Copyright © 2006, Danna Hobart
Published by Whiskey Creek Press LLC

Reviews For MORNING STAR by Danna Hobart

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Here it is, four in the morning, and I’ve been driving nonstop for the last twenty-six hours—except for fueling up at the Petro in West Memphis yesterday.

I’m only a few hours from home now, just outside of Cleveland on the northbound 271. I don’t need pills or caffeine to keep me alert; I haven’t seen my family in three weeks, and I can’t get there fast enough. It’s times like these I am thankful this truck has a governor on it; otherwise, I’d have a hundred speeding tickets by now. My logbook is truly going to be an adventure in creative writing to cover the hours I’m over my driving limit. That’s why truckers call them comic books. As long as I can make it past the chicken coops on I-90, I should be home free. I’ll end up eating the tolls on the New York Thruway though. Toll receipts are stamped with the date and time, and there’s no way I could make the time on them match my logs, but it’s worth the thirteen bucks to get home sooner.

I’m hauling a load of aluminum siding from Ennis, Texas to The Nickel, Buffalo, New York.

I have to deliver the siding to this godawful place in Buffalo. It always takes them all day to unload the trailer, but this is the load that usually takes me home.

I’m so far ahead of my logs that I’ll have to park my rig at Jim’s Truck Stop and have Eric pick me up. I’ll drive back up and deliver the load when the logs catch up with me.

I try to enjoy the beauty of the countryside. The full moon gives the Ohio landscape a silvery luminescence, and everything seems surreal. There’s a certain tranquility at this hour, out on the open road.

“Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch—” I’m singing along with a CD when I see the construction signs—BE PREPARED TO STOP—flashing in bold red letters. I turn off the CD and turn on the CB.

“Break one-nine,” I say, pressing the button on the CB mike.

“Go ahead, Break,” is the static call back.

“What’s happening up here on the northbound two-seven-one?”

“You’re gonna be doin’ a brake check up around the fifty-six yard stick,” a friendly male voice says.

I looked to the side of the Interstate for a mile marker just as I roll past the sixty yard stick.

“Yepper, there’s a 10-42 up at the fifty-five-yard stick, and they have the highway shut down at the fifty-four. They’re putting a new girder in for the overpass. You’re gonna be there quite a while,” someone calls from the southbound lanes.

“Hey, look at that,” someone chortles, “here comes the meat wagon right up the shoulder of the road.”

I can see the flashing lights of the ambulance through my windshield.

“Break for that lady driver,” an abrasive voice calls over the radio waves. The voice is nasal, high pitched, and scratchy. It reminds me of worn down car brakes squealing, that metal on metal sound.

I don’t reply. A female voice on the CB almost always generates some kind of unwelcome response.

“Break for that lady driver,” the abrasive voice repeats.

“She don’t wanna talk to you,” someone snickers over the radio.

I can see the brake lights now as the trucks ahead of me gear down to a stop in the middle of the Interstate.

“Has that lady driver still got her ears on?” the anonymous voice calls again.

I can’t help but smile as I shake my head. He sure is persistent.

“Is that Passion Fruit out there?” he asks.

This guy is not going to give up. “Negatory,” I relent. “This is not Passion Fruit.” Why would any woman pick a handle like Passion Fruit? She has to be a lot lizard.

“What’s your handle then, Little Lady?”

“You got the Morning Star.”

“Hey, Morning Star,” another one pipes in. “What’s your twenty?”

“She ain’ta gonna tell ya her twenty, you lug nut,” yet another voice joins in the banter, this guy using an echo mike that makes his voice thunder through the cab of my truck.

He’s right. I could be the only woman out here in this highway that is now a parking lot. It would not be wise to pinpoint my location.

“Morning Star, you drive for Corn Flakes?” the persistent guy asks.

“Negatory,” I mindlessly reply. I want to get home so badly, but here I am stuck in the middle of the Ohio Interstate. It is enormously frustrating.

“You in a four wheeler?”

A deep voice suddenly booms over the radio, “No, she’s in a purple Kenworth. I’m sitting right here beside her.”

He lied. I’m in a white Freightliner, but the signal is so clear that I look to see who is beside me in the middle of this six-lane highway. On the left side all I can see is the familiar blue trailer of a Werner truck. When I look to the right, I see him. He has his dome light on, and he tips his cowboy hat in a greeting when he sees that I’m looking at him, revealing a mane of brown hair that hangs down past his shoulders in thick, lustrous locks. He’s sitting behind the wheel of a slick, black Peterbilt with tall and shiny chrome stacks.

I blush, feeling a little exposed, sitting in the light of my dashboard. I smile and mouth thank you.

“Purple Kenworth? Does anybody see a purple Kenworth out here?” the abrasive voice keeps on.

I burst out laughing. The cowboy next to me laughs too.

“Morning Star, are you sitting in front of a Roadway truck?”

I watch the cowboy pick up his CB mike, “What’s wrong with you boy?” he asks. “She don’t want you to know where she’s at.”

He ignores the cowboy. “Morning Star, what color hair you got?”

“Does anybody have any idea what’s goin’ on, and how long the Interstate is gonna be closed?” a new voice asks.

“They’re putting a new girder up for the overpass,” someone reiterates for the newcomer. “It’s gonna be quite a while from the looks of their progress up here.”

“Well that’s it,” another voice pipes in with a strong southern inflection. “Can anybody tell me if I can take myself off duty here in the middle of the highway?”

“Are your wheels turning?” the driver using the echo mike asks him.

“No.”

“Then you can take out your logbook and take yourself off the drive-line,” he says, using a very condescending tone.

I thought everybody knew that. Sometimes I really wonder what kind of trainers these truckers had if they weren’t taught a simple thing like that.

“Hey, Morning Star, you got big knockers?” the abrasive voice resumes.

That’s not the crudest thing I’ve ever been asked by a complete stranger over the CB. I’m never really offended by their juvenile behavior. I guess if I was overly sensitive I never could have become a trucker. I learned a long time ago that if you’re going to play with the boys, you’ve gotta play by their rules. Likewise, I’m never flattered by the frequent come-ons. I know they will talk like that to anyone or anything, so long as it has a soft voice. I try to always be professional when I talk on the CB.

“Mornin’ Star,” the cowboy calls to me, “You see the fingers I’m holdin’ up?”

He’s holding both of his hands in the air. He is showing two fingers on his left hand, and three fingers on his right.

“Sure do,” I reply.

“Go to that channel,” he tells me.

I shake my head no, but he gives me a pouty face, and curiosity gets the better of me, so I reach for the channel knob.

“You here?” he asks.

“Ten four.”

“Can you believe that guy?”

“I have a feeling you and that other guy are very much alike. You just have a smoother approach.”

“Awww, c’mon now. Don’t be thatta way.”

“I’ve heard it all before,” I say.

“I bet you have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” And to my own dismay, I flash him a flirty smile.

“Whatever you want it to mean,” he smiles back.

He must think he’s getting somewhere. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Who does this guy think he is? “What’s your handle?”

“Wild Bill.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

He’s talking slow and low. Does he think he sounds sexy? He’s just another CB Don Juan looking for a CB romance.

“Gets boring as hell at times like this, don’t it?” he says.

“I’m never bored,” I tell him.

“Oh, I bet you are,” he quickly replies.

“Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?” It’s the guy with the abrasive voice. He’s found us on this channel.

The cowboy ignores him. “Mmm, you are as lovely as the mornin’ star rising over there in the east.” He gestures toward the eastern sky.

“Morning Star can make me rise any time,” the abrasive voice squeals.

I’m growing weary of this pitiful amusement. “Morning Star is turning her ears off,” I tell them, and reach for the CB’s knob. It doesn’t look like any of us are going to be moving anytime soon, so I make sure the doors of my truck are locked, then I step into the back and sit down on the bunk.

I’m in a brand new truck, a long nose Freightliner with a double bunk and a super ten transmission. I’m not used to it yet. Up until yesterday, I had been driving a five year old International with a single sleeper.

* * * *

I was delivering a load of Eagle Snacks in Houston when the power steering and the air conditioning had gone out at the same time on my International. It was the third time the air had broken down in the past month, each time costing me precious drive time while I waited on repairs.

This time, the company I was delivering to was located on a narrow street, and it was a blind-side back to boot, during morning rush hour. I had to pull out into the road to straighten out the trailer, while four wheelers kept darting around me, and some idiot had parked his car right under a sign that said No Parking, so I went to see the dock foreman.

“Hi,” I said with a smile, “I was told you’re the foreman—”

“That’s right,” he said, cutting me off.

My smile disappeared. His cold tone told me I was not in for a pleasant time. “Well, um...I have a load for you outta St. Louis. I’ve been cleared to back up to dock four, but someone has their car parked right under that No Parking sign out there—”

“Back it up to the dock.”

“I will, as soon as you have the owner of that car move it—”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you know how to back that truck up?”

“Oh, I can back my truck up just fine. I’m not the one who put up that No Parking sign. It was put there because a vehicle sitting there is right in the way for a truck trying to back up to dock four.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Franco’s car.” He looked down at his clipboard. “Franco ain’t here. If you can’t drive that truck, I’ll get one of my men to do it for you,” he said with a sneer, exposing two missing teeth.

“None of your men is touching my truck except to unload it,” I firmly said, looking him square in the eye.

“Well then, back it up to the dock. We ain’t got all day.”

The sun glinted in my eyes as I looked this guy up and down. He must have been in his late fifties, with three days’ growth of hair on his face. The underside of his fingernails, and the cracks in his calloused hands, were black with dirt and grease. The tail of his greasy blue work shirt was slipping out of the waist of his navy Dickies. His eyes were harsh, and I knew he disliked having a woman standing on his dock.

I was so angry, I wanted to get back in my truck and drive right out of there, call my dispatcher, and tell him to have someone else deliver this load. But I wasn’t going to give this guy the satisfaction of chasing me away. I turned around and walked calmly down the diamond tread, steel steps toward my truck.

Before climbing in, I looked all around, judging how much of an angle I had to jack the semi-trailer in order to line up with the dock. One of the first rules they teach you in trucking school is never blind-side back, so I would normally go around the block and come in the other direction to avoid it, but this was a one-way street, and the traffic on it was heavy, so that would be too hazardous.

I pulled my truck forward until I knew I had cleared the chain link fence, and then I tried to turn the steering wheel to the right, but it did not want to budge. I set the tractor brake and got out of the truck, knowing what I would see before I bent down to check—a pool of power steering fluid.

“Just great!” I kicked the drive tire as hard as I could, but the gesture was unsatisfying and painful. I climbed back into the truck, and cranked on the steering wheel. It took all the strength I had.

A little yellow sports car impatiently sped around my tractor. I held my breath, fearing that my reflexes may not be fast enough to halt the truck and keep from turning that little yellow car into a little yellow splotch in the road.

I set the brake again to check and make sure I was not going to hit the car under the No Parking sign. Even a light tap from a tractor trailer would do major damage to a car.

I also checked and saw that the tail of the trailer still had to come to the left to line up straight with the dock.

I saw the foreman and some of his men standing there watching me. The foreman looked smug. One of his men was laughing, and not one of those guys would offer to spot for me so I didn’t have to keep getting out. I was furious that the power steering had gone out. It really made me look bad. I got in and pulled forward again, fighting with the wheel the whole time, hoping that the corrections I made this time would be enough to allow me to chase the trailer straight back up to the dock. Since I could not see the dock at all in my mirrors to line up with, I opened up the door and watched the drive tire of the truck to help me judge how far left my trailer was moving. I set the brake one more time and jumped out of the truck. Satisfied that I had it lined up well enough, I grabbed the bills of lading and handed them to the foreman as I walked behind the trailer to open its doors.

“What’s the matter?” he said to me. “Ain’t you strong enough to turn the wheel on that truck?”

I shot him a lethal look, but didn’t say a word.

Glancing up the dock, the foreman called out, “Franco! Let’s get this one emptied.”

The man who moved toward the forklift was the same one that had stood there laughing while I worked to avoid hitting his car.

I climbed into the truck one more time, easing it back, taking the spin off the wheel to keep the trailer going straight. It took everything I had to rotate that wheel, and even before nine a.m., it had to be over ninety degrees. I turned on the truck’s air conditioner, but it only blew hot air at me. I was beginning to feel dehydrated before I finally bumped the dock.

I was shaky, so I went into the office and looked for a pop machine. The only thing there was a water fountain. At least the water was nice and cold. I needed to call my dispatcher and let him know that my trailer was being unloaded, so he could start looking for a new load for me to haul. But first I went into the ladies’ room. It was so hot. I ran the cold water and splashed some on my face. I was sick to my stomach, and I felt like crying. I didn’t understand why. I dealt with slobs like that dock foreman every day. I had to get myself under control before I called Ben, so I spent several minutes splashing my face, neck, and forearms before I began to feel better.

Out in the office, I looked at the pay phone hanging on the wall. Under it was an uncomfortable looking couch. It had a metal frame and what used to be orange vinyl cushions. Now they looked more duct tape than vinyl.

I dialed my company’s eight-hundred number, waited for the tone, and then punched in my dispatcher’s extension. The phone rang four or five times before I heard that familiar voice say, “This is Ben.”

When he says that, Ben’s drivers know to give him our truck number so he can punch it in the computer and see our status. After that, he will typically place us on hold while he takes care of the drivers who have phoned in ahead of us.

“Ben, don’t put me on hold,” I told him.

“Jodi,” he sounded pleasant as usual, “give me five minutes and then I’ll be able to give you my full attention.”

“Five minutes?” I was skeptical.

“I promise.”

I waited and waited. I was sure at least twenty minutes had gone by when I finally heard his cheery tone again.

“Okay, Jodi, what’s up?”

“The air conditioning went out in my truck again, Ben.”

“Okay—” he started, but I cut him off.

“And the power steering is out too.”

“Well then, take it over to the yard and let Sammy have a look at it.”

“And be laid over for how long waiting on repairs? When my wheels aren’t turning, I’m not making money, not to mention the fact that I haven’t seen home in twenty days, Ben. When I signed up with this company I was promised I would be home at least every fourteen days, and did I warn you that I’m feeling bitchy today?”

“I don’t blame you. Unfortunately, I can’t wish you home. We have to get your truck fixed. Take it into the yard. Maybe it won’t take them long to fix it. In the meantime, I have an Ennis load I can hold for you until four o’clock.”

“Okay, but one way or another I will be home the day after tomorrow, right?”

“If it is humanly possible.”

“Oh, come on now, Ben, we both know you’re a god.”

Ben ignored my sarcasm. “What’s your mileage?”

I dug into the pocket of my denim shorts for the piece of paper where I had written down my truck’s odometer reading: “4-5-6—2-4-3.”

“Forty-five, sixty-two, forty-three,” Ben read back to me. “Okay, Jodi, call me if they get your truck fixed in time to pick up that Ennis load. If not, call me first thing in the morning.”

I want to tell him that it wasn’t good enough, that I want to be on my way home, right now, but that wouldn’t have changed anything. I hung up the phone, and went back into the ladies’ room to splash some more cool water on my face before I settled on the duct tape couch to wait for them to finish unloading my trailer.

The dock foreman brought me the paperwork I needed for delivering the load, and I gave him another frigid look. I took the paperwork without a word and headed out the door to climb back into my truck.

The Houston yard is only a satellite yard. My company is based in Cedar Rapids, but they have satellite yards in Houston, Dallas, Chicago, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis.

When I got to the yard, there are two other Frontier trucks sitting there. I recognized one of them right away, number 26018. It was my trainer’s truck. I had only seen her twice since I finished my training. The last time had to have been nearly seven months ago. The truck sitting next to hers, number two seven oh two one, was unfamiliar.

I pulled my truck up to the shop, got out and told Sammy what was wrong with it. Then walked over to my trainer’s truck. The sound of the air conditioning running told me that she was inside.

I rapped hard on the door, remembering how deeply she slept. “Jadine, it’s Jodi.”

There was a moment of shuffling before the truck’s door flew open. “Jodi,” she exclaimed. “Get in here! Long time no see!”

“You said it,” I replied with a big smile.

Jadine is in her mid-forties. She has natural blond hair. It’s so close to platinum that you can hardly see the trace of gray starting to invade it. She wears it longer than most women her age do these days. She’s a typical trucker, always drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Her truck has that unforgettable scent of cigarette ashes and vanilla air freshener. Before I could even sit down in the truck’s passenger seat, Jadine was excitedly saying something.

“...is Ray. We’re gonna be runnin’ team.”

I looked back to see a man sitting on the truck’s bottom bunk. I smiled. His face was familiar. I’d seen him in Cedar Rapids before. He was in his late forties, I guessed. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair.

He smiled back and extended his hand for a quick shake. “Glad to meet you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then asked Jadine, “You’re not gonna be training any more?”

“No. The money is good, but it doesn’t have the fringe benefits that runnin’ team does.” She giggled as she looked coyly at Ray.

Not to mention the prestige. Teams get paid two cents more a mile and they are considered for loads before solo drivers. At the yard in Cedar Rapids, they are treated like royalty. There are many advantages for the company to have a lot of teams. You get two drivers, sharing the same truck, one sleeping while the other drives, so they can cover much more distance in a shorter period of time than a single driver can.

“Frontier is going to be losing two trainers with us teaming up,” Ray said.

“You’re a trainer too?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head and looking lustfully at Jadine. “I’ve been training for five years.”

“Well—” I feel a little embarrassed, thinking maybe I interrupted something between Ray and Jadine. “I’m happy for you guys.” It came out sounding more like a question than a statement.

“How have you been?” Jadine asked me.

“My truck’s in the shop if that tells you anything, and I haven’t seen home in three weeks.”

Jadine has kids, so she understood. “What’s wrong with your truck?”

“The air conditioning keeps going out. Now the power steering is out. I don’t trust it at all anymore. I keep wondering, what’s next?”

“Honey, it sounds like they need to get you a new truck.”

“My tractor does have a lot of miles on her. Ben was talking about getting me a new one the last time I was in Cedar Rapids, but there weren’t any available.”

“I’ll call John,” Ray piped in. “Since we’re teaming up, there’s no reason you can’t have my truck.”

“That’s a great idea!” Jadine said. “Go on inside the office and give him a ring,” she sounded eager.

John was John West, the owner of Frontier Trucking. My first reaction was that it was a bad idea, but then I thought that it couldn’t hurt. “How well do you know John?”

“He and I go way back,” Ray said. “Hell, I knew him when he was hauling cattle for Joe Hartford.”

Ray didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be back in two shakes.” He stood up and his paunchy belly nearly hit me in the face. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and gave Jadine a kiss when she stood to let him out the driver’s side door.

“Bring me back some coffee?” She tilted her head and flipped her hair back in a flirtatious manner.

“Sure, Baby.”

I’d never seen Jadine act that way. It was amusing.

“Ray seems real nice,” I told her as I watched him walking toward the building.

“He’s a brilliant man, Jodi.” She pulled a cigarette out of a pack that had been sitting on the dashboard and lit it with her trusty Zippo lighter. She took a long drag and exhaled a veil of smoke.

I could feel my life span getting shorter as I breathed in the exhausted air.

“So how did this all come about?”

“It was right after I finished training you. I got another student, and when I went to Cedar Rapids to pick her up, Ray was there picking up her husband who was gonna be his student. Anyway we were both out of hours, so Dennis got us two rooms at the Ramada, one for each trainer and their student, but since they were married, we let them have one together, and...you can guess the rest.” She giggled again. “We’ve been meetin’ up with each other on the road every chance we get ever since, so we finally decided to just go for it, and team up.”

“Well, congratulations.” I said, but I wasn’t sure if it was the appropriate way to pass on good wishes to someone in this situation. “How are your girls doin’?” I asked.

“Amber made honor roll last month, and Crystal is getting married.” Jadine sounded pleased.

“That’s great!” I told her.

“How are Eric and Tucker?” she asked.

“They’re good. Tucker turned two a couple of months ago. I can’t believe how fast he’s growing.”

“I don’t know how you do it, girl.” Jadine said to me.

“I couldn’t if it weren’t for Eric.”

“So, what’s wrong with Ben? How come he hasn’t got you home in three weeks?”

“He was on vacation the past two weeks. It’s Dan who couldn’t seem to find me a load to get me home. He had me runnin’ all over the country. I was out in Colorado—he even had me up in Canada.”

“Oh, Lord,” Jadine said. “I’d rather drive into New York City than deal with all that paperwork to go into Canada.”

“And it’s just as bad coming back! I have to admit, it was a nice break from running Vining to Wheeling and back, but I’m so ready to go home.”

“I bet you are,” Jadine said with sympathy.

“Ben’s back today. He has an Ennis load waiting for me if I can get a truck to pick it up with. If they actually give me Ray’s truck it would be awesome.”

“I talked to Ben the last time I was in Cedar Rapids.” Jadine told me, “He told me that you’re one of his top drivers.”

“He really said that?”

“He did. He says you’re always on time, or early. They’ll give you that truck. You deserve it.”

“I try.” I couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to know someone appreciated my hard work. “I guess I had a good trainer.”

“Oh, Honey, you were a natural.”

The truck’s door opened. Ray had the look on his face of a man who is very pleased with himself. Before he climbed into the truck, he handed Jadine a Styrofoam cup. Now the strong aroma of hot coffee added to the potpourri of scents in the truck.

“Wait about ten minutes,” he said, using the tone of a six-year-old who is telling someone a secret, “and then go call your dispatcher.”

“Really? How can I thank you?”

“Somebody was gonna get it,” he said, “might as well be you.”

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