She’s my five foot, five inch tall blow-up doll.

She rides shotgun as I shepherd my cargo down that endless highway, and to pass the time, we talk about the tours.

Actually, I do most of the talking. For instance, last night while we were passing through Clear Channel Valley, I told her about Bon Jovi playing two nights this month at the Tokyo Dome. And this morning while fueling up at the HOB Truck Stop I showed her my snapshots of my tickets to see the Joe Jackson Band in Dallas in March. But, as usual, Elsa didn’t have much to say. She just bobbed her head in the breeze.

Now some of the other truckers think I’m crazy. Sure, I’m crazy. Crazy in love, for my Elsa is the only one for me and isn’t just your typical inflatable infatuation. I can see many years ahead of us, hauling cargo and talking about the tours. Yeah, as long as great acts like Julio Iglesias, Kittie and The Wallflowers keep playing concerts, I’ll keep driving this rig, with Elsa by my side and tour dates, such as Alan Jackson in Peoria on January 30, on my tongue.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve been behind this wheel way too long. You’re thinking that I can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality, and that I’ve pushed my pedal way past my metal. Yeah, don’t think I don’t notice the stares when the day is done and Elsa and I are checking into a Motel 6. But it’s not like that. Oh, no. It’s not like that at all.

For one thing, we always get separate rooms.