Damien had his numbers – the mark of the beast.  There are days I think I’m just a mark.  I’ve got one of those faces that panhandlers seem to love; the mark of a sucker.  It doesn’t help that I decided a few years ago to greet people.  I tend to wander the earth face first – head up.  Whether it’s at the store or on the street, I say hello to people.  Its funny to watch the Average American, head down, face taut, staring at the ground to avoid any eye contact; looking a bit like they’re constipated.  What was it George Carlin said about Richard Nixon?

As I’m stuck in this sucker face situation, I’ve developed a system.  I have a number in my head, some amount of money that I don’t need.  Call it the Sucker Fund.  If I get hit up for spare change while the fund is flush, whoever asks … gets it.  No questions.  I don’t have to listen real close to their story.  I don’t have to wonder if they are actually in some kind of trouble.  I don’t worry if they are going to buy food for their kids or end up buying liquor.  That karma is on them.  My karma is just fine because I gave.  The Sucker Fund balance usually hangs around ten or twenty dollars.  One guy might get it all or three guys might share it over the course of a week.  When I’m having a bad week, the fund is broke.  As soon as I get paid, the fund is flush again.

There was a guy who hung around Meijers that tapped into the Sucker Fund a few times this Summer.  For the most part, however, I’ve been too busy to be around anyone who’s begging for a bus ticket or gas to get home or whatever.   The Sucker Fund has been in surplus for a while now.  A couple Wednesday nights ago, as Art Prize began, that all changed.

I walked out of an Introductory Meditation Class at the Grand Rapids Zen Center and into a crowd.  From the serenity of the meditation hall, I stepped into pandemonium.  The Center is a wonderful oasis.  Exposed brick on one wall, an old wood floor,  and the smoke of incense creeping up a deep red wall behind the altar.  The candles, a singing bowl, and the staid ceremony are conducive, by design, to slowing down and pondering.  When I pushed open the door to leave, I was on the fringe of Art Prize – Opening Night.

Worse than in the middle of the action, being on the fringe meant that the crowd flowing around me, like a snow melt swollen creek, were all on their way home.  They’d been to Art Prize and were done.  They’d spent more time and more money than they had meant to.  For some, they didn’t see one thing that they could understand.  Now they had to walk six or eight blocks to find where they parked the damn car.  A totally different kind of energy.

I had my own trek back to my truck.  Swimming against everyone’s haste, I stumbled toward the first corner to the East. Before I could round the corner, a man crossing the street caught my eye (face first, remember).  “Howdy” I said.

“Do you know where I can find a church that’s . . . .”  his voice trailed off as he turned his head looking up the street.  Whatever else he said was swept away in the riparian confusion of the crowd.

He was a black man in his 60′s.  His face was highlighted with grey stubble surrounding a goatee that had been trimmed up neatly.  When he spoke, intelligent eyes glistened under a baseball cap.  His teeth were kind of sprawled out from each other like they were running scared.  But the teeth were in good shape, he must have been doing alright, at least recently.  He reminded me of Spike Lee, only a bit older.

“You know, I was up here to get something to eat.  They make it hard on ya now.  I had to walk eight miles to get up here to that shelter where they were serving food.  And my momma is 104 four years old.  She’s at home with my granddaughter, and she’s only five.”

“That’s quite a spread in ages,” I offered.

“Yeah and you know I’m just trying to take something home to them.  Do you believe in God?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t think you could spare a little? Just so I could take home a loaf of bread and some lunch meat or something.”

His pitch reminded me that I had stopped by the bank on my way.  The suggested donation for the Intro Class was twenty dollars.  I had gotten another twenty just to last me the week.  In the tea session afterward, I had met some new folks and talked to several regulars.  And I had forgotten to leave my twenty bucks while I was there.  Meanwhile, I was not really listening to Spike Lee’s pitch.  And I didn’t need to listen really.

Coming back to the scene on the sidewalk, I heard him repeat the question “Do you believe in God?”  I’d love to give everyone the benefit of the doubt but spiritual talk suffuses the pitch of most panhandlers.  That’s all fine, but it seems like some sort of political, or at least ecumenical pandering.

Spike Lee told me that he and the family had just moved from Milwaukee.  They were trying to find work.  He also said he was a pastor.  I like big cities.  I’ve been in and around them for a good part of my life.  I’ve seen enough little storefront gospel churches to figure that that part of his story was likely true.  All across this country there a little independent outposts scrabbling to pay rent on some retail space or renting a hall each week.  The administrators of the Sucker Fund held a quick board meeting.

“Used to be, you could arrive in a new town and be to work in a few days,” he continued.  He’d seen my mark.  He knew that I was good for it.  I had made eye contact with him, and even listened to most of his story.  His pitch went into full swing.  I just smiled.

With the first sounds of my interrupting him, a doubtful line crossed his brow.  He had thought he was going to close on me; make the sale.  Now he worried.

“Today’s your lucky day,” I said abruptly.

Fiddling with my wallet and not showing too much, I pulled out a twenty.  “Here, man. Good luck.”

“Sweet Jesus, bless you. Thank you,” he blurted.  And as if he couldn’t resist, “You believe in God. Don’t you?”

“That really doesn’t matter. Does it?” I asked and turned to head back to the Zen Center.

My man, Spike, couldn’t have a clue where I had just come from.  I didn’t know what his situation was.  I’d never walked even a block in his shoes, but I’ve been poor.  I’ve been down to brown rice and water more than once.  I know what that part feels like; not really knowing the next time some cash might roll your way. When you haven’t got an extra dime, there’s just no use in shopping.  He wouldn’t know what was in the storefront between the Coney Dog place and the Chinese buffet because it wouldn’t have occurred to him to look.  It wouldn’t occur to him that there was any other way to live in America.  He hasn’t walked in my shoes either.

There was a plaintive edge to his voice when he called after me, “You do believe in God, don’t you?” Maybe his story was mostly true.  I don’t have to worry about it.

My web access on the road is still intermittent, but I’ve been stuck in Thousand Palms, CA for two days. See below for new material.

Also, don’t forget! Commenting is now turned on. Please feel free to chime in.

Have a Great New Year!
TrT

My web access on the road is still intermittent. I have a new provider, but I’m still getting used to changing my routes to accommodate it. See below for new material. I am working on a couple more.

Also, don’t forget! Commenting is now turned on. Please feel free to chime in.

Have a Great New Year!
TrT

I sat in Nashville for 28 hours before I got my next load; that sucks. While I was there I walked a half mile or so to an Outlet Mall. I bought several books to keep me occupied. I am schizophrenic in my reading. Along with a couple Linux Books [i just can't seem to stop], I also got the second installment of David Crosby’s autobiography [i need the first now] and a book on Buddhism and Science by the Dalai Lama.

Moreover, I haven’t done a crossword since I was married. They often lead to haunting flashbacks. I’ve done 5 or 6 this week already. I enjoyed them actually. It was especially fun to put one down, 2/3 full and stumped, only to pick it up the next day and burn through it with a fresh mind.

My married crossword experience was hilarious and should have been in “The Honeymooners” or “Roseanne” or something. She always had the puzzle and the pen. I was reading something else. And it goes:

Her: “What’s a ten letter word for rules of thumb?”
Me: “What letters do you have already?”
[ At least 180 seconds go by ]
Me: “How many letter have you got?”
[ maybe 90 more seconds ]
Me: “Honey?”
Her: “Oh, I’m on the next one already.”
Me: “Grrrrr” [in my head]

**

Pamphlet Guy
subtitle: can I get a witness?
So, I was sitting there in Nashville and some guy was walking around the lot handing out pamphlets. I wasn’t sure what denomination. And his wife wasn’t with him, so I don’t know if she was flat chested or not [See, he did it again]. He was harmlessly, almost painfully, wholesome looking; flannel shirt, windbreaker, blue jeans, comfortable shoes. Shoes that looked like they’re from KMart, but were actually $200 mail order orthopedic appliances. He was in his late 50′s, maybe a youthful 60; grey hair combed over. He could have disappeared into almost any crowd. Or he might have been the BTK killer. As he approached my door, I feigned to not see him, but he knocked.

“Here, its free,” he said with a pause and thrusts a couple pamplets up to me. When I didn’t reach for the propaganda, he added cheerfully, “Doesn’t cost a thing.” and flashes a $200 mail order smile.

“Oh, it costs more than you think,” I responded wryly.

For a nanosecond, his features began to change like he would chuckle. Some internal filter clicked on and the smile faded. He didn’t frown, I suspect his face doesn’t move that way. He just looked up at me, like a web page with “Loading . . .” hanging across the middle. For just a moment, he got my meaning, but the system rejected it and saved him. The wind pushed at his combover as he turned to go. He jerked away like a robot running Windows 95.

Two doors down, another driver sat in his cab. Familiar territory again. All gauges returned to normal. Crisis averted. He darn near shared a chuckle with me.

**Unrelated Aside**
“And I’ll have the pastrami,” Tom Swifty adds wryly. [do you remember Tom Swifty?]
**End Aside**

Starbucks Chic
I stopped on the Penn Turnpike to use the facilities and maintain my sobriety. Woo Hoo! They have a Starbucks; I haven’t had green tea in weeks. At the counter was the cutest girl this year. My goodness! She was subtle gorgeous. Her features were not fine, but just slightly rounded in that Mixed Breed Middle American way. She had the rich wholesome beauty that the tortured starlet always begins with; fresh off the bus in L.A. Joy bubbled over in her work, her voice, her demeanor, and especially in her eyes. She had my tea seeping in a flash.  Auburn hair pulled back under a scarf, swung cheerfully as she handed me the cup. The voluptuous curves of her upper lip were like the shoulders of a black cherry.

“Is that everything?” she asked with a cheerful lilt.

“That’s a loaded question,” I smile; just a little flirt.

Those eyes sparkled a bit and I thought they would burst. She giggled with a depth, a hidden knowledge expressed in her smile.  Her voice shifted down just a touch, and with a bing cherry twitch, she said, “Have a nice day, sir.”

That last word. . . now I was the herky jerky robot. I staggered back to the truck, wounded. I knew she was too young. I really wasn’t on the make; just practicing. Honest. But, Sir!? How could she hurt me that way?!?!? SIR is an acronym for “you’re such a nice old man.”

I take heart in knowing she will always be happy. She will work hard, play hard and live well. She’ll always have a smile for some old man. I have a friend, became a teacher, who could be her older sister. Starbucks Chic will go to college somewhere like Ball State.

**

Gypsies in the Palace
I pulled into a Love’s Truckstop in Jeffersonville, OH, two hours away from my delivery; four hours early. Love’s is surrounded by farmland out in Southwest Ohio. A crisp fall wind hummed across the open fields like a dentist drill. I ran inside, zipping my jacket against the cold. Almost the same feeling as being called ‘Sir.’

Heading back toward my truck, there was a guy talking to the driver next to where I had parked. As I approach, he broke off and came to me.

“Did you hear about the flat bed and the tanker?” he asks, “D’ja have your ears on?” I indicated I hadn’t.

“Come here, this is hilarious.”

We walked across the lot and I saw a flatbed but no tanker.  The guy had a walrus mustache and perpetual stubble. Even clean shaven, the line of his chin would be indistinct; jowls rounded by too much cheap beer and fried food. He wore a flannel shirt over a tshirt and jeans; midwest trucker uniform.

As we approached the flatbed, three more guys converged on us. There is a lanky goofball, with no front teeth, waving a wad of cash. People with thin lips should floss. His upper lip sagged across the gap except when he smiles. He wore the ill fitting clothes of garage sale chic; bought for utility, not for exact size. There was another midwest trucker; dressed a little better, in a company jacket over a henley. His wife must work in an office. Her style, and expectations, stain him. There was another tall, thin, older farmer-looking guy.

Toothless Jones kept flashing his wad of cash, like he really wanted me to know he was loaded. He was probably the long lost Uncle of a guy I used to work with.  We called him Gums and Roses. Another bystander walked up to check the action.

It was an elaborate scam; I’m sure of that much. I think the whole thing was orchestrated by Toothless Jones, the farmer and the two Midwest truckers. The wad is probably $40 in ones with 5 or 6 twenties on top. It is Three Card Monte with a twist. Toothless wass supposed to be an idiot who doesn’t know the game. There was money to be made here, man. An Exquisite Grifter change up.

Farmer made a bet and lost. On the second bet, he picked a card and held it behind Toothless’ head. Toothless made melodramatic twists looking for the card. Meantime, farmer flipped the card behind Toothless.  As the poor sap turned to find his precious card, the farmer turned up the other two cards and bent a corner of the Ace he found. Farmer flipped the cards over just in time.

Now the fun begins. Two Jacks and an Ace were at play. Supposedly, Toothless couldn’t see that 3/8″ of his Ace is bent up on a terrible angle. Suddenly, farmer won! Twice, even! Now, the better dressed trucker jumped in. He wins twice picking the marked Ace. Shocking! A new rule emerged – Toothless can’t tell his Ace is marked but now you can only bet twice in a row. Midwest tried to hand me a twenty.

“He won’t let me bet again,” he winked “you do it.”

I pointed to the other bystander “He should.”

“It’s easy money, man. Go ahead. Just bet for me.” He tapped me jovially on the arm with the back of the hand holding the twenty.

“I’m don’t want to join in. I’m not buying it,” I finally said.

Immediately, Toothless jumps up and walks off and shouts to the wind, “I’m tired of this.”

Walking back to my truck, another driver approached. He had an enormous, perfectly round, beer belly poking out of a leather jacket 2 sizes too small. His trucker hat stood straight up off his forehead. As he walked, he strained to put as little weight as possible on his left leg; a trucker malady. 50 yards gimping across the lot might as well be the Appalachian Trail.

“What’s going on?” he snorted between tortured steps.

“Three Card Monte,” I replied.

“What!?”

“The Shell Game with cards,” I explain.

“Oh, $%^&* I thought you guys were talking about something juicy!” he smiled.

“I just got here, but I didn’t fall off any truck,” I continued, “I didn’t buy it; can’t afford it anyway.”

“I’ve been out here to long for that $%^&*+,” and he stumbled back with me.

Then I started to think: I’ve inadvertently gone into business with a drug dealer and got out; spent four hours on the side of the road with the Lee County Sheriff Narcotics Squad for his guilt not mine; went into business for myself two and a half times before I was 35; had two groups try to hoodwink me out of the business [one an SBA scam, the other a reverse acquisition worthless stock scam]; I broke into a building and stole a bunch of stuff, that a judge later ruled was actually mine, and used the to stuff to start the business over; was once sued for $600,000, settled out of court for $40,000; and once closed on a house the same day my checking account was fifty dollars in the hole. These guys were going to take me?!?!?! I have a finely tuned radar. I might have to tell some of those stories.

So I was going to tell you about the trials and tribulations of simply paying my phone bill, but I have a way better story than that now.

Jerry Jeff Walker first drove Jimmy Buffett to Key West.

Jerry Jeff has a song called “Life on the Road.”

“Let me tell you ’bout the life I lead
It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be
Of what you been told, ’bout life on the road .”

Of course, Jerry is a traveling troubadour. If you ask a Truck Driver, life on the road is Sex, Drugs & Rock and Roll; just like you hear. That mostly goes on in the minds of truckers. Now real Rock and Rollers, they seem to enjoy the physical manifestations as well.

I was down to one stamp and I hadn’t seen a mail box for more than a week anyway. I knew I was overdue to pay my phone bill. Driving through the mountains of West Virginia, I spotted a plaza with a Sprint Store sign. The next exit was only three miles, so I got off eastbound and back on westbound.

I pulled on to shoulder of the exit ramp. You just can’t take a semi where only cars were meant to go. I’ve been in some tight spots and didn’t want to push my luck on a plaza built into the side of a mountain. Besides, it had been a few days since I had a good walk. I popped the Four Ways on and locked up the truck.

The walk down the rest of the ramp wasn’t bad. I could see that far. I turned up the road toward the plaza. It is really dry in West Virginia. As I crunch through the right of way, hundreds of crickets jump off in all directions. It is almost as if I’m wading through them. Like wading at the beach when you don’t care how wet you are, your feet just kick up the splash.

At the entrance of the plaza, I realize this isn’t some northern strip mall. The plaza is in four parts up the side of the hill. I really could have changed into some shorts before I started this trek.

The first tier is a rise of 10 or 15 feet above the road. I can see the backs of the stores on the next tier. They must be 40 feet above my head. Starbucks is the only store marked on the back. They even have a drivethrough, but I’m walking.

I cut from the road up an embankment to the first tier. There is a Wild Birds Store, a Quick Med Clinic, a couple empty storefronts and an O’Charley’s Resturant. The stores all face the road; no Sprint.

I walk up the access road around the back of the Starbucks Tier. There is another embankment to climb. At the top, I can see that Sprint is not in the Starbucks Strip, but looming on the horizon is the main plaza anchored by a Target and an Office Max. There is Sprint! However, it is on the other side of a huge parking lot. It is real warm now.

As I walk across the steamy tarmac, I plan my next move. I’ve got a couple bucks in my pocket. I know my phone bill is more than that. I duck into Target in search of an ATM. I haven’t seen a bank branches in any of the tiers. The cool air inside the Target washes over me as I enter. It bites on my lower back where I’ve sweated some moisture into my shirt. Almost too cold. I spot an ATM. Funny, someone has got Stickie Notes all over it. As I walk up to it I realize the Stickies say “Out . . . Of . . . Order.” Dog!

The shy girl behind the Service Counter thinks that ATM is the only one in the Plaza. Well, I might as well try Sprint and my Debit Card. The Comdata card that we truckers use isn’t a normal Mastercard or Visa Debit Card. Walmart and other stores can take it on their machines. I enter Sprint with my fingers crossed. No such luck. The dudes in football jerseys at Sprint echo the shy girl’s ATM story.

Just to make sure, I walk across another steamy tarmac to check at the Home Depot. Also on the third tier but separated by another huge parking lot. Nothing.

The walk back to the truck is downhill and more enjoyable. At least I got some exercise. I resolve to find an ATM and pat that bill. Better than to leave and have to stop again. Back in the truck, I go under the highway to jump back on the eastbound freeway. I had seen some gas stations when I turned around before. I can see a bank south of the highway but it looks pretty cramped for truck space. I head for the highway.

At the next exit, one of the gas stations I thought I saw, is under construction, or perhaps disassembly. There are three or four contractor pickups parked in the lot which is more dirt than pavement. After that there is nothing else that isn’t behind tight curbs or some other hazard. Life on the Road. There is just nowhere to go. I head back west on the highway. I’m going to take a closer look at that bank.

Back over on Exit 18, and under the highway again. The good news is the cross road is a WV state highway. It will be legal for me to drive on and big enough for the truck. I slow to look at the bank. It is a left turn onto a small road. I can’t see very far. I’m pretty sure I can’t drive through and there isn’t room to turn around. As I consider my next move, cars begin to pile up behind me. I decide to bail. I drive down WV-60; this is the same road that comes out at the next exit where I’ve been turning around.

Further down this road is a credit union. Back in the day, to get a fresh 6 pack and some ice, truckers would pull into the left hand turn lane,. hit the Four Ways, jump out and run into the liquor store. I borrow the maneuver.

After my hike up the hill to the plaza, I know I can get the truck up there. It’ll be slow; I’m carrying 38,000 lbs of springs. I jump back on the highway one more time westbound. Hit the exit, turn up the hill and then into the plaza. At the first tier, by O’Charley’s, the access road is marked for deliveries. As I approach the corner, some high school couple pull into the left turn lane. I need to go over them. I creep forward right at them.

Junior gets paranoid about his little rice burner dolled up like a drift racer. He throws it in reverse to get out of my way; narrowly missing mom and half the soccer team in a minivan. The truck groans up the hill. I circle around in the empty edge of Target’s lot and pick an escape route.

I trudge across the tarmac and pay the damn phone bill. I am hot and thirsty. Tucking into Target again, I feel the cool blast. At the snack bar, there is a huge line of Moms and kids. I’m not staying for that. High maintenance soccer moms. They order yogurt smoothies and soft pretzels with the same customization as a Latte. “For Marlee’s pretzel, could you scrape off some of the salt? And she wants cheese, but I don’t like her to have much dairy. Could you just dab a little on it? And Bobbie wants his with chocolate and coconut. And the baby can’t have anything with wheat . . . .” If I was at a Walmart, it would go fast. Redneck mothers order in bulk. “7 corndogs, a bag of Cheese Popcorn – SHUT UP, BILLY – and a 64 oz. Pepsi with eight straws.”

My only other choice is Starbucks. That Rasberry Green Tea Frappacino something or other sounds good, but I haven’t been in a Starbucks in months. And I don’t really want to spend four bucks on a cold drink. Time to leave West Virginia.

And that was the easy part.

I was headed to Newark, NJ. The directions were good, so I had no trouble getting there. You come in past Newark International and enter a zone that is one part ghetto and two parts Industrial Park. This plant has an infamous dock. To get to their dock, you have to turn up a side street that I thought was tight [just you wait, dear reader]. Down at the end of the street, you pull into their back lot, then back across the street into an alley to turn around. This would be routine but the alley is offset from the drive. So you kind of waggle through a serpentine turn into the alley. Also, everyone on the street is on lock down, so the drive has a gate and concrete barricades to protect the fence. Heading back out the street, you can now back into their dock on your sight side rather than your blind side. Another gate, more barricades and on the other side of the street a curb, four feet of sidewalk, a fence and a building.

I wiggled into the alley and got set up for their dock. I got so close to the neighbors building across the street that a couple manager types decided to discuss something right out on the sidewalk. I managed to back in almost square.

Looking around the neighborhood, I imagine places like Beirut or Gaza must be worse, but it is hard to imagine how. The plant I’ve delivered to is an old block building. The loading dock was an afterthought. The lift driver has to drive up a ramp on the inside to reach dock height. The dock juts out from the building; tacked on. There are four or five ancient transformers behind a board and batten fence. The crumbling corrugated metal roof reveals some very old looking insulators and wiring. I walk around the fence, but they don’t seem to be connected anymore.

This lot has the traditional three strands of barbed wire angled with brackets on top of the fence. The uniform service across the street has razor wire across theirs. The street has a half dozen businesses; all like armed camps.

At the end of the street and across the main drag is a bus stop. Some of the people look like they’re having trouble making their way. Others are having their way, making trouble. Some are on their way to work. Some just hanging around. Another is like a half crazy street preacher. He talks to almost everyone, but gesticulates the most when he wanders off by himself. Behind the bus stop is a large old building. It must have been a school or a hospital. There is a large chimney from the old boiler and some men bricking in the first floor windows.

I get unloaded and my next dispatch is into the city. Thee city. New York City. The borough of Long Island City. This will be fun. I call for help on directions. My dispatch shows that I should head north in Jersey to the George Washington Bridge and then head south into New York. That just doesn’t make sense.

The person who answers the phone sounds vaguely Indian. He passes me to someone who works there but lives in Jersey and sounds like it.

“Nah, that’s crazy,” he reacts to my directions. “You want to go south on the Jersey Turnpike to Exit 13. Take that across Staten Island and then the Verrazano Bridge and get on the BQE.” “HEY FRANK, doesn’t he want the BQE?” he shouts away from the phone. “Yeah, take that to the Van Dam exit. Turn right on 47th Ave. We’re right here at 32nd Place.”

“32nd Place?”

“Yeah, 32nd,” he says. His voice says “Everybody knows its 32nd Place. Whaddya talkin’ about?”

“Alright?” he asks. Then click, he’s gone.

OK, then. I scroll around on Google Local on my phone. I find Van Dam St. Comparing that to my Atlas, I see he didn’t tell me I need to get on 495. There is I-495 the Long Island Expressway and what looks like NY-495 going west. I need NY-495. So I trek off toward Exit 13.

The Jersey Turnpike has this annoying habit of numbering exits the same number but adding A or B or even EX. I pause by 13A but flinch and go on in search of just 13. A guy behind me smokes his tires to avoid me. Yeah, well, he was way back there.

I-278 is the Staten Island Expressway. Crossing over the Gothals Bridge there are lots of ships and port activities. But crossing the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island to Brooklyn, my heart soars! I’m looking out over the Atlantic!! Mother Ocean! I’m high enough above the water, individual waves are indistinct. The ocean has a texture though. You can sense the gentle roll. And it just stretches out across the horizon. A flat line from north to south. You can’t get that accept at sea. None of the rest of the day can take this joy. And I’m going to need it. Read On.

I-278 nicks the western edge of Brooklyn and runs up toward the bridges to southern Manhattan. Mostly residential scenes and then some industrial areas until I get north of the Prospect Parkway that head over to Prospect Park; the Central Park of Brooklyn.

Moving through northern Brooklyn toward Queens, the highway is at 2nd and 3rd floor level of the surrounding buildings. My eyes are assaulted by color and signs and neighborhoods. I just want to stop and walk around. There are resturants and bars, a myriad of languages, even a large Auto Shop plastered with Chinese. But the shop is a Registered New York State Emissions Inspection Station for both Cars and Big Trucks. The official New York State signs are the only English on the building. An awning and patio tops a building with an Italian Restaurant on the street. It looks as if they took an old awning from the restaurant to use over their patio. There is patio furniture and lots of plants. But for the noise of the highway, it must be quite an escape.

There are several buildings with two faces. One on the ground level to cater to the neighborhood and another on the third or fourth floor. This second one is angled toward the highway to sell to commuters. This creates some funny looking buildings. There was a huge futon store aimed at the highway.

I see the sign for I-495. I’m looking for NY-495, I think. A couple exits later, I realize that I must have missed something. Now I have to turn the truck around somewhere in the city. Moments later, I have no choice the highway takes me to cross the Triborough Bridge; so named because it connects Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx. Driving across the bridge and wrestling with the Atlas, the new plan is to take I-87 right after the bridge to I-95 east to I-895 and back to I-287 and the Triboro Bridge. No turning around in the city, just exploring a lot of its highways. It is getting late. I have to pick up before 4:00 pm.

Cutting across the western edge of the Bronx, the river and Manhattan are on my left. Yankee Stadium is on the right. I notice a lot of cars parked willy nilly around the stadium, but there is crazy parking all over the city. Back in Brooklyn or Queens, I had to leave the highway because of construction and cut through a neighborhood. Between construction barriers and cars parked by the retarded, I could barely get my truck through. A couple times I was only “pretty sure” the trailer would follow me safely. I just eased on through and tried not to watch in the mirror. If I was wrong, the sound would be bad enough. I didn’t want to have to watch it happen too. The crazy parking around Yankee Stadium will come back to haunt me.

I made my first turn on the new plan. Right away on I-95, I see a sign that Wide Loads are not allowed further on The Bronx Expressway. Wide Loads must go south on I-87 with an arrow pointed up an exit ramp. I’m not a Wide Load [shut up] but South on I-87 would save me all the I-95 to I-895 to I-287 shuck and jive. That would take me right back how I came. Surely, I can make it through where they are directing Wide Loads.

It was a bitch. And quit calling me Shirley.

I climbed up into the city from I-95. There was a sign directing Wide Load traffic to the left. There is also several steel columns for the elevated train all over the road. There must also be a school because backpack toting pedestrians are everywhere. In front of me is a street; two traffic lanes and a left turn center lane. The steel columns are on either side of the center lane making it a tunnel. While the light is still red, I scan the scene calculating if I should angle through the center lane into the far right or if I should go all the way through the intersection and make the full turn.

Normally a left turn is much preferred to a right turn in a semi. Your trailer will ‘off-track’ as you pull it through the corner. This causes the trailer to turn further inside the corner than you and the cab do. A left turn gives you the whole road to work with. A right turn is tight. Trucks will take out stop signs, light poles and pedestrians if the driver is not careful. The steel columns in the middle of traffic pretty much make this left more like a right turn.

Times Up!! The light is green. On impulse, I take the full turn. I pushed my luck enough back in the construction zone. Halfway through the turn, I am way too close to one of the steel columns. I turn wider and ride the curb with my right hand steer tire. We just make it through. The next light is a right turn back to the highway. I am taking this turn very wide too. On the entrance ramp, there is one of those little triangular island curbs to ease the flow around the curve and separate the traffic coming straight across from the left. The backpack toting crowd all jostle to a halt as I go right up and over the island. My diesel tanks are just 8″ above the ground. Luckily the curb is quite low. No sense in having a HazMat spill in the city. Whew, I am back on the highway and headed to my pickup. How the hell would a Wide Load get through there?

I get back to the the area around I-495 and realize the exit goes both east and west. I don’t know why the Atlas uses different shields for the two roads. I quickly find Van Dam and exit again. Another tight street in the city. I have to turn right up Van Dam with a building right out into the corner. I see 48th Ave and soon come to 47th. Another right turn but a little easier. The first light on 47th is 32nd Place. Here I am! There is nowhere to go. Here is nowhere. I am at a stop light at 47th and 32nd Place in Long Island City. All the streets around me are narrow. The buildings all come right to the sidewalk; only occasionally interupted by an alley or the next street. There is an international vitamin distributor to my left. To the right is a building with a ‘space for rent’ sign. There is a Prius parked illegally across the street and to the right. In front of it is a dumpster along the far curb. There are several pallets of small boxes or maybe bricks behind the dumpster. They are lined up against the building on the sidewalk. Beyond these skids, a garage door is open and a delivery truck is parked. All the other parking spaces on the street are parked in. The next building down the street has a marble facade. Used to be someone’s World Headquarters I imagine. Now its a t-shirt company.

I call my pickup again. I tell them I’m outside with nowhere to go. He gives me the idea those pallets are mine. He’s going to send one of his guys out. I literally can’t make a move. I’m sitting in the street at a stop light. I’ve sat here through 3 or 4 cycles of the light already. A few tentative honks have already sounded from the cars behind me. I hit the Four Ways and pull the air brakes. My leg is tired! Now the honking starts in earnest.

After several cars rush by me in the other lane; gesturing with a particular digit, my favorite moment sitting there is a the Chinese Delivery Van. This van pulled out from behind me and sped to make the light. Going by me, the Chinese guy in the passenger seat craned his head and shoulders all the way around to glare at me. He gave me the quintessential NYC WTF look. The kind of look you would expect from a guy named Vinnie or Victor. The International Language of New York City Traffic. The Pa Nang Noodle Company Van disappeared around the next corner.

10 minutes later, I’m still sitting there at the light; still listening to honks and smiling at people past their finger. Some guys start to mill around outside the open garage door moving about frantically. They scurry like ants do if you stomp on the ground right next to an ant hill. A young oriental kid in a “I Heart NY” t-shirt comes jogging over. He asks if I can park where the delivery truck is if they move it. My trailer is longer than that truck let alone my whole rig. “OK,” he says, “we’ll move it and then see what we can do.”

While they are scurrying around and moving the truck, I see an opening on the side street and begin my turn. A short blast on the horn and some eye contact shoo away a Cuban woman and her young son. I’m making another right turn and chances are I need their sidewalk. I can just barely get around because of the illegally parked Prius right on the corner. As I pass it, I notice the Prius has “Official” license plates. Some fool bureaucrat parked there. Around the corner and parked next to the dumpster, I can see 4 or 5 empty parking spaces up the road. I should insist they let me park up there and drive the skids down the block.

Instead they ask if I can pull up on the sidewalk near where the delivery van was. I shouldn’t but who else can say they parallel parked a semi on the sidewalk in Long Island City? I’m game! As you can see in my Whacky Photo Gallery [page 2], I didn’t really _parallel_ park. I got the tractor and a lot of the trailer over the sidewalk with the tail hanging in the parking spot formerly held by the delivery truck. They just don’t pay me enough.

It was an international crew. There were two elder statesmen characters; one Black and the other Indian. They both excelled at observing; supervising without committing themselves to any particular action plan. The young oriental guy seemed to be in charge but not everyone was behind him. There were several younger guys; an Italian, a Puerto Rican, another Indian, and a Black guy driving the lift. A Jewish looking younger guy came out a few times sporadically. He carried the air of the owner’s son.

They put a pallet jack in my trailer. The older Indian guy took a position in the trailer at the door. He didn’t move much other than to gingerly act as if he was helping the Puerto Rican get a skid moving each time one had been lifted in. The guy on the lift either wasn’t very experienced or he had made everyone else nervous somehow. Every 8″ the lift moved, someone would call out with a better angle he should take. The oriental supervisor was especially bad about this. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. It was going to take forever this way. Then, incredibly, someone walked up from the street with an urgent question for the lift driver. The whole operation ground to a halt while the driver listened, scrunched his face to ponder, answer and then furrow his brow and clarify.

Then it began again. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct.

I could have loaded the truck faster by myself. Pallet jack a skid to the curb. Climb onto the lift and set the skid in the trailer. Climb into the trailer. Pallet jack the skid into the nose of the trailer. Climb down. Start over again.

I had pulled up onto the sidewalk and behind some parked cars. There was a minivan that I was practically over. See the Whacky Gallery again. During the load process, the van driver left. I was surprised I didn’t hear about how close I had come, but then again this is New York. It was going to be easier to get out without the van there. As the afternoon wore on, a woman, who had come out of the Ad Agency across the street, complimented me on my fine parking job. I told her to wait until I had managed to back out again.

The Oriental kid and another watched for me as I backed out. I had scoped out the next intersection for turning radius. It was still tight, but I made it out. It was getting late. From New York City, the nearest place to park a semi for the night was on the border with New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I had a couple hours to go, at least.

Back on the BQE, traffic was snarled. Tomorrow the UN General Assembly opens. Bush is in town. Amadinejad is in town. So was everyone else. There were limos and shuttle vans all over. I got back across the Triboro; this time on purpose. Traffic came to a stop.

30 minutes later, I passed the snarl. A four wheeler (a car) must have made a quick lane change without a second look. He ended up wedged under a semi trailer. Traffic was moving again . . . and then it stopped. All those cars I half noticed around Yankee Stadium were now merging into my lane. The game just got over! For the next hour and a half, I never got higher than third gear. Sixth gear is only 30 mph. I sat and waited, then ambled forward several feet and then waited; ambled; waited; ambled; waited. In two and a half hours, I drove 45 miles. But now I was in Jersey again. We were moving along quite well. The sun had gotten low enough it was no longer frying my eyeballs. This was better. And then we stopped again.

I thought I had survived the Yankee fans and rush hour that started just as the game got out. I had made it far enough into Jersey to pickup the last remnants of those brave souls who commute from Pennsylvania and Western New Jersey. All through New Jersey on I-80, there just aren’t many rest stops or truckstops. I was going to try and get 100 miiles or so into Pennsylvania before stopping for the night. Finally a place to stop came by. I took a much needed bathroom break and bought a pop.

The day was almost done. Another 100 miles, some sleep, and tomorrow will be a better day. I climbed into the cab, took a deep breath and opened my pop. It fizzed all over my hand, the steering wheel and on to the floor. Just a reminder it wasn’t tomorrow yet. Life on the road.

In the last couple weeks, USA Today ran a poll and found that something like 55% of Americans “BELIEVE” that the Constitution set the United States of America up as a Christian Country [emphasis mine]. Wow, that makes me crazy.

Ayn Rand wrote “facts exist independently of anyone’s fears, beliefs or wishes.”

I am reading Richard Dawkin’s “The God Delusion” [thanks, Tim]. I highly recommend it. I’ve also been listening a lot to the BBC. I’ve practically stopped consuming news based in this country. There are times when our present administration and that of Iran are indiscernable. Simply switch out Fundamentalist Muslim for Fundamentalist Christian.

My Ex Wife used to be flabbergasted that I almost always got the bible questions from Jeopardy right. I credit Doctor Anderson at Michigan State University and my father.

Dr. Anderson was a terrific guy. He was an ordained Methodist Minister, Distinguished MSU Humanities Faculty, and a world renown expert in Samaritan literature [more on that in a minute].

I had a personal philosophy when registering for classes at MSU: No classes before 10:00 AM. Ever. This usually meant that I had to take one evening class each semester; typically Mon/Wed or Tues/Thur. Dr. Anderson’s class was unique because it met once a week, but for three hours. At the time, I was also interested in his series; two semesters on the Old Testament, and one on the New. I was in the middle of my long journey to where I am.

Dr. Anderson had an amazing memory. He had us fill out a 3×5 Card the first day of class; Name, Major, some interesting fact. At the beginning of each hour of class, he would call out about a third of the stack of cards. We were to raise our hand. It was a modified form of attendance for the large class. By the third week, he was looking at you as he called your name. I was taking the class with a girlfriend and her roommate. We tested him by sitting somewhere else. He looked where we had sat, scanned, found us and called our names. There were about 300 students in this class! 300!!

I took his two Old Testament classes in succession and then, because of a professional internship I did, the New Testament class the next year. Two or three years after I had finished his series, I met Dr. Anderson on the street in East Lansing.

“Hi, Dr. Anderson,” I said.

“Well, Hello,” he answered, “Wait, you’re Thomas or Thompson or . . .”

“Todd Townsend,” I offered.

“Why, yes! And you were studying Packaging, I believe.” His eyes twinkled like a sage. “You should be ready to graduate almost. How did that internship go? It was here in Michigan. Automotive, I believe.”

Right on all five counts. Amazing.

From Dr. Anderson I learned that there are many different authors in most of the books of the bible; especially the gospels. You can watch the transition from one to the next by their vocabularies and style. He taught the allegorical rather than literal bible. OK, 299 students. One night this girl stood up in the middle of his lecture. At the top of her lungs shouted “The bible is NOT a fairy tale!” and walked out never to return.

I think I meat her Aunt a few weeks ago at a truckstop in Tuscaloosa, AL. I am still deciding if I should ever go back there. It is one of my fuel stops. Anyway, I walked in early one morning and there was a driver laid out on the floor. One of the fuel desk ladies was heaving on his clammy chest doing CPR. Apparently the guy had had a heart attack and dropped right there in the store.

I was waiting for a load so I was milling around. A couple hours later, back in the store, I asked at the fuel desk about the guy. This buxom patrician looking big ol’ southern woman gently placed a hand to her breast, fluttered her eyes up into their lids and said, “The lord was watching over him. He was breathing before the paramedics arrived.”

To no one in particular, I said, “You’d think if the lord was watching over him, he wouldn’t have had a heart attack in a truckstop.”

“Don’t you blaspheme,” she shouted. “Don’t . . . you . . . blaspheme!” And waved a hand skyward.

Back to Dr. Anderson. He had a friend in the Athletic Department at MSU, way before the ‘doctor’ in Dr. Anderson.

Well, even before that. Imagine in the 30′s or 40′s, Michigan State had an Indiana Jones of its own. Apparently, someone from MSU traveled to the Middle East. I can see the trench coat, the fedora, the foggy night at the wharf boarding a rusty tramp steamer. The steamer is bound for the Suez with a mysterious crew. The Captain will have a scar, a black greek fisherman’s cap and an outrageous Mediterranean accent.

So this intrepid explorer finds this large cache of Samaritan writings somewhere. I always like the Good Samaritan story. He ‘one-ups’ the pious and steals their thunder; almost like Prometheus and his fire. Apparently there are Samaritan books that didn’t make the bible and early versions of books we’re familiar with.

The man in the fedora packs up the Samaritan stuff and ships it back to Michigan State, but he never returns.

I figure he met a woman. Another outrageous accent; this one french or russian. I can see the slinky dress, the high heels, the hose with a seam up the back. She’s the kind of woman who never takes off her pearls and makes you forget why it would even matter. Samaritan Who?

So these crates, that no one is looking for, get shifted around the buildings at MSU. Remember the ending of the first Indiana Jones movie?! The Ark of the Covenant in an anonymous crate in a government warehouse that no one ever inventories. Exactly like that.

Michigan State Stadium is a big bowl with tiers of concourses under it. Some of these are used at game time; souvenirs, hot dogs, the johns. Some tiers are just used for storage. Professor Anderson was a fresh faced, wet-behind-the-ears graduate student. He had a friend in the Athletic Department. This friend is in charge of cleaning out some of the crap that has collected in university storage. He is working on cleaning up the stadium when he comes across a crate or two piled with dust. He sends someone for a hammer and a crowbar. Dust flies everywhere as they clean enough to crack it open. The hollow squeak of nails being pulled out of old wood echoes under the stadium. No one know why, but they’re all kind of quiet. Cleaning the sawdust and straw off the top layer, they see scrolls [might have been tablets, I don't recall]. There is odd writing.

“I’ve got a friend over in Humanities,” says the Jock, “He’ll know if we should throw this out or not. He’s a minister working on his masters.”

If I remember right, when Professor Anderson came over to the stadium, he was looking at the world’s largest collection of Samaritan Literature. Dormant for years. Plenty enough for a Masters and PhD thesis [what the heck is that plural?]. In the process, he became a world renown expert in Samaritan Writing. This is the guy who recognized me on the street two years after the fact. Amazing.

I remember a poor Sunday School Teacher. I think we made her cry. She was so prepared for the Eighth Graders. Very early in the hour, she presented her gem. She had done the math. He created the heavens and the earth and all of us and the flora and fauna in 144 hours! Isn’t that spesh-ell [SNL church lady accent]. You see 6 days times 24 hours; why that’s just 144 hours for all this. We asked “Who are you to tell god his day is only 24 hours.” It pretty much ended there.

Contrast that with the time my Dad taught a few Sunday School classes. I think it was the High Schoolers. He came equipped with poster board maps. The movements of people and armies were set against the land they had or wanted. Geopolitical back stories and deeper understanding. Context. I don’t remember the specifics of the lessons but it was a completely different approach. I was still having those my-Dad’s-the-coolest-smartest-guy moments when I was in high school.

Both my parents brought all of us up to think for ourselves. Mom was a Renaissance woman herself. She is a strong independent woman who worked, took care of the four of us [Dad included], and was on the School Board for many years. Her work with emotionally and physically handicapped kids was way more work than most anyone did, let alone what other moms did. Holding her own with some rough kids too.

So this USA Today thing is so frustrating. Americans are so frustrating sometimes.

In my opinion, the formula is simple. Facts are facts. Just as actions speak louder than words, the consequences of a system – the outcome of a system – is more important than who built it or how it was made.

Throughout history, governments of all varieties sought to protect their power from the people. The Unites States of America, at birth, was explicitly built to protect the people from the government. A historical first that we have defaced, defamed and bastardized in the last 250 years.

It does not matter whether any of the Founding Fathers were religious. It doesn’t matter that they used words and phrases, like “endowed by their creator,” in the founding documents. A nearly perfect system was built. These men were toiling to make something that had never existed.

You cannot square “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness” with Original Sin, “Turn the Other Cheek” or “Love your neighbor as yourself.” It just isn’t in there.

And don’t send me Paul’s Letter to the Thessalonians. That is a bunch of end times hooey taken out of context in lame attempts to justify capitalism.

The beauty of our country at its birth came in spite of “anyone’s fears, beliefs or wishes.” Just as the whole is greater than the sum of parts, our Founding Fathers built something with timeless elegance that was bigger and better than they knew.

They also built in the freedom to practice any or no religion without the fear of persecution or prosecution. Even today, a rare luxury in the world. The only freedom left ungranted is to bring this nation down by calling it a Christian Country.

PS: The Midnight Heathen Philosophes were a group of us in John Holmes Hall at MSU that stayed up late into the night solving the world’s problems. Jim C., Pisser, Eric Z. and many others.

It had started as a normal day.  Nothing good starts that way. I picked up a load in Michigan bound for Georgia, but I didn’t have enough hours to deliver it legally. In this situation, the company will ‘repower’ the load. In other words, I had to meet up with a driver who had enough hours left to take it on to Georgia.

I met the guys [a team, hence plenty of hours], at our Louisville, KY yard.  When we talked on the phone, they mentioned driving through the projects to get there. I once lived inside the city limits of Detroit, so I had them pegged as just a couple of paranoid white guys.

As I snaked my way through the Southside of Louisville to the yard, the area didn’t seem that bad. I had even watched for a place nearby where I could grab a bite to eat. The yard was, indeed, right across the street from a public housing project. There was a building out front, an alley and yet another building behind surrounded by a paved lot. The gate out by the street was left open.  It was barren old manufacturing space; abandoned and then leased to a trucking company as a cheap place to park trailers.

The team was waiting, so I dropped the trailer right there and went around behind to get an empty trailer. There were 5 or 6 trailers squeezed against a fence in the back. The boys had given me the number of the empty trailer they had just dropped, so I didn’t have to hunt around. I hooked up and pulled back around toward the front.

I parked just behind the back building.  Another truck was parked out front.  I assumed someone else would be sleeping here too. Beyond my truck was a large concrete pad with a low cinderblock wall around most of its perimeter. It must have been another warehouse at one time; scrapped out or burned down. There were some bundles of wood and tote tanks placed around to prevent someone from driving outside the main parking lot. It wasn’t very big as a trucking yard, but someone had painted all the buildings. They had made an effort.

I was out of hours, so I was going to crash right there at the yard. I had a load assignment for the morning and needed the rest.  In the immediate neighborhood, there was no where to eat and, after a long day, I didn’t feel like walking anywhere. I set an alarm, set the Opt Idle and hit the sack.

Opt [for Optimized] Idle is pretty cool. It’s a thermostat controlled climate system for the sleeper cab of a semi. The truck will actually shut down when you reach a set temperature.  With a Comfort Zone set, the truck engine will kick over and run until the cabin temperature gets back to comfortable and then shut down again.  Opt Idle makes a trucker’s life more comfortable without having to run the truck 24 hours a day.

Someone had flagged this trailer for a battery charging problem, so I had disconnected it from my cab. The trailers have lights and a small GPS unit. The occasional short in trailer wiring can drain your truck batteries down while you sleep. I drifted off planning tomorrow’s drive.

A couple hours later, I was awakened by noises in the yard. I heard a vehicle squeal its tires. Then I heard voices! I wasn’t sure they hadn’t jumped up on the DOT bumper on my trailer! I listened carefully. Bottles broke! More Voices!

I pulled gently at the velcro of the sleeper curtain and peeked. I really didn’t want them to know that I was in there. More yelling! Tires squealing!

Just then, I saw a pickup truck streak past the passenger window. My truck was dark, they didn’t see me. More tires! Laughing! Yelling!

I wondered how many there are. How many people? How many vehicles? I was already thinking about calling the police. I wondered what the other truckdriver was thinking. Then I had the dreadful thought that he wasn’t even here. I pictured him pulling the truck in the yard; waving to his wife waiting in the family car, locking the truck up and going home for supper and to see the kids.

A vehicle revved its engine.  Then a low rip as if they were pushing on something; that something moaned across the asphalt.  Were they shoving the other trailers around? the bundles? More tires squealled! That damn laugh. More bottles breaking! Or was it a window? Crap, I should call the cops.

I remembered my trailer had no electricity. I had pulled that plug. If I cut and run, I’d be driving through the streets of Louisville with no trailer lights; a Huge ticket – best case. If I caused an accident . . .  only one of the worst case scenarios.

The tires squealed again; that shoving noise! If I call 911, will my cellphone connect to Louisville or South Bend? Yelling. Bottles! Tires!

Then suddenly BBEEEEEEEEEEEEPP! GGRRRROOOOOWWWWWWLLLLL!!! The damn Opt Idle kicked on and the truck roared to life. My breathing probably warmed up the sleeper. The drumming hum of the diesel ripped through the night like a long belch at a funeral.  There was no other sound. Everything stopped.  No squeal. No laugh. No nothing.

I’m leaving!! I ripped through the velcro curtain, jumped in the driver’s seat, cracked the door open and peeked around.  Down the steps, I raced to the headboard of the trailer, plugged in the lights and bounded back to the door. Before my butt was in the drivers seat, I released the brakes. I jammed the accelerator down. The truck strained against the last of the brakes and I turned toward the street.

At that moment, the pickup truck raced out of the alley toward the road. Two stupid rednecks gawked at me as I barreled toward them and the gate.  I towered over their rusty truck, like David and Goliath in reverse.

Those damn crackers made ME a paranoid white guy; if just for a moment. I hated that!

Passing the alley, I slowed down just enough to look for accomplices. There were none. The two idiots had their fun; drank a 12 pack and threw the bottles around.  I still don’t know what they were shoving. I didn’t investigate; I left and I felt stupid. Of course, I scared them as much as they scared me.

Even without any legal hours to drive, I headed for a truckstop about 30 miles east of town. Unbelievably, I found a parking space and slept hard for about three hours, but then it was time to head for Ohio. Not only had those stupid hilljacks scared the crap out of me, they ruined my night and wasted my sleep time.

As the Captain says in that old pirate joke: Bring Me My Brown Pants!

For all of those who are always on schedule, never off route, you have my sympathies. Many of the greatest discoveries were mistakes. I made a good discovery last night.

I delivered in Jacksonville, FL. I had passed a truckstop about 12 miles before and went back. The Pilot at Baldwin, FL was packed full. So was the TA next door. Then, on the way out to the highway, I missed the left turn to head back to Jacksonville. I went west again on I-10. Grabbing the Pocket Truck Stop Guide, I found that there was a small Exxon two exits down the line. Soon after, I saw a billboard for a BBQ place on the same exit. I had been craving BBQ for a while.

I found Exit 335 and the little tiny Exxon. After battling my way behind the little convenience store and parking in sand mud, I spotted a Chinese Buffet next door. Well a Chinese craving almost predated the BBQ and it would save me walking about a mile. I bought a paper and went next door.

Now, a Chinese Buffet, one in tiny Macclenny, FL, is not apt to surprise or most especially not impress. Most of you could probably recite the menu at a Chinese Buffet; almost in order. Yes, there was par-boiled Sushi, Sweet and Sour Chicken, Vegetable Fried Rice and Pepper Beef. But along toward the end, past the delicate Spring Rolls, was something labelled Peanut Butter Chicken. I had to try it. It was boneless thigh crisply fried with, duh, peanut butter. The crispy crust of the chicken was infused with peanut butter taste. It was exquisite! I have never in my life seen or tasted anything just like it. It evoked Thai, but also PB&J on wonderbread. It was very interesting . . . and delicious. I had seconds and paid for them later. I just don’t eat like that anymore.

I discovered Boiled Peanuts in a similar way. Boiled Peanuts are a southern delicacy. And are quite simply boiled peanuts. You get a peanut with the hint of mashed potatoes and a texture that is like a boiled potato not quite all the way done. They are very good. My man, Tony, used to bring them into the office thanks to his Georgia upbringing.

When I discovered Boiled Peanuts, I lived in Florida. About once a month, or twice in three, I would go down to Miami on business. From Tampa, I would cut across the Everglades and go through Arcadia. On the way, there was always an old Black Man sitting by an old blue pickup truck. There was a hand painted plywood sign leaning out by the road. It just said Boiled Peanuts. After going by several times, I stopped to talk to him. He gave me a sample. Scooping down into black, brackish, briny cauldron on top of a propane burner, like a turkey fryer, he brought out peanuts in the shell. I asked him how to eat them. “Most you Yankees crack open the shell and just eat the nut. We just chew and spit out the shell.” I still crack them open. I liked the sample. They were not too salty, but salty just the same; warm and soft and delicious. For a Dollar, he filled an oversized Styrofoam Cup with peanuts and a little brine over the top. I ate Boiled Peanuts all the way across the ‘Glades.

Down the same road, I once followed an old truck, every minute or so the bones from a chicken wing would fly out the driver’s window and arc around in the wind back to the road. One even hit my windshield. I discovered Chicken Wings years later.

Florida was good for new food. Beyond the usual seafood you might think of. I had Armadillo and Wild Hog for the first time in Florida.

I went to a cook out at my business partners house. There was an amazing feat of Redneck Engineering that pulled into the drive. This guy had taken a 1000 gallon propane tank and turned it into a portable smokehouse on a tandem axle trailer. I’ll tell you that later. In the smoker, there was a deer chopped up, several chickens, a wild hog, an armadillo, some gator and 6 turkeys. The turkeys weren’t even for the party. The women knew he was coming out and that he would have lots of room. The turkeys went home to six houses for later in the week.

The Armadillo was a bit like gamey chicken. The Wild Hog was very good. I had learned to eat Gator at Skippers Smokehouse in Tampa. Better than the Hog was the story.

There was a legendary Wild Hog male out in the woods by Arcadia, FL [that's how I remembered]. The hunters knew him by his one ear that was almost torn off in a fight. As he lumbered through the woods, that ear would flop around; hanging by a thread. Everyone wanted to take him, but now sooner than they saw him, he would disappear through the thicket.

The guy with the Smoker was out hunting. Most of these guys hunted hog with a high caliber long barrelled handgun. I don’t remember his name; I’ll call him Earl. Earl had just parked his truck and was getting his stuff together when the hog, THEE HOG, came scrubbing out of the woods. Earl shook the holster off his gun and took a quick shot. The hog was hit, but just got mad. Charging Earl, the hog rammed him and bounced him into his truck. Squealling and loaded for bear, the hog came toward him again. Earl grabbed a shovel that was in the back of his truck. He was almost too close to take another shot; he wanted to miss his truck too. The hog charged; Earl swung. There was a tussle. The hog backed off just enough that Earl took another shot and finished the hog off. Earl was by himself and almost couldn’t load the big old hog up. He told us at the cookout that if we tasted tomato in the hog it was because his wife had borrowed his shovel in her garden the day before he swung it at the hog. Anyway, it was Earl’s story, but I don’t think he bought any pork that week.

While I’m at it. I discovered Mango Con Chile out here on the road. Mango Con Chile is like Chili Con Cueso or Chili Con Carne. Con is ‘with.’ Chili Con Carne is Chili with Beef; Chili Con Cueso is Chili with Cheese. Mango Con Chili is dried mango coated in chili pepper and sugar. Sweet, Tart and HOT! Man, are they good. I bought some in Birmingham, AL. One of the cashiers asked mine what I was buying. She whispered “They’re Mexican” like some Aunts whisper “Cancer” or “Divorce.” I smiled and told her “I love mango and I love cayenne, so I must be gonna like these.”

Try it you’ll like it. Don’t plan, just do it.

I’ve had Corporate America in my sights. In conversations, emails and obliquely here on the blog, I’ve railed against their inertial policy filled, creativity killing, joy sucking, frustrating ways. I proclaimed I was free of them. I really am, but Corporate America recently got the chance to poke me in the eye.

In the mid 80′s, I did a professional internship through Michigan State and worked for an automotive packaging company. It was a great little company, which may not be so little any more. We were working on the first designs of a revolutionary idea; returnable packaging. The automotive industry, starting with Buick City in Flint, were going with a concept where packaging was made to last for several trips. The racks and dunnage would collapse or nest and go back to the vendor who would use it again to ship parts. It has become the norm in many areas of manufacturing. I designed several systems as a part of my internship.

So, Wednesday afternoon, I am looking for an empty trailer. I hauled a damaged trailer from a customer to our yard in Irving, TX. Typically, I either get unloaded while I wait at a consignee or I drop a trailer and pick up an empty. Occasionally, finding an empty is a problem.

At a yard, drivers congregate for different reasons like repairs or inspections etc. Empties are a valuable commodity because there are so many drivers; a supply-and-demand thing. I was having trouble finding one. So I thought I was getting inside info from a guy who checks trailer lights on the yard. I went around the corner to a drop yard that was full of trailers! I found an empty right away. After doing the computer “trailer change,” dispatch informs me I can’t have that one it is reserved for an automotive load. OK, no problem. I found another. Same deal; can’t have it.

Irving, TX is right between Dallas and Ft. Worth. Wednesday, it was in the mid to high 90′s. I began to check the other trailers in the yard. This time before I bothered to hook up to them.  There must have been 50 trailers in the yard. I didn’t look at all of them, but it was close! I was wandering around the yard; doing a cursory inspection. I opened the rear doors on at least 30 trailers. Frustrated; dying of thirst; getting pissed. EVERY SINGLE TRAILER was unavailable. I didn’t have to contact dispatch for these. It seems that because the Automotive Industry has slowed a bit, there is a glut of the returnable racks and dunnage. The “Float” between vendor and customer to keep the shipments flowing was now backing up. All of these trailers were at least partially full of Automotive Returnable Dunnage. I’d open one, two thirds full, and move to the next. The next might be only a quarter full of racks that looked exactly like the first racks. It is like those debit card commercials where drinks and sandwiches are flying around, everyone is happy, the music is pumping along. And then someone wants to write a check. . .

So, TOUCHE! Corporate America. You got me.

Of course, I’d never been to the Irving yard before. They all work slightly differently. A yard dog driver came over and asked what I was looking for. “AN EMPTY!” I said. Oh, sorry. He tells me I should talk to Mike over at the office. He doles out the empties. “There’s three or four of ‘em over there,” he says. So, in fifteen minutes, after three hours, I was ready to roll. Of course, my then it was about 6:00 pm. So I slept at the terminal and ran off in the morning to get my load of bottled water in Ft. Worth. Now, I know.

Alex Dorsey is in the South Pacific on a 28′ Westsail. He ends his posts with “Peace, Love and Coconuts.” I can’t wait to say that my self.

So for now,

Peace, Love and Diesel Fumes,

TrT

PS – I’ve been on Diesel Fumes for two months now. I don’t have any trouble with worms or long term relationships. I highly reccommend it.  [stolen and paraphrased from a Texas Singer/Songwriter]

Two days ago, I was in Laredo, TX. I’ve been to Grand Prairie, Irving, Tyler and Dallas [even though my cousin Steve was not!]. This morning, I drove up US75 through Choctaw Country in OK. It was a nice drive. Lake Eufaulla could be the coast of Maine. I am in Roland, OK tonight.

Nature’s adaptability is amazing. Puts us humans to shame. There are these little black birds with long beaks in Texas and Oklahoma. They have discovered the smorgasbord on the grilles and radiators of semi trucks. The birds literally hang out at the Fuel Island at truckstops and pick the bugs out of the radiator. I even saw one fellow with his head cocked on a funny angle as if deciding whether it was worth jumping up on that grille or not.

Another fuel island folly, I was fueling and noticed that someone had dropped a ten dollar bill. My first thought was whether I should turn it in or pocket it. By the time I finished fueling, I forgot all about it and drove off.

As I was driving up US75, I was chanting the name of Checotah, OK. It just sounded cool; very spaghetti western indian-ish. When I finally got there, it is the hometown of Carrie Underwood. She wasn’t home.

I also heard a song destined for my repetoire:

“I never kissed a girl until I was in college,
she got drunk and cheated on me.

I never kissed a boy until I was in prison,
murder in the first degree.”

What a hoot!

Have fun!