DRIVER

He swerved around me. Must’a come from be­hind, ‘cause I ain’t see him to my right. He almost clipped my bumper when zooming past to cut in front a me. Then he almost sideswiped another vehicle be­fore he evened his car out into the lane. 

And that’s when it happened. 

Out the driver’s side window came a long, skin­ny, orange arm with a repetitive brick-sleeve tattoo crawling up to the hand. From the fist on top, a slender middle finger unfolded.

I physically put my hand on my chest and said, “Moi?” I mean, what did I do? I know I changed lanes, but I signaled and everything. Did I almost hit him? Was I going too slow? It ain’t my fault. This big 70,000-pound bastard has a bunch of blind spots, and the gov­ernor caps my speed at 63 miles an hour—65 with cruise control.

He sped ahead in his little red street-racing hoopty, mashin’ the gas on purpose so the engine growled at me. I tried to imagine what that would be like if we were two pedestrians. If we were walking on the sidewalk and I did something he didn’t like, would he run around me, give me the finger, and then stomp away? That would be weird.

Sheeit, honestly? I mighta imagined the whole thing. ‘Tween tryin’ to find a place ta park, gettin’ somethin’ ta eat, and settlin’ down earlier today, I only got like a solid five hours a sleep. If that. I drifted in an’ out most of the time. Don’t care how tired I am, hard as hell to get some shut-eye with the afternoon sun burnin’ a hole in my face. 

But I ain’t trippin’. Everything’s copasetic. I got a beer in my little cooler here. There’s a fold-up chair in the sleeper. I just gotta drop off this load, then I’m done for 34 hours. There’s a little park near my last stop where they host an outdoor movie night. I’ll find a place to park, try unsuccessfully to get some daytime sleep, then go and sit under the stars next to the little campfire.

Probably get a few sips and a couple minutes into whatever movie they’re showing ‘fore I pass out. Then I’ll take my ass back to the truck for some night­time sleep. As the Almighty intended.

Yup. Everything’s gonna be copacetic. I just got­ta get through this shift without killing anybody.

I think this, only half joking. I often see re­minders a what could happen out here: skid marks curving off to the side, grass and mud chewed up, a guardrail twisted with paint streaks from the unfortu­nate loser of some highway games. 

It’s weird—those things, they’re just metal and dirt, but somehow they tell a story. Like you can feel the panic, the last-second overcorrection, the moment the wheel was yanked too hard, too late. The fishtailin’ car no longer controlled by the driver but at the mercy of momentum. The scene is still alive with motion.

A slow, slow, slow car pulls up on my left. I hate this part. It’s like I seen it a million times. The car edges up, gets just far enough ahead to tuck in front of me—then slows down.

Why?

Why not maintain speed? Why not stay behind if you’re gonna crawl?

Not sayin’ this ain’t real life—just sayin’ nobody acts like it is.

Because, in real life, if two pedestrians are walkin’ and one gets in front of the other just to take a nap on the sidewalk, that would be weird. I mean, I get the screwed-up psychology. We got all these inherent highway rules when it comes to fast lanes and slow lanes and drivers don’t want to be caught doin’ 60 all tha way to tha left. And people don’t want to be behind trucks because these things are huge, and go slower than most cars, so even if a mah fuckas doin’ the speed limit, they’ll speed up just enough to get around because they just gotta be in front.

I get it. Hell, I probably do the same thing when I’m in my car.

So I start with a bluff. I put on my signal—just to give ‘em a little nudge. Make ‘em think I’m about to pass so they speed up. Usually works. They can’t bear to see a truck out front.

But this one holds steady. Still pokin’ along.

So now my signaling is no longer a bluff. It’s all a gamble. They could maintain speed, causing an un­eventful overtake. They could speed up. In that case, I’ll just get back over. Worst case scenario, they’ll push that gas pedal just hard enough to make it where I can’t get back over. Then I’ll be stuck in the fast lane with a bunch of assholes behind me honking or flashing they lights. More middle fingers.

‘Cause I understand rudimentary physics, I wait for a downhill so this big heavy beast will have some momentum. I get over and start speeding up. The driver does the same.
Asshole. 

I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but this fucker is pissing me off. I crowd the line a little and then go over it slightly. He—or she—moves over, driv­in’ on the rumble strip before slowing down and let­ting me pass. I start to get back over before I’ve even cleared the car, forcing them to slow down more as an extra little “fuck you” for the inconvenience. 

Every time I’m back home, in the comfort of my own bed, I think about how dangerous it is to do this. What if they really aren’t paying attention, when I crowd the line and hit them one day? What if I run somebody off the road? What if someone follows me to the next stop and pulls out a gun? 

But out here? I don’t know. Out here, it’s like something rewires your brain. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m at work. This is my job—driving. Feels like everyone else on the road is just playin’ around. Cruising. Coasting. Killing time. I start to believe they don’t even need to be here — that they’re just in my way. Slowing me down. In­terfering with the work I actually get paid to do.

I’m looking straight ahead. Everybody else can enjoy the scenery: The sky, full of warm colors brought by the mingling of day and night. How they mix differ­ently than they do in real life—well, in pigments. I heard somewhere that blending all colors together in light equals white, while blending all colors together in pigments equals black.

The sunset is actually breathtaking. I usually forget to mention beautiful scenes like this whenever anyone asks about trucking because they wanna “see the world.” I always tell them the same thing: a truck stop in Minnesota looks exactly the same as one in New Mexico. I never have time for sightseeing. Besides asphalt and trees, all there is to see are gas stations, rest stops, and the bunk bed behind me. Ain’t no hobbies. This ain’t like real life where you get home from your 9-to-5, put down your suitcase, and play with your model trains. While the road has you, you are one thing and one thing only: a driver.

The transition to night is smooth, and traffic be­comes less and less. Before long, my truck and my mind are on cruise control. Broken white lines blur past me on the left, and the endless black forest stays constant to my right. My headlights show just enough of the road ahead. If I saw any type of hazard with this limited sight distance, at this speed, I wouldn’t have a chance to do anything about it. That thought used ta terrify me when I was training. I noticed how much roadkill there was. You couldn’t drive a mile without seeing a dead deer. That made me realize how great the chances were of getting into a collision with one of those things. It could emerge from the darkness and be under my wheels before I had a chance to blink.

The ol’ veteran who was showin’ me tha ropes told me to keep straight and run right through it if this ever happened. If I were to swerve, I might not gain control again. This was even more frightening because reactions can’t be controlled. What if I were to instinctively step on the brakes and veer off the road? 

Nowadays, I just send those thoughts to the back of my head as my eyelids stay open just enough to make out what I need to. I’m almost at peace. If I concentrate, I’m aware of my arm holding the steering wheel; otherwise, it seems to move on its own, automatically guiding the vehicle, keepin’ straight ahead, as my brain wanders away.

The aftermath of an accident is visible through a long skid mark that stretches out of view. Up ahead, grey smoke billows up, illuminated by the faint wisp of a flickering flame. It wasn’t the aftermath. The acci­dent was ongoing.

I start to drive past, but something snaps me out of my lull. I stomp on the brakes, wrestling with the truck as it bucks side to side before I straighten it out on the shoulder. I look ahead before popping the red and yellow knobs to set the brakes and turning on the four-ways.

I reach over and open my cooler—it’s really a portable fridge. Remarkable little thing. Plugs right into the cigarette lighter. Works too good. First time I used it, I woke up to a frozen baggie of tomatoes and lettuce. Had to eat my sandwich with just meat and cheese. But I’ve learned how to cut the thermostat down. Now it’s the perfect temp.

I grab a Bud High Life, which I’m not supposed to have in the truck, let alone drink. But c’est la vie. I grab my fold-up chair from the back, swing the door wide open, and step down. Cars are rare on this stretch a highway at this time a night.

My headlights gimme a clear view of the acci­dent. A car crumpled and dented at angles the factory robots didn’t intend. The hood takes on the shape of a depressed accordion. The grass and mud are all chewed up from its tires. What was left of the guardrail is wrapped around the car like a ribbon.

Out the driver’s side window, a long orange arm with that brick tattoo hangs limp, danglin’ like a scarf over the edge of a chair. There’s a slight bend at the elbow, but it’s the wrong way.

I approach, unfold my chair, and sit.

“Man,” I say, “you’ve seen better days.” I glance up at the sky and correct myself. “You’ve seen better nights.”

The steering wheel is all but inside his chest. The passenger seat and back seat aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Instead, the interior squeezes around him, making him look like one a dose canned rolls of biscuits ready to pop.

“You know,” I say, crackin’ open my beer, “You should be nice to truckers. Ya know? I mean, I know in your eyes we ain’t shit. We are just these large impedi­ments that get in your way, making you 20 seconds late for work or the strip club, or golf, or wherever the fuck you gotta be. But we do alot. Mainly, we try to keep you from killing yourself.”

His eye twitches, looking toward the flickering flame. Then it tries to find the highway.

“Lookin’ for help? Nah,” I say, turning my head toward my truck blocking the view. “Ain’t nobody gonna see you from this angle. Even if a car did come by, all they’d see is a big rig on the side of the road. And that’s about as common as a– as an aggressive driver. ”

I take a sip a my beer.
“Man. That is good. Shouldn’t be drinkin’ this before getting back behind the wheel. But my exit’s right there. No weigh stations comin’ up. What are the chances I get pulled over? You won’t tell, will ya?”

“Besides… you probably ain’t had a drop of al­cohol today, and look where you ended up.

Which brings me back to my point:

Truckers work fourteen-hour days — or nights, in my case — with barely any sleep. We’re away from home for weeks, sometimes months, without seein’ family or friends. Dinner comes from vending machines and showers — when we’re lucky — are in the truck stop.

We try to heed to impossible regulations all while trying to keep control of this big bastard that would kill you by itself if we stopped payin’ attention for even a second. Y’all swerve around this way and that, slowing down in front of us, speeding around and then slamming on your brakes to take an exit, flashin’ lights when we go too slow in the middle lane… Sticking your middle finger up at us, when we ain’t even do nothin’. And still, we try to keep you from killin’ yourselves. 

We slow down so you can merge. We speed up so you don’t tailgate. We avoid the fast lane just so you don’t get pissy and do something stupid.

And even when y’all flip us off, even when you treat us like obstacles, we still do what we can to keep you safe.

But you know what?”

I glance around the dark, empty stretch of high­way.

Then I lean in like I’m about to tell him a secret.

“‘Truth a the matter is, if we decided to keep going during one of your brake checks, if we sig­naled and got over in front of you while you were speeding up on us at 90 miles an hour, if we pretended like we didn’t see you when you pulled out in front of us, you would be dead in a second and we would get away scot-free. No jail time. Probably not even a scratch. You would be smashed into your vehicle like a bug in a crumpled-up paper towel, and the cameras in our trucks would show that we had the right of way.”

I take in the entire scene, savoring it — like a villain in a movie leaving my arch nemesis’ death up to some slow, complex contraption.

“But this? This is perfect. We keep you from killing yourselves — but that doesn’t mean we have to save you.”

His mouth parts. His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip.
I can tell his lungs and throat are working overtime, trying to push out some kind of sound. Just breathy, weak, raspy noises — unfinished consonants and vow­els.

All except the last one. That one was clear. And surprising.

“Friend?”

I laugh. “Nah, homie. I ain’t your friend… I’m here to watch you die.

We share a few more moments while I sip my beer. We talk — well, I talk. He’s really not much of a conversationalist. I look at the stars and enjoy the peaceful crackling of the fire dancing on the wind­shield, until the flames start to get too big.

I chug the rest of my drink, pick up my chair, and get back into the truck. The engine rumbles to life as I pull back onto the highway, leaving him and his wreck behind.

In my rearview mirror, the fire swells until the car is fully engulfed, casting long, flickering shadows across the asphalt.

For a second, I replay his nonsensical murmurs — all orbiting around that one legible word: “Friend.”

I wonder, just for a moment. A few scenarios come to mind. One in particular — maybe he was street racing with a buddy, threw up a playful middle finger, and I just happened to get caught in the cross­fire.

“The middle finger wasn’t meant for you, it was for my friend.”

That’s what he mighta said were this true and his lungs were able to push out more than one word.

It would kinda make sense, too. I do always think every highway honk is aimed at me.

Ah. No matter.

When I pull up to the guard shack, I wait at the screen until a cartoon of a little bi- or tri-racial nonbina­ry person pops up. Somebody talks to me from some­where in the world through a speaker. The voice does­n’t match the illustrated face, but I’m sure mines don’t either.

I used ta think all truckers were fat white guys in flannel shirts before I got my CDL. Turns out, most drivers I see are foreign — mainly African.

“Hello, driver,” the voice from the speaker says.

“Hello, agent,” I say back — and we both laugh.

“Looks like this is your last stop,” the voice says. “Any plans after work?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I got 34 hours. I’ma try my best to stock up on rest before I gotta do this all over again.”

“Life of a driver, huh?”

“Ma’am, you ain’t neva lied.”

If you like DRIVER, you’ll love NO BELL.