A Trucker's Journal

An excerpt from McDougal's diary.

He doesn't date his entries, so I have no idea when this was written. I tried to cement a timeline by the TV shows and technology he lists, but it seems to be all over the board. McDougal is timeless.

On the road from Cincy,
Stopping soon to watch Quincy.
She's a re-run
and I've seen her before.
Hope to see a new episode of Highway to Heaven
tonight. I live for the TV.
Goddamn it's hard to type and drive.
Double
clutch. WHo knew?
Over the counter speed and the finer stuff.
Gonna pack
it in, I think.
Drive this rig into a refinery. Take us all out.
Burn
out hot and die fast ... better than the alternative slow, cool fade.
And
these high-tops smell like a filthy rest stop latrine.
Hold on ... something
in the road.
Hitcher.
I put the pedal to the metal and he's in my
sights.
Barely even makes a noise, and he's left mangled in my wake.
Was
an Indian man by the look of it. LIkely Comanche.
And I drive on.
Like
the man in black says. Drive on.
There's a Krystal in Branson, and I think I
can make it by suppertime.
I eat like a bear when I'm on the road.
Out
of trashcans and without use of my thumbs.
Catch fish when I'm near a
stream. Of consciousness.
And these pills lock in my vision.
And I'm
alright.
Says so on the radio.
8-track.
And sometimes when it's
late, and I'm alone in the cab, I put on John Denver.
He always says,
"Please, McDougal. Let me go."
But there's the sushi.
And I can't.
Got a copy of Dianetics. Think it's a diet book or something. Stole it off a
dead gypsy in Aimes. Wondered for a minute if that dead gypsy wasn't me. A quick
look up her skirt just to be sure, and I'm alright.
I push the pedal down to
the floor and the old tanker rumbles. The road is empty. Wide open. My own.
Trailers for sale or rent ...
You know the drill.
You know the
skiff.
The skit.
The story.
It's the same story, really.
The
same one you tell your kids at night.
There are bears, and princesses, and
poison arrows.
And off to the side of the road, those pines, in symmetrical
rows.
And I'm tired.
So I take another handfull of speed and a swig of
Dickel, and the road calls me dear.
I don't answer her.
That's the
siren's song.
The song that pulls me out of bed in a cheap motel room in
Tuscaloosa or Alameda or Wichita.
She says, get movin' you fat, old bastard.
You can't stay still.
That's how they catch you.
Those demons.
Get back out there.
Don't stop.
Never stop.
I grip the wheel
tightly to stop the shaking
of my hands.
Bare hands
Bear hands.
And I'm constipated.
Got the 'roids.
Damn this trucker's diet.
And these headaches.
Thank God for B.C. Powder and Art Bell.
And I
see the black helicopters, and I know.
They're coming for me.
Those
demons.