The Captain

The Captain by John Ferguson That particular March morning had seemed no different from any other. I had hitched my way out to Sweetwater, Texas, just so I could settle my curiosity about their annual rattlesnake roundup. Now it was over and I was back to my old habits-of having nothing to do and no place to go. I ended up at the Union 76 Truck Stop, walking along the back row of trucks when I came upon a shiny red Mack. The driver was replacing the dipstick. "Captain, I sure would love to drive a rig like that." Usually shy, I felt my face turn red and was about to leave when he fixed his eyes on me. "John Charles Allen, I've been waiting for you. Climb in there. I'll be ready in a minute." My jaw dropped. I'd never seen this man before and he knew my name. I got in wondering what I was getting myself into. He lowered the hood, latched it, and climbed in. Then he stuck out his hand and I felt his strong grip as he said, "Welcome aboard." He buckled his seat belt, motioned for me to do the same, and then cranked up the engine. He shifted into first, released the brakes, and pulled out. I watched as he slipped through the gears, as easily as I ever had in any car and he handled that rig like he was Dorn in it. He headed west on 1-20, then turned northwest on US 84 toward Lubbock, said he had a few pallets to drop off in Amarillo. I wanted to ask how he'd known my name, but didn't. When we got to that warehouse, he backed square into the dock the first try. They had the trailer unloaded in just a few minutes and he found a restaurant with a big parking lot. It was then he told me that truckers don't always stop where the food is best; they stop where 15 they can park their rigs. We placed our orders and the waitress brought our coffee. I've wondered many times about what happened next. It still seems like a dream. The only way I can explain it is to say it was like a dam had broken inside me. I began telling the Captain everything I'd ever done and just about everything I'd thought. It wasn't that I was in any trouble with the law, nothing like that, but the kinds of things I was telling him just weren't things you'd go tell your mama. He listened and would occasionally offer a comment. I had the feeling he knew what was on my mind even before I said it. We finished eating; he refused my offer to pay. We got back in the truck and he headed west on 1-40 to the little town of Vega, where he had a load of seed to pick up for Nashville, Tennessee. After loading and pulling back on the interstate , he began to point out the gauges: manifold pressure, pyrometer, tachometer , speedometer, oil pressure, air pressure , water temperature. . . . Then he showed me how you had to match engine revolutions to ground speed and the gear you selected; said I'd have to know all that if I was going to drive this rig. I thought to myself, "You'll never let me drive your truck." That night he pulled into a truck stop in Oklahoma City. We had supper and as we walked out of the restaurant he said we'd have to share the bunk; we'd have more room if we slept head to toe. The first thing I thought was, "I hope my feet don't stink." The Captain went right to sleep, but I lay awake wondering about all tnat had happened that day. I still hadn't asked him how he'd known my name. It seemed I'd only gotten to sleep when it was time to get up. We showered and had breakfast. As we walked back to the truck, he went over to the passenger side, unlocked the door...