The Gorilla Tape performs above and beyond the call of duty. I wonder if they keep a roll of this miracle maker on board SpaceX rocket ships, just in case. Mike still plans to get the new hose installed during his thirty-four hours of downtime this weekend. He also needs a 20,000-mile oil change. That doesn’t sound much like time off to me. We and our precious coil are pointed toward a new Texas destination near Houston after spending last night in a parking lot at the Kentucky steel plant.
Near Greenwood, Kentucky, a pickup truck tries to pass us even though Mike was signaling a lane change for the last quarter mile. Mike lays on his horn as we veer to avoid disaster. I glance into the pickup and observe the inevitable—the driver’s eyes are fixed on a cell phone in his right hand. He’s totally clueless as to how close he just came to a life-changing—or life-ending—experience. Yet another near miss has me asking why we call our devices smartphones when drivers who use them are anything but.
Speaking of smart, Mike recruited his college-educated friend Ricardo to Ox and Eagle and trained him to drive. Ricardo holds a degree in physical therapy. Like many Americans, Ricardo is burdened with serious student-loan debt. He knows he needs a master’s degree to get anywhere in PT, but that means even more debt. He’s tired of being broke. That’s why Mike told Ricardo how he could make six figures after just six weeks of CDL classes.
The phone chirps. It’s Ricardo, who is driving in Memphis, Tennessee. Someone in a car just pointed a gun at him while trying to speed ahead on a highway entrance ramp. I listen to Mike’s end of the conversation and don’t understand why Ricardo’s first call is to Mike and not 911. My twenty-five years in law enforcement kick in.
I implore Mike to convince Ricardo to call 911 with a description of the driver and vehicle. It takes a lot of cajoling, but Ricardo agrees to do it. I’m relieved; this driver is clearly a menace, and he is going to hurt someone. Surely the police will find the driver and arrest him for the threatening display of a weapon.
I am wrong. The police tell Ricardo they won’t do anything unless he stops his truck, waits for an officer, and provides an in-person statement. I’m beside myself. Time is money. Truckers won’t stop, wait forever for an officer, and provide a statement when they know the other driver is probably already in another state. There’s no sense ruminating on this when I can focus on something new—like our gas gauge.
We have a quarter tank of gas left. Company rules say we must refuel. If you run out of gas, air gets in the lines; someone has to come out and pump diesel back into the system and that person charges six dollars a gallon to do it. Time and money. I remark to Mike that he seems to know quite a bit about that process. He confirms he is speaking from experience. We fill up at a Pilot station. It’s an eight-minute pit stop that also allows us to check on the coil load—all is good.
Back inside the cab, we have more time to talk about challenging loads—loads that when mishandled present a danger to the driving public. Mike tells me how he almost hauled loose pipes that were inserted within larger pipes. The client loaded the heavy cargo on Mike’s trailer, which gave him a closer look at what they had done. The pipes were nestled inside other pipes, tied together only with metallic twine. This meant the inner pipes could slide in and out and do their own thing. Mike balked. The client pushed back. The ensuing debate took a long time to resolve.
“We always do it this way,” the client said.
Mike didn’t really care much about tradition. “How much weight do you think that metal twine you’re using is rated for? I’ll tell you: none. Twine isn’t for securing loads.”
The client finally agreed to reconfigure the load for Mike.
But that means other truckers are on the road with pipes that can slide loose while they’re climbing a hill and fire out of the larger pipes like mortar rounds out of a cannon. That’s something to think about the next time I find myself behind a truck that’s hauling pipes. On second thought, I will never find myself behind a truck hauling pipes for more than the time it takes me to change lanes.
Mike’s account of the perilous pipes makes me wonder why there aren’t more level-two and level-three inspections. Like everything in trucking, I’m sure it’s all about time and money. Not enough government funding for inspectors, big corporate trucking interests lobbying against the loss of road time, and big players balking about fines and citations.
Since we’re on the general topic of safety, I ask Mike about drug testing.
“There is random urine testing for drugs. I was tested twice this year. Some drivers in my company have yet to be tested. But a trucker gets two weeks’ notice of a drug test to allow for travel plans back to the lab in Chicago.”
That lead time might give drivers enough room to try and flush something out of their systems. Mike’s also been subjected to a random Breathalyzer test, which he thought was kind of silly because of the early heads-up he was given. When he was first told of an “alcohol test” he thought maybe it would be a precise blood test, but it was just “a blow-in-a-tube thing.”
We pass through the town of Horse Cave, Kentucky, population 2,200—more if you include all the truckers parked around the massive mega-mall adult establishment alongside the highway. Signs over the big gravel lot advertise plenty of truck parking and “videos, private booths, and more.” The more part troubles me. We look it up on Trucker Path. Mike scrolls through some of the comments and mutters, “Filthy, disgusting.”
There are posts from truckers looking for gay hookups: “Looking for fun.” “I’m here now.” “Can a straight guy find fun?” “I’ll be stopping at 9 p.m.”
I wonder who might be trafficked here. Is a killer trucker parked here right now searching for a victim? What would it take for Horse Cave to shut places like this down?
(Six months later, I learn the answer to my question. In September 2022, a business called the Horse Cave Adult Bookstore agreed to close after a three-year police investigation and undercover operation. Over the years, the Hart County Sheriff’s Department had cited the place more than thirty times and charged several people for indecent exposure. The investigations included examining how two people died in the video-arcade area known as the back room. The sheriff claimed1 sex acts were performed inside the establishment and illegal substances were sold. Three years and two deaths—that’s what it took for a community to rid itself of a drug-infested death trap.)
In a blink, Horse Cave is behind us. Soon my week with Mike might be too. This seems like a good time to solicit Mike’s thoughts on which truckers are more likely to kill—who are these men who bring such dishonor to an honorable profession? I ask this question of everyone I interview, and now it’s Mike’s turn.
Mike traces a direct line from personality to truck type. He outright rejects any notion that the kind of truckers who choose flatbeds are serial killers. Flatbeds mean greater engagement—with the load, with dispatchers, and with the clients on either end of the load. The personality type of a flatbedder, Mike theorizes, is more social, less likely to kill. The whole process of loading and securing, the physicality of it, and the mental acuity it requires, argues against the ruminating, obsessed, disengaged loner that Mike pictures as a killer. The built-in physical engagement with flatbedding and, to some extent, with tanker trucks breaks up the mounting monotony of the relentless road. Mike is squarely pointing at the dry-van guys. Maybe Mike should moonlight as a crime analyst.
While Mike’s theory at first sounds self-serving—Hey, it’s not me—it does make sense.
And although he didn’t choose to run flatbed, it’s clear to me after a week with Mike that pulling a dry van would drive him crazy and cause him to ask for more action. We pause our theorizing for a moment to ponder my imminent reality: I need to get home.
Saturday is decision time. Something has to give, as I need to be back home in the next twenty-four hours. We just entered Tennessee and are looking at another thirteen hours of driving to drop off the coil on Monday morning in Houston. Mike faces his mandatory downtime soon—no more driving no matter where he finds himself, which will likely be in some bayou town in Louisiana. Mike graciously offers to let me continue with him in the truck. I like Mike, but thirty-four hours trapped somewhere in the Pelican State getting an oil change and installing a new hose isn’t exactly my idea of a weekend. I need to find a major city with an airport.
Nashville is up ahead. I get on my phone and start searching for direct flights. Bingo. There’s one in a few hours. Mike and I agree that Nashville makes the most sense. He’ll drop me off at a TA truck stop off I-24 not far from the airport where I can shower and change. Then I’ll grab an Uber to the airport and catch my flight. There isn’t a lot of time for a long goodbye. Time and money. I grab my bag as we pull into the stop, shake Mike’s hand, and wish him well.
During the Uber ride to the airport, I’m struck by a chilling thought, and a quick internet search confirms my suspicion: I just showered at the same downtown Nashville truck stop where Bruce Mendenhall murdered Sarah Hulbert.
Timing is indeed everything. Twelve minutes after dropping me off at the TA, Mike texts me to say that the Gorilla Tape lost its grip. The hose burst again, and Mike pulled off the road.