It wasn't uncommon for truckers to stop, but rarely did the ride last more than a few hours. After a couple of days he offered me a job. I wasn't really interested in working, but was intrigued by learning how to pack.
As I was to discover, it wasn't something that could be taught; I absorbed it.
He was a good driver and navigated the tiny streets of Arcata, California with finesse. Over the course of two weeks I only remember loading, never unloading.
At one point he suggested he'd teach me to drive and set me up with my own truck. I didn't respond; it wasn't something I aspired to.
Used to sleeping on the ground, I'd roll out my bag next to the truck, usually on pavement. He never made an offer, not even obliquely. I appreciated that.
I was getting bored when the truck broke down. It was in a remote place and there was nothing but the shop and the nearby highway. After the second day I decided to move on.
He'd told of how an Indian, his word, had, one night on a distant highway, stepped in front with his arms outstretched. He rolled him up under the trailer, he said. I didn't know what to say. I was only sixteen.
Now, 53 years later, this afternoon, it came to me. The Indian picked him because he knew he'd care.
I wish I could see him again to let him know: its a skill I use every day.
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