Cb Trucker Quotes

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When young I'd visit my aunt in small town Tennessee. Her place was carved into the side of a steep ridge. All red mud and gravel. The driveway was too steep for most. You just parked at the bottom and struggled up to the front door. You really had to want to visit. The closest anything was a truck stop off I-75. Near where fog caused a 99 car crash. We went there to eat biscuits and gravy. Wash it down with whole milk. Prostitutes advertised by CB. They found a dead trucker in a restroom once. No one seemed surprised. There was a rigged Coin Pusher machine. Elvira Pinball. I set the high score. Then returned to Florida. Where teachers asked me to write about my summer.
Damon Thomas (Some Books Are Not For Sale (Rural Gloom))
The game had only two rules. The first was that every statement had to have at least two words in which the first letters were switched. “You’re not my little sister,” Shawn said. “You’re my sittle lister.” He pronounced the words lazily, blunting the t’s to d’s so that it sounded like “siddle lister.” The second rule was that every word that sounded like a number, or like it had a number in it, had to be changed so that the number was one higher. The word “to” for example, because it sounds like the number “two,” would become “three.” “Siddle Lister,” Shawn might say, “we should pay a-eleven-tion. There’s a checkpoint ahead and I can’t a-five-d a ticket. Time three put on your seatbelt.” When we tired of this, we’d turn on the CB and listen to the lonely banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate. “Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my blind spot for a half hour.” A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and pickups. Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static. “Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this hothead down?” The voice gave its location. Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.” “I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored Kenworth a few cars ahead. When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side, blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth, braked, honked again. “How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said, with a deep laugh. “Until he calms down,” Shawn answered. Five miles later, they let him pass. The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to Idaho. “Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard, “back three work.” — THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel. Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named
Tara Westover (Educated)
One way to get up-to-date travel information while driving in the South is to install a citizens band, or CB, radio into your car. …truckers devised their own radio dialect based on jargon filtered down from military, aviation and law enforcement radio protocols. A basic understanding of on-air etiquette and terminology is essential for those wishing to join in the conversations…might include an exchange like this (with translations): Break one-nine. (Please, gentlemen, might I break in on this conversation? [on channel 19]) Go ahead, breaker. (Oh, by all means.) Hey J.B., you got your ears on? (You, sir, driving the J.B. Hunt truck, are you listening to your CB radio?) Ten-four. (Yes.). “Can I get a bear report?” (Are there any police behind you?) “Yeah, that town up ahead of you is crawling with local yokels.” (The town I just left has a number of municipal police looking for speeders.) …For an average motorist, tuning a CB radio to channel 19 for the first time is like being cured of life-long deafness – provided there are truckers nearby. The big rigs that loomed large and soulless suddenly have personalities emanating from them. Truckers with similar destinations will keep each other awake for hundreds of miles at a stretch, chatting about politics, religion, sex, sports, and working conditions. This provides hours of entertainment for those listeners who can penetrate the jargon and rich accents.
Gary Bridgman (Lonely Planet Louisiana & the Deep South)