It’s four o’clock in the morning. I’m slumped in a corner booth at Klein’s.  It’s been a heck-of-a-night, but I got a wad of cash in my purse and the coffee’s hot. Joint’s empty, with the exception of a couple ol’ timers chatting up the counter waitress.  All three sneak furtive glances in my direction, uncertain what to make of me: “Too pretty for a lot lizard”, one says, shoveling spoonfuls of gravy into his leathered face. “Why in tarnation a young gal would be out here alone at this hour,” mumbles his buddy between bites of toast. Their gossip is muffled by a deep rumble that rattles the windows. In the darkness, illuminated by hundreds of tiny chicken lights, another long, shadowy 18-wheeler slides out onto the interstate. I’ve been coming to places like this for long as I can remember…

When I was six, only one thing was mightier or more wonderful than Grandpa; her name was, “Betsy,” his ‘79 Kenworth K100. Climbing up into Betsy’s cab the gigantic grownup world outside seemed to shrink. I became the Invincible Girl. I’d maneuver the wheel of motionless truck, imagining the steel beast under my command. It’s a good memory. Wish I’d held tighter to that six year old; cultivated her priceless imagination, and guarded her innocence with ferocity. But like we all say, I didn’t know then what I know now. Maybe it was jerky school kids who snickered when I boasted Gramps was a trucker; nasty ankle biters who argued I should be playing with Barbie, not Hot Wheels; and swore I’d grow up to be Large Marge. Perhaps it was Cliff Huxtable and Jason Seaver, TV dads of the day, who arrived home every night before dinner, and never made mommies cry. Whatever happened, by the time I turned eight I’d determined life as a long-hauler wasn’t something to brag about.

                After graduating, I moved out west to work in sales. I mingled on the scenes, networking, and schmoozing clients. I chowed at swanky restaurants, charged designer clothes, and even leased a fancy convertible. I walked and talked with left-coast confidence, but inside I felt phony. This is California, I assured myself- everybody assimilates. I soaked up la-la-land culture like a soppy biscuit. Unaware the pricey reality was (soooo like totally) about to give me a major bellyache.

                The morning I lost my job the fantasy stopped. I went home and cried hysterically, partly because I was stuck in debt quicksand with no branch in sight; but also because I’d seen the quicksand all along; but told myself it was a hot tub and jumped in anyway. Certainly couldn’t ask my folks for help. My grandparents busted butt for every dime they ever earned; they wanted a better life for me. Sacrificing health insurance so I could afford bigger car payments…ummm, no, not exactly what they had in mind. After years of dismissing their penny-pinching simple values as old fashioned and hokey, I was too humiliated to confess flaunting the hog had gotten me in over my head.

                Funny thing staying home during the day when you’re used to being at work: streets are tomb quiet, midafternoon sunlight pouring through the windows is headachy bright, and on TV, every commercial peddles the snake oil that’s gonna catapult you off your couch and back to success. During my pajama-wearing, cereal-eating slump of unemployment, I entertained the idea of becoming everything from court reporter to pastry chef; all while covertly devising a no-fail formula for winning both showcases on The Price Is Right. But once I fished through all the, “GET RICH! CHANGE YOUR LIFE! DIAL NOW!” boob-tube malarkey, I realized sometimes if too much stuff is blocking your path ahead, you’ve just gotta turn heels then head back the way you came. So, I sucked in a deep breath, picked up the phone and took a risk.

                Like a soft, faded blanket you tuck out of sight until you’re cold, the dream of being a hauler had always been in my closet. Preparing for my Commercial Driver’s License written exam I was worried about forgetting everything I’d studied. I’ve never been my best under pressure: my skin becomes jumpy prickles, and I overthink the simplest things. But taking the CDL test came easy and felt kinda magical, like that déjà vu’ feeling you get when you finally do something you’ve dreamed about. I tried to convince myself trucking wasn’t something I should want; that the image of a trucker: the clothes they wore, food they ate, and values they held, were in stark contrast to my own. But then I realized what almost destroyed me was buying into stereotypes. Heck with that!  It was high time I stopped putting on a show for the world, and paid attention to what the world was trying to show me.

                Outside Klein’s Truck Stop, a pale periwinkle sky foretells of the breaking dawn. The lethargic old men at the counter have lost interest in evaluating me; they’ve moved on to politics, and complaining about the weather. I knock back the last swig of truck-stop gold, and then stand to stretch my creaky bones. I rummage through my purse, pull out a bill, and drop it on the table. On my way out, I breeze past the counter making sure I’m close enough for the menfolk to get a whiff of my perfume. I flash them a pearly smile- the fellas nod at me, then smirk at each other with knowing looks. Really, think so boys? I chuckle to myself.

The chilled morning air feels fresh after sitting so long in the balmy diner. I stroll across the parking lot. A disheveled woman approaches to ask if I can spare any change. She’s made some bad choices, she says, but she’s trying to find her way back home. I tell her I can relate, place ten bucks in her palm, and wish her good luck. After checking air pressure in the tires, and doing a quick pre-trip inspection; I climb into the cab of my semi, and then fire up the engine. I’m on a turnaround to Shaky Town; got a five hour drive ahead of me; but should make it to Los Angeles this side of lunchtime.

The old men, from inside, swagger out towards their pickups. Rubbing their bloated stomachs; they cast wistful eyes over the packed lot; taking in the next generation: a convoy of the most diverse truckers in American history. (HELL YEAH! uh-huh, uh-huh) When they spot me warming up, they hoot and whistle; elbowing one another in the ribs. Old leather face removes his cap and dances into an exaggerated bow before me; the other shoots me a thumbs up. I smile back, giving them a long bellowing honk before pulling out onto the highway. I’m the invincible girl again.