81

On a lonely, lonesome highway, west of Minersville, the days first cigarette was finger flicked from the driver of the truck in front of us. It ashed and sparked against the asphalt of the I-81 Northbound lanes. Somewhere between Fort Indiantown Gap and Scranton (Pennsylvania). The reflectors and white stripes that line the lanes had me in a mind frame of reflection. Road trips, to and fro, North to South, East to West, the trucks are rolling and pushing through pandemics and pondering loading docks to cash the next pay load. Maneuvering and executing ultimate back up skills and burning through the diesel fuel. All the length of 81, truckers from all over, but nonetheless, all from the same fish bowl, the terminal of U.S.A. and Canada. We are all intertwined on these on ramps and off ramps. Rest areas are places to comingle and realize it's a small world after all. We have more in common than less in common. I've imagined fictional trucking companies: Fish Bowl Transport a.k.a. Fishbowl Logistics, Small World Logistics a.k.a. Small World Transport, All In the Same Pond Trucking.

In the early a.m. hours, while my co-pilot is fast asleep with his facemask on and head pressed against the window, I drift to the 1970's and vision hauling cases of ales and pilsners to the distributers in Philadelphia. Filling the loading docks with suds in my company issued duds. Dudes got an iron claw on the wheel, no back in job is beyond his skill set. On the I-81, watching the sunrise over Montage Mountain, seeing the reclaimed strip mines of Hazleton in the morning glow, is enough to let me know that time presses on, nitetime travelers are rewarded. coffee on the intake, exhaust manifolds releasing the tension. Get up on the good foot. Strive to the drive. Early December, watch out for snow squalls and the fog and the bumper riders and the deer that have no fear when they criss cross the interstate.