FanStory.com - Truckin, Ch 9by Wayne Fowler

In the last part we learn more of truckers’ lives and struggles.

Chapter 9

“Breaker one nine.” Thurmon didn’t often use his CB radio, but he kept it turned on low enough not to disturb Willie Nelson or the chirping of his phone. Earbuds helped, and also helped squelch B radio chatter. Breaker one nine was somehow programmed into his psyche, a phrase generally reserved for a notice from a fellow trucker of pertinent, if not invaluable information: a wreck, police, lane closures, things that directly related to driving.

Channel nineteen was exclusively a trucker’s channel. Breaker one nine was code that all conversations should stop, allowing the floor to the breaking into speaker.

“Breaker one nine. Forty marker 126 eastbound.” Every trucker knew that the speaker was referring to U.S. I-40, mile marker 126 in the eastbound lanes. There was never any confusion as to which state, even if near state lines since all measuring began on the west entry, counting up from the west and down from the east.

“Smokies surrounding a silver four-wheeler. Might be our shooter.” The speaker’s saying shooter mimicked most who continued to refer to the Turnpike Terrorist as using a gun.

It had been months since Clyde’s first verified tire kill. After dozens such incidents, the word began to spread until most nationwide trucking firms broadcast bulletins to their drivers. And like Jesse James, nearly every side-lined truck was attributed to the truck killer, as Clyde began to be referred to. The fact that hundreds and thousands of miles separated incidents did not affect attributions to Clyde’s reputation, though no one had yet correctly identified him.

Clyde’s electronic wizardry had yet to be identified.

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But the attention did nothing to change driving behaviors. It seemed to both Thurmon, and Clyde, though Clyde was unaware of trucking company notices to their drivers, that if there was any change in practices, it was for the worse, not the better.

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Thurmon was in the right-most lane that his trucker GPS, Global Positioning System, recommended for navigation through the construction-fraught Oklahoma City. Trucker’s GPS was a Godsend. Every trucker bought one version, or another. Most trucking companies, as did Thurmon’s, required drivers to purchase their own. Thurmon’s was the middle-of-the-road, average version. It had lane indicating, and overpass heights, but did not allow him to enter his truck height, nor did it have real-time traffic updates. Thurmon was grateful not to miss turns, misses that could cost hours and money.

It was the middle of the weekday afternoon, and traffic was traveling at seventy miles per hour, nearly bumper-to-bumper. To his left, he watched a pickup truck, obviously a private lawncare individual since it carried several pieces of equipment, but lacked business signage. What drew Thurmon’s attention was the fact that the tailgate was down. Crazy. Who would not secure the tailgate? Thurmon surmised that it came open at one of the many potholes in the road, what with the construction and all. But with any degree of awareness, the driver should have seen his problem.

Sure enough, as the pickup hit a bump, a leaf blower bounced out of the bed, landing on the road just ahead of the following vehicle. Evidently aware of the potential hazard, that driver quickly swerved to avoid the wreck-causing obstacle, but just as quickly swerved back, avoiding any collision. The close-following car behind that one jammed on its brakes, but quickly accelerated just in time not to be rear-ended. Between the first and second cars, the leaf blower made it to the inside shoulder, coming to a stop at a concrete barrier. Catastrophe averted, Thurmon took a breath, not realizing that he’d been holding it.

“Not all four-wheelers are operated by bone-headed, cell-phone-glued, mouth-breathers,” he told himself.

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“Dad, Susan took my baseball. My Sabertooth ball.”

Thurmon knew that it was a big deal. He’d been able to take Nate to a professional baseball game, the state’s Sabertooth team against their biggest rivals. Nate was lucky enough to snag a homerun ball. Thurmon stopped at a local sporting goods store on the way home to get an acceptable trophy display case, an acrylic box. In a couple years he would take Susan.

“Where’s your mom?” Thurmon asked.

“Walmart. I’m babysitting.”

Thurmon knew that it was perfectly fine for twelve-year-old Nate to watch seven-year-old Susan for the time it would take Sara to shop. “Put Susan on.”

“SUSAN!”

Thurmon could hear his daughter’s bellow, “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” Thurmon caught himself, instinctively grabbing his airbrakes, slowing his load, then his foot brakes and engine brakes, commonly known as jake brakes, for the tractor. He’d failed to notice that the string of vehicles in front of him had begun to slow down. The pickup truck pulling a car hauler directly in front of him did not use its brakes, but simply let off the gas, slowing dramatically. Slowing in such a manner, the brake lights never activated. Followers were not given any warning of what was happening. Thurmon hoped that nothing inside his trailer shifted and broke with his sudden, emergency braking. “How hard would it have been for the pickup driver to just touch his brake pedal?” Thurmon complained to himself.

“Tell your mother to call me,” Thurmon said too tersely, immediately sorry for his tone. But it was too late. He knew that he’d hurt his son’s feelings with his tone. He wished that he could take it back, that he’d asked Nate to take the phone to Susan. He wished he was home.

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“Breaker one nine. A silver four-wheeler approaching a red tractor trailer 40 somewhere around marker 300 westbound.” Thurmon was hearing dozens of such reports a day. He was beginning to ignore them. Many reports were in such conflict that they were becoming a nuisance.

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The truth was that by this date, Clyde had already hunted successfully with a different color car, but had already progressed to his F150 using his electronics-jamming ray gun.

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“One last item,” the television news reporter said. “A new twist to the Turnpike Terrorist. It would seem that the tire-shooter has gone hi-tech. After weeks without shot-out tires, the Terror of the Turnpikes can now, evidently, disable not only vehicles but communication devices, as well. Motorists are cautioned to be aware, and to call this special FBI phone number available twenty-four hours a day with any information leading to stopping this terror.”

Clyde was furious. He was not a terrorist. And the way it was presented, he was a danger to all travelers. “Trucks! Big-rig trucks. They were his only targets. Why didn’t they say that? Why didn’t they say he only hit the inconsiderate, traffic law violators?” he said to the TV.

The ad that followed caught Clyde’s attention.

“We only hire considerate drivers, but we reward them for their dedication to rules of the road and the ideals of basic courtesy. Join our family of safe, and friendly drivers here at J. D. Trucking, America’s delivery family. And we don’t hesitate to let go those identified as unfriendly, inconsiderate, or unkind.”

“Hah,” Clyde said aloud to the tiny flat-screen TV. “Family, family and America! How blatant can you get? Appeal to family values and patriotism. Hah!”

Cleaning up after his early supper of microwave popcorn and a lukewarm juice drink while reflecting on the ad, Clyde realized that he had only stopped one or two J. D. trucks in his entire time. Clyde paused. “But wait. That last part, delivered in a near whisper. That was a direct message to him, the Terror of the Turnpike, a name no doubt invented by a New York City reporter. J. D. was asking him to lay off their trucks. Report a bad driver, and he would be taken seriously. He’d done that in the past, years in the past. How’s my driving? Call 555-123-4567. He did. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll call the driver right away.” Who knows whether or not they did? One thing for sure, Clyde would not be making any calls that might identify himself. Surely the FBI would be doing searches and making visits. And it wouldn’t do to be away from home for periods that they could tie to incidents. Clyde had a cell phone, but only for the extreme emergency. Should he, for any reason, cause a wreck, he would immediately call for help. But mostly, he used it for the maps feature, keeping the battery out of the phone except when he wanted to power up for a moment. Usually, though, he was able to navigate quite well with a map book. Back when he and Jane Ann traveled, they truly appreciated the lady in the phone offering right or left-lane advisements. She was a life-saver. But now, if he mistakenly found himself headed the wrong way on the wrong road, who was to care? Maybe it would be for the best, the highway choosing his randomness for him.

“Hmmm, J. D. Trucking… he might find his way to cut them slack.