. Don't know what's after that, 'til I get unloaded in L. A., come back."

"You cover the pavement, sounds like. Better watch your logs. Ole Smokey will getcha, especially around Sacto, come back." Jessie reached for his chewing gum and rubbed the back of his neck to get some circulation going. (Chirp.)

There was a pause and then out of the static came the voice of Sore Eyes, again. "Wanna tell you 'bout possible black ice north of Jordan Valley, Roadrunner. Watch yourself and keep the rubber side down."

"Thanks for the warning, Sore Eyes. I've been all over the road in black ice, even loaded. Y'hit it before y'know it. Just hang on and yell, 'Whoa, Nelly!' I'll stop and sleep and wait for the sun to cook it off around White Bird, come back," responded Jessie. (Chirp.)

Jessie rubbed his eyes and could see the stars in the cold, clear desert air. He thought to himself how peaceful and beautiful it was this Christmas Eve at nearly four in the morning. From a rise in the road, he suddenly saw headlights in the distance. Soon he could make out the clearance lights of a flat-rack trailer. He keyed his mike, "Hey, Sore Eyes, I think I got you about five miles ahead. Blink your lights. Yep! That's you. Ya' wanna stop and swap lies in the freezin' air for a minute?" (Chirp.)

"Sure do, Roadrunner. We're on this 95 Highway enough, we'll be talkin' at each other. Might as well see who's the ugliest, come back."

The converging rigs slowed at a place wide enough to pull off to one side. The Peterbilt, with its flatbed trailer and Sore Eyes at the helm, pulled across the two-lane road and rolled to a stop beside Jessie's cabover KW. The two drivers climbed down from their plush, warm cabs into the freezing morning air. They looked at one another for a minute in the soft, amber light of clearance lamps. Sore Eyes was a bit taller and a lot younger than Jessie. He was smoking a cigar and had a cap on that read, "Cummins Fuel Savers." Jessie looked at him and felt as if he'd known him all his life. They shook hands and began a rather stilted conversation, talking face to face. Their idling diesel engines were throbbing at their flanks. They moved away from their tractors to talk more easily.

Sore Eyes asked first, "What's your civilian name, Roadrunner? I'll bet you got one for when you're outa' that rig, which obviously ain't often."

Jessie rubbed his hands together to warm them and said, "Jessie. What's yours?"

"Will. Short for William, which is long for Billy, which I hate. The first jerk who calls me Billy, gets it in the nose. My dad called me Billy. I hate that son-of-a-bitch. Except for hatein' him, guess sometimes I'd like to've known him. He was a diesel skinner, but my mom said he got killed. His name was Chester, as I recall. I called him, 'Daddy' 'till he left. Then I called him 'Zero'. "Will shuffled and seemed nervous talking personal history to this stranger.

Jessie was getting uneasy. He didn't know why. He was beginning to think things like this can't be true. This man in front of him reminded him of his father, but he was young enough to be his son. In a few minutes it would be revealed. That's exactly who Will was. He was Chester, Zero, Roadrunner’s or Jessie's son. Both men seemed to sense this. They were silent and looked at one another's rigs, Will's fifty-three-foot flat rack with a Sea/Land container strapped to it and Jessie's refrigerated fifty-three footer van. They scrutinized one-another's rigs, each man sizing up the other by how their rigs were decked out and maintained. They made some small talk about engines, horsepower, transmissions, and again became silent.

Almost at the same time the men said almost the same thing: "This is a strange place to meet on a Christmas morning out here in the desert."

Will stopped talking first. He looked Jessie hard in the eyes. The two men stood in the freezing darkness. Only the clearance lights illuminated them, making them look almost orange.

Jessie spoke first, AI guess I oughta get back at it. It's colder than a well-diggers ass out here. It was good meetin' you, Will. You're too good lookin' to be called Sore Eyes, except I was thinkin' and not knowin' why, you was a sight for sore eyes. Maybe that's how you got your CB handle." The ice was broken.

Will blurted it out, "I don't believe this.....you might be Zero, you desertin' son-of-a-bitch. I think you're my dad. Can you believe this? Out here in God's country, I see my dad standin' right in front of me, my Zero dad, I ain't seen since I was eight."

Jessie stepped back, expecting to get a punch in the nose. He was ready for whatever was next. He declared, "My real name is Chester, Will. Been going by Jessie for years, though. I think I'm your dad, too. I know you must hate my guts. But, I gotta tell you, this is the best Christmas I've ever had. When you dropped out of that Peterbilt, I thought I knew you, and I did. But, you was eight. Your mom sent me guilt pictures for some years, I got one here." Jessie walked to his tractor, opened the door and reached in to get a large, leather wallet with a chain on it. He opened it up and took out a weathered snapshot of a sixteen-year-old boy in football gear. He stretched it out in front of him, so Will could make it out.

Will couldn't talk. He looked at the picture and thought how this Zero of a father had carried this picture with him for all these years. Will was now thirty-four. He had no idea how old his Zero father was. He asked, "How the hell old are you, anyhow?"

Jessie said, "Fifty-eight, if it’s any of your business."

The pauses and fidgeting were getting embarrassing. All the two men could do was make small-talk, while nervously shuffling. A meteorite streaked out of Orion toward the southwestern horizon. Both men looked at it. They looked back at one another.

Jessie said, "Before we pull out of here, I want a way to reach you. I know we got a load of stuff to work out, but I need to get to know you. I always sent money to your mom, Will. I didn't forget you. If you don't want me to be in touch, then just shake my hand for whatever sake, and climb back in that good-lookin' Pete and we'll haul ass outa here."

Will stood looking at this man who was seeming to age right before his eyes. He took a step towards Jessie, and Jessie stepped back and got ready for the fight. Before he knew what happened, looking through the blur of his tears, he was being held by his son. Will had a grip on him that might have broken his ribs, but it didn't. Jessie didn't know what to do with his arms, so he hung them over Will's broad shoulders and soaked up his embarrassment. Will seemed more comfortable in this position than Jessie. Jessie was feeling weird, thinking perhaps Will was strange, when Will said, "Hey, Zero, you're hardly in a position to refuse, so I'm gonna call you Dad, right here and now. I'm gonna repeat it and you just listen to me say it. Dad! Dad,...."

Jessie couldn't help it. The sobs broke out of him like an ice avalanche. He tried to get free from Will, but couldn't. Will kept hold and called him "Dad" over and over. Finally, in complete surrender, Jessie said, "Billy." Then, quickly, said, "Son."

The headlights of a car came towards them. They stopped just short of the end of Will's trailer, shining high beams on the two hugging men. Out stepped a Nevada State Trooper. The officer asked, "Is everything okay here?" The two men broke their hug and Jessie, rubbing his wet eyes, said to the officer, "It ain't what it looks like, Officer. Come over here and let me introduce you to one helluva trucker, my son, Will." The officer moved forward cautiously, obviously unsure of what he had stepped into.

The first light of Christmas morning showed beyond the dark horizon. No one seemed to notice how cold it was, including the patrolman. It looked to all three of them it was going to be a good Christmas, better than Sore Eyes, Billy, William, Will and Roadrunner, Chester, Zero, Jessie could have ever dreamed.

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Note: The story is fiction, just a story. I hope you enjoyed it.

Christopher S. Rubel, Rel. D., is an ex-long haul truck driver.

He was in private practice as a psychotherapist in Claremont and Long Beach, California.

chrisrubel@rewells.net

A friend of ours, Dean Watt, has given a book to us. It is Wilton Barhardt=s, Gospel, a novel. At the beginning, Barnhardt includes a Dag Hammarskjold quotation from his, Markings.

" God does not die on the day when we cease to believe in a personal deity, but we die on the day when our lives cease to be illumined by the steady radiance, renewed daily, of a wonder, the source of which is beyond all reason.”