Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Awakening the Ability (4)
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"My dad's a truck driver too! That's his big truck over there."
The spot the kid pointed to had a chrome-shiny Kenworth W900 parked there.
His proud little face was pretty adorable.
"Oh, that's a cool truck."
"Where's your truck, mister?"
"That beat-up one over there is mine."
The kid tilted his head at the Freightliner I pointed out.
"It's super small."
"Haha, but it runs great."
The kid's dad walked over. He looked like a white guy in his late thirties.
"Sorry about that. Kid talks too much, huh?"
"No problem. He's cute."
"I drive trucks too. Name's Bob McClaine."
"Jake Winch."
We shook hands.
"Camping solo, huh? I used to do that back in the day, but now I bring the family. We hit the road during school breaks, make it a trip."
"Sounds awesome."
"Hey, want some coffee? Just brewed it."
"You bet. Don't mind if I do."
Bob poured from a thermos. The rich aroma hit my nose hard.
"These truck stop campgrounds are a godsend. Used to crash in a tent in the corner of a rest area."
"Totally. Now almost every big truck stop has a campground or RV park. Makes life easy."
"Texas especially has great setups. Other states can be hit or miss."
We sat at a picnic table, sipping coffee and chatting.
Truckers bond fast, even with strangers. Probably that shared grind.
"Where you headed?"
"El Paso."
"Whew, long haul. I'm just going to San Antonio. Gotta roll out early tomorrow."
"Haha, same here, dawn patrol."
"Oh, and the showers here are spotless. Hit 'em in the morning."
"Good call. Thanks for the tip."
I watched Bob head back to his family, then ducked into my tent.
Pulled out the pocket watch from my pocket.
The lantern light made the silver surface gleam.
'Made for Marianne...'
Hard to believe this watch, infused with a watchmaker's love, was now mine.
What stories were hidden inside?
I wound it a bit. Tick-tock echoed in the tent.
Voices from other campers outside. Sounded like they were gathered around a campfire, cracking beers and talking.
"Gotta make Laredo tomorrow..."
"Gas prices went up again..."
"Heard DOT inspections are getting stricter..."
Everyday trucker talk. Not a bad lullaby.
Alarm blared at 4 a.m. Pitch black outside. Packed the tent quick and loaded up.
After, hit the campground showers. Bob was right—super clean. Hot water woke me right up.
Grabbed coffee and a burrito at the truck stop convenience store.
Ate breakfast and hit the road again.
Sky in the east started turning red soon enough.
Texas dawns are always beautiful.
Johnny Cash came on the radio.
[I've been everywhere, man...]
Found myself singing along as I pressed the accelerator.
'Feels like today's gonna be a good one.'
Still four hours to El Paso. But no boredom.
Life on the road.
This was the path I chose.
Three days after getting back from El Paso.
Phone rang early morning. Dispatch from the logistics company, Mark.
"Jake, you up?"
"Yeah, just opened my eyes."
Five a.m. Truth be told, still in bed, but for truckers, this was wake-up o'clock.
"Got a load to Phoenix. Can you take it? Electronics, one night, two days."
Phoenix meant over a thousand miles round trip. Straight shot west.
"Pickup when?"
"Load in Houston by two p.m. today, deliver Phoenix by six p.m. tomorrow. Pay's $1.20 a mile."
Mapped it in my head. Three hours to Houston, then sixteen to Phoenix. Overnight somewhere midway.
"Got it. I'm in."
"Thanks. Papers incoming by email. BOL and rate con included."
BOL—Bill of Lading. Freight manifest. Essential for truckers.
Hung up and glanced out the window. Eastern sky brightening slow.
Showered, then to the kitchen. Thought about camping gear while brewing coffee.
'Tent life again.'
My Freightliner was a day cab—no sleeper berth. Semi rigs with sleepers had a little room behind the seat, but small-truck guys like me hit motels or campgrounds.
America's truck culture was unique.
Infrastructure for long-haul drivers was solid. Truck stops weren't just gas stations—they were mini-cities. Showers, laundry, diners, stores, lounges. Love's, Pilot, TA chains everywhere, oases for truckers.
Pulled gear from storage. Dome tent, sleeping bag, folding chair, lantern, portable gas burner, cookware.
'Gotta pack food too.'
Opened the fridge. Spotted red cans on the shelf while deciding.
"Spam it is. A few cans."
From the Korean market. Walmart had it, but Korean Spam suited my taste better.
Six cans in a bag, plus a dozen eggs and onions.
Pantry had six packs of instant rice. Pricey, but unbeatable for road meals. Packed 'em all.
"And... kimchi's a must."
Small tub of cabbage kimchi from the Korean store into the cooler. Little doenjang tub too.
Loaded the truck—past six-thirty. Time to swing by Sam.
At Sam's trailer, he was up, sitting on the porch steps with a steaming mug of coffee.
"You're up early."
"Old folks don't sleep past dawn. Where to this time?"
"Phoenix and back. Probably late tomorrow night."
"Arizona? Over a thousand miles. I-10 west all the way?"
"Yep."
Sam reminisced—he'd run that route plenty in his young days.
"Watch it past Las Cruces. Winds there flip trucks. Empty rigs especially risky."
"Got it. I'll be careful."
"And Arizona speed traps. Quartzsite area's crawling with state cops hiding out."
"Thanks, Sam. I'll keep it in mind."
Sam looked rougher than yesterday. But I didn't say it.
"Call if you need anything. I'll grab painkillers if you're low."
"Don't worry about me. Drive safe. Follow DOT rules. No busting HOS."
DOT—Department of Transportation. HOS—Hours of Service. No more than eleven straight driving hours, ten off after fourteen on duty.
"Yeah, logs'll be straight."
Back to the truck, fired it up. Side mirror showed Sam waving.
Smooth to Houston. Highway 290 was light before rush hour.
Tuned CB to channel 19. Truckers' official line.
"Breaker one-nine, eastbound. What's the 290 east situation?"
[Road King here. Clear to Brenham. No smokeys.]
"10-4, Road King. Appreciate it."
[Drive safe, driver.]
CB radio—truckers' lifeline. Real-time on wrecks, weather, cops. Crucial pre-smartphone, still popular.
Ten a.m., Houston outskirts industrial park. Massive warehouses everywhere.
"Jake Winch here. Road number 3847, Phoenix load pickup."
Gate guard checked papers.
"Dock seven. Loaded in thirty. Bill of lading at the office."
Backed into the dock. Forklifts hauled pallets—laptops, computer parts.
Office papers: cargo value $120K. Insurance checked.
"Sign here, here, and here."
"Delivery by six p.m. tomorrow?"
"Right. Late means detention fees—watch it."
Detention: fines for delays. Fifty to a hundred bucks an hour.
Load done, tarped tight. Ratchet straps secure, double-checked.
"Load secure. Rolling out."
Hit I-10 west. Left Texas for New Mexico—scenery shifted. Endless desert, red rock mountains. Majestic mesas and buttes.
CB crackled.
[Breaker breaker, westbound trucks. Wreck at mile marker 89. Left lane only open. Four-wheeler jackknifed.]
Jackknife: truck-trailer folding like a V. One of the worst.
"Copy. How bad?"
[Two miles. Slow roll, through in thirty.]
"10-4. Heads up, thanks."
Six p.m., sun dipping west. Fuel gauge at half.
'Las Cruces - 2 miles'
Las Cruces: southern New Mexico college town. New Mexico State University vibe.
Topped off diesel at Love's Travel Stop. Receipt: $320.
"Damn, up again. Over $4.60 a gallon."
Store for water, energy bars. Cashier friendly.
"Long trip? Where to?"
"Phoenix."
"Five more hours. It's 105 Fahrenheit there now—40 Celsius. Stock water."
"That hot?"
"Peak Arizona heat. Watch for engine overheat."
Outside, sunset painting the sky red. Desert sunsets are epic.
CB chatter.
[Westbound, DOT checkpoint near Deming. Logs and papers ready.]
"10-4. Thanks."
DOT inspections: trucker stress. Driving hours, vehicle, cargo—all scrutinized. Violations hurt.
Back on throttle. Dusk falling. Headlights cut the dark.
Nine p.m., fatigue hit near Deming, New Mexico small town.
Big sign: 'Desert Sky Truck Stop & RV Park - Clean Showers, WiFi, Laundry'
Pulled into the lot—dozens of semis lined up. Shiny chrome Peterbilts, Kenworths, Freightliners. Some tricked out like homes.
Office: young Hispanic woman smiled.
"Hi. Tent site?"
"Eighteen bucks a night. Shower token twelve. Open 24/7. WiFi on receipt."
"Token too."
Paid, got site 15. Flat gravel spot.
RV parks: American quirk. Full-timer retirees roaming the country, snowbirds chasing seasons, budget livers. Mobile community.
Tents and RVs around. Truckers, travelers mostly.
Unloaded gear, pitched tent like clockwork.
Dinner time. Set up table, fired the burner. Blue flames danced.
Cracked a Spam can first. That familiar scent wafted.
'Americans don't dig Spam much... but cheap, lasts forever, perfect for me.'
Oil in the pan, Spam sizzling. Comforting sounds.
Sliced onions, stir-fried together. Browning aroma revved hunger.
"Looking good."
Instant rice in boiling water to heat. Best without a microwave.
While waiting, cracked two eggs into the pan.
Spam, fried eggs, rice—bowl empties fast. Kimchi out: full spread.
"Dig in."
Muttered to myself, chopsticks up. Spam and kimchi over rice, big bite.
'Best combo for a Korean guy.'
That's when.
"Hey, buddy! Hold up!"
Deep voice from behind. Turned: huge Black guy.
Over six feet, muscled. Lakers jersey.
"You calling me?"
"Yeah, bro. That smell dragged me over. What's cooking? Chinese?"
Eyes widened scanning my table.
"Wait... that's Spam?"
"Yep, Spam."
His face twisted complex.
"Damn... Spam for dinner? For real? Bro, you messing with me?"