Chapter Text
Day 1 of Being a Trucker
It’s not Izzy’s first day behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler, not by a long shot. He’s been in the business for two decades, and every line in his face, every sag in his posture, advertises it. Izzy is a relic on the road. Stooped, grey, with a leathery face and a goatee. He speaks in the worn-out style of a man who’s smoked too many cigarettes and spent too many nights alone in cramped bunks. He doesn’t care, not really, not about his appearance, not about the way people look at him, not about the fact that his phone never buzzes with messages that matter. He’s long since given up on the idea of a love life, or even the possibility of retirement. Those things belong to other people, not men like him. The only thing he gives a damn about is his truck, which he keeps clean in a way that’s more obsessive than affectionate. It’s pragmatic, mechanical, not sentimental. He can’t understand the other drivers who clutter their cabs with plastic trinkets and neon lights, family photos curling in the sun. His truck is as barebones as they come, stripped of personality, a metal shell that could be a showroom model if not for the hidden pile of dirty laundry crammed into the cupboard. He doesn’t decorate, doesn’t indulge, doesn’t let anything unnecessary linger.
Izzy especially likes the long-haul trips, the kind that keep him away for weeks at a time. There’s nothing for him at home. Just the stale smell of old takeout, the hum of a refrigerator stocked with beer, and the too-familiar ache of loneliness. Once, he had company. Ed, his only real friend, used to ride in his truck by his side, but Ed got soft, fell in love, and now won’t leave home for more than a weekend. The others, Ivan and Fang, barely keep in touch. They send the odd text, maybe meet up for a drink once in a blue moon, but mostly, Izzy’s life is a string of empty rooms and one-sided conversations with the television.
With age, the silence settled around him like an old blanket. It’s scratchy, stifling, impossible to shake off. His days are clockwork, ritual masquerading as purpose. He wakes at seven sharp, dresses in the same variation of clothes, and spits toothpaste onto the cracked pavement, watching it swirl into the dust. Breakfast is black coffee brewed in a battered thermos and a hand-rolled cigarette, the taste both bitter and comforting. He drives four hours on autopilot, eating whatever convenience food he can grab, barely tasting it. Breaks are spent staring at his warped reflection in truck stop bathroom mirrors, sipping coffee, chain-smoking as if the smoke can fill the holes in his chest. If there’s a shower, he takes it, scrubbing at skin that never feels clean. He walks the parking lot, glancing at other rigs, silently judging the garish decorations and the men who own them, but when he passes another driver, he just nods with a tight-lipped, practised smile. If the lot’s empty, he does push-ups or half-hearted stretches, not to look good, he couldn’t care less, but to remind himself his body can still move. Dinner is whatever microwaved meal he finds, eaten in front of the flickering truck TV. By sunset, he might masturbate, eyes squeezed shut, relying on faded fantasies because porn makes him queasy. He finishes quickly, emptily, as if his dick is a representation of his mental state. Then, he collapses into sleep, only to do it all again the next day.
Izzy doesn’t even bother to put a glove on his badly scarred hand. He only puts it on when he leaves the truck. Maybe, it serves him as a reminder that his pathetic now is still miles better than his past.
Now, he’s on step four of his routine: sipping burnt black coffee and smoking another cigarette. He looks up at the sky. It’s a dull, relentless blue already pulsing with heat. It’s going to be a scorcher, he thinks, not that it matters. He crushes the cigarette under his boot, drains the coffee, and rinses the cup under the sink in communal toilets.
He climbs stiffly into his truck, joints popping as he hefts himself into the driver’s seat. With the same pointless ritual as always, Izzy taps at the navigation system, even though the road ahead is nothing but a sun-bleached ribbon of tarmac stretching dead straight to the horizon. The only turns are in his memory. Out here, the world is silent and endless. An expanse of shimmering asphalt, the heat rising in greasy waves, the distant mirage of trees and road signs melting into the blur. The road feels less like a route and more like a sentence, a punishment he’s long grown accustomed to.
Then, he drives. The radio spits out whatever songs cycle through the static. Maybe old country, garbled pop, or commercials for things he’ll never buy. The CB crackles with the hollow voices of other truckers, sharing road gossip and bad jokes, but Izzy never joins in. He likes the illusion of company, but prefers solitude.
By the second hour, the sun is a white-hot brand pressed against his skin. His arms sting, sweat pools in the creases of his elbows, and he knows he’ll wake up tomorrow with new burns tracing the lines of his faded shirtsleeves. The highway is a mirage. It looks like liquid heat shimmering on the asphalt. There’s no one ahead, no one behind.
Izzy digs out his battered pouch of tobacco, rolling a cigarette one-handed while the truck barrels forward. He barely touches the steering wheel. He’s done this so many times, it’s muscle memory now. He cracks the window, lets in a blast of furnace-hot air, and lights up, filling the cab with the familiar, acrid haze.
The smoke thickens in the cabin, curling around the dashboard and seeping into the battered upholstery. As the haze settles, Izzy spots movement. It’s a man standing by the shoulder, arm thrust out, thumb up. Izzy’s lip curls. He hates hitchhikers. Hippies, usually, with wild eyes and oversized packs, always yammering about nothing, never grateful.
He slows the truck, more out of morbid curiosity than concern. Anyone standing out here in this heat is either desperate or suicidal. As he approaches, the figure sharpens in the wavering air. It’s not some carefree hippie, but a man who looks misplaced, almost fragile against the sun-scoured landscape. The stranger carries a small, shiny bag slung over one shoulder and clutches a black purse. His hair is short and brown, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and square sunglasses perch atop his head like an afterthought. There’s a permanent grimace etched into his face, lips curled in discomfort or disdain. He wears a loose, striped shirt that hangs off his frame and a small scarf knotted around his neck. Izzy recognises the style but can’t recall the name.
Izzy slowly passes the hitchhiker. His breath is shallow. He drops the cigarette out the window and then stops the truck. He doesn’t know how he did that.
He glances out the right window and sees the hitchhiker lingering about fifty meters back. The man doesn’t move. Izzy honks. He tells himself he doesn’t care, but the idea of leaving someone to bake in the sun sits wrong, even with him. He still grabs the leather glove from the dashboard and puts on his hand. The man startles at the noise, then finally turns to face Izzy’s truck, squinting through the glare.
The man hesitates, like he’s weighing his options, as if he has any. Izzy scowls. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thinks, but still, the stranger jogs forward, his small backpack bouncing with each step, determined to escape the sun any way he can.
The man opens the door.
“You can come in, but don’t talk,” Izzy says, sizing the man up.
The man scoffs. “Sure,” he rolls his eyes.
The guy drops into the seat beside Izzy, keeping a wary meter and a half between them. Izzy avoids looking directly at him, but his eyes can’t help flicking over. The man’s shorts are alarmingly short, exposing pale thighs dusted with wiry hair, and his shoes have a delicate heel. Everything about him seems out of place, a jarring contrast to the battered cab and Izzy’s own shabbiness.
“Where are you going?” Izzy finally asks.
“Didn’t you just say no talking?” the man shoots back, rolling his eyes again. So theatrical, Izzy thinks, like he wants to make sure Izzy knows he’s annoyed. “Wherever,” he mutters, voice flat and tired. “Somewhere near a big city, I guess. I want to catch a bus, or a plane if I’ve got enough left on my card.”
Izzy gives a barely perceptible nod and stares stubbornly through the windshield, pretending he cares about what’s on the road. The stranger’s phone starts clacking. His nails, painted a lurid red and pointed, are tapping out some message to someone. Izzy glances at them, then away. He cranks the radio up louder, drowning out their sound.
They lapse into real silence. The man stares out the window, lost somewhere Izzy can’t follow, and Izzy hums tunelessly to the radio, his fingers drumming nervously on the wheel. He rolls a cigarette with apathy, lights it, and inhales. The stranger, without a word, extends a hand, those damn red nails again, wordlessly asking for a drag. Izzy, against his better judgment, passes it over and watches as the man inhales, eyes closed, savouring the smoke before handing it back. For a brief second, their worlds overlap in the haze, then fall apart again.
“You’re gonna leave me here?” The man arches his eyebrow.
“You think I’m your bloody chauffeur?” Izzy snaps, eyes narrowing as he throws the truck into park outside a gas station that looks like it’s been abandoned for a decade longer than it’s been open. The awning sags over busted pumps, and the sun-bleached sign flickers with half-dead neon. Weeds spear through the broken concrete, pushing up between patches of oil and discarded fast-food wrappers. The air smells like gasoline and sweat.
Lucius just arches an eyebrow, unbothered. “You’re the one who stopped.”
“If you want out, get out. I need a break,” Izzy rolls his eyes.
The man shrugs, slides out, and disappears into the heat. Izzy watches him go, lighting another cigarette with a hand that trembles more than he’d ever admit. He puts his head on the wheel, breathes out a thick plume of smoke, and tries not to think about those damn red nails.
The inside of the gas station is a fluorescent graveyard. The fridge hums but barely keeps the drinks cold, and the floor tiles are cracked and sticky. The stranger is at the counter, twirling his fingers and making the cashier, some pimply kid with a thousand-yard stare, laugh nervously. Izzy grunts, grabs a burrito from a greasy hot case, and slaps it on the counter behind the man.
“A coffee, too,” he barks.
The cashier nods, jerks his thumb at the coffee machine. Izzy pays in crumpled bills and leaves before the stranger can say anything else.
Outside, Izzy sits on the curb, the sun beating down hard. He unwraps the burrito and chokes it down, washing it with bitter coffee. Sweat snakes down his neck. He rolls another cigarette and smokes it to the filter. When he’s done, he wanders behind a patch of scraggly bushes and pisses, not caring who sees.
Back at the truck, the man is propped against the door, tapping on his phone, holding a bag of chips and an energy drink. “Scored these for free,” he says with a sly grin.
Izzy just grunts, unlocks the doors, and climbs in. The stranger follows, dropping into his seat. The bag of chips crackles as he opens it, the metallic scent mingling with the stale air of the cab. He pulls out a chip, crunches it, then fishes out a plastic figurine from the bag. He inspects it, then shrugs. “Not a special one. Figures.”
Without asking, the man sets the figurine on Izzy’s spotless dashboard. Izzy bristles, his hands twitch at the wheel, but he says nothing, jaw clenched.
They drive in silence. The landscape blurs past, sunburnt fields and rusted-out billboards. More trucks crawl up the highway now, their paint jobs peeling, their drivers as tired and mean-looking as Izzy feels.
“I’m Lucius, by the way,” the man finally says, breaking the hush. “I’m going to Boston.”
Izzy snorts. “Izzy, and I said no talking. Didn’t your mother teach you to listen?”
“Touchy, aren’t you? You don’t care that you picked up some rando on the road?” Lucius snickers, tapping the back of his phone.
“No. I’ve picked up worse, believe me.”
Lucius goes back to his phone, red nails flashing. Izzy tries not to stare, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“I’m going to Boston too,” Izzy mutters, half under his breath. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe just to hear his own voice, maybe because those nails are still stuck in his mind.
“I’m not gonna make you drive me all the way,” Lucius replies. “Just somewhere closer to civilisation.”
Izzy grunts his agreement. He didn’t want Lucius in his truck around longer than necessary, anyway.
Lucius sighs, still tapping. “Shit luck today. My situationship dumps me roadside, phone’s dead, now I’m stuck with a grump who hates conversation.”
“I’m not interested in your love story,” Izzy rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide it this time.
“It’s not even a break-up. Wasn’t love. Just liked the guy’s bald head.”
Izzy’s hand unconsciously brushes his full head of hair. He scowls harder, eyes fixed on the truck ahead of them.
“So what’s your life story?” Lucius presses.
Izzy bares his teeth in a humourless smile. “What’s it look like? I drive a truck. That’s it.”
“No wife? No kids?”
“Do I look like the family type?”
Lucius just shrugs, plugs his phone into the dash. They don’t talk again.
Miles later, the sun is setting in a smear of bloody orange over the cracked horizon. Izzy’s eyes ache. He pulls off at a truck stop, the lights flickering in the dusk.
“We’re stopping here. Overnight.”
Lucius sighs, eyeing the parking lot littered with cigarette butts and empty bottles. “Guess I’ll sleep sitting up, then. Whatever.”
Izzy grunts. “There’s a second bunk.”
Lucius just nods, thumbing a text to someone. Izzy rolls a cigarette and passes it over. “I’m not a smoker, you know. Just stressed.”
Izzy snorts, lights his own. The radio hisses between them, filling the cab with static and old country twang.
“I’m going for a shower,” Izzy announces, grabbing a towel and his battered toiletries.
“There are showers here?” Lucius sounds sceptical.
“Luxury, right?” Izzy sneers, and they both step out into the fog of truck exhaust and fast-food grease.
The showers aren’t the worst Izzy has seen. Some tiles are cracked, and maybe some mold is blooming in the corner. The air stinks of bleach and old sweat. Izzy doesn’t flinch; he’s been in worse. He drops his battered slippers, peels off his clothes, and steps into the stall, the cold water shocking the sweat from his skin.
Somewhere in the next compartment, Lucius makes a commotion. A startled yelp, almost a hiss, like a cat that’s seen something it doesn’t like. Izzy can’t help the involuntary twitch of his cock. Pathetic, he thinks, scowling at himself as he lathers up, trying to focus on the grimy wall instead of the memory of that sound. He works over his chest hair, feeling the grit and sweat loosen, the soap stinging in old cuts.
When he comes out, towel slung around his waist, Lucius is already dressed and fussing with his hair in the cracked mirror, his painted nails flashing as he adjusts his scarf. Their eyes meet in the clouded glass. Izzy raises an eyebrow, masking any sign that his mind is anywhere but here.
Lucius leaves without saying anything.
Izzy snorts, pulling on his shirt with deliberate slowness, and stares at his own reflection. In two decades on the road, he’s seen and done plenty, but there’s something about this situation. Something that needles under his skin and makes him want to spit.
“What now?” Lucius asks.
Izzy shrugs.
“Wow. Rude.”
“Yeah? Fuck off, then.” Izzy snaps, heat prickling up his neck. Lucius just laughs, the sound sharp and bright in the thick summer air.
They return to the truck. Izzy unlocks the cab and shoulders past Lucius, yanking down the spare bunk, a thin, lumpy mattress with a faded sheet. “There. Don’t drool on it.”
“Not a five-star hotel, that’s for sure,” Lucius mutters, settling in.
Izzy ignores him, flicks on the TV, and stares at the flickering screen until Lucius announces he’s going to sleep. When Lucius finally turns away, Izzy lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. If he were alone, at least he could masturbate in peace.