If you told me I would be a bearded trucker when I was 17 I would have called you a goddamn fool. If you told me that when I was 17 and a half I would have said “you know your stuff mister.” For most of my life I wanted to drive a rig. For a brief period in my youth I wanted to be a politician and make a difference. By difference I mean legalize weed because smoking grass is all I did. Of course back then we called it reefer. This caused a lot of confusion because one of the fellas I ran with was named Reaf Reeferman. He died in a fire from smoke inhalation so you can imagine the confusion and arguments about “Smoking Reefer” as we thought the other person was disrespecting Reaf. We eventually settled on calling it Mary Jane in honor of our dealer who was a woman named Mary Jane Deeler.
I didn’t start trucking in my youth but it was always there. I joined the army after high school. I worked in the motor pool of course. I loved driving those deuce and a halves. Just an engine with a big metal box strapped to it. I guess that kind of prepared me for the driving life style. I got out of the Army in ’74. I hooked up with a buddy of mine Hank Henson, who I knew from Ft. Campbell who had gotten out and started a beer delivery service in San Antonio. All I did was inventory. I didn’t drive the truck for over a year. One day Hank comes in laughing saying that some rich Texan was in Georgia and wanted some Coors beer which wasn’t sold there and he wanted it in 24 hours. He said no one could make that drive in 24 hours. I sat silently for a minute.
“I can do it” I said “I can make the drive”.
“Are you crazy?” Asked Hank. “You would have to drive like a bandit with Smokey on your tail that whole time. You know they don’t like bootleggers.”
I stood up “Fuck you Hank! You have been keeping me doing inventory for a year and you know all I want to do is drive a big rig.” I yelled. Hank got right in my face.
” I never liked you . I only gave you this job because you helped me find the asshole who got my sister pregnant” Said Hank between clenched teeth. I was taken aback.
” Wait. What? That wasn’t me. I didn’t even know you had a sister. “I said. Hank smiled.
“Now you are ready.” He said handing me the keys to the truck. I never understood him. But then he handed me some Peyote and everything started making more sense. Needless to say I made the drive and never went back because Hank was an asshole. I started with small jobs to make some money. Eventually my beard came in nice and full and by ’79 I was turning down work.
One of the first things I learned when driving is to respect the road and the other drivers. A big Peterbilt like what I drive now can be intimidating and you need to keep in mind the size of your rig. But fuck that. I own the road. If you are in my way you picked the wrong day to drive. I get the job done no matter what. Fuck you in your mini van with your family. I’m hauling 4 tons of tampons that need to be in Detroit by Sunday or half the female population is going to bleed out. I stop for no one. I know what you are thinking. What about highway patrol? A joke. Maybe they would pull over the younger drivers. Or some rookie cop who thinks he’s big time might try to make a move. But you want to know what is really going on when you see a cop handing an experienced, bearded trucker a ticket? Exchanging names. A little list week keep on who are the “friends of the road” shall we say. Truck stop hookers. Hell, it’s a hard life out here. The cops get it. They are in the same boat. Sitting around all day doing jack shit waiting for a call on the radio. We have code we used to talk to each other. I’ll get on my CB and find his frequency.
“Hey pig. You got any good truck stops around here with some road worn whores for a road worn man?” I’ll say. Now that I think about it there isn’t much code. We exchange names of good road friends, have a few laughs, then I head out. I have never got a ticket. There was one time outside San Diego when I was high as fuck on black beauties and had been driving for 4 days straight at 96 MPH in a residential zone. I pointed to my beard and the punk cop didn’t even respect it. Started writing me a ticket. Only reason he didn’t take me in is I hooked him up with a handful of the pills. Those things were like candy to me. Shouldn’t even be a drug in my mind. It should be a Goddamn work requirement. You can call me an amphetamine addict if you want but I am addicted to amphetamines. And I also drive tripping balls on shrooms but that is just for entertainment purposes. People seemed surprised I haven’t gotten more tickets in my time but think about it. You pull over a big rig and out steps a 52 year old experienced driver with a grey beard, a cowboy hat a pair of overalls, and some of the shit kickingest boots you have ever seen. You know that man knows what the fuck he is doing. That man is a driver. That man is an American trucker. That man, is me.
-Buck Crimson
March 2002