“Well, I hope so!” he puffed as he raised his hands in disgust.
It was a very tight turn but, when my trailer cleared the gate by a full three inches, I could not subdue a satisfied grin. Little Einstein's hyperactivity wound down to a sour frown. He now bore the distinct look of a man who had just bitten into an oil rag.
Eventually, the old guy reassembled the broken pieces of his megalomania and climbed up to my window.
"Well, you got some experience today!" he shouted.
“Yeah,” I said. And not just in truck driving, I thought to myself. After that, I didn't see the skinny little SOB again.
It took over four hours to be unloaded because the steel had been fashioned in such a haphazard manner that it had to be taken off one piece at a time. One of the workers broke three of his fingers during the ordeal. I called my driver manager to let him know of the delay and told him that I might have to quit if I were ever sent back to Fort Rucker. He laughed as if I was joking—I'm not sure I was.
After the debacle at Fort Rucker, I was glad to be getting out of there. Good riddance! We would be going back to Cottonton, Alabama to pick up more lumber. I would be out of hours by the time I got there, but I knew there was ample parking space to shut down for the night there.
When we arrived, I took a brief jaunt into the woods and, as I returned, I stopped abruptly at the sight of my truck silhouetted against a beautiful sunset. Cascading hues of orange and red spilled from the sky and splashed down to bathe the truck in a stunning aura. I stood frozen at the magnitude and sheer beauty of this moment and, for an instant, I was perfectly at peace with my new job and with the decisions I had made. For the first time since I'd been doing this, I felt a wave of serenity wash over me as if God were telling me, “It’ll be okay.”
Today had offered my first look at the range of wild emotions provided by life on the road: from blood pressure-raising stress and aggravation to, literally, feeling at one with the universe. If one has the stomach to endure the ride, it is often difficult not to jump in line for a second turn.
Week 10: Loafers and Burmese Chickens
Kitty and I set out for Ocala, Florida on Sunday, and spent the night at the Florida Welcome Center on I-75. This would be the first time that I’d been back to Ocala since my family vacationed there when I was a young boy. We had visited Silver Springs, just east of Ocala. Silver Springs is a 350-acre nature theme park that surrounds the headwaters of the Silver River, the largest artesian spring formation in the world. [10]
After exploring the park and taking the glass-bottom boat ride in the summer of 1970, my father, mother, sister and myself, returned to our motel room in Ocala. Our family pet was a grouchy toy poodle named, ironically, Ringo. My father put Ringo on a leash, and the whole family went out for an evening stroll. Dad had purchased a new pair of dark brown, suede loafers specifically for this trip. He had bragged all day about how he felt as if he were “walking on air.”
“These are the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn,” he boasted.
My dad was in love with his new loafers.
As we walked, Dad stopped along the way to chat with some other tourists. As he talked, Ringo incessantly tugged on his leash as if he harbored a sense of urgency about something. My father was so engaged in his conversation that he seemed oblivious to the imploring yanks of the little dog—he just automatically reeled the animal back in. Even at eight years old, it was obvious to me that the tiny poodle required…something. Then, without pomp or fanfare, we all discovered what that something was.
Ringo politely lifted his hind leg and urinated all over my dad’s dark brown, suede loafers. At first, everyone stood stunned and mute, while my father wore the shocked expression of a man who had just been told by his doctor that he has 24 hours to live. My mother was the first to emit a snicker. This provided the permission I needed to release the enormous guffaw, which would have caused me to explode had I held it in any longer. Soon, everyone was laughing…except my dad. He tossed the leash of the offending critter to my mother and stormed back to the motel room wearing a sour frown, a set of bulging veins in his temples, and a precious pair of dark brown, suede loafers that were soaked in poodle piss. I was too young to understand it at the time, but I later viewed this incident as a lesson that the most precious belongings in life remain immune to the fate of my father’s beloved loafers. In contrast, any of our material belongings runs the risk of being piddled upon without warning. To this day, the "loafer incident" remains a legendary source of amusement for me and my family.
The delivery to Ocala went fine, but the traffic was ridiculous in this tourist town. I was glad to get out of there and head toward Palatka, Florida to pick up a load of Gypsum board to take to Stallings, North Carolina. Kitty now enjoyed peering out the floor window on the passenger door as we rode along. She seemed to like being on the road now.
From Stallings, I was slated to pick up a load of steel in Columbia, South Carolina to deliver to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. The only problem was that dispatch didn’t send me any directions or a valid contact number for the Jacksonville destination. I called my driver manager to request the information I needed.
“Sure man!” he eagerly replied.
Two hours later, I still had nothing. So, I called Ringo (the person) on his cell and asked his advice. He gave me a suggestion that I took.
I called my driver manager back and told him I would go ahead and take the load, but if I didn’t have any information by the time I got there, I’d drop it at the Savannah terminal and let them figure it out. He hesitated a moment and reluctantly said, “Okay.” Ten minutes later, I had both my directions and contact number. Thanks, Ringo! After Jacksonville, we went to Fitzgerald, Georgia to pick up lumber.
On the way to Fitzgerald, I went right past the shipper because the log truck ahead of me blocked my view of the sign. I saw it only as I was zooming past. Herein was contained a valuable lesson about big trucks on rural roads: If you miss your turn, there may not be anywhere to turn around for miles. I had to go almost 20 miles before I found a place to turn around.
Fitzgerald, Georgia is a unique town because it is the only city, of which I am aware, where chickens can be seen running around in the downtown area. Not just any chickens, mind you, but wild Burmese chickens. Fitzgerald and surrounding Ben Hill County boasts Georgia’s only known wild Burmese chicken population.
In the 1960’s, Burmese chickens were stocked all over the state to be hunted like other game birds. For some reason, the chickens never took hold in other areas of Georgia, but they prospered in the downtown area of Fitzgerald.[11] The residents of Fitzgerald have a love/hate relationship with the wild birds. Some folks buy seed and feed them; others chase them out of their yards with a broomstick and a few expletives. But, love ‘em or hate ‘em, Burmese chickens are a familiar part of the Fitzgerald scene. Fitzgerald may, in fact, be the only city in America where chickens have the right of way.[12]
We delivered our Fitzgerald load to Millwood, Kentucky on Friday, and then went back to Shoals, Indiana for another load. This guaranteed that I would not get home until Saturday. My patience with this trucking company was rapidly wearing thin. I had not, yet, adapted to the lifestyle of an over-the-road trucker.
Week 11: Buckets of Mud
The load we picked up in Shoals was slated for delivery to Huntsville on Monday. Unfortunately, my truck needed repairs, and the delivery had to be rescheduled for Tuesday. When repairs were complete, we delivered to Huntsville and returned to Bridgeport to pick up a load of drywall to take to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Upon arrival to Bridgeport, the freight was not ready, and we had to wait almost fifteen hours before we got it. This week was shaping up to be a week of delays, which would translate into a crappy paycheck. In theory, the company offered detention pay for delays such as this, but trying to extract it from my terminal manager was about as fun as manscaping with a home waxing kit.
We got our load at 3am and set out
for Hattiesburg. When we arrived at the Sherwin-Williams store to deliver the buckets of joint compound (which Ringo called “Buckets of Mud”), another delay awaited us. The unloading process was painfully slow because the forklift being used looked like a battery-operated toy that should have had Tonka inscribed on its side. Also, the forklift driver was obviously a rookie as he appeared more qualified to drive a bumper car. As I settled in for a long wait, I took little comfort in the fact that, this time, it was not me who looked like a monkey screwing a football.
About midway through unloading, the forklift driver had, apparently, failed to seat one of the palates correctly on the forks. As he was taking it back to the warehouse, he hit a bump that caused the palate to break, and all of the buckets of joint compound went tumbling into an enormous mud hole.
As he began a long and arduous task of fishing all the buckets out of the mud, I finally took pity on him and got out to assist. My good deed served as a stark reminder that I still had not purchased any waterproof boots. By the time we were unloaded, I was out of hours, so we spent the night behind the Sherwin Williams store.
It rained for most of the night, and it was still raining the next morning when we left for Meridian, Mississippi to pick up lumber. In keeping with the theme of the week, I had to sit and wait on a stopped train for half an hour before I could get into the shipper.
Mid-South Lumber in Meridian was nothing but a giant mud pit. When I had finished strapping and tarping the lumber, I once again looked like the Lizard Man from Scape Ore Swamp. To make matters worse, this load was designed for a 48-foot trailer, and I had a 45-footer. The wood jutted out over three feet from the back of the trailer. As per DOT regulations, I was required to tie a red flag on it, but I didn’t have one. Thankfully, the forklift driver saved my behind by finding an old red tee shirt for me. I thanked him but spared him a muddy handshake.
This load would deliver to Morristown, Tennessee, the home of Davy Crockett. The cult-favorite horror movie, Evil Dead was filmed off of Kidwell’s Ridge Road in Morristown. Sadly, the cabin featured in the movie has since burned down, but the chimney still stands and continues to attract some of the most fanatical devotees of the film.[13]
We arrived in Morristown before noon on Friday, so I fully expected to get a load assignment that would destroy my weekend again. I almost suffered a cardiac arrest when the Qualcomm beeped and the message read: Head to Bridgeport. I would actually get home at a respectable hour this week. However, because of all the delays this week, my paycheck was going to be abysmal.
Nonetheless, I was still in a pretty good mood as I drove back toward Bridgeport. I had no idea that the next week would set the stage for my swan song with this company.
Week 12: A Smoke Tarp at the Broken Yolk
My final week with this company started out with a jolt. On the way to Anderson, South Carolina, I slowed for a traffic backup near the Atlanta bypass and became alarmed as white smoke billowed from beneath the hood and impeded my vision. As it turned out, I had just forgotten to replace the cap on the coolant reservoir after my pre-trip inspection earlier this morning. Some of the coolant had splashed out on the engine to cause the smoke. I was relieved to discover that the problem was a minor one, but a sphincter-tightening scare is never a good way to begin a new day.
After Anderson, we went to Duluth, Georgia to get our next load. Duluth elected Georgia’s first female mayor in 1922 that promised to “Clean up Duluth and get rid of demon rum.”[14] I could have used a slug of "demon rum" when I saw that I would have to blindside into a small dock to be loaded. This would be my first attempt at blindsiding into a dock, but I actually pulled it off quite nicely. I was actually starting to get better at this.
This would be my first stop-off load. A stop-off is when the delivery goes to multiple locations. In our case, we would be delivering to Charlotte, and Concord, North Carolina. I would come to detest stop-offs. They paid $35 extra but, in general, they were seldom worth the extra trouble.
Nonetheless, the stop-off deliveries went well, and then we were off to Statesville, North Carolina to pick up a load of chain-link fence. This was another first for me. Due to the height of the load and the nature of the freight, a smoke tarp would be required. This would prevent the fence from being stained by exhaust fumes. The only problem was that I had never been issued a smoke tarp.
I called my driver manager and he nonchalantly resolved, “Just use a regular tarp.” It quickly became evident that he had never climbed atop a towering mass of unstable chain-link fence, and precariously wrestled with a 130-pound tarp in an effort to fashion it into a smoke tarp. By the time I had survived this perilous ordeal, I had vowed that I would never take another unnecessary risk like this. If the company wanted me to pick up another load that required a smoke tarp, they’d better issue me the proper equipment! I had been with this company for less than five months, but I’d already heard of no less than four drivers who had fallen off their loads and injured themselves. I did not want to be the next statistic…they could kiss me where the sun doesn’t shine!
I was out of hours when my task was complete so, I walked toward the Shipping Office to ask if I could stay here overnight. The Shipping Clerk was already walking toward me. He was holding new pair of gloves, which he handed to me and said, “Here, take these. It looks like you wore yours out.”
I laughed and said, “I don’t think that’s all I wore out!”
He was happy to allow me to stay overnight, and Kitty was already snoozing when I crawled next to her in the sleeper. This load would be going to Holiday, Florida.
We set out the next morning before any rooster had a passing thought of a cock-a-doodle-doo, and made it just shy of Gainesville before shutting down for the night. I wondered if I’d get another peep show from a passing SUV similar to the one I’d gotten last time but, sadly, I didn’t.
When we arrived in Holiday and I found out that the unloading process would be lengthy, I walked across the street and had breakfast at a little restaurant called The Broken Yolk. It had a nice, homey atmosphere and friendly service, but I ordered a heaping mound of food that was served on a platter suitable for a Nordic Viking. My eating habits had suffered since going on the road but, due to the physical nature of flatbed work, I had not gained any weight. In fact, I may have even dropped a few pounds. I had begun to notice, at truck stops, that there were far fewer overweight flatbedders than non-flatbedders. There was a valid reason for that.
When we had ridded ourselves of the chain-link fence, we were off to Palatka, Florida again to pick up more Gypsum board. As I was pulling into the waiting line at the shipper, Ringo’s unmistakable baritone boomed over the CB, “Get it in there Rick!”
“Man,” I replied, “they’ll let anybody in here won’t they?”
“I guess so!” he shot back with a hearty laugh.
After loading, we went back to the Jacksonville terminal to spend the night. There is no lighting in the terminal yard there, so one almost requires the navigational system of a bat to park after dark. At this point in the week, I was in reasonably good spirits. I still had no idea that this would be my final week with the company.
When we set out for Conway, South Carolina on Friday morning, I gave myself an enormous scare on a U.S. Highway. I was fooling around with my sunglasses and, the next thing I knew, the truck had veered off onto the soft shoulder of the road. I’m not sure how close I came to mowing down some mailboxes, but I couldn’t have missed by much. This near-miss put the fear of God into me and, after that, I straightened up and got with the program. This had been a frightening reminder that it only takes a split second of inattention for disaster to strike.
When we got to our customer in Conway, I used my trusty roll of duct tape to repair my tarp. On the way to Holiday, the wind ripped a three-foot gash in the seam. It had not, after all, been designed for use as a smoke tarp.
As it turned out, I had plenty of time to make the repair. I waited for over three hours t
o be unloaded. It was now 2pm on Friday, and I was four hundred miles from home. Once again, I was looking at another ridiculously short weekend at home. I did not have the hours to drive four hundred additional miles today. So, when dispatch sent me a load assignment that would send me even farther away, something just snapped!
I was dirty, tired, hungry, and furious when I called my terminal manager in Bridgeport.
“We’ll pay you seventy-five dollars for a weekend layover,” he offered.
I can’t recall, specifically, if I told him where he could stick his seventy-five bucks, but I’m sure he got the point.
“If you go home, we’ll charge you for the fuel,” he threatened.
“If you want to screw me out of my last paycheck,” I replied, “go ahead…but this isn’t what I signed on for—I’m going home!”
With that, I hung up and set out for Bridgeport.
I had driven for about a hundred miles when my phone rang—it was my terminal manager again.
“There’s a load you can pick up in Bowman, South Carolina and bring it to Atlanta before you go home,” he said.
“I’m almost two hundred miles east of there,” I replied. “I don’t have enough hours left to do that and, even if I did, I’ve already told you what I’m doing.”
“You’ll be charged for the fuel,” he repeated.
“I’ll talk to you on Monday,” I said and hung up the phone.
I pulled into a truck stop shortly thereafter because I was too tired and too upset to keep going. When I’d had time to cool off, I reflected on the events that had just taken place, and wondered whether I had allowed my fatigue and emotions to produce a knee-jerk reaction. I was torn about what I had done, and about what I was going to do next.
It had not sounded like I was going to be fired—just screwed out of my paycheck. My thoughts were tumbling viciously in my mind, and my world seemed surreal. I had serious reservations about quitting now, but I did not relish the thought of crawling back with my tail between my legs. I wasn’t sure of anything right now except that I wanted to go home tomorrow and purchase a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Spirit of the Road Page 6
