Truck Time Novels & Stories

Cairns, Australia 2005. Time is a healer. At 57 a badly broken foot takes it’s time, but I was fairly fit from a lifetime of hard physical labor. Even after David’s transport became a massive company I still made sure I got out in the yard with the guys and did a bit of the heavy stuff. Loyalty is won in many ways but in the trucking game you don’t get it sitting in the boardroom sipping chardonnay while others sweat.

All three of them squeezed themselves into the cabin while the other four strong men took the backseat, steadying the coffin with their hands. Trine lit a cigarette and inhaled two puffs of the smoke. Then, he stomped his foot on the gas pedal. With a violent tremble and ear-splitting engine sound, the truck moved forward at an agonizingly slow speed. They drove through the snow-covered highway and arrived at Trine residence three or four hours later.

The time was twenty-five minutes past seven. As the truck went past him, he glanced at the driver, who stared straight ahead. His eyes caught a sign painted across the door, and his attention went swiftly to the gate, which had been rolled close. For the first time, he realized the big sign painted in white on the red background of the iron gate, which read; RICO TRUCK AGENCY. Do you want good service? Go to a good truck agency. Do you want better service? Go to a better truck agency.

*Grace* “Eight o’clock. Eight. O. Flipping clock,” Rob mutters under his breath, flicking the blinker switch arm up with annoyance and slowing the truck as we near the parking lot entrance. “What drugstore closes at eight o’clock? Oh, right. The one in the town where I live, dammit.” It’s all I can do to stifle my giggle, and I squeeze my eyes shut against it as he maneuvers the truck into a parking spot. “Do you want me to go in?” I ask as he kills the engine.

(Kane) The heavy rumble of my dual-axle pickup truck was a grounding, comforting vibration against the soles of my boots. We hit the state highway just as the clock cleared 1:00 AM, the massive black chassis cutting cleanly through the thick coastal fog that had haunted the campus all weekend. The heavy mist clung to the trees lining the asphalt, but the truck”s high-beams tore through the darkness, carving out a private path just for the two of us.

"Fast. We get in, we get Caruso, we get out. No conversation. No negotiation. We grab him and go." The truck stop appeared after forty minutes of driving. It was exactly what Mackenzie expected. A dingy place that had probably been built in the seventies and hadn't been updated since. Flickering neon signs advertising cheap food and cheaper gas. The kind of place where cash was king and nobody asked questions. A handful of big rigs were parked in the lot, drivers sleeping in their cabs or taking a break inside. A few cars scattered around. An old pickup truck that looked like it might not start again. Nothing that screamed danger, but everything that whispered it.

I inadvertently let out a whimper. “Fuck, I love when you do that,” Tyce’s other hand grasped my hip. “Do we have time?” “No,” I responded, practically whimpering again. “We promised Trav we’d be there at two.” He groaned out, “Okay, fine.” We finally managed to untwine ourselves from each other and made it out to Tyce’s douchey car. I did have to reluctantly admit it worked great in Alaskan conditions. We made the trek to Trav’s pack on the expensive plowed roads and made it just about on time.

Carl, who’d broken two fingers fixing an axle in February and never complained, said, “We lost time on the 95 because of a water main.” “Which block?” she asked. He told her. “Where did you stop for coffee?” she asked. He told her. “How many seconds did the barista take to tell you your order?” He looked confused. “She’s new,” Sasha said. “She’s slow. Next time, call ahead when the truck turns onto Mercer. Save six minutes. You think six minutes doesn’t matter. It’s everything.” He stared at her as if he’d been given a password to a room he didn’t know existed. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

We wave to each other as Alex starts the truck, and we start on our drive. Travis climbed in the back, so I had climbed in the front with Alex driving. "So, how long is the drive to your pack?" "It's a little over seven hours if we make good time." "Dang, I didn't realize it is that far," I tell him when I think about the ride. I guess that gives us plenty of time to talk. Before I can even think of something to talk about, I yawn, and Alex laughs.

I snapped back to reality while yanking my phone out of my pocket to check. “Don’t worry. We still got plenty of time.” Gunner said. I put the truck in drive and took off out of the lot. I could go on and on about this truck but I know that’s not what you guys want to hear about so I’ll just jump to the meeting. It does handle very nicely and has that new car smell though. We arrived at the meeting spot in just under an hour. “Record time. GPS said it was an hour and 7 minutes with traffic.” Gunner said hopping out of the truck.