The Truck: A true story of one man's escape from Scientology
The front wheel locked to a stop 10 or 20 yards past me. I ran, opened the door and got in. He had nowhere to pull over. He just came to a sliding halt, mostly in the road. Only the front wheel was off the road in the sand. What a large cool space inside. I had never been in an 18 wheeler. And this was a larger one, with an open area that lead to a sleeping cabin. A mini fridge. A case of orange crush on the floor.
His name was unpronounceable and I new many Indian names. He reminded me of the Indians I worked with at Microsoft, minus the ability to speak well and a clear passion to be alone. He owed the truck. I could sense it was empty and he could sense my interest in his Orange Crush. He offered me one. It was the best feeling I had for weeks. I never drank anything carbonated as fast in my life. I tried not to guzzle it. I was on to a second one as we clumsily tried to explain our reasons for being in the middle of nowhere.
I gathered he sometimes took the road for a change of scenery. I tried to explain the group I left. Scientology. It didn't matter. The shrubs out the window looked orange but now with a stomach full of liquid it was just beautiful and puzzling, despite being more distinctly orange. Would anyone believe everything turns orange before you die? Would most people find out? Is that why Halloween is celebrated with orange and black?The colors of death or struggle or dehydration? It didn't matter. I was safe.
I had been staring out the window quietly for too long for a hitch hiker. I started to ask about the truck. It got 8 miles to the gallon. He went through Nevada frequently on this road and the north-south road to the west. We crested over the hill. I would have made it. He then started to ask me more questions. His English was terrible but his eye contact was good. Or it would have been good if he wasn't driving. The truck weaved as he struggled to talk and the more he talked the more windy it became. I could tell the trailer had gone off the road multiple times. Each time my heart stopped and he stopped talking for a minute. How hard is it to flip the truck on its side? Did he stop talking because he was afraid or was it because he could tell I was? Both?
The wind got worse. Severe. He mentioned the wind. I could tell he was concerned the truck would be thrust on its side but was also unwilling to slow. I never imagined I would be more afraid than I was of dying of thirst only moments earlier.
We pulled into a truck stop. With no money and nobody willing to help, what would I do?