We arrived at the El Paso Budweiser plant on Monday morning only to endure a five-hour wait. A Mexican woman made entrepreneurial rounds to the waiting drivers in an attempt to sell homemade burritos. Her endearing personality inspired me to buy one. Nonetheless, as I bit into it, I fervently hoped that the meat had originated from a bovine source. It tasted fine though, and it passed Kitty’s taste test with flying colors as well.
After a long wait, we made the delivery and picked up our next load at another business in El Paso. As I searched for the place, I accidentally turned into the airport exit. This forced me to make a tight U-turn and go the wrong way on a one-way street to get out. This was the second time I’d made an unscheduled tour of an airport, and I hoped it would be the last.
This load would go to Forest Park, Georgia in the Atlanta suburbs, and then we’d head home. I had just enough time to make it to the Flying J in Pecos, Texas for the night. Pecos is located about two hundred miles east of El Paso, and its local cultivation of cantaloupes has earned widespread recognition. Pecos also claims to be the site of the world’s first rodeo in 1883.[39]
On Tuesday, I hoped to make it to the Pilot in Haughton, Louisiana, but I got a Low Coolant Level alarm on I-20 in Texas causing my truck to shut down twice. If the coolant drops below a certain level, a sensor causes the engine to shut down. I added two jugs of water, and that bought me enough time to get to Love’s just across the Louisiana state line in Greenwood. I then called the shop at my home terminal and they told me to buy more coolant and “keep an eye on it.”
Thanks a lot! I would have done that anyway.
Now, I knew I’d be paranoid about this all day tomorrow.
The next day, I planned to go to Tallapoosa, Georgia but when I stopped at a rest area in Eutaw, Alabama, I saw that my paranoia was not unfounded. The coolant leak had worsened. After calling the company’s breakdown hotline, they sent me to the TA in Cottondale, Alabama. The mechanic at TA told me that my radiator was cracked—there was nothing he could do. Now, I’d have to take my truck to the Freightliner dealership in Birmingham in the morning. This made it impossible for me to make my delivery, so the next joy awaiting was to arrange for another driver to come get the load. Today had been a nightmare, and tomorrow didn’t hold much promise of improvement.
We arrived in Birmingham on Thursday morning and, since the truck would not be ready until the next day, we spent the night in a motel. After the past couple of days, I felt I’d earned myself a couple of drinks from the bar next door to the motel.
On Friday, I waited a couple more hours at Freightliner before my truck was ready, but I finally got it back. The heavens opened up for a violent downpour just before I arrived in Scottsboro, and the driver’s side windshield wiper flew away into oblivion.
This was perfect!
I got out in the rain and tied a doo-rag to the stump of the broken wiper to prevent it from scratching the windshield.
Home had never looked as inviting when I rolled into the Scottsboro truck stop on US72. I was happy to have lived through this harrowing week. I could not have known that the most harrowing week of my trucking career lay just ahead.
Week 33: A Chicago Scrape
I called Dick, my terminal manager, on Monday with a request to come to Marietta for repairs. My truck was missing a windshield wiper, a crack had developed on the driver’s windshield, and the engine was making an intermittent noise that sounded like a playing card flapping against bicycle tire spokes. Despite this, I still had to argue relentlessly to gain authorization to come to Marietta. "Deadheading," or running empty, meant that the company was not making money. Moreover, living one hundred and sixty miles from my home terminal often made it a challenge to keep my truck serviced on schedule. I hated to begin the week by arguing with Dick, but I wasn’t about to take a load with my truck in its present condition.
We spent the night at the Marietta shop after the mechanic had said there were a couple more things to do in the morning. “It shouldn’t take long,” he promised.
I prepared myself for a long wait.
I got my truck back after lunch next day with a new windshield, new wipers, and a normal-sounding engine. We picked up our first load in Columbus, Georgia, which delivered to Minooka, Illinois.
I ran until 10pm and parked at a rest area in Gordon County, Georgia for the night. I hate driving at night because finding a place to park after the sun goes down becomes increasingly challenging. Tonight, we got lucky.
I prepared for a long driving day as I rolled out into the morning fog on Thursday. I passed a billboard on I-65 in Kentucky reminding me, “Hell is real.” I could not have known this would prove to be prophetic later in the week.
We spent the night at a rest area in Wolcott, Indiana and arrived in Minooka on Friday morning. On the way to Minooka, I recalled the first time passing through Rose Lawn, Indiana with Merlin. It brought a smile to my face remembering when Merlin explained that the sign for the Sun Aura Resort in Rose Lawn is the gateway to a nudist community.
The Sun Aura has been around since the 1930’s and it is the oldest nudist camp in the United States. There are over two hundred permanent campsites in the three hundred acre wooded area, and many of the sites have taken on a theme of their own. One might encounter sites such as Bald Beaver Drive, Kinky Corner, Old Goat Road, or the Muff-Inn.
A popular tourist attraction at the Sun Aura is a giant Lady’s Leg Sundial. The lady’s leg is sixty-three feet long and correctly positioned to tell time. The man who paints it says that a tourist need not get nude to take a picture of the giant leg. For those who do choose to get into the spirit of things, however, the Sun Aura offers a helpful sign on the exit road that reads: Stop. You must be dressed beyond this point.[40]
The delivery to Minooka went fine, and then I went to a nearby truck stop to await the next load assignment. Today was going well, but that ended when the Qualcomm beeped. The next pickup sent us into the heart of Chicago. Many drivers dread Chicago because of the many one-way streets, low bridges, endless construction, and insane traffic. Like New Jersey, Chicago is a terrible place for a new driver to get sidetracked.
Although the traffic was painfully slow, I found my Chicago shipper with little trouble. I had trouble getting into the garage-like dock because I couldn’t see where I was backing with the sun glaring in my face. Some of the drivers seemed to have no problem with it, but the total absence of vision still posed a unique challenge for me.
After loading, I figured on going out the same way I’d come in. I certainly didn’t want to get my directions fouled up in this city. I had passed beneath a low viaduct to get into the shipper, and I would pass beneath the other side of it to get out. As I approached it, I noticed that it looked very low, so I checked for height postings—I didn’t see any. After passing beneath it on the opposite side, it never quite registered that it might be lower on one side than on the other.
My failure to consider this possibility became apparent when I heard a sickening scraping sound on top of the truck, and felt the mass of the vehicle shift downward. The shock and horror of this realization carried me to the midpoint of the bridge before I fully comprehended that the trailer was scraping the bottom of the viaduct. I was already halfway through, and there was traffic behind me, so I scraped the rest of the way out.
It felt as if an army of little men were inside me, shooting paintballs against the lining of my stomach. I could not stop in the middle of Chicago without causing a traffic jam. I had no choice but to keep going until I found a sensible place to stop.
After what seemed like an eternity, I made it to a service plaza and grudgingly climbed atop the spare tire on the back of the cab to assess the damage. Amazingly, there was no damage to the truck. The top of the cab condo sits slightly lower than the trailer, and it miraculously escaped the viaduct without a scratch.
The trailer was a different story.
The ribs on top of the trailer were bent as far as I could see wh
ile a three-foot gash assaulted the right seam. My heart sank, and the army of paintball men in my stomach recruited a new platoon. Not only would I have to call the dreaded Accident Hotline again, I was fearful that I might be fired over this.
After enduring a line of Gestapo-like questioning from the Accident Department, they told me to go to the TA in Gary, Indiana for repairs. The technician at TA sadly revealed that the trailer had structural damage and he did not have the means to fix it. After another series of sickening conversations with various company departments, I was told to go to the terminal in Lafayette, Indiana. By this time, I was out of hours and resolve, so I told them I’d have to go in the morning. Fortunately, it was not raining tonight. I was carrying a load of box fans wrapped in plastic, but I imagined the customer would still frown at having them rained on.
It came as no surprise when I slept poorly. Dealing with Chicago would have been bad enough, but with a disaster thrown in as a bonus topping, thoughts of quitting began to emerge again… if I wasn’t fired first.
When I arrived in Lafayette the next morning, the shop technician heaved a weary sigh. His aspirations of a lazy Saturday at the shop just went swirling down the crapper. This promised to be an all-day job, and it would be well into the evening before the repairs were complete. I settled into the truck for a long day of watching movies and waiting.
In spite of the prospect of working in the sun perched atop a ladder all day, the shop technician, Kent, was a very affable fellow. His shoulder-length brown hair was tied in a ponytail to reveal a thick mustache that almost covered his mouth. Rippling, wiry muscles complemented his thin frame as he toiled in the sun all day. I stepped out to talk to him occasionally, and he welcomed the conversation. He introduced me to a little pub across the street called the Tick Tock. He suggested it as a good place for lunch.
The Tick Tock turned out to be a newfound gem. Along with a friendly, down-home atmosphere, I enjoyed some of the best pub grub I’ve had in quite some time. I hoped this would not be my last visit to the Tick Tock.
It was 5pm before repairs were complete, so I decided to stay at the terminal overnight and get an early start. I thanked Kent for his hard work, and then kicked myself for not offering to buy his lunch when I’d gone to the Tick Tock.
My spirits were still down over this whole debacle, and I was unsure as to what results would spring from it. However, I knew I needed to put it behind me and get my head in the game for the coming days. It would be tough—letting go of baggage is not atop my list of mastered skills.
Week 34: I Ain’t Got No Quarters!
We left at 3am as planned, and I resolved to do my best to put the Chicago disaster behind me and regain a positive outlook. I called Brian the previous night to tell him what happened and to voice my concern over the possibility of being fired.
“No, they won’t fire you,” he assured me. “You’ll lose some safety points and you’ll probably have to go to DDC class again, but they won’t fire you.”
Brian’s assurances made me feel better, but it would still be a while before I regained the ability to pass beneath a bridge without cringing.
This load was finally on its way to Prince George, Virginia, and we made it to the Pilot in Hagerstown, Maryland for the night. Despite my efforts to put the Chicago disaster behind me, I still slept badly.
We arrived at the Ace distribution center in Prince George the next morning only to discover that the appointment time was changed to the next day. I called dispatch and, after waiting an hour and a half, they authorized me to do a "drop and hook" at the customer. After dropping the loaded trailer and picking up an empty one, I awaited the next load offering.
After another hour of waiting, I attempted to call dispatch to see if there was a problem. They refused to answer the phone or respond to Qualcomm messages. I finally called the main office in Lincoln and asked to speak to someone who could tell me why dispatch was not responding. The receptionist transferred me to another line, but didn’t tell me to whom I was being transferred.
“Yes,” answered a gruff voice on the other end of the line.
I identified myself and expressed my concern over the dispatchers’ refusal to respond to me in four hours.
“They’re probably busy,” he huffed.
“I can appreciate that,” I replied, “but they don’t appear to be busy getting me going so I can make money for the company.”
He remained irritable throughout the conversation but, within five minutes thereafter, I had a load offering.
My curiosity was piqued since I never discerned whom I’d been speaking with in Lincoln. I called the receptionist back and asked her to whom she had transferred my call.
“I transferred you to Mr. Kahuna’s office,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Great! I thought. Mr. Kahuna was the company President. Not only had I recently suffered the Chicago disaster, I had now succeeded in aggravating the company President. Nonetheless, it had resolved my problem. We headed to South Boston, Virginia to pick up our next load, and I parked at a truck stop right across from the shipper for the night.
My fast food Achilles’ heel had always been Bojangle’s chicken, and this South Boston truck stop had a Bojangles restaurant with the best I’d ever tasted. I was in an upbeat mood after the outstanding chicken, but it was extremely short-lived.
I approached the clerk at the truck stop to get change for a dollar in order to get my daily dose of USA Today. The clerk looked as if she might have jumped right off the screen from the movie Deliverance, but I soon discovered that she was much more vocal than the film’s banjo-picking star.
“I ain’t got no quarters!”
She spat the double negative at me as if it were a plug of Levi Garrett.
“You gotta use th’ change machine back ‘round in th’ cone-ur.”
Her drawl wafted over an open cash register, and I peered in to see a change drawer brimming with quarters.
“Is it really too much trouble to give me four quarters?” I asked. “Looks like you’ve got plenty there.”
“Yeah!” she spat back. “Use th’ change machine!”
“Are you the manager?” I asked.
“No,” she replied.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” I added.
Normally, I would not have had a problem with getting change from a change machine, even though it was on the opposite side of the truck stop. I had an issue with the attitude and indignation toward a paying customer.
When the manager walked out of his office, I knew that I’d made a mistake. If the clerk was the banjo picker from Deliverance, this was the guy who’d made Ned Beatty squeal like a pig. He had the same vacant, indignant look as the clerk.
“They ain’t s’possed to give change out th’ caish register,” he drawled in a similar timbre. “She’s jest doin’ her job.”
“Well,” I replied, “if being rude to customers is her job, she’s doing a fine one!”
His confused silence suggested that I might have bombarded him with an excessive number of syllables.
“Fine,” I relented, “I’ll use the change machine.”
I half-expected to hear Dueling Banjos emerge as background music as I walked away.
I made the trek to the change machine only to see the Out of Change light brightly illuminated. I returned to the clerk to inform her that the beloved change machine was empty.
“Now, can I get change for a dollar?” I asked.
She grudgingly dug into the register and handed me four quarters with a snarl. By this time, I was beyond irritated, so I just tossed the dollar bill at her.
“Ya didn’t have’ta 'thow' it at me!” she exclaimed.
“And you didn’t have to be rude and run me in circles for four stinking quarters!” I shot back. I then paid her the tribute of a one-fingered salute as I left the store. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do…but it felt like the thing to do at the time.
We left at 3am the next
morning for our next destination—Findlay, Ohio. My fortunes did not seem to be improving as I went through Hillsville, Virginia in the Blue Ridge Mountains on US58. The sign for Lover’s Leap should have provided a clue as to what lay ahead. Although the view of the area was spectacular with beautiful rock and wildflowers as a backdrop, the precipitous hills and winding roads did not allow the luxury of enjoying it for long. I was forced to crawl over Lover’s Leap in sixth gear. Despite the slow going, the delivery to Findlay went fine, and we spent the night in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart distribution center there.
Findlay is home to Mark Metcalf, the actor who portrayed the anal-retentive Niedermeyer in the classic film Animal House. Findlay also had the distinction of being the only community in the world where touch-tone telephone service was available in the early 1960’s.[41]
Driving across the mountains of Virginia had taken its toll on me, and I finally enjoyed a restful night’s sleep. Kitty seemed tuckered out as well. When I had a rough day, she showed signs of stress from it too.
Our next delivery was from Perrysburg, Ohio to Vonore, Tennessee. It was already dark after delivering in Vonore, but I luckily found a parking spot at a small truck stop there. Shortly after parking, a huge thunderstorm arose with high winds that shook the truck violently. Storms rarely frighten Kitty, but she snuggled up next to me during this one. Oddly enough, the beating of the rain, the resounding claps of thunder, and the rocking of the truck had a calming effect on me, and I slept well.
Next morning, I discovered that the windshield, which was replaced in Marietta, was leaking. The maps and truck stop guides on the dash were soaked.
Spirit of the Road Page 14
