It was fall of 2010 when this happened. My name’s Troy. I’d been driving long haul for years by then, so rest stops and sketchy nights were nothing new.
That night I was headed south through Missouri, dead tired, and figured I’d park at one of those small highway pull-offs. Couple rigs way down at the end, nobody else around.
I backed in, shut the engine off, locked up like always, and got ready to rack out.
About half an hour later, I caught the sound of footsteps outside. I know that sound well—boots on gravel.
At first I thought maybe it was another driver stretching his legs, but then I realized the steps weren’t moving away. They were coming right toward me.
I pulled the curtain back a crack. Some tall, skinny guy was weaving through the parked trucks. He wasn’t just walking, either. He was tugging on door handles.
Tried one, then another. That got my attention. Any driver who’s been out here a while knows you don’t mess with another man’s truck unless you’re asking for trouble.
I stayed quiet and kept watching. Sure enough, he came my way. Stopped right at my door and gave three hard knocks.
Not polite. Just solid knocks, like he expected me to answer. I sat there thinking, You picked the wrong truck tonight, pal.
He didn’t get a response, so he started circling my rig, slow like he was casing it.
Then he climbed up on the step, pressed his face right to my window, cupping his hands to see in. That’s when my pulse kicked up, but I wasn’t about to let him see it.
I just stared back, jaw tight, waiting him out.
After a few long seconds, he jumped down, disappeared between the trucks, and slipped off into the tree line. Never said a word.
I didn’t sleep much after that. Not because I was scared stiff, but because I was ticked off.
Rest stops aren’t home, but they’re still where we lay our heads, and no one likes feeling like their space is getting prowled.
I kept a wrench by my bunk just in case he came back. Every creak outside had me half ready to throw the door open and settle it right there.
Morning rolled around, and once other trucks had pulled in, I climbed out. Wanted to see if maybe I’d imagined more than I thought.
But then I spotted it. Right by my door handle, four deep scratches cut into the paint. Not light scuffs. Gouges.
I ran my fingers over them and shook my head. Whoever that guy was, he wasn’t just looking. He wanted in.
And the way they were angled, it didn’t look like he used a key or a tool. Looked like he dragged his damn hand across it, like he’d been clawing at the metal.
That chilled me more than him standing at my window.
I fired up the engine, pulled back on the highway, and put miles behind me.
I’ve dealt with my share of drunks, thieves, and dumb kids in parking lots over the years, but that night was different.
The way he moved, the way he checked each truck like he was shopping for one. It stuck with me.
I never saw him again, but every time I pull into a quiet stop after midnight, I make damn sure my doors are locked, my seat’s back, and I’m ready if someone tries me.
Because out there, you don’t get second chances if you let your guard down. One bad night can be the last.
