I-10 into Houston on a Monday morning, and traffic doesn’t stop so much as give up. Just lies down and dies like a tired old horse. Sixty-five to zero in a blink, brake lights stacking up until the whole interstate looks like a busted Christmas parade. My CB comes alive. “This is Bad Apple, eastbound at the 7-5-3, and we are officially parked, boys.” That voice, hell, it was a velvet hammer. Smooth whiskey drawl, late-night DJ warmth, the kind of voice that makes you picture a man who’s seen some shit and decided to laugh at all of it. I liked him instantly. “Anybody know what we got up ahead?” Same old reports. Wreck at the 756. Maybe a fatal. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. Truckers start bartering routes, 610, surface streets, or just sit tight and bleed logbook hours into the Houston humidity. Bad Apple’s in the mix like he’s been there the whole time, easy, friendly, tossing advice, catching some back. Then the air settles into that particular silence truckers know too well: the dead time. Nothing to say, nothing to do but idle and sweat. And that’s when he starts singing. No warning. No “y’all listen […]
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