Judgements - The Gambler

As with most weeks in this line of work, it was grueling—racing to make deliveries on me, then rushing just as fast to complete pickups. This week was no different.

The driver had picked up a load of bags bound for a charcoal plant in West Virginia, located in a small town just outside Clarksville. The shortest route to the destination was marked on the map as a main road into the town that had grown up around the plant. Like many roads in the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was a narrow two-lane affair, winding alongside a restless river.

As the driver skillfully guided his rig through the turns, he came upon a sign that struck fear into any trucker’s heart: “Low Clearance Ahead: 13 feet. Weight Limit: 40,000 lbs.” His truck stood 13 feet, 6 inches tall and weighed 80,000 pounds fully loaded.

Approaching the bridge, he spotted a small cutout to the right—just large enough to pull over. From there, he could assess the situation. The road was too narrow to turn around, and backing up a 60-foot truck on a mountain road was a risky proposition.

The bridge was an old iron-covered span crossing the river. The driver climbed down from the cab and walked to its edge, inspecting the structure, the rivets, the sagging frame—trying to judge whether it could hold his weight.

While he contemplated, a coal hauler pulling a dump trailer stopped beside him. The driver leaned out and said, “Don’t worry. Trucks your size cross this bridge all the me. You’ll be fine.” Then he rolled forward and disappeared across the span like it was nothing.

Reassured but still wary, the driver returned to his cab. He could picture the bridge collapsing halfway across— the twisted wreckage, the headlines. But the alternative  was worse. He took a breath and rolled forward.

The bridge groaned beneath him but held. When he reached the other side, the relief hit him like a wave. He’d made it.

Unfortunately, the plant had closed an hour earlier. With the weekend ahead and nowhere to deliver, he needed a place to lay over. The town was small, with few options for parking a rig his size. One lot behind the Triple X Entertainment Center was large enough, and after speaking with the manager, he was given permission to park there.

Money was tight, as usual. Finding entertainment to break the monotony of waiting was a chore. Across the street stood a busy corner gas station with a steady stream of customers. Bored of the radio and the confines of his cab, the driver walked over, spoke with the owner, and was invited to hang out. He settled onto a bench out front, watching the world go by.

In due time, a middle-aged man pulled up in an aging Lincoln, needing a new battery. He grabbed a soda and joined the driver on the bench. They struck up a conversation and quickly found common ground. When the mechanic finished the repair, the man paid his bill and invited the driver to ride around town with him.

He explained that he’d grown up in the area and knew its history and many of its people. He had a couple of stops to make and welcomed the company.

Compared to the driver—who stood 6-foot-5 and weighed nearly 300 pounds—the man was small. But he seemed to admire the driver’s size and jovial personality. Their first stop was a warehouse the size of a city block. They parked on a hill beside the building and entered through a basement door. The room was dark, empty except for a single light hanging over a table where five men played cards.

As they stepped inside, heads turned. The driver wondered what they were doing there.

The little man led the way across the warehouse and approached one of the players. “I’ve come to collect my money,” he said. The player glanced up, saw the big man beside him, and replied, “I’m on a roll. I’ll pay you after this hand.” “I see the money in front of you,” the little man said. “I want it now.” The player looked again at the driver, then counted out the debt and handed it over. Without another word, the two men turned and walked out.

Back in the car, the little man handed the driver a $20 bill. “Thanks for your help,” he said with a smile, and started the engine. On the way to the next stop, he explained that the debt had been outstanding for some time. Since he didn’t live in town, he needed to collect it before settling his own obligations. They drove through the town as he pointed out historical landmarks. Soon, they pulled up in front of a small deli. Inside, the man introduced the driver to two older gentlemen behind the counter—brothers who owned the old-style shop. The reunion was warm and full of humor. After ordering sandwiches, the visitors were invited to the back room. They ate together, then broke out the cards for a few rounds of nickel ante, quarter-limit poker. The banter was lively, sometimes surprising, and always good-natured. The afternoon passed quickly. Eventually, the little man returned the driver to his truck, and they exchanged farewells.

It had all happened on a fall Saturday in a little West Virginia town—where a stranger met another stranger and shared a day in the life. The next day, Sunday, was uneventful. The driver rested, preparing for another week on the road. That evening, he parked at the delivery site and waited for Monday morning.

Reflecting on the weekend, he grew philosophical. He thought to himself: I must be a natural-born gambler. He’d gambled on the advice of another driver, on the strength of a bridge, on the trustworthiness of a stranger, on the collection of a debt—and spent the day gambling away the unexpected reward of the assist. His conclusion? No matter how much you gamble during the day, if you break even by nightfall, you’re a winner.