Trucker’s Christmas

Perhaps the loneliest place in town of a Christmas Eve is a neighborhood saloon. Those who have little to celebrate wish the holiday were over, those celebrating it are home with family, and the rest drift like human flotsam in a very dark sea. The wind was giving no quarter that night and the darkness itself was raw, as if to test the joviality or anticipation of children and those rich of heart and purpose.

I had nothing to celebrate that particularly bleak Christmas, wasn’t in my Christmas mode, so I sat on a stool in my nearly empty bar, counted the bottles over and over again, and tried not to think of what was going on in a thousand nearby homes in Huntington, Long Island. The “Press Club” was a disaster, beyond help. It had taken every cent I’d made over the years. Ironically, when the idea of buying it had arisen several years previously, I had believed that perhaps this would provide some degree of security, but the bar and restaurant business is the least secure endeavor known to man, a people trap always coiled and ready.

Anyway, I was very alone when I heard the brakes of a tractor trailer sound nearby. My lights were on so the trucker figured someone had to be alive this particular Saturday, Christmas Eve night. Probably everything else was long since closed down.

The door opened and this rangy dude in denim jacket and pants came in quietly, said, “Howdy” with a Tennessee accent and asked me the location of a nearby warehouse. I gave it to him and suggested that it was long since closed. He said he had to take a chance it was still open and left. I heard the rig accelerate and half an hour later its brakes, as he returned crestfallen.

It was indeed closed. He had figured he could unload, then drive through that night to get back home for Christmas day and family, but it was not to be. I commiserated for a moment and offered him a drink on the house. He said he had to find a phone and I told him to use mine. What the hell, I was going out of business quickly and couldn’t get much deeper in debt.

He thanked me profusely, went into my tiny office, leaving the door open so I couldn’t help but hear his conversation. He spoke lovingly to his wife and daughter, told them how much he missed them, and that he would be at least another 48 hours till he could kiss them both. He said they would celebrate a late Christmas and he reminded them how much better off they were than some of their neighbors in the small, apparently impoverished, Tennessee community.

It was a lesson in humility, in loving and shared concern, which moved me. It was a Christmas message, simple, yet intensely moving. I was touched and let him sit with his thoughts for a few moments before he reemerged, quickly rubbing his eyes. He took his drink, I made him a sandwich, the first food he had eaten that day, and he told me about his wife and daughter, how they didn’t need much but each other, how lucky he was that he had that much love waiting for him when he returned from his thousand plus mile trips. He said he was one of the luckiest human beings in the country. He added that in another three years he would pay off the notes on his truck and there would be more money.

This tired looking trucker put things in a very clear perspective for me. A view that was simple, yet eloquent, a philosophy, sound and correct and caring. I listened to his near monologue when finally he asked, “How much?” and I responded, “Merry Christmas, it’s on the house.” He looked at me after attempting to pay and said, “You really helped. I can’t thank you enough, you outta’ get home to your family and get out of here, there won’t be many people around tonight.”

He shook hands and asked me to visit him and his family outside Chattanooga and I said I would try. He left and I retook my seat in front of the bar. A half an hour later I realized I was counting the bottles again, so I closed and locked the door and went home to my furnished room.

-30-