Enter: Sunshine

As we roll into the Triple T (that's TTT, with two slightly smaller T's flanking a large one in the middle in a way reminiscent of the three crosses--I like to call them topless crosses) at around 4 p.m. This is the largest owner-operated truckstop I've seen; it's not a TA, Flying J, Pilot, Loves, Little America, or Petro. As soon as we park, I turn on the CB, crank up the volume and tweak the squelch down 'til I hear the static on the other end.

"Has anyone seen my sister?" I ask, this time without the forced affectation of a grizzled man from The South. The static crackles back at me as a response. I ask the same question a couple of times more before shutting off the radio and getting out of the car. Once I have both shoulder bags wrapped around me, I turn the radio back on and inquire as to the whereabouts of my lost sibling yet again, this time to hear a clear voice answering on the other end.

"She's over behind the Circle K."

Having already circled around the TTT, I rejoin Alex and Julie. Alex is gathering B-Roll already, and I propose to walk over behind the Circle K with Julie to see who's over there. We walk through the staggered alleys created by the parked rigs--five full rows all the way to the gas station--and emerge to see two folks sitting on a concrete slab. One of them is clearly a trucker to me, with his camouflage cap, aloof demeanor, and light beer. The other was an older woman who was rocking back and forth and staring into the distance.

"You mind if we pop a squat?" I ask, the man shaking his head. We both sit down and exchange names and the short stories of our lives. It becomes apparent that the man is, in fact, a trucker and the woman is actually blind. We soon start handing out cigarettes and drinking beer with them--the trucker being all-too-excited to hand out free beers, probably just to have the company.

Julie and I move over to sit next to Sunshine, having already introduced ourselves, and begin to chat her up. I tell her that I used to be a hitchhiker, and she tells me that she lost her eyesight in a car accident, but that she used to be a working girl, and that even after having lost her eyesight, she has been hitchhiking with truckers all over the country.

"They just come up to me and say, 'Sunshine, come to California with me,' and I say, 'Hell yea!' I leave with just a couple of pairs of clothes in my backpack," she says, patting the small daypack beside her, "They pay for everything, and buy me new clothes. I come back months later with three thousand dollars in my pocket," she says, leaning in my direction excitedly.

My phone starts to ring as she's telling me her war-stories, and it's Alex. He says he's got a woman who works at the truckstop barbershop on the other side of the lot, and that she wants to do an interview. I ask Julie if she's alright keeping Sunshine company, and wrap the bags over my shoulders and retrace my steps through the shifting allies back to the diesel pumps.

After recording an upbeat and strangely hilarious interview, we worked our way back to the Circle K.

~

The night went on with hours of talking about squatters' rights, life on the streets and in the desert, and lots of cigarettes and beer (good thing we got a whole carton in North Carolina). I stayed with Sunshine for most of the night, while Alex and Julie periodically went out to talk to other girls and truckers. At one point, there were as many as a dozen people kickin' it. Each one of them appeared to have their own hustle going on, and they would periodically disappear for a bit to get high. It got to a point where the general welcoming mood and communal familiarity that had framed the sunset was now overshadowed by occasional plucks of discord and disconnect. I was reminded last night of why, when I returned to college years ago, I decided to be sober; I had long ago turned away from it all to return to society, and now I am immersing myself in it yet again. When I look back on my life, and where I am now, I am quite surprised to find myself doing the work that I am doing. I am still a bit floored by what happened last night, and very tired as well. I woke up at 7:30 this morning, and just had to write something. Perhaps, given time, I will find myself with more articulate thoughts on the matter.

Peace and Love,
Dan

Dan twisted the volume knob on the CB radio.

"Free tequila, triple-sec, and pussy. Come to the red van at the Petro."

Welcome to El Paso.

A van picks up drivers and takes them south of the border to bordellos in Juarez where they can solicit prostitution to their heart's content for a fraction of the price.

On to Tucson, ETA 4 AM.

Last night in Dallas we spoke with a couple of truckers who are ex-convicts. They told us that there are a lot of ex-cons on the road driving trucks because it's one of the only jobs they can get. The industry, of course, consoles itself by paying them a small fraction of what other drivers get paid because they know that the ex-con's situation doesn't give them many options.

Aside from their situation, these two were energetic and attempted to bring a little levity into the subject matter. After telling them that I had been arrested for dumpster diving, they said that, "When you get to Ontario, one of them girls is gonna drop them draws an' it's gonna smell like a dumpster, an' you gonna go divin'."

~

We just got back on the road after pulling over to shoot a time-lapse of the sunset over the mountains; we're two hours from El Paso. Sometimes, it rattles my nerves when I think about talking to the working-girls. I'm sure they've got people coming up to them every day wanting something from them, and in a way, that's what we're going to be doing. I like to think that we're offering them the chance to be part of something; a project that will put them into the conscious thoughts of people all over America. In the end though, they're doing their job. It's not necessarily pretty, in fact it's likely to be horrible, but it's how they make a living. I don't know if what we offer them is going to help or not.

~

There are over 3 million truckers in the United States--that's one out of every hundred Americans--and countless women and men serving as their commercial companions, to use the euphemism. It irks me to think that these people are out there serving the fickle will of the nation, and that most people have no idea what they do, or what their world is like.

To be fair, I suppose that I don't really know either. I'm just a hitchhiker. I've had some truckers and lot lizards on the periphery of my experience, but I can't know what their lives are like. I suppose, that by the end of this round of filming, I will have a greater understanding and appreciation, and we will have a film to share with the world.

Peace and Love,
Dan

It was raining as she sat there, leaning against the fence. She wore a black rain coat but her ankles were exposed and a clump of beige mud stained her canvas sneakers. She was so beautiful in this way I can't describe and terrible too, calm despite the intrusion because she'd seen it all and then some. The fabric of reality shimmered when we spoke. Why was she dealt one hand, and I another?

Lucy and Jason put us up for two nights, warriors both--it takes great courage to brook convention. Dan dove into a couple of dumpsters on the way back from Dallas. I dare you to find a better field producer.

Talking to people I'm not supposed to talk to; asking questions I'm not supposed to ask.

Last night was an engaging and slightly disturbing evening. To start with, I'm coming to see that the truckstops transform every night when we're out there: when we arrive, it's dark and sketchy, but as soon as we start to engage in conversation and pull out the camera, the place brightens up a bit.

Last night we spoke with a trucker who has been driving for 33 years. He owns his own small trucking company, but doesn't really plan to retire even though he is sad to see where the industry has gone over the last decade.

"It used to be like a family. Now it's just a bunch of groups," he said, "back in the day it was like a party, and now you have to watch your back. I try not to make eye contact when I'm walking across the lot to the truckstop."

He, and another trucker, told us that they both have friends who slept with lot lizards, and contracted HIV that developed into AIDS. They described their friends transforming before their eyes from robust people into withered discolored apparitions of their former selves.

~

Most of my friends and loved-ones who have talked to me about this trip, express concern for my physical safety. After all of my years of travel, I am no more concerned for my safety (and no less wary of the dangers), however this trip is starting to give me subtle hints as to the emotional dangers of talking to people I'm not supposed to talk to while asking questions I'm not supposed to ask.

Peace and Love,
Dan

Up halfway through the night in Jackson, MS. We scored some rock solid interviews and gathered a lot of cinema verite footage of truckers doing their thing. I split up with Dan and Julie when I'm gathering that kind of footage (the smaller the footprint, the better), and they use the time to socialize with truckers, so that by the time I get back, another interview is lined up. They're doing an amazing job and it's keeping me on my toes because the camera is always rolling.

Dallas tonight.

Jackson tonight, Dallas tomorrow.

"Home base? This is home base right here," said Brent, patting the grill of his eighteen wheeler.

Dan's a natural. Can't imagine anyone being better for the job. Experience in the industry is no substitute for a good attitude, people skills, and discipline.