From Massachusetts to New Jersey: The Haunting Story of Bill the Trucker

Picture this: I was on the road from Massachusetts back to my home in New Jersey.  I stopped at a rest area to grab some food and noticed a hardened man seated next to me; his face etched with the stories of countless rough days.  Several teeth were chipped or broken, and there was an absence of a smile; his eyes surveyed the room with an intensity suggestive of underlying aggression, more appropriate for combat or a prison yard. His scent was distinctly masculine and assertive, reminiscent of stale deodorant, gasoline, oil, and tobacco smoke. I was unsettled by his energy. Determined to keep to myself, I ate quietly, avoiding eye contact with him.  Then, unexpectedly, he started talking to me.

Our conversation began with casual pleasantries.  I can't recall his name, so I’ll call him Bill.  Bill drives an 18-wheeler for a living.  He started telling me about the realities of his job—the hours, the miles, the sleep deprivation, and the hallucinations that come from it.  Then he delved into the life of the road, with its independent loneliness.  He shared a plethora of stories with me.  I was intrigued.  At some point, the conversation shifted to his family.  They live in Texas now, and he sees his wife and children every few weeks.  He acknowledged the difficulty of being a dad and husband from afar.

Bill had many children. They were an accumulation from two marriages.  He admitted his first marriage was a disaster; he was violent towards his wife and children, resulting in his older children hating him.  When speaking about them, with embarrassment and contrition, he admitted that he didn’t blame them for their animus towards him.  My brain felt validated with my initial apprehension of seeing this man.

Yet, I wanted to hear more stories from this fellow stranger and traveler.  We began talking about the various places we had traveled across the United States.  Because of his job, he was like an off-the-beaten-path professor, eager to share obscure destinations and roads.  I took mental notes like a good student.

I don't know what transitioned our conversation to a deeper, existential level, but soon we were discussing the brevity of life.  I tried to explain my profession, the work I do in schools, organizations, and conferences as a creative. Providing translation to ‘how’ my brain works is never an easy task.  I saw the glaze over his eyes and realized my words weren’t resonating with him.  He even told me so.  Yet, when I mentioned that our lives are brief breaths of air, and that all we can do is to be the best version of ourselves, making better choices today than we did yesterday. And with that thought, Bill nodded vigorously in agreement and then left me speechless with his final story.

One night, while driving the dark roads of America, Bill was conversing with his best friend who was also a truck driver.  They were keeping each other awake and entertained after a taxing day of driving.  Bill was somewhere in middle America; his friend was in Virginia.

During their conversation, Bill’s friend stopped speaking and shrieked. Alarmed, Bill pressed out a question, “What’s wrong, bro?” His friend urgently blurted out, “I just hit an ice patch and lost control of my rig. I flew off the edge of this cliff. Dammit, man, I’m going down. I’m not gonna make it. Yo, brother, tell my wife and kids that I love ‘em!”

My mouth hung open like a child hearing a ghost story for the first time.  “What did you say, man?!?”

“Not much,” he retorted.  “I just said, ‘I’ll miss you, man.’  There was a loud noise, then silence.  So yeah, the only thing I understand about what you’re talking about is just how short our time is on this planet.  That’s why I’m trying to be a better man to my second wife and kids.”

Conveniently, Bill had to head back to his truck, and I had to head back home.  I had 250 miles to go, and I didn't want to drive home; I just wanted to keep driving.  I wanted to drive the straightest path possible, and to make it home safely.

I was right about Bill, and I was so wrong about Bill. Here was a man striving to be better, and I had reduced his complex story to a single emotion—fear. He had lived a violent life, but he was also on a journey of redemption, a quest to amend his past wrongs. As I resumed my drive, Bill’s words resonated deeply within me, highlighting the transient nature of life and the boundless capacity for change.

I vowed to be more open-hearted, listen earnestly, and avoid judgments. This encounter reminded me that everyone has unique struggles and triumphs. We are all on this path, trying to avoid life's cliffs. The most profound lessons often come unexpectedly, leaving a lasting impact and urging us to be our better selves.