FanStory.com - Truckin, Ch 13by Wayne Fowler

In the last part Clyde watched a television segment of the PBS News Hour in which he was featured as Judy Woodruff interviewed trucking company CEOs. Only one chapter remaining.

Chapter 13

Clyde was unpersuaded, wishing he’d seen Judy’s interview with the FBI. He did acknowledge that perhaps J. D. Trucking drivers might be offered slack, at least the benefit of the doubt. As with every interview he remembered watching with Jane Ann, he wished they’d gone into more depth, especially concerning drivers’ bad driving. And he certainly didn’t care for McNeely’s terrorized comment, though he struggled to come up with a better term. But what good would it do for a 70mph governed truck pulling out to pass another governed truck and then hit a headwind, effectively slowing it to match the speed of the one he attempted to pass?

Shaking his head, he wondered whether he should return home. Waylaying trucks had become rote, almost so routine that there was little excitement, little adrenaline production. Clyde worried that his lax performance also meant lax diligence, attention to detail. Was he being as cautious of the surroundings as he ought? He replayed the scene of his latest event. The driver’s window was down. Why? Was his A/C out? Or did the driver have in mind to shoot Clyde’s truck? Maybe he thought Clyde had to hover, or linger, in order to kill the rig’s brain. Maybe he didn’t time it right, otherwise Clyde would already be either stopped himself, or sporting an unexplained bullet hole.

Had Clyde seen the FBI interview that PBS aired, he would have learned that they had narrowed the search to his state: no front license plate and matching date and location patterns. Also, they had accurately identified him as Caucasian, about five foot nine, a hundred and fifty pounds (light there, but …), a beard and mustache that came and went, and probably free of arm tattoos. He was chagrined to note that his efforts of applying temporary tattoos were less than effective. Clyde would also have seen the FBI map that indicated his infrequency of New England states, and total neglect of Florida. He wondered how mad the governor of Florida might have been for the FBI to draw that to his attention. Clyde would have also discovered that they had accurately calculated that he lived in one of four midwestern states. He would have responded to the New England failure based on the difficulty of isolating bad drivers.

He was perturbed in a confused way. He painstakingly ventured into Florida specifically to score hits in that state. Why were they not credited? But then he caught himself, why did that disturb him? Why did it matter that he wasn't accredited with all his kills? Clyde recognized that pride might have entered the fray. And that it was misplaced: he should be happier that he was not suspected, or at least not reported.

Clyde would also have been surprised to learn that he’d never, in all this time, taken out a truck on a Saturday, causing the authorities to conjure that he was Jewish, but ignoring the issue of whether a devout Jew would kill trucks - Sabbath or no Sabbath. "Surely he had , but the'd gone unreported," he thought.

He would have been pleased to hear that Xarious Trucking had been taking the brunt of the hits. And further pleased to know that the NewsHour had requested Xarious to participate in the show, but that they had declined.

+++

When Thurmon reported for work following his week off, he was handed a company handout focusing on who was being referred to as the Turnpike Terrorist. The best information available was that hundreds of trucks had been taken out of commission for various lengths of time, costing the trucking companies thousands of dollars. Still, though, there were no reports of injury.

At the bottom of the notice was a bullet point list of driving practices that the company was concerned about. All of them aimed toward common courtesy, many of which were codified into the law.

    The list included:
•    Not passing unless the move could be completed within a mile
•    Prompt return to the right lane
•    Signaling and changing lanes only with certainty that other vehicles would not be required to brake
•    Changing lanes for merging traffic only when absolutely necessary to avoid collision
•    Entering freeways at unacceptably low speeds after stopping on onramps. That bullet point included a recommendation to use off-ramps for rest stops when necessary.

The handout also included industry-wide statistics of collision injury, damages, and lawsuit indemnification awards. Total payments reached the hundreds of millions of dollars.

Thurmon thought that the trouble with the off-ramp point was that after discovering a parking lot was full, it was too late to return to the off-ramp.

The Company promised two things: bonuses at year-end for an accident-free year. What was new was that it included blown tires attributed to the Turnpike Terrorist. Additionally, they promised to work with the states and the federal Government to immediately increase parking spaces in rest stops, as well as to build some at weigh stations. They would also work to build new rest stops exclusively for trucks.

Thurmon was encouraged.

+++

“Hey, Brake.”

“Thurmon.”

Thurmon was about to climb into his rig, having already performed the outside safety check when a driver nicknamed Brake thumped the tires of a rig parked beside Thurmon’s. “Hey Brake? I never heard how you got your name.” Thurmon turned to Brake, getting his full attention.

Brake threw up his hands, gesturing wildly. Then he pointed to the office building. “Clowns in maintenance thought I wrote up too many trailers for defective brakes.”

“Most of ‘em are,” Thurmon said, repeating a theme throughout the craft.

“Yeah, well… So you watchin’ for green cars?”

“Nah. I think the guy traded vehicles a buncha times. Or painted it. Most’re sayin’ he’s in a white pickup.”

“I heard a copycat got slammed. Some guy stuck a gun out the window and the trucker put him into a guard rail.”

“Was it…?

Brake shook his head, interrupting Thurmon. “Was a pellet gun. Wouldn’t have broken skin. But the dude was charged with terroristic threatening. Prob’ly get a year in the pen.”

Thurmon nodded understanding and agreement with Brake’s obvious delight. “Well, happy trails,” Thurmon said, repeating Roy Rogers and Dale Evans theme as he waved before climbing into his rig.

+++

“He’s changed vehicles again.” Thurmon was in conversation with Sara, his wife.

“How do you know?” Sara asked.

“Uh… I don’t know. I just feel it. That’s what I’d do. I’d get into a white F150 pickup. Big enough to see what’s around, and about the most common truck out there.”

“I don’t think I like how you’re thinking,” Sara teased, “You sure you don’t have a secret life? But I think you’re right. Then the news said that there’s a mysterious rash of electrical problems with trucks. And it costs hundreds of dollars to fix.”

“Well, he needs to get away from a gun. That will get him life in prison.”

“Attempted murder,” Sara responded. “They would charge him with trying to kill truckers because he could. It could happen.”

“Or bystanders,” Thurmon added.

“I know you’re bein’ careful… aren’t you?”

“Of course, darlin’. I think that drivers who exercise courtesy are safe. There’s a million of us out here…”

“And only a few bad drivers spoil it for everyone.”

“Only I’m afraid there’s more than a few bad drivers. The thing is, though, we might have a thousand encounters everyday. And if we do the right thing, make the right move 99 percent of the time, that still leaves ten very angry car drivers who might catch road rage.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hundred, or never mind. You know I hate math.”

“Imagine a surgeon. If in a hour-long surgery he had a hundred different things to do and he had a 99 percent right move rate… Well, he’d kill his patient every single time with the one wrong move, one out the hundred.”

“You’re scarin’ me, hon. Nobody’s a hundred percent all the time. Even you could make somebody mad at least once a day. What if it was him?”

“Sorry, Sare. I shouldn’t a said all that.”

“The Golden Rule, right?” Sara said.

“Do unto others,” Thurmon replied.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you. I took the kids to Sunday School last week instead of lettin’ the church bus come get ‘em.”

“Yeah?” Thurmon’s voice had an uplifting tilt.

“Yeah. And they both decided to include you, your safety, in saying grace before meals."

Thurmon blinked back tears, nearly choking on his words. Finally, he managed, “Tell them I love them. And I’ll see you all next week.”

“Six days,” Sara corrected. “I love you.”

“I love you!”

After completing the call, Thurmon counted three white F150s in close proximity. He called Sara back. “Sara, hon…”
“Yeah,” Sara replied, trepidation in her tone.

“Ask the kids to pray for the Turnpike Terrorist too, okay?”

Choking, Sara barely got her agreement through her constricting airway.