Eighteen Horses

It was midnight. Lafayette, Louisiana. The GPS guided me to the truck stop. There were no empty spots. I drove a few more miles and found a Walmart parking lot with enough space for one more. It was lit up like high noon. What am I doing?

I was a chef at a Portuguese restaurant. I trained horses. Before that, I sold cars, credit card systems, took an online bartender course, helped manage a cigar shop. I could name dozens of jobs I've had over the past thirty years. They're all temporary. They are all a means to an end. Writing, recording, and playing concerts is the mystery drawing me. This has drawn me since I was twelve years old. I can't give up. It would be a grave act of betrayal.

I went back to college to finish my degree. It had been twenty-six years since my freshman year at Mississippi State. I was told a diploma would open up possibilities. I enrolled at Ole Miss. I liked being back in school. A history professor and I became good friends. I played guitar in his band for a while. I graduated with 3.2 GPA. I rewrote my résumé and sent it out. We waited. Crickets.

I decided to teach high school history. The exams I took to be certified were a breeze, with one exception. I took the math praxis four times. Even though I wasn't going to teach math, it kept me out of the profession. This was a blow to everything we'd been working on for the past two years. This was damn frustrating.

My wife kept seeing ads for a truck drivers. I checked into it. I spoke with drivers I came across near where we live. They all liked it. It seemed doable. I went to truck driving school in Tupelo and got my CDL. One week after graduating I was hired by a company out of Montana.

2

Yesterday was hell on eighteen wheels. Houston's off-ramp construction is a pain in the ass. The navigation system couldn't calculate every detour. It was dark. I was lost. It was pouring down rain. I could taste the anxiety in my mouth. I wanted a shower and sleep. Every truck stop was full. I was frustrated to the point of yelling at the navigation voice telling me once again to turn where there was no road. Cars flashed by in the dark like lightning bugs in a whirlwind.

3

Ron and I were hired and trained together in Conover, North Carolina. Everyone calls him Chief. He's from Houston, Mississippi. He spent twenty plus years in the Navy, and was a Chief Petty Officer. I've not heard a hard word from him toward anyone. His heart is good. He listens. Every now and then I call him and need to bitch and moan about something. After I finish, he usually helps me see the other side of the coin. It's good having each other to talk to.

4

Leonard Cohen died two days ago, on my birthday. I will remember him every year. His words and voice moved me deeply. His humility, honesty, and spiritual path was endearing. I hope St. John of the Cross met him in the halflight with open arms. Peace to you, Leonard.

Renee' and Wes took one of our cats, Lilly, to the vet today. She had to be put down. Her days had become too much for her to bare. I'm glad I'm a thousand miles away in San Antonio. I would have tried to save her again. She's always suffered some affliction. She must be Saint Lilly by now. Pray for us St. Lilly.

5

I've met many drivers who have no home. They have a post box, but no address. Their truck is their home. There is an underground world in America. Truck stops are the only portal through which one may sneak a peek. But even then, civilians can't venture into the private lounges, showers, and bathrooms behind the veil. These are men and women with bloodshot eyes, tireless determination, and who give great attention to details. There are Native-American, African-American, Asian-American, Latino-American, Scandinavian, Polish, Russian, German... All beliefs are represented, as well as those without belief.

I met a Russian woman in Chicago. She gave up modeling in Moscow to drive a truck in America. She chose it because of the demand. It was the easiest way to get a work visa. She said she wanted to see the real America.

I met Jeremy in El Paso. He'd been driving for thirty years. He was thin and wiry, resembling his wire-haired Jack Russell terrier sitting on his lap. He believed one hundred percent that Trump is either reptilian or alien. I didn't argue with him.

6

I've been in the Smoky Mountains the past three days. These mountains become shrouded in a silver mist every afternoon. The mist is cleaning the dust off my truck. There are fifty tractor-trailers parked here. All quiet, resting. Two big brown dogs play in the field beside me. Henryk Gorecki's Symphony number 3 is filling my cab. There's free coffee this Thanksgiving morning. I miss Renee' and Wes today, my mom, our dogs and cats.

7

10:00 PM.

If you hear something, call me.

I said this to Chief who was eleven hundred miles away in Florida.

What the hell are you gonna do if I hear something?

We both laughed.

We were talking the other day about our childhoods. I told him when I was a kid I played with G.I. Joe, Johnny West, and Geronimo. I asked him what he played with. He said,

A stick.

I almost drove off the road laughing.

8

I hit I-40 off of 177 coming from Tecumseh, Oklahoma. The rolling prairie reminds me of Ian Frazier's "The Great Planes." There are spirits out here. You can see them at dusk as you cross the Coosa River. I saw a man with face painted blue and white. He was speaking with a buffalo. They were standing on the red bank of the river, the setting sun behind them.

I rolled on for a few miles and came upon my destination for the night. The Gran Casino is located on the Potawatomi Nation. Most of Oklahoma is divided up into Sovereign Nations of those either forced here under Andrew Jackson's brutal Trail of Tears, or those already found in this region. I walk in the casino. As my eyes adjust, I see elderly folk sitting in silence, pulling handles, and pushing buttons. The U2 song "New Years Day" plays quietly over the sound system. It is January 1. Nothing changes on New Years Day.

9

4:30 AM. I have seven and a half hours to get to McCalla, Alabama. First, a hot shower. Second, breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, coffee, water with lemon. Third, Brush teeth. Fourth, pre-trip my tractor/trailer, make sure all is tight and secure. Leaving from Russellville AR. Thirty-two degrees. Adios.

10

I left Myrtle, Mississippi around 11:30 AM. I settled in for the four hundred and fifty miles in front of me. The "check engine fault" message appeared. Shit. Now I'm sitting in the driver lounge in West Memphis, Arkansas, waiting for my truck to be checked out. It was Sunday and football was on. The Patriots vs the Broncos. The lounge was partially full. The melting pot of races, men and women, lifers, and newbies like me. Tom Brady was being Tom Brady, and everyone was quietly watching the game. A very large fair-skinned man walked in and sat down. He seemed restless, shifting back and forth in his chair. He started commenting out loud about the game. A few others mumbled a response. I'm not sure how, but this led to him giving his views on everything from the minimum wage, to how Trump will make America great again. The lounge went from being a friendly, relaxing, quiet vibe, to a tense, uncomfortable room. A black man brought up that at least Obama got Bin Laden. The large man could not give Obama credit for anything positive. He lectured the black man that Rumsfeld was the reason Bin Laden was killed. Then the large man started attacking Hillary, out of the blue, for she had not been mentioned up to this point. The black man asked how the large man felt about Trump's "grabbing women by the pussy." Silence.

11

The wind takes some getting used to on these wide open planes. There's nothing stopping it till it gets to you. The fifty-three foot trailer reacts to gusts, it sways to the music. The huge front tires on the tractor, called the steers, hydroplane easily. You would think the weight would make it safer in the weather, but it doesn't. You have to drive it. You have to learn how to hold it steady.

12

I moved slowly through Atlanta in a thunderstorm. There were four wrecks in eight miles. A tractor-trailer was laying on its side in the median. The white Volvo hood was about ten feet beyond the trailer, dark with mud, and caked with chunks of yellow grass. The ambulance was just pulling away as I went by. I said a Hail Mary.

13

I drove all day in downtown Miami. It was December 7, Pearl Harbor Day, 86 degrees. I went through four T-shirts by 1:30 PM. Miami is not truck friendly. The streets are too narrow. Cars are parked everywhere. I was tired by 5:00. I had torn the bumper off of a parked car on my second delivery of the day. The policeman didn't give me a ticket. He said it was a simple mistake, and the car shouldn't have been parked there anyway. I thanked him, gave all the company's insurance info to the owner, apologized, and drove to the next stop. I had three to go to finish. I was worn out. There were no truck stops showing up on my GPS. I picked a Walmart parking lot thirty miles north. No shower tonight. The traffic was moving slowly, and I pulled up next to a another trucker. I motioned him to roll down his window.

Hey brother, do you know of any truck-stops near here?

Yea, It's called Seminole. Go twenty-two miles straight ahead and it's on the right. Great place!

I thanked him and hoped for a space.

It was exactly twenty-two miles on the right. It was an oasis in the desert. There was a tiki bar. There were plenty of spaces to park. After doing my post-trip, making sure the tractor and trailer were tight and secure, I walked to the bar. The sun was almost gone. The temperature was seventy-five degrees. A breeze rolled over me from the ocean not many miles away. I sat down on a barstool and Rosie asked what I would like. I drank an ice cold Ultra, ordered fish cooked in garlic broth, and took a long deep breath.

14

December 20, 2016. I'm at a bar in Stillwater, Oklahoma having breakfast. A Denver omelette with extra jalapeños. I'm at the Cowboy Travel Plaza. Hot coffee, hot shower, hot breakfast, a warm vibe.

Mike introduces himself. He's a regular. He was born in San Diego, raised here. He has a kind, weathered face. He has a stoic gentleness, a sense of melancholic remorse. Does the subconscious of this place vibrate from the ground? The Southeastern tribes forced here by Andrew Jackson are still here. The determination of the pioneers still here. These voices still settle in the wind.

Like the haunted voices of my befuddling Mississippi still make speeches in the humidity of another damn hot day.

Oklahoma and Mississippi, still haunted by manifest destiny.

We are still here. Where else would we go? I wonder who will take all of this from us one day. It will happen. It always does.

15

I acquired XM radio for the truck. Willie's Roadhouse is on. Every song reminds me of growing up. Every song reminds me what country music used to be. Ray Price is singing "These Four Walls." Country music used to be poetry. Haggard, Cash, Willie, Waylon. "Sunday Morning Coming Down" Johnny Cash. 7:09 AM. Sunday, Woodward, Oklahoma. Twenty-nine degrees.

16

Back in Oxford for Christmas, I meet a friend while walking on the square.

Good to see you. I see your pics from the road. What's it like out there?

Sobering, exciting, enlightening, baffling, boring. It's all of it.

I ask about his business. He says it's bad. More money going out each month than coming in. Oxford is known for its small business casualties. His business was a favorite since it opened. He focused on original, local singers/songwriters. Oxford could be so much more. It's frustrating.

17

The Huddle House off Route 66 is quiet this morning. All the barstools are turned at a 45-degree angle, waiting for an ass to slide in. I slide in to the one on the end in front of the medium-sized flatscreen. 4:45 in the morning, and only one other trucker is in here. He's in a booth behind me. I don't see a waitress or a cook. The weather girl for the local channel is pointing to temps unusually high for this time of year. She and her co-anchor are dressed in royal blue dresses. The waitress, wearing a red Huddle House shirt, appears from the back and apologizes.

I'm sorry dear, have you been waiting long?

I assure her I have not, and that I'm in no hurry. She brings me a water. She has long blonde hair, and looks to be in her fifties.

Where you off to today honey?

Tecumseh, Ada, Ardmore, and Lawton.

She thinks for a second,

I know where Ada, Ardmore, and Lawton is, but not Tecumseh.

She speaks to the driver in the booth behind me.

Hey baby, you know where Tecumseh is?

He lowers the white mug of coffee.

I don't. I'm from Illinois.

She seems perplexed.

I'm born and raised here, I oughta know. Hell, darlin, I'll Google it. How did we ever get by a minute without Google?

I order the meat lover's omelette.

Good choice, sweetheart. Ray makes a mean meat lover's.

18

Oklahoma might be more cowboy than Texas. There's a wild spirit out here. A sense of loneliness mixed with mystery. Native America. There's a wildness here in the wind. People take on characteristics of the place they live and breathe.

Mississippi is not wild. Not this kind of wild. In Oxford people move slowly, carefully, in a haze. The short winters make us bear-like. We hibernate, waiting on the heat gods to wake us to our slow smoldering selves.

19

I drove six hundred miles today in a cold rain, stopping seven times to unload furniture. Now, I'm in the bunk. I sleep every night in a five by seven compartment. Above me is the second bunk. I use it as a closet. Coats, blankets, accessories. By the time I find a place to park every night, I'm worn out. I could sleep in a whirlwind. Tonight I'm sleeping in a whirlwind in Choctaw, Oklahoma. The wind is gusting at fifty miles an hour. It feels as if my rig will turn over at any moment.

20

"It's amazing we get anything delivered at all!"—Chief

Yesterday I was at mile marker 183 on Interstate 40 headed to Memphis. BAM!!! It sounded like a balloon was popped next to my head. At 65 mph, there was nothing I could do but drive. I looked around, up and down, around the cab. I didn't see anything. What the hell? Then I looked up at the sun roof... I saw the crack. The size of the bottom of a six ounce coke bottle. Perfectly round. That's what it's like out here. Things happen. Sometimes it's dangerous, out of your control. You just keep going.

21

It's been a couple of weeks since I've written anything. I've been dry. Chopping wood, carrying water. One hand clapping. You live in the moment, in the mile. The weather changes. In Oklahoma, the wind never stops blowing. This is a warm winter. I've seen many wrecks. Slow down, everyone.

22

Trump is president. Today, he put the Dakota pipeline back in production. Fuck their clean water! America's war against the Native people continues. We justify anything for profit.

23

I'm back in Oxford. I retired from truck driving after fifteen months. It was a wild time. It was a lonely time. It's what I had to do. I wrote some poems/lyrics that otherwise would not exist. I wrote this journal. It was worth it. You sit up high. You see the land in a way you've never seen it before. I saw sunsets and sunrises I could never describe.

The music continues.