FanStory.com - truckin, Ch.8 by Wayne Fowler

In the last part Clyde rigged up an electronic jamming device in an F150 pickup truck. He continued sidelining truckers.

Chapter 8

First Thurmon noticed a drop in his speed. Checking his mirrors, something every good trucker does every several seconds, he saw flashing headlights and then smoke. Signaling his move, Thurmon gradually moved onto the shoulder of the road as far as he felt safe. After engaging his four-way flashers, he exited the truck to do a quick-around survey. It didn’t take long to discover that the brakes on a rear dual had locked, destroying two tires.

After placing his safety triangles twenty-five and fifty yards behind his rig, he again called his company road service as well as his supervisor, again grateful that he wasn’t a private contractor and on his own. He called Sara while he waited. “No, no hon. It wasn’t the truck killer. Yes, I’m sure. It was the brakes. No, he couldn’t do that. It was the stupid trucker who hauled this trailer last. He should have known to red-tag the trailer. Or somebody at dispatch who should have followed the maintenance schedule and had this trailer checked. That’s usually the problem."

Thurmon continued, “I know, hon. This is two trips in a row. But it’s been tires – or brakes – both times. It’s not like I ran out of fuel, or did anything. I don’t think they’ll hold it against me. I got my ten-year accident-free pin, remember? That should mean something to them. Don’t get upset. It’ll be all right.

“Yes, hon. I’m watching for him. A gun or rifle sticking out a window should be pretty easy to see, but nobody has yet, far as I know. He’ll get caught.

“Okay, darlin’," Thurmon said. "Next time I’m home I’ll go around and see what I can do driving locally, the cement company or something. It’s only about half pay, but then you could get a job and we’d be about the same."

"But day care and transporting the kids..." Sara injected.

“Yeah, except for that, takin’ care of the kids," Thirmon agreed.

“I love you, too Sara. I’m squeezing’ you right now. I love you.”

“Oh, Thurm! I forgot to ask you about all the wrecks. Have you heard any news?”

“Yeah, but what do you mean?”

“Well, I saw a report, I don’t know Frontline, or 20-20, I don’t know, about, and it’s all over the country. Cars are letting trucks hit them. There was a lot of cell phone footage. It’s like car drivers are protesting, not yielding, or getting out of the way of trucks that need more room, merging especially. They think car drivers are being incentivized by the Turnpike guy.”

“Maybe, hon, maybe. I’ll be extra cautious, okay?”

“Okay, please do. Please, for us. I love you.”

“I love you!”

Thurmon ended the call and checked his mirrors, knowing that his observations during the call were less than perfect.

The truth was that local drivers received about two-thirds the pay of OTR, over-the-road, drivers, but only those working for the larger corporations. Those gigs were few and far between, often secured by references from those already employed.

A mobile mechanic was able to fix the brakes, “At least temporarily,” he said.

+++

At maybe two miles per hour faster than the truck ahead, Thurmon crept up on a furniture hauler. Every trucker knew that furniture and mail were light loads. They would never approach maximum weight limits. Mail trucks rarely traveled more than a day’s drive distance. Furniture trucks, though, often crossed the country. This furniture truck was moving along at a steady seventy-eight miles per hour in the posted eighty-mile-an-hour limit zone. It was a bit faster than Thurmon normally drove, but after catching him on a downhill grade, Thurmon found the sweet drafting spot, a distance of about seventy or eighty feet behind where he could benefit from the furniture truck slicing the wind for him, but still get sufficient air to his radiator, keeping his engine cool. At that distance, he could easily save ten percent or more on fuel burned.

Traffic was medium, over-easy, as he liked to say. After about an hour of drafting, Thurmon began to imagine his truck stop a couple hours ahead – a hot meal, a hot shower, and level, fairly quiet sleeping. He remembered many times arriving at various truck stops only to find all parking spots occupied. He checked his mirrors, put on his blinker, and edged to the passing lane. Wham! The full force of the westerly wind slammed him head-on. He immediately lost his acceleration. He felt himself the fool as he timidly returned to the right lane while a stream of cars passed him. Thurmon imagined all the four-wheelers laughing at him. He also imagined the furniture trucker getting the last parking spot, the last of the chicken fried steak meals, and the last of the hot water. He prayed to God that none of his family would call him just then. He did not want to bite anyone’s head off.

+++

At truck stops Thurmon heard the chatter about sending money for a bounty on the truck killer. Some talked about patrolling truck stops and rest stops as trucker protection. Thurmon didn’t say anything, but couldn’t find any way to imagine what those men expected to find – some fiend carrying a gun and shooting tires in the parking lot? Or stabbing and slashing tires? Or a crazed Jack Nicholson like in the movie The Shining, or Michael Douglas in Falling Down where a man goes off on a terror rage. Or maybe a version of the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, a man on a vendetta.

Thurmon leaned toward the latter. (One radio news report sometime after the hundredth likely targeted truck that the FBI was getting involved, beginning with searching databases for fatality accidents.) The trouble was that there were thousands of them, especially if investigators went back a few years.

+++

Fortunate for Clyde, the incident involving Jane Ann was never listed as a vehicle accident.

+++

“Dad, what will they do with the truck killer?” Nate held onto the baseball they’d been playing catch with as he waited for Thurmon’s response. “Will they execute him?”

Thurmon smiled, waving his glove indicating that Nate should throw the ball. “Nah. He hasn’t hurt anyone. Just messed with them.”

“He’s a terrorist, I heard.”

Thurmon nodded. “Yeah, I could see some thinking that. But what would you do if you knew that a delivery driver, say UPS, ran over and killed Susan?” Thinking fast, Thurmon amended his question. “Or your mom?”

Nate’s next throw was far off target, making Thurmon run for it. He figured he’d made his son think. “The thing is… he hasn’t actually hurt anyone. He’s mad, but maybe not crazy. It’s way more than somebody mad at being cut off, but… I don’t know, Nate. I’m just worried about copycats, people who don’t have themselves in as good a control as the truck killer.”

“What would you do with him if you could catch him?”

After a moment Thurmon replied, “I’d want to talk to him, find out what happened, and how we could make it right.”

+++

Sara knew not to call Thurmon unless it was an emergency. The kids, though, had yet to completely grasp what constituted an emergency. And being home only one week after three on the road, normally anyway, made Thurmon miss them enough to not complain, or object. Each family member had a different ring. Thurmon had learned that he needed to take Sara’s or Nate’s calls. (Nathan being a very responsible twelve-year-old, no matter how dicey the traffic.) Susan’s call could go to voice mail if traffic was too hectic. He always returned calls as quickly as he could.

“What’s up, Nate?” Thurmon answered.

“Oh, nothin’.”

His son’s tone made Thurmon wish he was there with him. “Your sister pestering you again?” Thurmon asked as he checked his mirrors, knowing how distracting talking with his kids could be.

“Nah. It’s Coach Nelson. He’s such a jerk.”

Thurmon wanted to bust Nelson in the mouth. Blinking back tears of frustration, he asked what was going on.

“He has his favorites, but since I’m an outfielder I get to play some, most games, I guess. It’s just that whenever a kid’s dad is there Coach always puts him in for the whole game instead of, you know, subbin’.”

Thurmon often wished he could be home: special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries, school pageants… and Little League games. And then there was the issue of the lawn growing to jungle stage before he could get home and take care of it. Sara and Nate did their best, but sometimes the half acre was more than they could handle. And in the winter there was snow and ice. Thurmon hated knowing that Sara’s habit was to only scrape the minimum, letting the defroster take off the ice necessary for safe driving. He should be there to properly parent his kids, and husband his wife. That night’s rest on a freeway off-ramp did not meet his body’s needs. He paid the price the next day.