Going to Dallas with a load
of swinging sides:
a cow cut in half.

My dad, the captain of 80,000 lbs

of metal and beef.

Three-thirty in the morning
and we seemed the only moment,
the only sound.

As we sliced the black night
like a hot knife
through porch-warm butter.

Big D our Mecca, and Dallas Cold Storage
our goal.

Diesel smoke billowing at the end
of a three foot flame
from the stack.

Landscape rolling by
like it was going backward.

WLS radio out of Chicago was pumping out
Hank Williams, Bill Monroe, Lefty Frizell,
Marty Robbins and more.

Old “Lonesome Bill” Mack
the frog-voiced D.J.
for all long haul truckers
was our voice in the night,
keeping us company.

Four eyes trained on the ribbon
of concrete that lay ahead.

Mine split between the road
and the gearshift, his on the road.

“You gotta mesh those gears, boy
you can’t grind ‘em.”

My eyes like cat’s eye marbles
stealing looks at the gauges.

Awaiting Dallas, Big D; a hundred miles
from us and a hundred years, too.

Pulling into Big D, a city of lights;
no one seemed asleep.

Noises that had no names,
except sirens or a barking dog.

On the back streets where Cold Storage
was found, so were winos and bums.

Parked the rig at 5:30, awaiting unloading
at 7:15, stabbed some eggs and bacon.

Choked ‘em down and then
back to the rig to watch for thieves.

Daddy said they’d steal anything—even
a 215 lb. spare truck tire.

City still slumbering, except for us,
other truckers and the ne’er do wells.

7:15 came and went, finally 9:00 arrives
and we snip open the locks to the trailer.

Four brawny men grab a half-side of beef each
and start unloading.

I watch with goggle-eyes as they handled those
beef sides like cotton candy.

Daddy watching the count, making it right,
it’s his ass if he’s short.

I stand beside him but the tall buildings
give me a feel of a Lilliputian.

Two hours later and clipboards
of paper signed, we’re off.

It’s the same day, but deep morning and
makes it seem like a tomorrow.

“Wanna take the wheel in Rockwall?”
Daddy asked.

“Sure!” my reply, feigning confidence,
when guile was not my long suit.

It served me well this time
and at the Phillips 66, I took the wheel.

By rote, I tapped the tires with a hammer,
checking for flats.

Took the driver’s seat and shifted it forward
where my “business” was.

Checked the gauges, the locking brakes, and then
stared at the menacing sixteen gears.

Sixteen forward gears and two reverses
were enough to clog a sixteen year old mind.

But I’d seen Daddy do it a jillion times so
I acted like it was the back of my hand.

The big diesel roared at my foots touch
and I pulled off without a jerk.
Surprised, I didn’t act it, instead
I shifted into second, and meshed it good.

Then to third, meshed it too;
fourth the same, and then we were rolling.

“You can go from twelfth to sixteenth
since we’re empty,” Daddy allowed.

I did and we were cooking at 60
and I was in charge.

After about an hour I thought
I’d driven a lifetime.

But, I remembered the most important lesson
he had ever told me.

“Son, just remember, when you think
you’re in control, you ain’t!”

So, with that thought as my guidepost
I got hold of my senses.

04/18/2005