Radio S-E-M-I

He Scrunches around in the Bostrom seat a few times until he gets each buttock just right. A good ass is a good ride. Then he gooses the big Cummins diesel a couple of blaps to establish who is running things and backs the 55-foot tractor-semitrailer rig through a maze of a couple of dozen parked trucks. Simple: You do it with mirrors. It takes, say, 20 years' experience herding those big rigs from coast to do this just right. Knock over another guy's trailer and he gets sore-wrought.

At the end of the parking area, he swings the big Kenworth left and two columns of blue smoke shoot from the chrome stacks. He eases past the fuel pumps at the Windmill Truckers Center just outside Wheeling, West Virginia, and snakes it out onto the road.

The truck is a rolling work of art, all purple and chromed and gleaming, and it hums a guttural, confident purr as it rolls past the oasis. The neon lights rebound off the chrome of the tractor and move on to project an image against the side of the big reefer trailer. For just a second, the big rig is a moving billboard for the Lucky Lady, Lounge. Go-go girls. Tell a few highway stories. Then, quickly, it is gone and the 18-wheeler roars up the ramp to Interstate 70 West.

The driver is a big, articulate man of 35. He steers easily with one ham hand and he reaches the other over and (continued on page 124) Radio S-E-M-I (continued from page 103) lifts the microphone from the citizen's-band radio--the two-way. He speaks:

"I need a copy on an eastbound eighteen-wheeler with ears. This is Diamondback." (What he has said is this: "I sure would like to talk with another trucker who's coming from where I'm going and my code name is Diamond-back.")

"You got one, Diamondback," a voice crackles over the two-way. "This here's the Wabash Cannonball. Come on."

"Ten-four, Wabash Cannonball. Uh, we're just pullin' out of the Windmill and we would definitely appreciate some information on Smokey the Bear out there on the boulevard west."

"You're clean all the way to Cambridge, Diamondback. Not a cotton-pickin' bear in sight. Uh, you might even consider puttin' that hammer down and doin' a little truckin'." (Bears are cops and the hammer is the accelerator and, well, you can put the rest together.)

"'Preciate that info, good buddy. You're also clean, all the way to Breeze-wood, so motor, motor, motor. Have a nice evening and a better day tomorrow. This is Diamondback streakin' west."

"A big ten-four on that, ole buddy. We'll catch you on the flip side."

He speeds up; no bears, clear sailing.

•

Somewhere in that low-level mythology of names and jargon is a special breed; they've always been there, but the radio has given them voice--a luster and charm that tends to make one think of truckers as modern American cowboys or folk heroes.

Also, somewhere in there lies a large portion of poetic justice. Because what the truckers have done is to take the smokey's chief weapon--the radio--and turn it to their own advantage.

Assuredly, many of the truckers use it to drive faster than 55, but then, the four-wheelers don't observe the speed limit, either. I mean, what's fair is fair. And just plain people don't have an irascible loading-clock foreman waiting for them on the Shaky Side (California) or the Dirty Side (New York or New Jersey). The one thing they all share is a determination to get there quickly, because, simply stated, the less time it takes, the more loads they can make; and the more loads they make, the more money they make.

So the last thing they need is a speeding ticket. But in some states--Ohio, for instance, where at times they give tickets for going 56 mph--it is difficult. This is what makes the game of cops and truckers a hot one in most places. Not that the truckers fall into the Clyde Barrow class. Hell, they are the good guys. Any profession that can produce names like Chicken Chocker or Peter Dragon or Minnesota Wino or Colorado Cooler can't be all bad. There is even the UFO and Spanish Fly and 007 and the Blue Max and Rumrunner. And if those last two don't tell you something, then you need your hero worship card revoked. The names are more than just handles used on a two-way; they are an insight into a subculture. And the dialog is at least as important as the chatter from a baseball dugout.

•

It is night on the Pennsylvania Turnpike just west of Somerset. Muhammad Ali (the real Muhammad Ali, not a highway hero worshiper using the handle), who has been a C.B. buff for years, speaks:

"This is Big Bopper and I sure would like some info on what's happenin' out there on the road east."

"Hey, Big Bopper, we sure do know who you are And I'm pleased to tell you there's clear sailin' for you all the way home. Hey, champ, you gonna polish off Wepner in the first round? We're all with you. I mean all us truckers."

The trucker is the microcosm of the rolled-up-sleeve workingman. He can speak in one huge voice for the plumbers of America. For the carpenters. For the longshoremen. He can speak on many things. And people are beginning to listen, particularly to his C.B. voice.

Buried deep down in the ten-fours and cotton-pickin's is a service the American road has never seen before, a side people seldom hear about. Truckers use the C.B. to report accidents, stranded cars, highway conditions and a whole lot of things a handful of cops couldn't possible cover.

The two-way popularity is increasing in staggering proportions. More than 6,000,000 are now in use. Hell, that's one out of every five long-haul trucks, three out of every seven four-wheel-drive vehicles and even one out of 39 four-wheelers, according to Browning Laboratories, one of the largest manufacturers of C.B.s. If that isn't enough to frost a bear or two, C.B. sales, nationwide, have jumped to over 50,000 units per month.

The C.B. certainly relieves the boredom, and it can get pretty goddamn lonely up there in that cab with one man, a 13-speed transmission and a ride that would jar the Jockey shorts off a dinosaur. It is a friend, someone you can talk to And listen to it talk back. God knows, a guy can't talk much over truck-stop chicken-fried steak or hot roast-beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy that is congealing right there before your eyes.

So they talk while hammering along, and if, in the course of conversation, a caravan forms, well, why not? There is protection in numbers. They may stretch out a five- or six-truck caravan as far as 20 miles, which is, incidentally, the effective range of most C.B. units. There is a front door and a back door and everything in between is the rocking chair. Here come some of our folk heroes now:

"This is the Mile High Country Picker and I need a copy on an eastbound eighteen-wheeler."

"You got one, Mile High Country Picker. And what else you've got is clear sailing all the way to the Kansas line."

"That's the kind of info we like to hear. What's your handle, Eastbound?"

"You've got the Short Stack; come on."

"Uh, Short Stack, you got some good truckin' ahead of you, too. There was a bear in the grass at the mile-five-five marker, but we got reports that he pulled off the boulevard at the Sedalia exit. You might keep your eyes open around there. But other than that, you're all clear to Columbia. Have a good truckin' evening and a better one tomorrow."

"Thank you for the info, good buddy. You remember to keep the rubber side down and the shiny side up. One Short Stack. We're eastbound. We're down."

They both know what is ahead. It is the westbound caravan we hear from next:

"Uh, this is the Mile High Country Picker on the front door and I've just heard from the world-famous Short Stack that it's clean all the way to Kansas, so, uh, put the hammers down and bring 'em on. Come on, come on."

"And you got the Number One Jelly Belly on the back door. Everything is cool back here and we'll keep a watch for any bears that might try to sneak up. All you truckers up there in the rockin' chair, put those hammers down. This is the Number One Jelly Belly, Country Picker, and we're bringin' 'em on. Come. Ya-hoo!"

"Breaker! Breaker! Breaker! This is Little Diesel in the rockin' chair. There's a bear that just pulled onto the boulevard at the mile-four-seven marker. Bring 'em down, bring 'em down."

The highway-patrol cruiser cases over to the side and the last three trucks in the caravan roll past him at exactly 55 miles per hour. A few miles down the road, they are back up to normal cruising speed. And now the front door takes over again:

"Uh, eastbound eighteen-wheelers, we got a bear in the grass at mile-four-six marker in the westbound lane and he's takin' pictures [radar]. You might want to back 'em down a tad."

"Thank you for the info, good buddy. We've now got a big five-five on the clock here and we'll pass this info along to westbound truckers as we motor on. You've got good truckin' all the way to the big Sunflower sign. Uh, this is the Jolly Roger on the front door of a caravan Iegalizin' east."

"And this is the Mile High Country Picker streakin' west. Bring 'em on, Number One Jelly Belly. Keep the girls (continued on page 155) Radio S.E.M.I (continued from page 124) grinning and the wheels spinning and motor, motor, motor."

"This is the Number One Jelly Belly and we're comin' on. Definitely am glad that Tijuana taxi [a cruiser with all the lights and markings] decided to stop back there and take pictures. We sure do thank you, Little Diesel, for givin' us that info."

They don't talk as much in the day-time. For one thing, there is something to look at besides a bunch of lights and a white line that is running right up your ass. But at night the chatter goes on:

"Uh, this is Little Diesel and we're definitely doin' our thing now. We got three hundred fifty horses jumping up and down and we're gonna go. Say, wonder what----"

Another voice: "We'll make the Good-year plant in Topeka by nine. . . ."

"Uh, you got walked on, Little Diesel. Come back."

"Ten-four. I said wonder what ole Sonny and Will would have done back there."

(Laugh) "This is the Number One Jelly Belly and I think they might have just pulled over and laid 'er down."

The drivers were referring to Sonny Pruitt and Will Chandler, the characters portrayed by Claude Akins and Frank Converse in the television series Movin' On, a show about two truckers that is so shot through with inaccuracies that the drivers never miss it. They sit in truck-stop lounges on Thursday nights and laugh a lot while it is on, but they admit reluctantly that they sort of enjoy it, too, even though Sonny and Will seldom deliver a load.

There is an intimation in the show that Sonny and Will get laid a lot and spend a lot of time watching rodeos and auto racing, with a few night-club evenings tossed in.

"It just ain't that way," says Old Hickory. "But it is the first program that ever showed us as anything but a bunch of apes, sweating and smoking cigars and pinching waitresses on the ass." And he puts down his copy of Overdrive magazine, the truckers' bible, and heads for his rig.

He reaches the door and turns back for a second:

"Well, there might be an occasional hooker or two around the truck stops, but that doesn't count. I mean, most of the time we're all business."

Fair enough. Today's trucker is a businessman in every sense of the word. A strange business, particularly for the gypsy, or, as they prefer, the owner/ operator, who owns and drives and fills out the forms--everything. He is the one who thinks nothing of driving from the Shaky Side to the Dirty Side on any given weekend and then turning right around and reversing the whole procedure. If that won't fracture your kidneys, nothing will.

"We all would like to shove the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit up somebody's ass, but it's the owner/operator-- and the two-way--that's doing something about it," says Pogo. "I'd sure as hell hate to wait for the A.T.A. [American Trucking Associations] to do anything."

Maybe he is a folk hero.

His office is a monster cab with as many gauges as a Cessna 180. Some trucks are conventional in design--long nose--but most are cab-over-engine types that the drivers, for the most part, dislike, because they are rougher riding and more dangerous.

"You're sitting right up there with nothing in front of you but some thin sheet metal and in an accident, you're always the first one there," Short Stack says. "But they're a whole lot shorter than a conventional, so you can haul a longer trailer--say, forty feet--and still get by the length limits. That's why a lot of truckers use them."

So up there they sit, hauling a load of swinging beef (sides of beef that hang from hooks inside the trailer) or perhaps a portable parking lot (auto-transport trailer) or they may even be headed for Iowa to pick up a load of go-go girls (pigs). Whatever the load, they scorn a world of four-wheelers with a philosophy that has been with nomads since the year one. Perhaps Movin' On sums it up pretty well, after all.

From their vantage point, they look down to behold the sights of America.

"We like summer a hell of a lot better," Louisiana Poor Boy says. "I mean, damn, the scenery's better. In the winter, all the girls wear slacks and you can't see anything. But in the summer. Ah, in the summer, we can look right down into those four-wheelers and see legs and beavers and everything. Every kind of rolling sex you can imagine. And some I would never have thought of," he says, sipping his third cup of 100-mile coffee.

"You know, one time I saw two broads scarfing each other in the back seat of a car while this dude in the front seat was barreling along at sixty-five and whacking off. Jesus, that takes concentration," he says.

He polishes off his second stale doughnut and speaks of the trucker's problems:

"It's tough to be completely legal and make any money. Shit, there's so many restrictions and weight limits and length limits and speed limits that it's about impossible for an independent to hack it anymore. It's taken a lot of the fun out of it.

"I bring that big Peterbilt of mine through St. Charles a couple of times a week, for instance. Been doin' it for years and they stop me once a month and they give me a ticket for forty-three dollars and ten cents for being overweight or too long or something. They can always find something if they want to. Then they leave me alone. I mean, I can drive as fast as I want to for the rest of the month. They do it to everybody. But even with the fines and all the other crap, I still can make twenty, twenty-five thousand a year. Clear! Goddamn, that's bad coffee," he says as he shoves the cup away.

"And if I see one more fucking plastic water glass. . . ." he says as he slides out of the booth.

"That's all they have, you know. Plastic water glasses. And bad coffee. Every truck stop. This idea that truck stops have the best food is definitely a myth. Definitely."

He raps his solar plexus a couple of times with the side of his clenched fist.

"If you want a good meal, pull off the interstate and go into a small town. That's where the good food is. We'd all go there, but we don't have the time. Then, there's no place to park our rigs, so we stick to the plastic-water-glass circuit."

•

It was late in the evening and out on Interstate 70 West in Colorado, rolling between Last Chance and Strasburg, the road was nearly deserted. A driver is listening to radio station WWVA, a trucker's companion late at night when there is no C.B. reception. He turns the volume down and picks up his mike:

"How 'bout an eastbound eighteen-wheeler?"

Silence.

"How 'bout an eastbound four-wheeler?"

Silence.

"How 'bout an eastbound motorsicle?" Silence.

"Would you believe a unicycle?" Silence.

"Hitchhiker?" Silence.

"There ain't no eastbound."

The silence from the eastbound lane was broken some minutes later as the headlights from a big rig came into view.

"All you westbound truckers might like to know that there's a bear in a plain white wrapper [unmarked car] on the move about four miles past the chicken coop [scales], so you might want to stay in the driving lane for a spell. This is the Chrome Dome, streakin' east."

"A big ten-four on that, Chrome Dome, and we definitely appreciate that info. You got things a little better eastbound. You can get in that Monfort Lane and truck. Put that hammer down and head for K. C. Town."

The Monfort Lane was named after the Monfort trucking company of Greeley, Colorado, whose drivers hauled swinging beef to New York and Florida and California on a regular basis. It was a two-man operation and their trucks were always out there in that left lane going flat-out. It is still called that.

Today, the game of cops and truckers seems one-sided, but it isn't. The C.B. has made the cops more inventive.

"The smokeys are smarter than ever," says the King of the Road. "They hide better and they got their own two-ways. Why, some of them even tell you to put the hammer down, it's all clear. And you do and there he sits, waiting, with that shit-eatin' grin on his face, just over the next hill. That was happenin' in Florida on I-75 near Lake City. One of them bastards would talk to those truckers and try to lure them into his trap. We finally quit talkin' to anyone around there unless we recognized the voice or handle. Guess he got disgusted and went to kickin' old ladies or umpirin' or somethin'. But there's some of them that's all right. A lot of them, in fact.

"As for local bears, I always figure if you get stopped for speeding through a town, then you ought to get two tickets, one for speeding and the other for stupidity."

What about the smokeys' side of the story? Surprisingly, there are a number of them who condone the C.B. The superintendent of the Missouri Highway Patrol, Samuel S. Smith, says:

"C.B. radio in trucks and cars is the greatest thing to come down the pike since the invention of the fifth wheel. We started an experimental program with C.B.s. .. in a few of our cars. When the truckers noticed that we had ears, they began reporting intoxicated drivers, wrong-way drivers, stranded motorists, accidents and other matters requiring law-enforcement action."

One Wyoming highway patrolman says:

"Sure, there's a lot of chatter on the C.B., but I'll listen to that for a week just to get a report of one accident or one D.W.I. As for speed, we're stuck with enforcing the fifty-five-mile-an-hour limit. Nobody likes it, including some of us. Writing tickets is the last ditch of law enforcement. If the C.B.s slow people down even part of the time, it helps us do our job and cuts down the number of tickets we have to write."

Almost on cue, the radio in the police cruiser blasts away:

"There's a bear parked at the rest stop; bring 'er down, bring 'er down."

The smokey smiles and picks up the microphone:

"Thanks for the info, good buddy." Meanwhile, back on the boulevard, the Mile High Country Picker and the Number One Jelly Belly are nearing Denver: "You left your turn signal on again, Country Picker."

"Well, I told you I was going in circles, didn't I?"

"You definitely did; now tell me why we're slowing down."

"We're going up a hill."

"Oh! Ten-four. Now that we're up, let's motor to the Mile High City. Come on, Country Picker, what're you doing up there, playin' with your doobie?"

"Negatory, Jelly Belly, I'm savin' that. Let's take 'em home."

"Breaker! Breaker! Breaker! There's a bear on the move at mile-three-two marker."

"And there's one at the overpass at Lyman Road in a plain blue wrapper. This is Organ Grinder bringin' 'er down."

"Breaker again. There's a bear in the grass at mile three-five in the eastbound lane. Man, there's wall-to-wall bears out here."

The trucks slow down as they near the battle zone. A marquee at a drive-in theater flashes Truck Stop Women. Rated R. Huh. They'd better be a whole lot better looking than the real ones or the movie will be a total loss, no matter what they do.

Once back down to 55, there is little left to do but chat.

"This is the Number One Jelly Belly and we just passed the smokey at mile-three-two marker and he's givin' Green Stamps to a four-wheeler. And also, there's definitely a sweet thang in a green Plymouth between mile three-two and mile three-one. She sure did smile nice. Yeah, she's definitely one of them sweet thangs."

Part of the caravan takes it on home to Denver while the rest stretch their necks and flex their fingers, preparing for the Rockies looming ahead. An hour or so into the mountains, snow begins to fall, at first light, fluffy flakes that blow around on the long nose of the Kenworth and form sort of pinwheels before finally blowing up against the windshield and then off to the side.

Little by little, the snow begins to stick and the road takes on a silvery hue. The wiper blades leave icy streaks on the windshield. It has come quickly.

Oncoming traffic has practically disappeared, which means that it is worse up there.

"I need a copy on an eastbound eighteen-wheeler. What's it like up there at Loveland Pass?"

"You got the Boll Weevil, good buddy, and it's pretty bad. We just got through, but I got word that it'll be closed real soon----"

"Breaker! Breaker! There's an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed, across the westbound lanes at the mile-eight-nine marker. Better lay 'em down where you are, westbound buddies."

Well, hell. It was only a matter of time, anyway. The snow is now falling in blinding patterns and the roads have turned to glare ice. A dozen or so 18-wheelers ease to the side of the road and grind to a stop. Each man knows he will be there for perhaps the rest of the night. But he has his trusty two-way and some even have television in their sleeper cabs. They can also keep the diesel engine running and stay warm. There is a lot of chatter now.

"This is Rusty Nail. I'm stopped at mile seven-nine westbound. Any you good buddies out there see anything coming through in the eastbound lanes?"

"Negatory, Rusty Nail. You got the Silver Fox and it looks like we're gonna be here for a while. Sure is a shame it ain't Thursday night, we could watch ole Sonny and Will and find a way out of this mess."

"A big ten-four on that, Silver Fox. Let me----"

"Breaker! Breaker! Here comes an eighteen-wheeler eastbound. Give me a copy, Eastbound."

"You got the Big Sky Express. We're rollin' again. Got stuck back there, but some good buddies shoveled some cotton-pickin' rocks under the drivers and we got out. We're takin' it home to the Mile High City and layin' it down. Sure do hope you westbound buddies sleep warm and have a better day tomorrow. This is the Big Sky Express comin' round the mountain."

The truck creeps down the twisting highway amid a shower of congratulations from a dozen handles. The big snowflakes resemble confetti and if you listen closely, you can hear a marching band. It is pretty much the stuff of which heroes are made.

If one squinted in just the right light, he might see a white scarf whipping from a driver's window. Thumbs up. I drive at dawn, my dear. Or he might notice the sagging rear springs of a hopped-up Ford, groaning under a load of moonshine.

"Ten-four, Rumrunner. This is the Blue Max streakin' west. The hammer's down and we're movin' on."

Hmm. For just a moment there, it looked as if there was a Maltese cross on his back doors.

Truck Talk

Chicken coop: truck weighing station

Dirty Side: New York or New Jersey Ears: citizen's-band or two-way radio 18-wheeler: five-axle truck with a combination of 18 wheels--the most common long-haul truck

Front door, back door and rocking chair: front door is the first truck in a caravan, back door is the last and the rocking chair is any or all trucks in between

Georgia overdrive: the neutral gear position, used when going downhill; also, Mexican or midnight overdrive

Go-go girls: pigs

The going-home hole: the highest gear, allowing truck to go as fast as possible

100-mile coffee: strong truck-stop coffee

Pavement princess: truck-stop hooker

Picture taker: patrol car with radar Plain brown wrapper: brown, unmarked patrol car; also, plain white wrapper, plain blue wrapper, etc.

Portable parking lot: auto-transport trailer

Postholes (a load of): an empty load Pumpkin: flat tire

Radar Alley: Interstate 90 in Ohio

Reefer: refrigerated trailer

Shaky Side: California

Swinging beef: beef sides hanging from hooks inside a reefer

Tijuana taxi: a patrol car with all the lights and markings