Donuts                  by Lisa Boston Frye

 

              Three days of steady driving and sleeping in the parking lots of highway truckstops was beginning to take its toll on me.  As I squirmed and tried to stretch into a more comfortable position in my makeshift bed in the front passenger seat of the car, I attempted to squelch the call of nature that became more demanding as the minutes ticked by. 

              Arkansas-heartlands!  We were in the back parking lot of a truck stop rest area, surrounded by the big rigs.  A bright neon sign flashed in the distance - Welcome Truckers!  I heard the rumble of twenty engines idling.  The acrid smell of their exhaust filled my nostrils.  My friend, Leslie, snored steadily as she dozed in the reclined driver’s seat.  Her four children were pigpiled in the back.

              The parking lot lights cut through the darkness; everyone was asleep but me.  I shivered under the thin coat I used as a blanket and tried to slip into oblivion, but the anxious throb of my full kidneys prevented me from falling back to sleep.  I was dying for a cigarette and had none.  The truck stop beckoned. 

              I summoned bravado and resolved to enter the unfamiliar building alone.  I gathered my toothbrush, soap, and pocketbook, and opened the car door, illuminating its interior briefly.  My friend stirred.  “I’m going in the truck stop  to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” I told her.  She groaned her assent and rolled over.  I closed the door softly and stepped into gloom.  The pavement felt cold and rough under my bare feet as I stumbled warily through the eerie night.

              It was the autumn of 1985, and I had joined my friend Leslie on a cross country journey that would end in Arizona.  I left my ten year old daughter, Wendy, temporarily with my parents in Maine, emptied my savings account, sublet my furnished apartment, and embarked on this journey in search of a better life three thousand miles away.  Several days later and more than halfway to our destination, I was starting to have doubts about this impulsive decision.  As the restaurant loomed closer, I yearned for the familiar - a warm comfortable bed and the security of home.  All that seemed very far away indeed. 

              I nervously opened the heavy door and entered a well lit area with a cigarette machine prominently displayed.  After selecting a pack of Benson & Hedges 100’s, I headed for the restroom.  Minutes later, I emerged from the lavatory feeling refreshed and wide awake.  The smell of strong coffee drew me toward the counter.

              Inside the diner were a score of truckers, mostly men, wearing cowboy type gear.  They clustered together in small groups and spoke in hushed voices.   I selected a safe stool at the counter and sat down primly and  virtually unnoticed, except by the competent waitress who breezed over and returned efficiently with a chunky white mug of steaming black coffee.  I lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into my lungs, sipped at the scorching hot liquid and began to relax. 

              Biscuits & Gravy  $2.95.  Steak & Eggs $4.50.  Breakfast Served 24 Hours!

              Tammy Wynette’s melancholy twang spilled from the jukebox, “Staaaaand by your maaaaan!”  Black velvet paintings hung from white stuccoed walls.  Open beams of polished oak climbed up the walls and across the ceiling.  The delicious aroma of charred beef mingled with the sweet smell of a nearby pipe.  Every one of the customers wore a cowboy hat, except me. 

              Suddenly, I felt someone sit down beside me.  With a quick glance at the newcomer, I was pleased to see an attractive young trucker with shoulder length brown curls, intense blue eyes, and scruffy attire.  “What are you doing here?”  he drawled unceremoniously.  Caught off guard, I laughed, explained my situation, and asked about his.  He was a trucker in training, apprenticed to a seasoned old guy who owned the rig they traveled in.  His handle on the CB was “Moosehunter.” 

              After several refills of our coffee mugs, Moosehunter asked me if I had any marijuana.  Since my friend, Leslie, had the pot, we left the truck stop and ventured out into the parking lot to wake her up.  After she had grumpily rolled us a joint, my new friend ran back into the restaurant to get the keys to his mentor’s truck.

              Brightly twinkling stars pulsated in the clear crisp ebony night.  I stood alone, bathed in moonlight, as I waited for this cowboy stranger.  Magically, he appeared.  Breathless with anticipation, we hustled swiftly toward the fleet of monster rigs that purred ominously in the distance.  “She’s over here,” he said proudly.  We were in front of a shiny black powerful 18 wheeler, the cargo part of which was disconnected.  He opened the door and helped me into the cab.  As we climbed up into the dark leather seats, I knew this would be an adventure.  I handed over the joint as he maneuvered the complex gears and started the engine.  With a powerful thrust, the beast lunged forward and we were weaving our way out of the parking lot, past my friend, Leslie, and her sleeping family.  As we drove off down a secluded country road, silver tendrils of dawn broke through the twilight.  A blur of flat nondescript scenery flashed by as the big rig rumbled and roared. 

              My long red hair blew wildly around my face as the cool night air gusted through the open windows.  We passed the joint back and forth laughing and talking like old friends. As we hurtled ahead at a menacing speed, he asked if I minded if he did donuts in the road.  Thrilled, I shook my head and he stepped on the gas and then the brakes and we went careening around and and around and around.  Two tons of screeching metal whirlpooled on deep country back road as a brilliant Arkansas sun broke through the haze and total strangers became friends.  We rode back to the truck stop in  silence, smiling.  We knew we had shared a moment in time. 

              We sat again on our familiar stools in the restaurant, talking quietly, and the truck stop was transformed into a friendly place.  Too soon, my friend, Leslie slogged through towards the restrooms with her family in tow, the remnants of sleep still stuck to her face.  I nodded, believing that I belonged with the trucker world and not with the people I would leave with that day.  Nostalgically, I looked around at all the stubbly faces, listened to the slow drawls, and yearned for this transient life. 

              It was time to leave and he walked us to the car.  “Will you have the CB on?”  I asked.  “Yeah, what’s your handle?”  “Rusty Herbie,” I replied.  We waved good-bye and the truck stop abruptly became a blur in the distance.                The CB crackled.  “This is Moosehunter calling Rusty Herbie.  Do you copy?  Over.”  “Yes, Moosehunter - this is Rusty Herbie.  Over.”  “You be careful out there.  Over.”  “Yes, and Moosehunter - It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”  “Yes.”  We didn’t say goodbye, there was no need. 

              As we sped off towards our destination, I realized that sometimes you have to take risks and step out of your comfort zone in order to add a little dimension  to your life.  I became less concerned with choices I had made and the chances I had taken.  I instead looked toward the future with anticipation.  Thinking of Moosehunter, I swore to myself, “I will never forget you.”  I never did.