Coming Around Again May 2007 - Pennsylvania is one of my favorite states in which to drive. It is a beautiful part of the country with well-maintained roads, decent speed limits, and a minimal number of weigh stations. In short, it is a truck driver’s dream. The beauty of the rolling hills and valleys has never been more awe-inspiring than when there is a fresh blanket of snow on the ground as there was this day. The sun was making its first appearance of the day, as I sat gazing through the restaurant window at the fresh snow that had fallen during the night. The scenery outside the window reminded me of a holiday greeting card, replete with tree limbs glistening with frosty icicles, and a pristine “White Christmas” panorama. There were no sounds of sleigh bells, however. Instead, there were sounds of diesel engines rumbling in counterpoint to each other in a throaty chorus, warming up for another day of hauling freight across country. Glancing toward the right of the window, I watched as big trucks lined up at the fuel pumps, their drivers readying themselves for the long day ahead. The reflection staring back at me in the glass suddenly caught my eye as I gazed back in wonderment. Is that really me? The face before me in the window was not the face that I had lived with most of my life. This was a different face. This face had evolved slowly and deliberately over the past three years. Through the religious use of hormones, multiple surgeries, and over a hundred hours of electrolysis, this face was the product of diligence and persistence. The woman gazing back at me in the window had soft skin with flowing blond hair. Yes, I assured myself, the woman in the reflection was really me! The sight of another reflection silently emerging in the glass above my own interrupted my reverie. I turned my head and was startled to see a waitress standing at my table. One hand held a glass coffeepot, the other a menu. She smiled warmly as she laid the menu on the table and spoke. “Good morning ma’am. Would you like some coffee?” I quickly flipped over the upside down coffee cup on the saucer, and nodded enthusiastically. She skillfully filled my cup without spilling a drop, despite the fact that I was already moving the cup to my face as she poured. I took several gulps before placing the empty cup back on the saucer. She deftly refilled my cup with a practiced hand that comes only with many nights of refueling the caffeine needs of hundreds of truck drivers. “Thank you, dear.” I smiled while sipping the coffee. I set the cup down. She topped it off once more. I was already growing fond of this waitress. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order and to refill your coffee hon.” I looked at her name tag and responded with a wry smile, “Thank you Jacqui, you can just leave the coffeepot.” Jacqui laughed. I didn’t. I sipped my coffee as I once again gazed through the window. The sun was now in full bloom as the truck stop slowly came alive with activity. Trucks coming and going refueled their tanks to head back onto Interstate 80. The restaurant was nearly full. The travel center was now busy with idling motorists and truck drivers waiting for showers. Sitting down for breakfast in a truck stop restaurant had become a rare treat for me. My normal routine was to start out earlier than most, leaving between two or three am while eating on the run. That way I could get six or seven-hundred miles behind me before three or four in the afternoon, to be early enough to find a parking spot at the next truck stop. I was usually pretty lucky. By 5:00 pm, most truck stops already filled up making it much more difficult to find a spot. I had left Allentown at 4:00 am, and made it as far as Mifflinville, on Interstate 80, when my number sixteen tire blew out. I barely heard a burp in my cab, but to anyone who may have had the misfortune of riding along beside me, it would have seemed like the equivalent of a nuclear bomb going off. To my good fortune, the Bloomsburg Travel Centers of America (TA) was only about ten miles ahead on exit 232, which I easily made on my remaining seventeen wheels. The repair shop informed me it would be at least two hours before they could get me back on the road. Jacqui returned with coffeepot in hand, as I emptied my cup. She did not miss a beat, refilling it the second I set it down, asking, “Are you ready to order?” I had not even looked at the menu, but I knew what I wanted, “Eggs up easy, crisp bacon, hash browns, and sourdough toast.” “You got it, hon.” Before I could respond, Jacqui had spun around to fill the cup of a male driver sitting in the booth across from me. She disappeared, only to reappear merely seconds later, as she swiftly took his order while on her way to the kitchen. I decided to head over to the travel center to kill some time while waiting for my breakfast to arrive. As I slid out of my booth and straightened my clothing, the man in the adjacent booth surveyed me from head to toe. His teeth were on the table next to his coffee cup and he nodded his approval with a toothless grin. I feigned a smile as I walked toward the travel center near the restaurant entrance. Nearby was a small alcove containing an arcade. Truck drivers, and the occasional road weary motorist, could stop there to relieve, or add to their road stress. Several men were busy shooting electronic geese, driving race cars, or destroying planets. A chorus of beeps, boops, sirens, blasts, explosions, and crashes tumbled aloud from the arcade, accompanied by moans and screams of profanity as the ducks flew away unharmed, race cars crashed, and alien planets fought back. Beyond the arcade was the travel center, where drivers waited in line to complete fuel transactions, purchase showers, cash checks, and stock up on energy drinks, chips, and other unhealthy snacks. Every truck stop in the country has a travel center, which is akin to a convenience store geared toward truckers. Here, one can find anything from mud flaps to Oreos. Many of them, appointed with fast food outlets such as Wendy’s, McDonalds, and Subway, even sell beer and wine. It was the day before Mother’s Day, and I discovered a stand-up cardboard display of Mother’s Day cards at the front of the travel center. I browsed through the cards for a moment, then turned my attention to a bin filled with refrigerator magnets and other novelty items that might possibly pass as Mother’s Day gifts. I found a rack displaying plaques with various clever sayings on them, such as Mother of the Year and World’s Greatest Mom. I settled on a miniature car license plate emblazoned with the simple word: MOM. My breakfast was on the table when I returned with my MOM license plate. In the brief time I had been gone, the man across from me had somehow managed to devour his breakfast, and now sipped his coffee, as he worked on his logbook. He looked up at me and nodded as I slid back into my seat. Jacqui appeared from nowhere with a new pot of coffee to freshen my cup. “Does everything look okay?” asked the waitress. Business in the restaurant had slowed down, so Jacqui had a little more time to socialize with the remaining customers. I nodded approvingly, ”My mother’s name was Jackie,” I commented as I buttered my toast. ”Actually Jacqueline, but she was known as Jackie.” “My full name is Jacqueline too,” she replied, “but everyone just calls me Jackie. I spell it J-A-C-Q-U-I though.” I resisted the temptation to point out that I had already figured that out, by reading her name tag, but instead nodded politely, lifting my cup for another sip of coffee, ”My name is Pam.” “Nice to meet you Pam.” Jacqui replied, as she surreptitiously laid my check on the table, then scurried away to tend to a frantically waving customer. It did not take long for me to eat my breakfast. I glanced at the time on my cell phone, as I chewed on my last piece of bacon, pushing the empty plate to the other side of the table. It was now 6:20 am. I had no idea how long I would be here before the shop replaced the tire on my trailer. My load was due in Chicago tomorrow morning. I had originally hoped to make it to Gary, Indiana by the end of today where I could shut down at the TA there. Gary is six hundred fifteen miles from Bloomsburg. Now I would probably have to shut down in Angola, Indiana instead, allowing me to continue to Chicago early in the morning. “Where you heading, pretty lady?” The sound of my two favorite words interrupted my thoughts. I glanced across the aisle at the man in the adjacent booth. Thankfully, his teeth were back in his mouth. “Chicago.” I smiled at him. He was grossly overweight and horribly out of shape, as many truck drivers are. A driver sitting behind the wheel of a truck eleven hours a day, with little to no exercise, while living on a diet of mainly junk food, tends to take its toll on their body. I shuddered at the notion of doing this for the rest of my life. “Chicago? Good grief, girl! What did you do to piss off your dispatcher?” he chortled. It’s no secret that most truck drivers dislike having to deliver to Chicago. “Actually, I requested this run to Chicago. I have some unfinished business there and I wanted to get there one last time before I finish driving.” I hoped he would leave it that. “Finish driving? Nobody finishes driving until they die. Once you get into this rat race, you can never get out,” he laughed. “Well, I am finished,” I responded curtly. ”I’ve been driving over the road for nearly three years and I’ve had enough! After this run to Chicago I have one more load to Los Angeles and I’m done for good.” “Young lady, what are you going to do when you quit driving? Make babies?” I smiled. He was doing a good job of using the magic words, albeit unwittingly. “I’m going back to college to get my legal degree. I‘m going to be a paralegal.” “What the hell is a pair a legal? Two lawyers?” He laughed so hard the table shook from his fat belly, as a small-scale earthquake in progress. The sound of the PA system paging me saved me. I laid a ten on top of my check and quickly slid out of the booth to work my way to the repair shop. “My name is Hoppy” he said and extended his right hand from where he sat in the booth. “I’m Pam.” I placed my hand into his and clasped it gently. “Drive safe young lady. I hear there’s a spring snow storm heading that way.” I could sense his sincerity and was genuinely grateful for his concern for my safety. “Thank you, I will. And you do the same.” I smiled warmly as I walked away. He was a nice old man. He flicked his hand at me, ”After thirty years of this, I don’t even think about it anymore. All I do is crawl behind the wheel and aim.” He laughed heartily as I departed. Jacqui waved at me from across the room at the waitress station and I waved back. The shop stood apart from the travel center and restaurant, so I had to go outside and walk across the fuel lanes to get to it. It was now 6:45 am and the sun was just beginning to warm things up. A brisk wind made the light powdering of snow from during the night swirl around my feet in tiny dervishes. I spotted my truck, BJ, in the parking lot as I entered the shop. “You’re all set driver.” The shop attendant handed me the invoice to sign. People routinely refer to truck drivers as driver. I would have preferred that he called me ma’am. I signed the invoice, sliding it across the counter to him. “So, why did you name your truck BJ? We’ve all been trying to figure that one out.” He smiled at me, hoping for the answer so he could share it with his shop mates. I had forgotten that I referred to her as BJ when I had brought her in a few hours before. Apparently, the potential lewdness of this nickname intrigued the boys in the shop. “It has to do with her number. It’s a little complicated, but if you think about it, it’s fairly simple.” He gazed at the invoice and studied the truck number for what seemed like an eternity. “Three-seven-three-eight? How do you get BJ out of the number 3738?” I smiled warmly, “Like I said… it’s fairly simple. Give it some thought and you’ll figure it out.” I headed out the door and across the parking lot to my truck. BJ is a cherry red, 2006 International. Painted on each door is my name, Pam Anders. Below my name are the words, Queen of the Road along with the number 3738. BJ started up with a familiar roar. I flipped the windshield wipers on long enough to clear the light dusting of snow from the windshield, as I cranked up the heater. I hopped out of the truck to make my pre-trip inspection, noting that the number sixteen did indeed have a brand new tire. I climbed back into the cab and turned on the satellite radio. Carly Simon was singing the song that had become my mantra, Coming Around Again, ”That’s me,” I said to myself, “I’m coming around again.” I changed the status on my log. I was ready to roll. I pulled out of the TA lot and back onto Interstate 80 heading west toward Chicago. I merged onto the freeway, cautiously watching the road ahead, shifting gears until I had reached thirteenth gear. I glanced briefly at the MOM license plate, which I had placed on the enormous dashboard of the truck. I would travel 242 miles before crossing the Ohio state line into Youngstown where I would pick up the Ohio Turnpike, to cross into Indiana, where I would shut down for the night in Angola. From there, it would be a three-hour drive from Angola to Chicago tomorrow morning. With an early start, and no more blown tires, I would easily make my early Sunday morning delivery. I had eight hours of driving ahead of me before reaching Angola, plenty of time for deep thought. Hoppy had made a good point. Perhaps all we do is sit behind the wheel and aim the truck. The truck seemed to drive on its own now, allowing my mind to drift, reflecting on the events of the past three years. Time raced by in a colorful blur. I could barely remember events leading to being behind the wheel of a big truck. Wasn’t I once someone else? Who was I? Why am I here? Staring ahead at the fading crescent moon, I thought back to my chance encounter with the mysterious Sorcha, pondering the fortuitous words of wisdom that she had so soberly bestowed upon me. She had been right. I needed to tend to some loose ends. I needed to touch my past. My life, now disjointed, had no apparent connection between past, present and future. There were still things that I needed to tie together. I needed to make amends. Somehow, I had to stitch my wounded life back together, and the only way I could think of to do it was to make this last, very important trip back to Chicago. I glanced into my side mirror and saw that a Greyhound bus was about to pass me on the left. I turned on my wipers to clear away the spray from the slowly passing bus, as I exchanged waves with the driver. I watched as the bus gradually passed, observing each one of the frost covered windows slide by. Faces peered out of the windows through small circles, cleared of frost by warm hands. My memory stirred, as windows and faces passed by one by one, until the rear of the bus completely cleared the front of my truck. The right signal on the bus began to blink, and I flashed my lights, a signal for the bus driver to enter my lane safely. I watched the wet snow spray from the rear wheels as the Greyhound bus slowly disappeared into the distance. My mind drifted backward to a time that had been, yet had never existed. A time and place long ago, and yet not so long ago. I recalled a person who I once was, yet had never really been. As the bus transformed into a small dot on the horizon, my thoughts shifted to that moment in time at which my journey had begun... Continues... | 
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