Some nights, it’s hard. Nincompoops go by in their heavy duty trucks, for no other reason than to go on by. The trucks don’t haul anything or even other family members. It’s a lone man’s business, the big heavy truck. A response perhaps, to the uncertainty and, perhaps, perceived feminization of the modern age; A machine made to withstand actual physical military attack, if needed. But, why would one expect to be targeted by weapons these days? Is it fear of a black planet, or the women threatening to take over the man’s domain. Well, if they do, the thinking may go, I still have my truck. And it’s big, black, and way up high so I can look down upon everyone else, and see them coming before they get to me.
Trucks have evolved over the years just like everything else. It is believed they mutated from the whale, the blue whale in fact, when the whales emerged from the oceans millions of years ago, grew a tail and some little webbed feet. They didn’t get past the beach for the first million years or so. They had to wait til the feet grew and mobility became possible. By this time they had turned black because of the constant sun exposure. Their complex whale songs slowly slipped from their memories and were replaced, eventually, by a low engine hum and the dinging noise of the no seatbelt warning.
Once the new creatures were mobile enough, they could chase down food and survive on land. The mutation from their whale ancestors was now complete. Their feet morphed into rubber tires, getting rounder and rounder with each new evolutionary update. They built roads to benefit their own mobility. They learned how to suck old dead plants out of the earth to make themselves strong. They learned to grow bigger cabs, bigger beds, bigger tires, enormous structures with room enough for much and many, but, as stated, psychologically suited for the lone man, face hidden behind a ball cap visor and sunglasses, stoic look on his face. No empathy or understanding or feeling of communion evident in the presence of the lone men.
They are not needed within the confines of the truck cab, where no other creature shall enter, friend or foe. It is a solitary vessel, and they ride, alone, like a monkey or a dog in a primitive spacecraft, testing the effect of atmospheric pressure on the ears. They move forward down the road, with no other intention or purpose than to keep moving on. The lone man, on his mission of mystery, does not glance at you as he moves on by.
THE MOSSY BOG 