It was a semi-truck, an eighteen-wheeler, a big sucker. The driver was prolly lonely as anything, he just want some company for awhile and don’t care if Wojo looks like a shattered stained-glass portrait of a man. Wojo briefly worked as a trucker, he knows about the way o’ the road. It is a lonely life, solitarious if that’s a word, it prolly ain’t, but it sounds righter than lonely. There’s folks driving all around, truck stops is crowded with anonymous faces and interchangeable waitresses like engine parts, the beardy man’s eyes was green like burning traffic lights, go, go, go, and maybe he oughta be a trucker again. If being married to Pam got to be too much he could do it, he’d be gone all the time, she could spend money on curtains and throw pillows, green means go go go.
The electric shock got his brain wobbly still. He don’t wanna be a trucker. Too lonesome.
Or maybe that’s how life comes: lonesome. Only truckers got the gumption to not gussy up the raging lonelies with a home.
From Wojo the Action Hero
