He sat at the truckstop counter drinking his coffee and shaking the cobwebs of sleep from his mind. The usual assortment of drivers were huddled around drinking coffee and eating breakfast. Some of the younger drivers preferred soda pop to coffee. As he was never able to eat this early he was content with his cup of joe.
It was pretty easy to tell the old school hands from the rookies. Not all of the rookies were young just as not all of the old schoolers were exactly old. It wasn't so much a matter of experience, although that did factor in to it, but more about how they were taught. This new breed of drivers, often referred to as two week wonders, were a different sort. They had no respect for themselves, for other drivers, or even for trucking itself. A sign of the times he supposed.
The old school drivers were normally the guys (and women) who wore clean clothing; jeans, sometimes khakis, and a respectable shirt of some kind. They didn't wear clothes that looked like they hadn't seen soap since they were bought new, and they didn't wear shorts or sloppy, baggy looking pants that appeared to be four sizes too big. And they damn sure knew which part of a ball cap was the front. It's about respect.
There was the usual talk, mostly from the rookies. He'd heard it all a thousand times before in a thousand other truckstops. The faces changed a little, but the bullshit stayed the same. There were the truckstop lawyers talking about how the cops can't do this and can't do that. There was the whining and bitching about what's wrong with the trucking industry coming from guys who didn't yet have a clue as to what the trucking industry is even really all about. And of course there were the trucker stories that seemed to grow with each retelling. He'd heard the same stories from different guys all over the country and of course they always swear it's the truth.
He looked across the counter to an old schooler sitting across from him. They exchanged a look and a small smile. No words were needed between them. “It's all the same old bullshit. Heard it before, and they'll learn eventually.”
Most of the two week wonders never last a year in the business. They come into trucking thinking it's an easy job. When they eventually discover that it's neither easy or a job they go back to flipping burgers or whatever minimum wage job they can find elsewhere.
He had learned many years before, as had so many before and after him, that trucking is not a job. Trucking is a lifestyle, and a damn good one for those few people who are cut from the right cloth. It's a tough life and requires tough men and women to do it. He liked to think that it was the same sort of folk who had worked as cowboys, stage drivers, and those early freight haulers known as Teamsters who carried freight across the country in wagons pulled by teams of horses, that now did essentially the same things but in larger wagons pulled by teams of 500 or more diesel fed horses.
He looked around the counter. There were five old school hands including himself, and a half dozen or so new breed drivers. He figured a year from now he might run across maybe one or two of these new breed drivers in some truckstop someplace. The rest would be out of a truck by then. Odds were also good that two or three of the drivers sitting there would be dead inside of a year. That also goes with the lifestyle.
Between wrecks, accidents, health, and crime, lots of truckers died out here away from home every year. That's one reason the old schoolers showed some respect for each other. You could never be sure if you'd ever see that other driver again on this side of the pearly gates.
He finished his coffee, stopped by the restroom, and then ambled across the huge parking lot lined with rows of parked rigs. Some were idling, some silent, and some had generators running which was still a relatively new thing. He expertly maneuvered his way through the confusing maze of parked trucks straight to his own rig.
He took the tire thumper out of the side box and made his way around the rig thumping on each tire, testing for that nice recoil of the thumper that indicated a fully inflated tire. To the casual observer this was all that he was doing. But his sharp eyes knew every inch of his rig and as he walked around it they were scanning it for anything that wasn't exactly right. He looked at the tires, brake linings, lights, air lines, and the overall condition of the huge machine.
Satisfied that all was in order, he climbed up into the driver's seat and started the great diesel engine with a satisfying roar. He watched as the air gauges reached 120 psi. He then turned the key and the big engine rumbled into silence once again. He then stepped down hard on the brake and held it while he observed the air gauges. The pressure dropped about 5 psi and no more. Good, no air leaks.
He then pumped down the brake pressure to ensure that the emergency system engaged as it should. Upon restarting the great beast he checked all of the pressure, temperature, and voltage gauges to make certain the machine was operating to perfection.
Finally satisfied, he strapped himself in, filled out his log, and slid the 18 speed transmission into gear. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the interstate, slipping the tranny through it's gears effortlessly and with perfect timing so that not a single scrape or grind could be heard.
As he got up to speed and switched throttle control over to the computer that runs the cruise control system everything was right with the world. He was at one with his rig and all thoughts of truckstops and two week wonders melted away as he tuned his radio to pull in some good music. He once again felt that calm satisfaction and peace that he always feels when he is sailing the sea of twelve volt lights.