Chapter 117: Cook, Truck, and Logistics

“Cook…”

The big man lying on the foul-smelling bed shouted, then paused for a moment and threw the dirty magazine onto the bedside table.

He quickly tidied up. Anyone being yelled at by his mother at this moment would get up. He left the stinky room, complaining, “What do you want?”

Cook was already thirty-one and unmarried. In Baylor Federation, living with parents past twenty was seen as a disability. Normally, adults moved out after getting their first job to start their own family.

But Cook hadn’t. At thirty-one, he still hadn’t left his comfort zone, likely why he remained unmarried—no one wanted his situation.

Seeing her strong son shouting, the old woman wasn’t scared but impatiently pointed to the phone in the corner. “Damn, someone’s calling you. I can’t imagine why—because you don’t shower or because you stink?”

Cook grumbled as he walked to the corner. This wasn’t a wealthy family; a rich family wouldn’t have such a foul bedroom.

But before Cook lost his job, things weren’t too bad. He brought home a decent salary each month.

Maybe because he was a big truck driver, he had no time for romance, so all his relationships failed.

When he finally had time, the girls dismissed him as an unemployed man still living in his comfort zone.

Maybe in a few years, marriage would come. A girl kicked out by her parents, homeless and with no future, might become Cook’s wife for stability.

This happened often. Women appeared as the vulnerable, then demanded a man who could support them. Effort was rare among them.

Most women were like Cook: if they could stay in their comfort zone, why face the outside world?

Scratching his hairy belly through his worn shirt, Cook answered the call with a loud voice—a truck driver’s voice.

Truck cabins are noisy; to talk with the fleet, you must be loud. Sometimes being loud avoids trouble, especially in roadside motels.

But soon his voice softened like a lamb’s. He even bent forward slightly, wearing an eager, flattering smile, repeating simple phrases.

“Okay, no problem, got it…”

His mother, preparing lunch, smiled a little. She guessed Cook’s new job came six months after he lost the last one.

That relieved her; at least he wouldn’t be a burden anymore. Good news.

Cook quickly called his good friend James.

James, also a big truck driver, had worked with Cook in the same fleet before their company folded. James was fun and imaginative, always sharing wild fantasies.

Cook was amazed by James’s flights of fancy, so they became good friends.

When James heard about the job opportunity, he immediately agreed. Times were tough—big companies in Sabin City kept closing, and things elsewhere were similar.

The economic downturn lowered demand for logistics. Some remote towns hadn’t seen a big truck for a long time.

After many calls, Cook took a rare shower, using a boar-bristle brush that made him howl in pain every stroke.

At two in the afternoon, Cook, James, and some former colleagues arrived early at Sabin City’s largest used car dealership. Besides viewing cars, they were meeting the boss who called them.

If all went well, they’d have new jobs.

With anxiety, seven or eight showed up. Cook called more, but some couldn’t come.

They found barely enough work to survive. The big truck drivers had an advantage in some roles. They didn’t think a company would hire too many truckers at once.

Losing this chance and their current security jobs would be devastating for them and their families.

While waiting, they talked about their recent lives. Nothing was cheerful; everyone’s life was a mess.

James said if not for Cook’s call, he’d have moved elsewhere. He wrote short stories and scripts, some bought by magazines and writers’ guilds, easing his financial strain.

He planned to leave, but Cook’s call stopped him.

The group sighed, when suddenly Cook’s eyes caught a shiny silver luxury car outside the showroom. He whistled.

Truckers love their trucks, but also fancy cars that show status. They recognized it as House Industries’ latest luxury sedan, costing about $100,000.

Under their envious gazes, a young man stepped out, smiling as bright as the sun, walked into the showroom, and approached them.

Honestly, he was handsome, but to these middle-aged burly truckers, looks meant little.

Showroom staff silently watched the tense scene—rough men, like beasts dressed in civilized clothes, confronting a young, handsome but pale and fragile man. One side was a storm, the other a sapling, ready to be crushed.

The intense contrast made everyone hold their breath. Some even thought of calling the police.

Truckers have the worst tempers among drivers. They feared this likable young man would be torn apart by these rough beasts.

But unexpectedly, the beasts were tame, gentle in a way hard to connect to their usual image.

Lynch stood about seven or eight steps away, smiling at the bulging truckers, then extended his hand. “Who’s Cook?”

After a brief silence, Cook snapped out of it and quickly approached Lynch, bending slightly to avoid seeming overbearing and to make a good impression.

His rough hands tightly gripped Lynch’s, a hint of flattery in his voice. “I am. Are you Mr. Lynch?”

Lynch nodded and flicked his pinky against the base of Cook’s palm—a subtle signal to let go.

In formal, upper-class settings, some people show overenthusiasm like Cook. When someone wants to end an overly warm handshake, a pinky flick tells the other to release, preserving dignity.

But Lynch underestimated Cook’s understanding. He showed no intention of letting go and kept awkwardly flattering.

All this was forced—by life, poverty, and harsh reality.

No one wants to appear inferior. If possible, they’d never bow to the president, but life denies them dignity and pride—they just have to survive.

“Let go now,” Lynch reminded. Cook released, and Lynch felt his palm was damp.

He smiled and shook his head, not making a fuss. Looking at the truckers, he asked, “Is this everyone?”

Surprise flashed across Cook’s face. Lynch’s words meant he needed more truck drivers, which meant Cook could keep happily roaming the endless, deserted highways with his friends.

“However many you need, I can find them!” Cook said, even using formal language in his excitement.

Lynch nodded and asked, “Shall we go look at the trucks first?”

That was why he brought them to the dealership. Most of these truckers were excellent mechanics. If a truck broke down on an interstate or cross-country highway and they couldn’t fix it themselves, it would be a disaster.

They not only understood trucks but could also repair them. With them around, the used car dealership couldn’t fool Lynch.