They Drive by Night

US Highway 99, a concrete ribbon of commerce winding its way over the hills from San Francisco to Los Angeles. In the dark hours of the morning, a steady stream of trucks roars along this road.

Huge six-whee-or-monsters, their headlights burning into the blackness, their mighty tires pounding the concrete hour after hour, mile after mile. At intervals in the night, right neon lights mark the resting places. Cafes for the weary drivers and service stations for the trucks.

In one of these stations, a truck has just been tanked up. The driver stands quietly by, watching the attendant check the tires. Hey, Paul. What are you doing here? I got blisters waiting. I grabbed a hitch until Lansdale and promoted the second hand wheel.

Well, how'd you make out with Williams? I'm still waiting for the dough. What would be, mister? Coffee. Why do we stay in this racket, Joe? We'll never make enough out of it to buy ourselves decent coffee.

Oh, stop, Trevin. I got enough worry. Swing that coffee down. We got to get rolling. Anything else? No, I don't want... Oh, hello. Hello. Anything else? Say, you're pretty. Yeah? How about a nice piece of pie?

I don't get me wrong, sister. Why do you make me think of us? How much I'd like to be with my wife? Well, I never heard that one before. Yeah, my brother's married, but not me. I ain't even engaged.

That ain't hard to understand. How's about that coffee? Come on up. Cute, huh? Come on, let's beat it. Hi, Joe. Oh, hello, Dawson. Wish we had time that you the fat would give it. We got a roll. We just had a little trouble.