It was a steamy mid-August night outside of Bismarck, North Dakota. My cherry-red 1987 Yugo got a flat on Route 94 and I had to hoof it through the darkness to a truckstop. It was the kind of place that was stuck in time, like your Uncle's wood-paneled fishing cabin in Minnesota. After a quick meal of a lifeless burger on a soggy bun and even soggier fries, I made my way to the parking lot to see if I could hitch a ride to a local garage. While wandering the rows of trucks that sat beneath the parking lot lights like mighty sentinels at rest, I stumbled upon a bearded trucker listening to Hank Williams on his CB radio. Our eyes met, and he waved me over to his rig. Sitting high above me like a hairy demi-god behind his chrome steering wheel, his eyes just barely peeping out from beneath his Pennzoil baseball cap, he pointed to the back of his cab. Without exchanging a single word, we engaged in hours upon hours of amorous congress, our bodies slick with the moisture from the summer...