Member-only story
To An Anonymous Truck Driver
Thank you for your service
Yesterday I was stuck at one of those ridiculously long lights as I caught a glimpse of an 18-wheeler across the way struggling to turn right into a tight entrance. My mind flashed back 20 years.
I was in my dad’s truck when we got stuck while making a delivery on a narrow cobblestone street in Boston — so stuck the street had to be closed for him to back out. On our way to Boston, as we drove on Interstate 95, he rolled his window down and screamed at a car beside us, “My daughter’s in the car, you XXX…” I will leave what the man was doing up to your imagination. Still, if he had not called it out, I would not have had seen it, leaving me sitting awkwardly with my dad. He’s always been blunt, unfiltered, and slightly attention-seeking.
I was on college break the winter of my sophomore year when I went on that road trip with him. I remember sleeping in the back of the cabin, where there was a twin-size bed with an airplane quality pillow, a comfortably worn blanket, and a small refrigerator. He took pride in his truck: It was meticulously organized, spotless, and decorated as if it were his home, which, essentially, it was.
