Why I sleep at truck stops now

There aren’t a lot of ways your day can go wrong when you’re a trucker. The truck can break down, but then you just radio for help or call a tow company. The cops can pull you over and find out you’ve been on the road too long. You can have a bed full of shit that’s illegal in 36 states. Ok, fine. There’s lots of ways a day can outright suck as a trucker. They just don’t happen so often. At least if you’re careful.

I, like many, used to sleep in my truck instead of stopping somewhere. By the time my route led me to a truck stop, the place was usually full. And frankly, those places can be dangerous for women. So I’d just pull over somewhere, go into the back, clean my gun and then go to sleep.

One night, I woke up because the concrete outside my cab was crunching, and a few moments later, someone was shining a flashlight into the cab. I assumed it was a curious cop—maybe some greenhorn who hadn’t seen many truckers before. But there weren’t any cherries and berries, and I’d never seen a cop pull over behind a car without switching on his lights.

This, and because I’d fallen asleep reading a horror novel, made me bring my gun when I went into to cab.

I’d still half-expected to see a cop. What I got instead was a guy in a hunting cap, crowbar in one hand, flashlight in the other. And he was getting ready to bash open a window.

One look at my .38 and he was gone; just a puff of smoke and darkness where he’d been standing before. Technically, I couldn’t drive again for another six or seven hours. I’m pretty strict when it comes to my logbook; I drive as much as I’m legally allowed and no more. It puts a damper on income, but I never risk losing my license or my rig that way.

I made an exception that night, and if a cop had a problem with it, he could cram it down his ear.

I went down my route a while longer, made sure no one was following me, and then pulled off.  My eyes were trying to close and I needed to sleep. I’m not sure if I got to sleep or not, though; I just remember seeing a goddamn flashlight beam snooping through my cab window again.

I yelled, “What the hell do you want?”

At which point a crow-bar bashes against my window and cracks it.  

I was between a rock and a cliff wall; I had a gun, but letting him break in would put me us together in melee. I didn’t want to risk that because, should the gun leave my hand for whatever reason, I’m your average untrained woman, against someone easily half-again my size wielding a metal club. But my only other option was, well, what I did.

I threw myself into the driver’s seat and started the truck. The window broke all over my lap, and then the guy was practically in my face, trying to hit me with the crowbar. Which must have happened, because I ended up with a massive bruise on my chest—but I sure as hell don’t remember it happening. All I remember is the truck lurching forward, and him jumping backward into the darkness when I started firing.

I phoned the police. Warned other drivers. As far as I know, nothing ever came from it, and I’ve never seen the guy again.

But you bet your ass I try my luck at a truck stop every time I can.