Lunch on the Road

Clear skies, bright sunshine. I-80 W in Wyoming. Mostly flat road, with mountains getting ever closer in the distance. 80 mph seems slow. Time has little meaning.

Then an alarm goes off in the Trucker’s interior. Sustenance needed. I finish my row of stitches, and anchor the needle. Stepping from cab to bunk, I kneel to better explore our pint size refrigerator. Menu choices are glorified leftovers from home cooked meals, packaged in boxes perfectly sized to maximize space in the refrigerator. The entree of the day will be sausage and mashed potatoes.

Swinging shut and latching the refrigerator door, the next step is to remove the microwave turntable from its box on the shelf, stand on the bed, and fit it in the microwave, followed by the (opened) box of lunch. While the meal becomes dizzy and hot, a spoon is selected from the cupboard, and a water bottle from the fridge.

Three minutes later, spoon and meal in hand, I return to the cab and my seat. Now comes the time for coordinated effort. The food needs to be loaded on the spoon and inserted in the Trucker’s mouth. Not on the floor, his shirt, his face, up his nose (hence the spoon as opposed to a fork). The truck is vibrating, jolting, swaying. An eye needs to be on the road ahead and beside so as not to obstruct his vision, or offer a loaded spoon when a bump or lane change is imminent. (Although very accepting of my sometimes clumsy efforts, the Trucker has been known to mutter comments about unintentional tonsillectomies under his breath.)

Mission completed. The cavity has been filled, for now. The Trucker selects a toothpick from his stash on the visor. Returning to the bunk, I remove the microwave turntable and replace it in its box; neither of us wish to hear it chatter with every vibration. The meal container and spoon are wiped and dropped in the dirty dishes container. (No place to do dishes on the road; even rest areas have signs prohibiting doing dishes in their sinks.) Refilling a water bottle and placing it within reach of the Trucker is the final move. I return to my seat, where a ballgame is now filling the airwaves, and retrieve my needle.