Confessions of a Truck Stop Cashier: Scoop

From: "dndirty1"
Confessions of a Truck Stop Cashier: Scoop

Confessions of a Truck Stop Cashier

rabblerouser
No one cares what they say to the micropiece -- we ride below their threshold.

Some would find this insulting, or demeaning. In fact, I surrendered to that
feeling at first. Until, that is, I realized exactly how much opportunity this
engendered to actually observe and analyze the complex workings of the
individual components in this tiny slice of the market.

Odd that invisibility would lead to such power.

Truckers are an odd lot, individualistic and often outspoken. I can count on the
fingers of one hand the number of truckers I met espousing any sort of
collectivization that even approached socialism. In fact, I met only one. He
seemed to be some sort of union organizer or hardcore advocate. He engaged a few
others in discussion that led to his being laughed out of the restaurant one
night. He left in a huff, angry that the independent operators should dismiss
his fantasy of collective fraternity so outright and profanely.

Most of the truckers I met were apolitical. Some actually called politics a scam
and a game. Understandable. These are men without a home -- road riders. Loners
by nature or design. But I certainly heard them express their opinions loudly
and clearly quite often.

I never pushed or prodded, or preached or evangelized. That would have been
rude. I was there to do a job and they were there to rest during the job. I
stuck to the topic at hand, whatever they felt like talking about.

But, on the occasions it did come up, I did not shy away from my own opinions.

The truckers liked me. They liked the fact that I could converse on a wide range
of topics, and they liked my jokes and overall sense of humor. Some liked to
talk music, some wanted to talk about women and their inscrutable ways. Some
wanted to talk sport -- which I know nothing about but was game enough to try
and fake.

On one memorable occasion, a shrunken elderly black man with a thick and
beautiful southern Louisiana accent -- an old-school owner/operator who had been
driving since his late teens -- brought up the Viking explorations of America! I
was delighted. Such strange juxtapositions are the real joy in such a dreary
job. I know a bit about the subject and we conversed a while. He excused himself
to get something from his truck and returned a few minutes later with a thick
hardback book that I instantly recognized: Will Durant's The Age Of Faith -- the
volume that had turned me into a history freak at age 15. He looked a bit
sheepish. "I picked this up at a library sale. I don't know why. But it means a
lot to me. He wrote more, this fella, right? The whole story of civilization, I
hear."

He and I talked after that. Really talked -- about important things, deep
things. He ended up standing there at the counter through the rest of my shift,
and our conversation ranged over the history of the world and interspersed with
personal stuff. Politics was a big theme -- and I was not shy about my opinion.
And he agreed. He seemed to draw strength from it. I tried to be eloquent. I
tried to be calm and logical. My point -- as my point always is -- was that the
more power we give the state, the more enslaved we are. He agreed. He talked
about his own family, his brothers and sisters lost in welfare and housing
projects, turned apathetic.

When he left, smiling at me as if he'd found a kindred spirit, we shook hands.
His shake was firm and warm and honest. "It was a fine thing to meet you,
George," he said to me, "and I hope we meet again soon."

I had to fight tears.

That is the proper way to be a rabblerouser. By treating people as people. By
engaging their hearts and souls. By approaching them as human beings and not
potential converts. Walking up wild-eyed and tossing pamphlets and yelling
slogans simply gets you written off as a nut. You'll never change a person's
mind that way, unless they are as crazy as the slogan shouter in the first
place.

It happened fairly regularly. Nice conversations got started, I'd see an
opening, and I'd introduce my anti-statist opinion. I'd always introduce it as a
point where they agreed. I'd never contradict or incite argument. I'd word my
response in a way that was non-threatening but thought-provoking. I considered
it a triumph to plant a seed and leave them thinking. I'd snuck up on them,
after all, below their threshold, placed herein a market friendly point and
rousing the rabble the best I could.

Of course, some people are unreachable.

One morning a well-dressed couple stopped, gassed up their SUV, bought a paper,
and asked about a menu. I gave them one. Snobs, I knew -- just from looking at
them. Observing them. They seemed bemused at being in such a common, tacky
place. They were an older couple -- mid 50's I would guess. Very attractive,
especially the lady. She reminded me of the beautiful and talented Gena
Rowlands. She had a classic face and a hairstyle that suited her perfectly. She
was well dressed and -- physically -- a picture of real class. I held back my
desire to flirt shamelessly.
"Dear lord, we are certainly in the heart of the south!" she laughed. "Look at
these menu choices. They all come with grits!" Haha. She tossed me a look, that
look that says 'I don't mean you of course'. I smiled, but the urge to flirt
died suddenly.
"Seems that Bush is having some trouble convincing Congress of the need to deal
with Iraq." Hubby said, reading from his paper.

Wifey sniffed, still perusing the menu she found hilarious. "Idiots. What a
bunch of idiots. America is all that matters."

She tossed the menu on the counter, and basically dismissed me.
"Do you know what we should do? Really?"

Oh, I was all f--king ears.
"What's that, sweetie?" asked hubby, probably reading the comics by now.
"We should just nuke the planet. Think about it. We are protected by vast oceans
on either side of the truly powerful states. We should just wipe them out. Asia,
the Middle East, Europe, Africa. Waste. Thats all they are. Especially the
Middle East. They signed their death warrant when they dared to attack their
betters. Just wipe them out. And China is a joke. So is Russia. I never believed
either had a functioning ICBM. It's ludicrous. They ride around in rickshaws and
can't even give welfare to their poor people. We should just wipe them out. All
of them. Good riddance. Then the South American countries would know who's the
boss and never give us any trouble. Are you ready? I don't feel like eating this
hick slop. Let's go to the Arby's up the road."
"Mmm-hmm," said hubby.

They paid for their gas and I tried to keep my hands from shaking as I rang it
up. I tried to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I tried to keep from
reaching out and smashing that bitch's face into the counter, hopping over it,
and beating her pathetic husband into the floor while she watched and saying,
"Hey! Look! I can do it! Must make it right!"

I succeeded, despite the fact that, in my head, I remembered this little piece
of video I had seen years ago, of a baby girl dancing joyfully with her brothers
and sisters on the streets of Baghdad, while her grandfather played music. That
baby girl looked almost exactly like my baby girl. She was just a little darker
of skin. Her eyes were the same. Her joy was the same. Her life was exactly the
same.

They left, and I cried. I couldn't help it. I cried for a while. Co-workers came
up and asked me what was wrong, I told them it was ok, I was just tired, under a
lot of pressure, made excuses, etc. I couldn't tell them that I was afraid for
the entire human race. Afraid because people like that were the ones in charge,
the ones who counted.

And I could only rouse a certain kind of rabble.