The Black Steel Giant

The radio was still talking about another world.

Iceland? I figured they were just making a fuss over some volcano going off on the far side of the planet.

The news coming through wasn't ordinary, but my head was already full — finishing this last run, and the truck I was about to take delivery of. The sun happened to be going down.

Against that darkening landscape, the windshield that only a moment ago had been filled with hope suddenly looked like a monitor throwing back a future as black as pitch, a future I couldn't see an inch into.

I switched on the headlights. Darkness was swallowing the road the way a lazy predator takes its time.

The radio went back to noisy pop, but what circled in my ears was the uneasy aftertaste of that news bulletin and the sweet fantasy of a California beach.

Still a long way to go.

Once I passed the sign for Vegreville — that little town famous for its giant traditional Ukrainian painted egg, the Pysanka — the Alberta–Saskatchewan line would start drawing close. I kept my hands on the wheel and drove east along the Yellowhead Highway through the dark, heading for Saskatoon, and before I knew it the last run was over.

After I dropped the load at the grain terminal in Red Deer, the tension bled out of my whole body. And when I returned the old truck to the company yard and handed over the keys, it felt like saying a last goodbye to an ex — a mix of relief and a lingering ache I couldn't quite name.

Then I caught a ride with Dave, colleague and friend, and we headed for the Kenworth dealership.

When Dave's beat-up pickup rolled into the wide lot, he practically shouted.

"Chan, is that it?"

"Think so? There's only one 990, so yeah, that's gotta be it."

"Whoa — damn. What the hell kind of sleeper runs that far back?"

"Spent some money. Special order."

"Man. This guy sells his house and dumps it all into a truck. Hahaha."

"That is my house now."

The lot was lined with every kind of truck showing off, but only one of them registered in my eyes. The moment I saw that black steel giant in the far back, under the bright lights, radiating a presence as if it had draped itself in a curtain of night — my pulse kicked up and I started getting antsy.

"Dave, I'm gonna die of old age while you park!"

"Haha, this guy's itching for it. Itching bad. Hahaha."

I'd looked at the website photos hundreds of times.

The real thing is on another level entirely.

A pair of massive chrome stacks stood proud toward the sky. A huge square grille roared as if it meant to swallow the road whole, and behind it the long hood of the engine bay stretched out and out. The body, painted in nothing but pitch black, seemed to drink in every scrap of surrounding light and pack it down tight — strength and smoothness at the same time.

Frank spotted Dave's truck and came out of the building.

"Mr. Lee. I've been waiting for you."

"Frank, what's with the sudden formality?"

"Haha. Right this way, sir."

Frank in a slick navy suit, smiling bright. After months of me pestering him by phone and email, we'd gotten pretty friendly.

"As you've probably guessed — that's the one. How does it feel, meeting it in the flesh? A million times better than the photos, right?"

He pointed at my W990 with the proud gesture of a man introducing his own masterpiece. And then the sales patter kept rolling.

"The heart of this beast, you see, is one of the highest-spec engines alive — the Cummins X15 Performance Series. A full 605 horsepower, and 2,050 pound-feet of torque! With this, you'll take the Rocky Mountains like they're a neighborhood hill."

He patted the side of the hood as he laid on the praise. You couldn't miss the pride in his voice.

"And take a look at this. The 108-inch studio sleeper Mr. Lee specially ordered. We stretched the biggest, roomiest 86-inch model we offer."

"Haha, thanks, Frank. I didn't think you'd pull it off."

"We have to meet the customer's wishes. The interior custom work is finished exactly the way you wanted."

When he threw the sleeper ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠door wide, a space that looked as big as a room in a small apartment opened up in front of us. The smell of new furniture, vinyl still on, hit me in a wave.

"Honestly, at this point... you might as well have bought yourself a house on wheels. Haha! I'm not kidding. You could live in this with no house at all and be just fine."

Looking pleased with himself, he led me toward the back of the sleeper — the side that would face the space where tractor and trailer connected. It wasn't the usual truck-tour route. Dave, who'd come along to look, sounded surprised too.

"Chan, what the hell is this?"

Frank pointed at the rear wall of the sleeper with a mischievous look and went on.

"This is, among Mr. Lee's very special requests, the most... how should I put it."

"..."

"The part that got the entire Kenworth dealership — no, the engineering team at headquarters — very hot. Wait, no. Very interested."

"Frank, I know you worked hard. I know."

Where he was pointing sat a small steel door you would never see on a normal truck sleeper — something that looked like an emergency hatch off an armored ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vehicle or a submarine. It was built to open outward, toward the trailer.

"Honestly, in all the years we've sold trucks, this was a first. A door in the back of the sleeper, facing the trailer?"

"..."

"Ha. When I first sent Mr. Lee's spec to the engineering team at HQ, those guys went nuts asking why on earth anyone would want this."

Frank laughed it up, but his eyes clearly said, Do you have any idea how much I suffered because of you?

"Yeah, yeah. Frank, I'll buy you a beer."

Even so, he kept going like something still wasn't settled. Dave was watching with a grin, enjoying the show.

"It's not like you just cut a hole and hang a door, you know. We had to recalculate the structural integrity of the sleeper itself. Perfect waterproofing, dustproofing, and above all a full regulatory review... the technical and administrative mountain we had to climb was enormous. Thanks to Mr. Lee, our Kenworth dealership had a very new and creative experience."

I wondered if I'd put the guy through too much, then swallowed the thought I paid for all of it and waited for him to finish.

"I got it, I got it."

"Mr. Lee! Across the entire North American continent, this is probably the one and only truck that shipped with a sleeper stretched like this and a door mounted on the back this way."

Listening to his half-grumbling, half-showing-off explanation, I found myself smiling. A little sorry, maybe — but this was an essential feature I was never going to give up.

When you're on the road and you need to check or grab something stowed in the trailer in a hurry, being able to reach it straight from the sleeper instead of climbing down and walking all the way around saves a massive amount of time and effort. And besides... in an emergency that might come, it could be another way out.

The extra cost and the wait to take delivery had been considerable, but I'd judged it well worth it.

"Man, looking at it like this, it really came out beautiful. You worked hard. Thanks, Frank."

Frank still had that complicated look, like he wasn't quite done being mad. This time his tone dropped back to normal.

"So, how about it, Chan? The monster you've been dreaming of. Feel better now?"

"Haha."

"Honestly, this thing started my hair loss all over again."

"The paperwork that rough?"

"Paperwork? Ha! That's child's play."

Frank pointed at the side of the truck. A huge, polished cylindrical fuel tank.

"Base tanks are 150 gallons a side, 300 total. That's standard. But you added auxiliary tanks as an option. That much was fine."

His expression went complicated all of a sudden.

"The problem started when you asked us to mount another set of auxiliary tanks on top of those."

He was pointing at a custom-built tank bolted solid to the frame right behind the sleeper cab. It wasn't as smooth as something that came off the factory line, but that roughness itself seemed to advertise extreme functionality.

"The engineers at HQ asked if I'd lost my mind. Structural stability, weight distribution, DOT regs... I heard it until my ears bled. They asked if you were planning to run nonstop from the North Pole to the South. Do you have any idea what I went through to get that approved?"

Frank let out an exaggerated sigh and started doing the math.

"So what's the total capacity? Base 300 gallons plus auxiliary 300. That's 600 gallons. In metric, about 2,270 liters."

"Oh, you pulled it off. That's our Frank. Hahaha."

"Buddy, that's two tons by weight. Who in the world thinks about hauling two tons of fuel?"

I shrugged.

"Stopping at gas stations is a waste of time. And diesel prices are always unstable."

Frank still shook his head like he couldn't make sense of it.

"Be honest with me, Chan. From that insane parts order to these ridiculous fuel tanks. What the hell are you thinking?"

That was when Dave jumped in.

"Ah, right! Frank."

"Huh?"

"In the East, instead of Western zodiac signs, they've got the twelve animals. Chan's year is the Rat."

"Whoa — so hoarding like a squirrel is just this guy's instinct?"

"That's how I see it."

"Aigoo, I failed to recognize our customer's true nature. Hahaha."

Frank and Dave's banter faded into a distant buzz. My eyes were locked on the truck's majestic lines and the comfortable-looking space inside the sleeper. What mattered was that this black steel giant was now entirely mine.

"Frank, the parts?"

"Yes, yes, sir. I scraped together everything we had in the office and loaded it. The rest will take about a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠week."

"Alright. I'm counting on you."

And with that, Frank traded pointless jokes with Dave, finished the handover paperwork, and passed me the keys. Finally I climbed into my truck and said goodbye to the two of them.

"Alright then. See you around."

"Yes, sir."

"Chan, congratulations. You're the boss now. Haha."

I fired it up and reached slowly for the wheel. Cold, smooth metal came through my fingertips, and the moment I rolled out the dealership gate and merged onto the road, a shiver ran through my whole body.

The fresh smell of new leather and plastic filled the cab. That 605-horsepower heart answered the slightest movement of my foot with a low growl — smoothness and raw power you couldn't put next to the old company truck I'd been borrowing.

I stopped at my regular station and filled every tank to the brim. It came to 4,086 Canadian dollars. Four million won of diesel in a single fill.

All at once, ten years of bitterness and hard living melted away like spring snow, and the years I'd put in flickered through my head.

I had been a stranger here.

I'd learned the rules of Canadian society, kept the law, paid my taxes without a word, and quietly carved out my place. I steered clear of dangerous work. I turned my face from conflict. That had been the best I could do. The way you survived in one piece, I believed.

Living that diligently had put permanent residency in my hand, and now I had my own truck. And recently, I'd managed to get my RPAL firearms licence.

Alright. Next up...

Tomorrow I'm going to buy myself a nice shotgun.