Hooters

I was carrying a trailer full of salsa from New Mexico, headed for Duncan, SC just east of Greenville. As I neared Atlanta on I-20, I started hearing “hooter reports” over my CB. These were an almost daily occurrence, but they were normally either exaggerated accounts, flat-out lies or simply on the other side of the interstate from where I was. This one persisted, with many drivers making the call: “Check out the hooters in the beat-up six-wheeler! Nice artwork.” Nice artwork? What the hell were they talking about? Just as I was about to pull into a weigh station, a beat-up, green six-wheeled truck pulled up beside me. I glanced down and saw what all the fuss had been about. The young woman sitting in the passenger seat had her blouse unbuttoned and her large, fully tattooed breasts hanging out. She looked up at me and smiled while her husband/boyfriend/father/brother/partner/whatever just drove along, keeping pace with the 18-wheelers, so that all the drivers could get a good look. It was “show-time.” I heard a young driver several weeks earlier asking where all the naked women were that he had heard about during his training. An older driver answered him over the CB: “Son, if there really were all those young ladies drivin’ around naked, don’t you think every man would be drivin’ a truck?”