If I was a truck driver

I would be the world’s best middle-aged truck driver. I would be that happy overweight middle-aged guy that smiles fondly but platonically at little kids who go past in cars making that sign to pull the horn. I’d do it, of course, and give them a nice wave by flicking my mole-ridden chubby-fingered hand out the window. (I think there would be a wedding ring on my hand, even though my wife Milly left me years ago for another man because I was never home.)

I would try to be that upbeat trucker that everyone loves. Of course the Trucker Me would be a more complex character than Actual Me, and there would be sadness behind my faded smiles at times. I would treat a select few to these windows into my secretly tortured soul. Dolores, my favourite waitress, would occasionally say, “There goes a troubled man” when I walk out of her diner, but to my fellow truckers I would be all smiles.

People wouldn’t know this about me, but sometimes when I’m on the open road alone I would pretend my truck is a motorcycle, making “Vroom! Vroom!” sounds whilst I pretended to make sudden turns with the steering wheel. (This is an example of my sense of humour. I would like to make little jokes sometimes.) However I wouldn’t actually make the steering wheel turn in this example because that would be dangerous. I like to have fun but there is a line.

Sometimes my route would take me past my sister’s house and I would feel a pang of guilt. I’d consider dropping in and then discard this idea. The longer I decide not to pay a visit, the worse the guilt will get. I would eventually go see her at Christmas and her husband Ronnie would answer the door. I’d say, “How is she?” and he’d say, “Pretty much the same” and I’d go up the rickety stairs to her room. Her bed would be surrounded by heart-monitoring equipment, IV lines and her catheter. Despite what Ronnie had said, she’d seem worse than she last was, and her laboured breathing would make me flush with mixed emotions. I’d say, “How are you, pet?” and she wouldn’t answer. I’d rattle on about things we did together when we were kids, till she would look at me with wet eyes and whisper, “You never come to see me anymore.” I would race out of the house, jump into my truck and start pounding the steering wheel in frustration. I would then accidentally hit the horn and a sharp, off-tone “bleeeeeep!” would emit. I would then drive away and a few minutes later realize I’d left her Christmas present in the car.

Later in the day it would be like nothing had happened and I would hang out at the base with the other guys. Joe would walk in and I’d say, “Decided to join us?” and he’d give me a sharp look and spit, “Think I’m finished, do ya? Bullshit! I’ve got five hours left.” I would offer a sympathetic nod and would join in on a game of pool with the fellas, all the time feeling that I didn’t fit in exactly and secretly wondering what the other truckers think of me.

I would be a nice trucker who would pick up hitch-hikers with absolutely no rapey thoughts at all. Whenever a fetching young lass would be on the side of the road, I would slowly pull over and kindly offer her a lift. She would hop in, showing a bit too much thigh under her short denim skirt, and I would pretend not to notice. I would even move slightly away in my seat so that she wouldn’t think I was coming onto her. I’d ask her about herself and she’d talk, hesitantly at first, but with more enthusiasm when she begins to see me as a safe father figure. She would ask me about my wedding ring and I would tell her about Milly, about how my life on the road destroyed her. I would seem so sad and alone that my female companion would look at me with pity, but also with new eyes. I would pull over to the side of the road and take a deep breath. I would not force her to do it, but we would probably kiss then.

Unfortunately she would be headed to the big city and I will return back to my small hometown, as it was not meant to be. She will be living as a beautiful corporate office worker in New York where she is successful and happy, but whenever she saw a truck or a truck driver she would think of me.

In the end I will be content. All I will need is my truck, the open road and my Alan Jackson tape. I don’t know why South Park makes fun of him. Alan Jackson is soulful, like me, but probably with less of a good sense of humour. I wish I could check out his trucks, though. I bet they’d be awesome.