Trucker
Chuck looks to be in his late-to-mid forties.
Years of truck driving in a ninety mile radius
have taken their toll.
His skin is tanned perfectly
-the type some people pay for-
and his eyes seem to be in a perpetual squint,
stretch marks and wrinkles deep grooves
withering their way like roots
disappearing into his strawberry blond hair.
The reality here is that Chuck
isn't a day over 32.
We sat in two uncomfortable chairs
placed next to an aluminum or steel desk
loaded with orders, fading stickers, and a Jeff Gordon poster.
His is cushioned and swivels,
mine a rusted folding metal chair.
Painted retro-brown, almost khaki color.
We've got the chairs faced out
across the loading dock and looking through the open garage
to a stone driveway, dust clouds swirling in the summer heat.
The smell of tar hangs heavy in the damp air,
unforgiving in its stagnant heat.
We can hear jackhammers, a Stevie Ray Vaughn song from an old radio,
and some guys speaking Spanish.
Chuck's used to all that though
so he doesn't pay much attention to it.
He sits with a half smile, his blue eyes bloodshot
either from lack of sleep, speed, or both.
He's talking about his dog, laughing about it.
It's a mix pit bull and English bull--probably small,
maybe ugly.
When Chuck comes home and yells at the dog
"that son of a bitch puts his head down
and puts his tail between his legs and hides under the deck."
He smiles. Bloodshot eyes looking back out to the lot.
He loves that damn dog.
Once the forklift is done Chuck stands,
and with a half-salute climbs into his truck.
Tomorrow he'll be back again.