The Morning Haul
"The Morning Haul"
Old Jeb had been on the road longer than most truck stops had been in business. His face was leathered from years of sunrises seen through windshields, and his smile—when it came—was gummy, his last tooth surrendered to a chunk of beef jerky somewhere outside Amarillo five years back. Didn’t bother him none. He always said, “Teeth don’t steer a rig.”
That morning, he eased open the heavy sleeper door of his maroon cab, the hinges squealing just like his knees. The scent of diesel mixed with prairie air, and he grunted with approval. He shuffled down to the pavement, steel thermos in one hand, chipped enamel mug in the other, and filled it with jet-black coffee that had been steeping since 4 AM.
He looked up.
The tanker beside him gleamed like liquid silver in the morning sun, proudly stamped with “LBT Transport, Buffalo Center, Iowa.” The sky was a masterpiece—big cotton clouds chasing each other across a bright blue canvas. Jeb sipped his coffee, sloshing it a little on his flannel shirt, but he didn’t care. That was the price of beauty.
“Helluva view,” he muttered to nobody but the wind. “Beats the hell outta a cubicle.”
Jeb wasn’t in a rush. He’d already hauled his load through a thunderstorm the night before. Now he just had to wait for the dock to open. So he leaned against the rig, mug warming his hands, and let the moment settle in like good tobacco in an old pipe.
Somewhere in the distance, a meadowlark called. He smirked.
“Still better than teeth,” he said to the sky.
