Long Island Iced Tea in Nebraska

My drive across the heartland was lonely. It was nearing 10pm and I pulled the Lincoln into a Nebraska truck stop on I-80. I was near the town of Big Spring, which was no more than a dot on the map. I pulled into the parking lot of Naley’s Truck Oasis, between two big rigs. One was carrying a tarped load of hay and the other had an empty flatbed. I planned to do what they were doing and grab a drink before I slept in my vehicle until dawn.

A flashing neon hand pointed to the bar, where I planned to go after I picked up a snack at the market. I followed the driver of the empty truck who had the same thing in mind. We both picked up greasy potato wedges and a few taquitos. Mexican food so far from the source was questionable but it was either that or packaged sandwiches. The latter were three days old and the bread was beginning to show its age. With my sack in hand, I continued following the truck driver into the bar. A truck stop was the type of place I didn’t want to draw attention. I sat at the bar made of plastic and stainless steel that had seen better days.

“Haven’t seen you before. What’ll it be?” A middle-aged woman with a Naley’s t-shirt asked. She wasn’t rude but didn’t go out of her way to be friendly.

“I’m not driving a big rig so I don’t fit in. With that in mind, I’ll have what he’s having.” I pointed to the man whom I followed into the bar.

“We don’t have overnight accommodations here so I hope you planning to sleep in your car.”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

“Cuz he’s drinking a Long Island iced tea which packs a wallop. I’m supposed to pay attention to how much folks drink when it seems like they’re getting back on the road. I’m Bertie by the way. I don’t mean to be abrasive but it’s how you get after working the night shift for ten years.” She gave a hint of a smile. I could tell Bertie and I would get along just fine.

“I can handle one of those. I don’t like to drive at night and my car’s comfy enough. I’m Cecil by the way.”

Bertie turned to the crude stainless shelf that served as a bar and grabbed a pint glass. She filled it with ice, which she scooped up with her bare hands. She apparently wasn’t concerned with health regulations. With on hand, she grabbed both the gin and vodka bottles, the tequila and rum with the other. A stream flowed from all the bottles at once, taking up about ½ the glass. Bertie threw them back on the shelf making a racket. Triple sec was next, followed by sour mix poured from a yellow pitcher. The liquid was within an inch of the rim when she floated a small amount of generic cola from an open can. She dunked in a tiny piece of lemon and a straw with which she stirred the concoction. She placed the drink in front of me and smiled. Bertie seemed proud of her handy-work.

“Thanks Bertie. I’m sure to sleep well tonight. I hope I can get a strong cup of coffee before I head out.”

“We go through a tanker full of the stuff every week. It’s not like coffee you get in the city. It’s sludge but it does the trick.”

I chuckled. “I see my friend down the bar is having his drink standing up. He must drive so much that it feels good to get vertical.”

“Yep. I’ve considered getting rid of the stools in this place because most prefer to stand.”

“Our friend is dead-heading back home or off to pick-up a load. He’s not too fun to be around when he’s home with his wife.”

“How do you know he’s married?” Bertie asked.

“Wedding ring. Like most long-haul drivers, this has become his way of life. Despite its drawbacks, he can’t imagine not driving. The road has become an addiction in a way. Drives his wife crazy. It’s like following the white line is all he knows.” I took a sip of my Long Island and it blew my doors off. “That’s a strong one Bertie.”

“What’d you expect Cecil. It’s 90% alcohol. The cola’s just added to give it that iced tea–look.”

“Do you see our road warrior pal often?”

“Just about every month. Are you usually right in judging complete strangers?”

“Not all the time but more often than not, I’m in the ballpark.”

“Well Cecil, if you’re keeping a tally, this one belongs in the loss column.”

I was surprised and curious about what Bertie knew of the man standing at the bar. “Enlighten me Bertie.”

“First off Cecil, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Man over there is close to being an angel. Truck stops in the middle of the Interstate at night are dangerous places and he tries to make em safer. He drives from coast to coast, sometimes carrying a load but not always. He makes sure there is no drug trafficking and keeps prostitution out of places like this. He points runaways back home or to a place, they can get help. He’ll nurse that drink til morning. It makes him fit in to have something at the bar.”

“I stand corrected. Is he a police officer or a reverend?”

“Nope. His name is Truman. I think it fits; because he’s a True-man”

I paid for my drink and tipped my baseball cap to Truman on the way out. I slept well in my Lincoln that night feeling safe that Truman was close by.