It was three in the morning and having fought fires all day I was half way through my drive from the north-west of England, south to Heathrow for an early morning flight. I’d made good time and could afford a quick stop for coffee and a bacon sandwich.
The mid-April air was brisk to say the least and I jogged from my car to the motorway café to counter the chill. I’d been to this stop several times before and jumped into my usual booth at the end of a vast area with no more than a dozen lorry drivers and the odd crazy, all of whom seemed to know the benefits of a good bacon sandwich.
This was always a good place and time to people watch. I would wonder what it must be like to drive trucks, with nobody’s company but your own, punctuated only by the purveyors of fine pork products. They never seemed to look for company these drivers, so I never thought to engage them.
In the booth alongside me was the archetypal trucker. He hadn’t gone the bacon route but instead was gnawing on a sausage baguette with more-than-ample red sauce dripping from the sides. A nervous-looking man with dark hair and a lavish overcoat entered the door at the far end. Having scanned the space, he made an energetic beeline for my neighbor.
“You are Joe?” he said, in a Spanish-sounding accent.
“Yes.”
“They told me to look for the blue ribbon.” He pointed to a ribbon sewn into Joe’s baseball cap.
“Well you’ve found me. How can I help you.”
The foreigner, leaned in from across the table with his hands together, as if praying.
“I am in trouble. It is going well but also it is going badly.”
“You seem confused.”
The foreigner, who looked even more diminutive in his large overcoat than he otherwise might have, searched for the words. Almost in tears he explained: “Some things go very well. But it is not enough. Other things – they go very badly. My friends they like me but I also get hatred. The people, they are so good; my people. But the others, they never stop. I cannot stop them.”
“These others. What do they have against you?”
“It is not easy to say,” said the heavily-coated man, searching the café for the words he needed. “When I do good, the others, they don’t like it. When I do bad, they love it, they love my mistakes. I only try to please everyone. I do my job, I work hard but sometimes it is too much for everyone.”
“You have family?” said the trucker before launching into another mouthful of baguette.
“Yes, yes. They are the most important. But I love everyone. I treat them as my friend. Sometimes, calling them my friend, even using native language and phrases to show my respect for them is not enough. They turn on me. I am hounded. I wish to stay here for my family but I am almost at the end.”
“Could you try leaving for somewhere else? This is not the only place in the world with work.”
“There may be something in Germany. But I don’t know the language. And my children, they are happy here. I don’t want to move them. I love them so much and my wife is so loyal to me, through everything I’ve been through. They said you could help, that you know the magic.”
The trucker shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and wiped some sauce from his chin.
“You need to show more respect for those around you. Perhaps in a different way.”
“Show me how. My language. It is not the best. It doesn’t seem to work. It gets twisted. In my we country touch the head, or kiss the hand of the person we wish to respect. Perhaps I could do this.”
“Well, yes. That’s a start.”
“They say you are worth the money, that you have the knowledge. How should it be done?”
“Yes. Yes. Kiss them.”
“Just kiss them? Like in my country? That will be easy.”
“Well, no. Not on the hand.”
“Then where, tell me? I need your words.”
The trucker, put down his baguette and quickly drained a mouthful of coffee.
“You have the money?”
“Yes, it is all here.” The foreigner opened a zipped pouch and showed him the contents. “10,000 pounds. Is it enough?”
“Yes. That will do. Give it to me,” replied the trucker, his anxiousness to take the money and leave as soon as possible, evident to me but not it seemed to the foreigner.
“When, erm… things are going badly, kiss that person who stands in your way. Kiss them on… the upper arm.”
“The upper arm…”
“Yes,” he said, tapping his tricep, “And do it enthusiastically. As if you really mean it.”
“Ok. Ok. And this will clear my path, yes?”
The trucker got up to leave, his coffee unfinished and his baguette lying dischevelled beside it.
“Your path will be cleared. Don’t you worry about that,” said the trucker, hastily picking up a blue scarf from the seat next to where he’d been sitting.
“Thank you, thank you so much. I am grateful to you. My family is grateful to you. Please, if there is anything I can do for you or you family. Please look for me, I can be found.”
He stood up eagerly offering his hand in gratitude, but the trucker brushed by him, along the aisle towards the exit.
Again the foreigner clasped his hands, this time in gratitude, desperate only for a way to thank the man who would change his fortune.
“My name is Luis. Luis Suarez.”
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