So that was one of those.

Dec 29, 2006

1:38 AM

Wednesday was a good day. I had only one delivery to make in University Park, IL. After some minor, typical hassles, I got unloaded and headed back to Rockford. I stopped off in Morris to check my email and catch up on the news. I do this through the courtesy of the free wifi at the R Place Truck Stop. I stayed longer than I planned because I was comfortable, and the news was interesting. Finally, about 10 pm, I headed for home.

I was musing on the cruise. I was getting tired. I decided to put up at Maggio's Truck Stop because I was going to have to fuel my truck first thing in the morning. Maggio's has three things going against it; there is no wifi, the restrooms are a little iffy, and the coffee is about as bad as trucks top coffee gets. The only real pluses are that it is close to home. And the food has a decent, homemade quality to it.

I lumbered through the lot, and sure enough, there was an easy parking space to be had. I swung The Screaming Blue Bitch (as I affectionately call her) into the berth, and made ready for sleep. As I was moving my essentials (ashtray, cigarettes, lighter and cell phone) back into the sleeping area, a beat-up, old, maroon Oldsmobile pulled up in front of my truck.

I heard that Maggio's is pretty good at policing the lot for trucks and trailers that have been "dropped." They want to collect rent for the privilege. So I thought the woman in the car was the lot cop, and she was either going to tell me that I committed some infraction, or that I had better not be planning to leave my truck parked here while I wandered off into town.

I had just put my ashtray in the cupholder in the table of the sleeper when she knocked on the driver's side door. I turned on the key to accessory, and pushed the window button. As the window rolled down, she climbed onto the step and held onto the door and mirror frames. Her chubby face was just about even with mine, and close enough to kiss. I thought it was forward of her.

She looked like a squashed Victoria Jackson. She was short and round in a sweatshirt and jeans. Her blond hair was held carelessly in a clip at the back of her head. Her face had a borderline dumpy quality. It looked like she was in her late twenties, raising three kids, and on the fast track to grandmotherhood.

"Have you got a cigarette?" The question knocked me back some.

I lied, "I just smoked my last one."

She said, "Go get some for us." She said it like we were going to be spending some time together.

I said, "I'm not ready."

Then she said, "Do you know where Oregon is?"

"Yeah."

"My car is just about out of gas, and I've got to get home. Do you have any money? Do you ever get massages?"

Well there it was. I had just been propositioned by a lot lizard (a prostitute who specializes in servicing truckers at truck stops and pickle parks [rest areas]). I decided to take the shortest route out of the conversation. I said, "Not tonight, honey."

Then I rolled the window up. The window began to lift her hand off of the doorframe, and she backed down off of the step.

As she walked toward her vehicle she made one last try at sympathy and cash, saying, "I hope my car makes it to Oregon."

 
            I would have liked to interview her. I was curious about what crazy kind of turns her life had taken to lead her to a career of milking truck drivers. She looked more like a baker than a hooker. I would have paid her twenty bucks to hear her story, but I was too tired. I didn't even watch her drive off... or to another truck. I pulled the curtains on my sleeper compartment, crawled into my bed, and pondered on what I thought was a misery.