Todd R. Townsend

Sailor, Writer, Wanderer

Posts Tagged I swear

Pancho’s Fish Fry

Sep 5

Posted by trt in Writing | Comments off

Washed-up On the Rocks by Annika Wetterlund (cc)

 

In 1995 or so, I lost the tip of my finger. I was rebuilding a thermoforming machine and the weight of a large gear assembly shifted. WHAM! It just clipped a tiny chunk of fingertip on a funky angle, but I came out of the Emergency Room with a bandage on my middle finger like a large pear.

 

It had happened very early in the day; a day that became a comedy of errors. The boss’ kid, who worked for me, helped wrap my hand in what few clean shop rags we could find.  Horrified, and white as a ghost, he drove me to the local hospital.  After sitting at the local ER a long while, the doctor carefully unwrapped my hand, took one look and said “Oh, we can’t do anything for you here. You’ve got to go to Kalamazoo.” . . . and he left the room.

 

We drove ourselves the 45 minutes to Kalamazoo. After sitting there for at least an hour, and finally getting my finger cleaned up and bandaged, they asked if I wanted my prescription filled there at the hospital or at my home pharmacy. Despite not having a regular pharmacist back home, I decided on the latter. As the kid drove us carefully through the little town of Vicksburg, the company truck suddenly died. I was sitting on a curb at a Shell Gas Station, halfway home, waiting for a ride, when the finger started throbbing. All the medicine from the hospital visit was wearing off. More pain medicine was at an unknown pharmacist back home. If we got there before they closed.

 

 

A few weeks later, I was back in familiar territory; sitting in a bar telling boat stories. Working in a factory that made running boards, I had met and was dating the woman who would become my second wife. My boss and his wife, had invited the girlfriend and me to a fish fry. We were in a tall, narrow storefront bar in the one sided, one block long, downtown of tiny Burr Oak, Mi.

 

It was a typical small town tavern with a few tables up front by a dusty plate glass window. Midway, back to the left, was the bar. There were smaller tables on the opposite wall. At the far end of the bar, was the window to the kitchen. Next to that, a hall toward the backdoor. The walls were covered with beer logo mirrors, pictures of local hunting heroes, and other swag. A grey cloud of cigarette smoke hung high enough in the ceiling, we hadn’t noticed it yet. Haphazardly taped to the front door were handbills for a tent revival and a turkey shoot that had already happened. We found an empty table near the bar.

 

I had just gotten the news that Pancho, an acquaintance from Florida, had drowned off a boat that technically, I still owned. It was interestingly ambiguous spot to be in. I had left Florida in a rush to take a job. The plan was to live with a Great Aunt, save some money and come back to buy a bigger boat and live aboard.

 

Though I tried to just give him my sailboat, a sailing buddy, Tom, had volunteered to help me sell it after I’d left. I had bought the boat from a salesman who sold me cardboard boxes. It was a big boat for its size; a 21 foot sloop with a small cabin capable of long weekends. That was the last I ever heard from Tom. I got the Legend of Pancho, some months later, from a former business partner still in the state.

 

The last Fourth of July weekend that I was in Florida, Tom and I had spent four days drinking beer, sailing around Sarasota Bay and watching the offshore powerboat races from the water. I don’t know how many times Tom “sailed” the boat while he was helping “sell” the boat, but I know he was going sailing at least once. The story was tragic from the very start. Pancho’s granddaughter had been killed in a car accident. He was, of course, taking it hard. Tom, and a third friend, decided they should take Pancho out for a sail to get his mind off everything for a while. A sail . . . on my boat.

 

They were already drinking as they gathered an aluminum jon boat, beer and munchies. My boat was swinging on an anchor in a cove off of downtown Sarasota; the same cove I had lived aboard another boat for a year and a half. They piled their supplies and themselves into their boat and rowed out to mine. I’m sure it was a sight to see them clamoring aboard. As they settled into the cockpit and readied the boat, someone decided they needed more beer. The fateful decision was made for Tom and the friend to leave Pancho on the boat, row to shore and get more beer.

 

It is hard to imagine what thoughts might fill your mind if you lost a young loved one. I don’t know any details, other than Pancho had been distraught for a few days already. Compound those feelings with being left alone in a cove full of strange boats; some palatial, some derelict. Whatever was on his mind, when the other two came back with more beer, Pancho was missing.

 

At the risk of repition, its hard to imagine what thoughts might fill your mind if you were missing a drinking buddy from a boat that wasn’t even yours in a cove off downtown Sarasota. Pancho was found the next day. He washed up on the rocks at the end of a kidney-shaped park near where the boat was anchored. Perhaps, this is when Tom vanished.

 

When I lost track of Tom, I lost track of the boat. He left the company he had worked for and left no other information. Someone told me he had gone up into North Florida cow country. I searched a couple times back in the very early days of the World Wide Web, but he had walked off into the ether; unfound. The boat had three and half feet of keel and no trailer. I had never considered being able to bring her to the Great Lakes. And I really didn’t know what was going on back in Florida at the time.

 

About a year later, I got a letter from the County Sheriff. Fortunately, not about Pancho, but about my boat. Apparently, the boat stayed for some time in the cove right where I had left her.  In a storm, she had drug her anchor and was drifting out to sea.  She was between Siesta and Lido Keys, headed out toward the Gulf of Mexico, when the Marine Patrol found her and towed her back to the City Dock. When no one claimed her, she was hauled to a city yard and unceremoniously stood up on a couple 55 gallon drums.

 

The letter, forwarded through a couple addresses, explained that I could pay various storage and hauling fees and keep my boat, or she would be auctioned at the upcoming Police Auction. Sadly, I let her go. I had started a new life in Michigan and met a woman whom I was planning to marry. My plans for a bigger boat and a life aboard were, more or less, voluntarily sunk; scuttled might be the appropriate nautical term.

 

When I got the letter, I had called my old business partner. We chuckled about the sad story of my boat. He had sailed with me occasionally as well. Then he asked, “Did you hear about Pancho?” and told me the legend. I had been sad about the boat but I was not prepared for Pancho’s story.

 

Pancho was one of those stoic, steady guys; a jack-of-all-trades. Near as I could tell, he was just a hard working guy scrabbling to do the best he could for his family. Some people always manage to drift away from the work and dally. Others are drawn back to their work; double checking its always done right. Pancho was one of the latter. He was the sage workaholic in a small lazy shop that made chalkboards for schools. He said he was Mexican American Indian. I can still picture the cracks and crags of his weathered face, his salt and pepper hair in a ponytail and, everyday, an indian headband.

 

Pancho worked for Tom, who was running a company for our landlord. Both our companies were young startups. One shop was always lending a hand to help the other; sharing a forklift, or unloading a big truck like a bucket brigade. Friday afternoons would get a little lazy and we’d all just hang around. Someone usually snuck out for a six pack. Four or five of us would end up standing around in the alley between our two buildings as the sky darkened. I don’t remember any specific conversation. There probably weren’t any specific conversations on those slow Friday afternoons.  Pancho stood out amongst the forgettable blue collar drifters around him.  He was the kind of character whose memory would bounce off of some mundane object and sneak to the surface. The thought of him, at some odd moment, never failed to make me smile.

 

 

Back at the Fish Fry, listening to Pancho’s Legend, my boss and his wife were mesmerized.  The girlfriend had heard it a couple times already. I talk with my hands and the boss’s wife had been watching me wave around this gigantic bandage on my middle finger.

 

Just as I finished the story, she asked “Now, what did you do to your finger again?”

 

Taking a pull on my neglected beer, I said, “Actually, I was shoving Pancho off the boat and he bit me.”

 

I hadn’t noticed but in the small bar, right over the boss’ shoulder, a guy was sitting alone at the bar. We were all close together in the narrow establishment. The lone waitress wiggled her way between tables and barstools carrying big platters of fish and pitchers of beer. When I said, “. . . and he bit me,” the guy at the bar spit his beer and laughed out loud. We suddenly realized he had been listening all along. Pancho’s Legend would be told again.

 

As the bluster of the bar story, and a good laugh, began to fade, like the darkening sky on a lazy Friday afternoon gone by, my heart dipped. Just then, in the noisy little bar, my ears got hollow and my gut went heavy. Damn it, I missed Pancho. I missed those lazy Friday afternoons. Pancho had never had much in this life. Now, he had a legend. Vaya con dios, mi amigo.

 

——-

Image used under the Creative Commons license.

“Washed-up On the Rocks” by Annika Wetterlund

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Ruffled Hawk on Town Hill.

Dec 2

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off

Crossing Town Hill in a late Fall storm; sleet, snow and fog. I left Baltimore under a tornado watch.  Town Hill marks the pass where I-70 crosses the Appalachians out of the panhandle of Maryland. Last night, I came through here in the dark and fog. This morning, in the breaks between clouds, I catch glimpses of ancient farmsteads and backwoods mobile homes. Surveying the scene from an impossibly thin branch, waiting out the storm and hanging on for dear life, is a ruffled old hawk.

The perfectly solid Americana of old fieldstone farmhouses and verdant pastures contrasts the obvious, even vain, temporary nature of the trailers with their store bought waferboard sheds.
Some of the picturesque farms have been recently built in the style, but many are, perchance, older than this country. When did we switch from ‘built to last’ to ‘just good enough?’ Did we make a concious choice or did we just get lazy? Is there a difference?

These old farms were built in tune with nature and their surroundings. They take advantage of prevailing winds and Summer shade.  It was considered; thought through. 235+ years later, many are still here. They sit in meadows of little valleys, on the South facing slope. Little pastures are borderd by low stone walls or thin rows of trees. You could set George Washington’s bones on this ridge and he might still recognize the place.

There are many ghosts out East where history hangs over the hills like chimney smoke on humid, late Fall day. Just above a rock outcropping, back by the treeline, a flicker of motion catches the eye. This time its not a ghost, just a loose board pulling free from an old shed. The lot was hurriedly scratched out of the hillside where the land was cheap. The house is out in the open, right where the truck left it. Now the people are gone too. It might be abandoned or they might all just be at work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
from my Droid
~~~~~~~/)~~~~~~~

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Long Distance Solo Driving or Playing Chicken with Suicide

Apr 14

Posted by trt in Nonsense, Rambling | Comments off

For many years now, I have been researching ways to dramatically increase your range of travel by avoiding sleep. As early as 1992, I attempted to drive from Port Huron to Tampa, nonstop solo. In 1999 or so, an ex-wife and I “rescued” a niece from Wyoming. Elkhart, IN to Caspar, WY and back in a weekend.

Recently, I have conducted extensive research while driving a semi. I conclude that is possible to push yourself well beyond previously insurmountable limits. The key is to gently but continuously feed the body and mind while pressing ahead. This leads to the potential of driving great distances with reasonable safety. A hidden corollary that surfaced during the research determined that if something terrible did happen, you will either be so strung out on sugar and caffeine that you won’t feel a thing or that you will just be thankful that it is finally over.

The first critical supplies are a big sugary snack and a large energy drink. Energy Drinks have been popular for several years in the refrigerated section of your local convenience store or truckstop. A new alternative is Energy Coffee, a coffee brewed with the addition of the go-juice chemicals found in common energy drinks. Last night, I chose both.

The sugary snack should not be pure sugar like candy. This will tend to make you feel badly before the maximum benefits are achieved. I recommend something with flour and sugar, like Ding Dongs or Coconut Crunch Donettes. The strategy is to prompt a sugar buzz with the snack and then drink copious amounts of the Energy Drink so that it will kick in before the Sugar Crash which typically follows the Buzz.

Two more critical supplies are more caffeine drinks and carbs. It is important to continue to imbibe in some slightly milder caffeine drink. I chose Pepsi Max as it has ginseng as well. While consuming the caffeine, you should also eat something heavy in carbohydrates. Not too much pure sugar, but more snacks with flour and sugar; perhaps increasing the relative proportion of flour. Pretzels work well, but have little or no sugar. Something like Oreos is probably too much sugar. Choose oatmeal cookies or frosted animal cookies. If you are in the plains states, look for Banana Planks, an banana flavored iced sugar cookie, par excellence! Last night, I had two.

Essentially, you are playing with your blood sugar levels. It is NOT recommended that you ask your Doctor or even mention this program. The key is to get to the point where you think you are about to have the shakes. Slack you intake slightly to prevent a full onset. Once you are starting to feel better, restart the program until you start to almost feel badly begin again.

If you get too far along and are feeling shaky or unwell, a bit of protein can help. It is important to avoid eating very much protein or anything greasy or with significant fat content. A small package of almonds or some beef jerky can help stem the tide. If you can combine a little bit of protein with more carbs, so much the better. Try a small package of peanut butter and cheese crackers or some honey roasted peanuts. In Illinois, pull into a rest area on the freeway or a toll plaza, and look for the Coconut Toffee Peanuts; Beernuts were never this good to you!!

It is important to avoid large amounts of protein, fat or grease. If you must, a c-store wedge sandwich will not do too much damage, but even the small prepackaged subs can slow you down. Take it from me, a McDouble with all that meat and cheese and grease, can make you practically Narcoleptic. If you are pushing 36 or 40 hours awake, you will fall asleep in mid-stride half way back to your vehicle.

Protein and Grease, however, is the perfect way to end your run. The hardest thing to estimate is when to stop the program and wind yourself down. Typically, you will arrive, or decide to stop, abruptly. Perhaps it only seems abrupt because your brain is swimming in sugar and caffeine. When you are ready to stop, the solution is to seek out protein, fat and grease. Nothing beats a McDouble and fries with a Whole by-god-and-Texas Vitamin D milk. You will sleep like a baby.

My most important bit of advice is don’t try this at home or anywhere else. Forget I said anything.

PS: I arrived at my destination and got my truck in for service; 646 miles on 1.5 hours of sleep.

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It Ain’t The Black Cats . . .

Apr 7

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off

I always thought that the Black Cats were the ones to avoid, but a run-in with a spooky old tiger cat last week changed my mind. There is only one approved place for me to get fuel in Nebraska. About 5 miles before the exit, I called dispatch to find out where I was picking up my back haul. I only needed fuel if I was going further West. Sure enough my back haul was three and half hours further west. I pulled off the highway.

For a hundred miles on either side of Council Bluffs, Iowa, Interstate 80 runs along that bluff. To the North, county roads roll down into the darkness of the prairie. The nearly pure blackness makes you wonder if anything exists in that direction. It looks like outer space, an occasional street light or the glow of mercury vapor around a farmhouse as the stars and moon. To the South, the roads crown away from the highway toward the crest of the bluff.

Aurora, Nebraska is North of Interstate 80. The glow confirms there is more than just empty space out that way. I turned and crossed the highway toward the shiny new truckstop and an abandoned gas station; the only obvious things South of the highway. Off in the dark, silhouetted against the line where the night meets the bluff, a lone tree and a farmhouse are black against the charcoal grey midnight sky.

I was running my card through the fuel island pump when I saw a cat walk by between my drive tires and the trailer dolly. She was an ancient looking, but well fed tiger cat; ragged from life on the prairie. She wasn’t fat, but you could tell there were a lot of missing field mice nearby. In the strange light of the truckstop, a layer of grey fur seemed to fuzz out over the top of her tiger coat. She just sauntered on by like she owned the place, the hard won aloofness of a farm cat. I don’t remember ever seeing an animal, let alone a cat, just wandering around a truckstop. Sure some truckers have pets, especially dogs, but they don’t wander around.

I stuck the fuel nozzle in my driver’s side tank, the nozzle just hanging in the tank balanced by the weight of the hose against the inside of the tank neck. Depending on the truckstop, this arrangement is precarious. It occurred to me that I should get a couple python straps to hold the fuel hoses down on each step. I roamed over to the passenger side and started fueling the other tank. I grabbed a squeegee and started doing my windows; the windshield, the side window, side mirror, west coast mirror, headlamp lens and then all of the same on the other side.

As I was doing the driver’s side mirror, I bumped the precarious hose with the long handle of the squeegee. The nozzle flipped out, shot diesel fuel straight up in the air, all over my leg and the side of the truck. The nozzle hit the ground spraying and before I could grab it, both my feet were soaked. With a cussing grunt, I poked the nozzle back in the tank.

I finished the windows and the fueling, checked the oil, the belts, the antifreeze and the fluids. Instead of pulling up right away, I slipped into the sleeper and changed my pants. The older pair of jeans I packed as a back up had a 1.5″ long spot on one of the ‘sit down wrinkles’ that had worn through. As I hurried to stick my foot into that leg, a toe caught the spot and tore it out to a 4″ gaping hole. Another cussing grunt. I tucked in my shirt, did my belt up and put my boots back on. I noticed that my phone was missing from the holster. I felt around in the blanket on top of my bunk, but couldn’t find it. I looked around casually. Its got to be in here somewhere.

I pulled the truck up to the pay line and went inside to use the john. On the way, I pitched the oiled up jeans in the trash. Back out in the truck, I looked more for my phone. The holster was handy but is old and worn and loose. I started to worry and was confused. After calling my dispatcher, I pulled off the highway, fueled my truck and changed my pants. I hadn’t gone anywhere else. The phone had to be in the truck. I pulled the blankets and sheets off the bed and went through a duffel and a book bag. Nothing. I sent a message into dispatch asking them to call my phone. After several minutes, I hadn’t heard anything from them. I looked around outside again.

Now what? I’m half way across Nebraska, in the middle of the night, on a schedule, and I can’t find my phone. There must be a way to call a phone from the web. I broke out my laptop and googled “ring my phone” and, of course, got a hit. A bored computer geek put up a site that will help find your phone. WheresMyCellphone.com!! If you use it, send him a beer via Paypal, I did. I did not, however, hear my phone ring. The phone was either completely gone or my web connection was so slow that it didn’t work.

As a last resort, I went inside and asked the Fuel Desk Lady if anyone had turned in a beat up old cellphone. Nope, but she offered to call the phone so I might hear it. I also told her that I had spilled some fuel and that they might want to put out some kitty litter. Head down, I shuffled out to the truck and never heard her call. How could a phone just disappear? I had 150 more miles to drive and a 06:15 appointment. I just couldn’t wait any longer for the phone to turn up.

My phone was beat up and old. I had been wanting to get a new one. I had also wanted to get all my phone numbers out of the old and into the new one. This is not how I wanted my relationship with this phone to end, but it was time to go. I had just enough time to get to North Platte. One last walk around and I’ll head out. Luckily, no one had pulled in behind me to fuel. The place just wasn’t that busy in the middle of the night.

I walked back to the fuel pump where I had spilled the fuel. My old greasy jeans were still in the trash. It was beyond unlikely that the phone fell out of the holster and into a pocket, but I checked anyway. I pulled the jeans out of the trash barrel, felt all the pockets, stuck my hand in all the pockets too. No phone. That’s it. I was going to need a new phone when I got home.

The trash barrel was on the passenger side of the island I pulled through. I slowly turned around; just pissed off that I’d lost my phone. My eyes scanned around as I started to amble back to the truck. The maintenance guy hadn’t put any kitty litter on my puddle of diesel yet. I didn’t set the phone on top of the pump. I hadn’t set it on the curb.

Off to my left, on the dusty prairie truckstop concrete, sat my little silver phone. I couldn’t remember going all the way over there where the phone was. There wasn’t any reason to go that far. To fuel, do my windows and check fluid levels, all my work had been around the front bumper. The phone sat well behind where my drive axles were, out of the main aisle. I know the sound of my phone skittering over the cement.  My holster sucks, I’ve heard skittering before. I did not hear skittering. The phone mysteriously got from my hip to the ground 15 or 20 feet beyond where I had been. It was clean; hadn’t gotten into the fuel spill. And there were five missed calls; two from WheresMyCellphone.com and three from the fuel desk. All that ringing and I had never heard it.

The early Spring fog swirled at me as a gust of wind rushed across the lot. The phone sat right where that cat had walked through! Had she grabbed it and hid it right there in plain sight? Or had she been holding it all this time, laughing at my frantic search? Damn cat, but I had my phone back.

I climbed up in the cab, updated my logbook and hit the road. It was good to be rolling again. Hell, it was good to have a phone again. I got back across the bridge and down the entrance ramp to the highway, when my eyes starting watering. Blinking and sputtering, coughing with a thick feeling in the back of my throat, I lurched the truck on to the shoulder. What had that spooky cat done to me!?! After a pause, I realized I had changed my pants after the fuel spill but put the soaked boots back on. Running the heater lightly in the cool damp night air, the duct at my feet was blowing all the diesel fumes off my boots and up into my face. The truck was filling quickly with the thick acrid stench of raw diesel.

I can’t tell you why, but I was traveling with two pair of boots that week. One is less comfortable but waterproof; the other expensive but not dry. Ironically, the good ones were now soaked in diesel fuel. Perhaps they are waterproof now. I could not store the oil soaked boots inside, so with my spare, uncomfortable boots on, I strapped them to the catwalk behind the sleeper. Catwalk . . . huh. damn cats.

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Bosses is, as Bosses does.

Mar 9

Posted by trt in Rambling | 1 Comment

So, I’ve been here before; standing on the outside of my truck looking in. The keys hanging in the ignition. Only this time, I’m on the side of the highway, and this time . . . the truck is running. I’ll get back to that.

My boss is great. I work for a good little company. Little, if 225 or so truck drivers, 2 terminals, and several drop yards over 8 states, is little. The three sons of the original owner still run the company and regularly make deliveries on our routes. They are driving almost every week. If there is a meeting at another terminal, they’ll grab a load and drive a truck down; making money for the company on the way.

The day before Thanksgiving, was the last day of my week; my Friday. I woke up in the yard of a customer. Sleeping out in the world is not always the most comfortable arrangement, but this place is fairly nice with 24 hour access to their break room and a restroom. I had to take a load of Bisquick from the Fort Wayne area down toward Dayton, OH. Home is North and West, I would be traveling South and East. I was confident everything would work out fine. I had lots of legal hours to drive.

After making the delivery, I was assigned a load to go an hour or so further South. I called my Dispatcher just to make sure he was aware that I was headed still further from home on my “Friday.” He asked from what terminal I was based, and tapped away at his computer. My home terminal is Byron Center, Mi.

“If I can hang on to it, I’ve got a load going right into Byron,” he exclaimed. “That’ll get you right back home. Worst case, there will be some consolidation loads later on.”

It was a nicely warm Fall day as I climbed in my truck and headed to the interim delivery. An hour South to a spice warehouse. What a smell. The building reeked of pickling spices. A guy on a forklift told me to back into Door 5 and then come back in when the Green Light came back on. I cracked my windows and read the paper. The truck gently rocked as the forklift clambered aboard and grabbed the stock off my trailer; 55 gallon drums of Canola Oil.

The forklift hadn’t hit me for a few minutes. I was pulling my jacket on, when the Green Light popped back on. My paperwork was waiting right inside the warehouse door. I pulled out, closed up my trailer and high tailed it back to the terminal. The dispatcher was smiling when I arrived. My home base is also the headquarters of the company. One of the three brother/owners was just there and needed to get back home for Thanksgiving; the same home terminal I wanted to get to. He got my load home.

I’d been fiddling with my driver’s door for a while. The last several months, the inside door handle would stick in an up position now and again. When I hopped out of the truck, the door would bounce back open when I tried to close it. I’d push the door handle back down and slam the door closed again. This week, a couple times, pulling the inside door handle wouldn’t open the door. I found that if I just rested my finger on the door lock, something would catch and the door would open.

After an hour or so at the terminal, a consolidation load came up. I was going to deliver in Lansing and then get home to Byron Center, near Grand Rapids. The load was on a trailer with the axles too far back. I hooked to the trailer and adjusted the axles. After tugging on the trailer, it didn’t feel like the pins had caught. I nudged the trailer again, and the second nudge felt fine. I headed through the gate and hit the highway; finally headed north.

About 40 miles up the highway, as I-75 swings to the East, I usually jump on US33, then jog up US127 to US30 and run over to I-69 in Indiana. When I hit the brakes on the exit ramp, the pins on the tandem rack let go. Chunka, chunka, chunka, SLAM! The axles ran all the way to the rear of the trailer and the whole assembly slammed into the end of the rack, like a train running out of track.

I pulled onto the shoulder and jumped out to check. The door handle won’t catch; door doesn’t open. I put my finger on the lock knob and yanked on the handle and jumped out. Indeed, the axles must be adjusted all over again. I didn’t bring my gloves, so I walk back up to the cab. Pulling on the door, I get that finger ripping fling off the handle. The door is locked. I’m locked out. The truck is running. I’m not wearing a jacket because I was only going to be a second; and its in the low 40′s. Peaking in the window, I can see that the lock knob has jumped up out of the door panel. The rod below the knob is showing above the door panel.

With more than a quarter million miles on the road, there are some eventualities that I’m prepared for. The triangle vent window in front of my side window is always unlocked. I learned long ago that in a desperate situation, the outside knob of the triangle window latch, if its unlocked, can be twisted open. With the triangular window open, I can reach in to open the door. Crawling up to this window, however, I find that it is quite stiff. The wind is really blowing. My newer, longer hair is blowing all around and in my eyes. There is a truckstop at the next exit, less than a mile away. I walk over to buy some channel lock pliers. Yes, I’ve had to do this before. I roll down my sleeves and button up as I walk down the highway; jacketless.

Down the highway a ways is a back road that cuts behind a couple businesses to a TA Truckstop. I hit the john, return some coffee I rented, straighten my hair a bit and head for the tool aisle. Typically, all the tools are cheap chinese imports. Pliers in hand, I start the cold journey back to the truck. Hopefully, it is still there. The truck is still idling, at the ready. With a well placed brick, someone could have the truck, the trailer and a bunch of groceries bound for Lansing. Having insulted the ancestry of the pliers, they were not up to the job. Just as I got enough grip to twist the window knob, the lock would slip out of the channel. I tried several times to no avail. I’m stranded.

It was time to call this in. I hid on the downwind side of my truck and dialed in to Dispatch. My favorite dispatcher, Sandy, answered. I’m likely to never live this down. She scanned through her computer and told me to hang on. In a moment, she came back and had found another driver on a load that will go right by my location. He’s about an hour North and will stop by to get me back into my truck.

So, I huddle behind the truck. A whisp of heat from the engine occasionally drifts past me. I begin to think that I should walk back to the truck stop and hide behind a cup of coffee. There is plenty of time to wander back over there. I’d have to let dispatch know so that the driver coming to rescue me can be diverted. I don’t really want to walk back to the truckstop. The cold fingers of wind tossling my hair and running up my neck are beginning to convince me otherwise.

And then my phone rings. Its Sandy again, the other driver, Ralph, is actually about an hour and a half away. Also, he’s hauling a fish load and can’t dawdle. One of the brothers that own the company is a Ralph.

Sandy laughs. “That would be a dream come true, but no.”

With my fingers tucked under each arm, I ponder my situation. I really need to get out of this cold. My weekends are barely more than 48 hours. I can’t afford to get myself sick. Besides, its Thanksgiving. Leaning against the truck on the ditch side, out of the wind, I see a flattened beer can amongst the trash along the highway. Aluminum cans are great shim stock.

Gingerly, with my bare hands, I find a loose corner of the beer can and begin twisting it back and forth. Several twists later, I can tear a chunk of aluminum off. One more try with the channel locks. I try to jam the shim into the pliers to counteract the motion that causes them to slip. It almost works. The knob seems to twist a bit and the shim squeezes out, the pliers slip off the knob and out of my cold fingers. Hanging from a mirror up the side of my truck, I can’t catch the pliers. They rattle down the side of the truck and land on the running board. I carefully crawl down and hear a quick honk. I’ve spent the last three years on the road. I usually don’t even look when I hear a random horn, but my eyes are drawn to the semi crawling past me. Its one of our trucks! It can’t be Ralph already. I wave my arms over my head hoping he’ll stop. All of our drivers have keys to all the trucks. There is a slight flash of chrome as the other truck pulls onto the shoulder.

The other truck is backing toward mine as I walk down the shoulder and up the passenger side of his trailer. As I said, the three brothers often drive. Their trucks are just like ours with little splashes of chrome personality. It starts to sink in that I’m being saved by one of my bosses. As I get to the cab, the passenger door kicks open. Burt is standing between the two seats in his socks.

Hey, what’s up, Man?” he asks. Of all the people to drive by, Burt is the brother/owner who hired me. He must be the Castor Brother that got my load back at the terminal. Its the evening before Thanksgiving and he is headed home like me.

I explain to Burt that I’m locked out. He’s not sure he has all his keys. The truck I’m driving is old by his standards. My old truck has 1.3 million miles on her. She is just fine for me and there are older rougher trucks in the fleet. Burt finds his old keys, pulls on his boots and lets me back in. I crawl in over the passenger seat and back behind the wheel. As Burt rolls back onto the highway, I catch up my logbook and call Dispatch. Its Sandy again.

“Your dream has come true,” I start without even saying Hello. “Burt Castor just drove by and let me in. You can tell Ralph to keep rolling. I’m rolling again myself.”

Sandy and I have a good laugh. My truck leans into it and pulls back out on the road. It is good to be warm and moving again.

Apparently the boss stopped for dinner somewhere along the way because in Fort Wayne, he passed me again. I was cruising around the bypass when I saw one of our trucks in my mirror. I usually drive three or four miles an hour below everyone else. There is less stress that way. Burt is a rocket, behind the wheel and in real life. He is always moving in the office or on the road. His truck probably doesn’t have a governor like mine. I see the same flash of chrome as the truck goes by in the hammer lane. I grab the mic of my CB radio.

Thanks again, Bossman,” I call after his taillights. “You have a good Turkey Day tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome. You do the same.”

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Zen and the Art of Egoless Driving, Lesson 1

Mar 6

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off



It has happened to all of us, in a crowded parking lot or maybe a four way stop with two lanes coming from all directions. Somehow, you just didn’t see that other car. You both come to a hard stop. With a sheepish look, you mouth the word “Sorry.” Or maybe you avoid his glance and drive away as your face burns in embarrassment. Your driving record is clean, a good driver, but you just made a mistake. Everyone does.

When the shoe is on the other foot, however, and we were the one brought up short by the distracted driver, we don’t seem to think of it the same way. That guy is a moron. He drives like an idiot; shouldn’t even have a license. Now wait a minute. If we can make the occasional mistake, why can’t he?

When we react badly to the distracted driver, we are forgetting that we is just like him. There are a few morons out there, of course, but most of us get along just fine. Take your ego out of the situation. The ego loves it when it can feel superior to someone else. When you let the ego run unchecked, you are just hurting yourself. The superior feelings of the ego are short lived, but the stress will be with you all day long. If you get cut off on the way to work in the morning, it’ll wreck your whole day. It is wiser to just let it go.

It is far better to live with humility. We are all human. There are good days and bad days, but most of the bad days are an illusion of the ego. Next time someone brings you up short, thank them whether they show any contrition or not. Thank them for reminding you of your own humanity; our shared humanity. They have allowed you an opportunity to practice letting it go. The Buddha says all thoughts of selfish desire, ill-will, hatred and violence are the result of a lack of wisdom – in all spheres of life whether individual, social or political. We could use a lot more “letting it go” in our lives. Maybe you can start a trend. Let some of your serenity rub off on someone, but no trading paint in the H.O.V. lane!

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Reading Signs On the Wrong Highway.

Nov 17

Posted by trt in Rambling | 1 Comment


I was on a road trip out East to see my brother and his family. The evening before, I had driven across the bluff over Lake Erie at Erie, PA. I love a blue horizon! Cutting the corner of Pennsylvania into New York and on past Buffalo, I spent the night in Williamsville, just off the thruway.

Next morning, out in the moist summer air, I tossed my bag and my guitar in the truck, and slammed the tailgate shut. In the cab, I set up to listen to some podcasts; even a couple from the nearby Rochester Zen Center. It was a bright, beautiful morning to drive the rest of the way across New York and into Massachusetts. I had breakfast at Bob Evan’s and hit the road. Good grub and coffee for my belly, and some new podcasts; nourishment for my brain.

My route would take four hours or so to Albany and then just into Massachusetts to Chester. Around Albany, I-90 heads into Massachusetts and the NY Thruway heads Southeast and becomes I-87. As long as I made the turn to stay on I-90, I didn’t have to think much to navigate.

On the south side of Batavia, NY5 comes alongside the toll road. My brain was simmering in the warm juices of an interesting podcast. My eyes are open, hands at “10 and 2,” but the auto pilot is engaged. Physically, I’m tooling down the highway at 70 miles an hour. Mentally, I’m sitting in the Rochester Zendo listening to the deliberate, even tone of John Pulleyn. Its warm and comfortable, a good dharma talk. Its quiet, feels safe and over there to the right is a RAMP TO I-90!! WHAT?!? Did I miss my turn already!?!? Where am I?

My brain grinds a few gears and roars into panic. My foot pulls back from the accelerator. I’m scanning the traffic beside and behind me, checking if I can still make the exit. On right shoulder is a solid guardrail. There is no opening; no gap for the exit. The ramp goes up and over a knoll and curves over to join my lane. It takes almost a mile for it to sink in that I was looking at a sign on the wrong highway. The sign wasn’t for me, it was for the people on NY5 who wanted to join me on the Thruway.

If you aren’t present in the present you are not really living your life. When we are consumed with what should have or could have happened, or perhaps, wishing something had not happened, we are stuck in the past. The paunchy former star athlete, or the aged former beauty queen, still trying to live their “glory days” are clichés of movie and song. We can’t make good decisions for our current life if we are not actually living it. When consumed by the past, we are living in a world we can’t change because it has already happened. We are reading signs on the wrong highway.

If you are consumed by the future, you have great plans, great hopes for some moment to come, some thing to happen. Consciously or not, we put things off today for those fabulous times to come. We can be consumed by some nebulous goal even while not making any actual progress toward it. Life is passing us by because we don’t see it. The kid in the back seat whining “Are we there yet?” is not enjoying the ride. He can’t see anything interesting along the way because he is not looking. When great moments, or great possibilities, come to us in the present, we cannot see because we are looking just past them at some unfocused potentiality. We are reading signs on the wrong highway.

When we obsess about how things should be or are going to be, we cannot see how things actually are – reality. In order to move forward, in a direction of our own choosing, we must know where we are going to start. We must accept reality; accept things just as they are. In this accepting, we don’t wish something else had happened. We don’t ignore things as they are because we “aren’t there yet.” When we are carefully aware of just where we are, good decisions can be made about where we want to go from here, and what we want to do next. We are on the right road and reading the right signs.

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Lost in the City Requires Peace of Mind

Oct 11

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off

On the sidewalk in NYCI think it was Robert Pirsig who, while a Technical Writer, collected assembly instructions. He had a badly translated instruction for assembling a Chinese Built BBQ Grill. Apparently, the BBQ instructions bordered on useless, but they began with the deeply Eastern “Assembling Barbecue Grill requires Great Peace of Mind.” As the author of “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” Pirsig rather liked this though it was likely more accidental than oriental. There are days, many many days, when Trucking requires Great Peace of Mind. And flexibility too, but any arguments of how many, or if any, truckers possess such states of mind is a topic for another day. On a recent trip to Chicago, I had the opportunity to practice my flexibility and had to desperately hang on to the remaining shreds of my Peace of Mind.

I hit Chicago about three in the morning. On the outskirts of town, I did a quick review of the directions I’d been given. Seemed like a straight shot; take the Tri-State up to the Eisenhower, second exit. The details were a little sketchy, but things usually work out OK. The first ebb of a night of evolving assumptions. Chicago, in the middle of the night, is not bad. There is always traffic, but at that hour, never enough to slow me down.

When I got off the Eisenhower, the sketchy details started to fall out of rather than into place. “Exit 13A, E US20. Go one block, proceed East on Lake St.” the directions calmly stated. East US 20, like all U.S. Highways, could be on a funky angle, but East Lake St. should be actually east [First Wrinkle of the Second Assumption]. It must be just off to the right [the rest of the Second Assumption]. Off the highway in the dark, there’s a couple railroad overpasses, some tall old industrial buildings. A couple, like grain elevators, loom into the hazy mix of darkness and city lights. I creep along for about a block. There is a road here but it looks more like a driveway. In another block or so, there is a road to the left. “To East IL-67” a sign shouts at my headlights. My directions don’t mention IL-67, so I move on [Yet, a Third Assumption].

Now I’m rolling down a typical Midwest industrial strip. There’s a few corporate buildings, a forklift dealer, an auto repair shop, and a couple machine shops. I’ve gone way more than a block; probably four. Suddenly there is a large parking lot on my right. I step on the brakes, jam through a couple gears and lurch inside.

Its a big city “pay-to-park” lot for semis. If you live nearby, or just do a lot of business nearby, they have semi size spaces for rent. As I lope into the lot, a guard comes out of the office trailer. He trudges down the aluminum steps as I pull to their stop sign. Scanning his clipboard, the guard walks across the front of my tractor. The beam of each headlight swells to a glare on his shoulder and fades away behind him. I roll down my window and raise my voice of the grinding diesel.

“Sorry, I missed a turn back there. Can I just turn around in here?”

Without a word, the guard smiles, spins back around and waves me through. As I pull past him and start a big circle, the guard trudges right back up and into his shack. The lot is in good shape. Mercury lights buzz dimly over a big flat cinder lot. In the vagueness of city night, bright light bursts out of the windows from three sides of the guard shack. The unyielding contrast makes the guard shack like a Dec-O-Rama in a huge Museum of the City. The guard sits at his desk facing a small TV sitting on a file cabinet next to a well used coffee maker. The rigid industrial lines of the desk, the cabinet, the trailer and the parking spaces are mocked by the kinks and wild turns of the unbent coat hanger that has replaced the TV’s antenna.

Back on the street, I retrace my steps toward the highway. If I was supposed to Exit on East 20 and then turn East on Lake Street, Lake Street is probably a right turn [recast Second Assumption]. It should have been obvious either way; maybe that driveway looking entrance was the right place [A Fourth Assumption]. Having seen no better alternative, I stopped in the left turn lane, across from the driveway, straining to read the unlit signs crowding the other curb. I flicked the brights on. One hopeful looking sign is completely useless. Eric Hiscock said “Fortune favors the reckless.” So I turned in.

Its definitely industrial. I pass a trucking company at the base of one of the grain elevators. Off to the right is a large cross dock with several semi trailers. That is promising but I can’t find a street to get over to it [Fifth Assumption]. Suddenly I’m funneled into short pole building. As I enter, bright lights flash on and the interior explodes into stark detail. I keep rolling slowly through. Without a sound, its dark again. My night vision is shot, but another brightly lit, squat building is just ahead. I pull under a structure like a toll booth. There is a unit like the drive thru bank below my window. I’ve been transported into some Terry Gilliam Postmodern landscape.

There’s a click and the hum of a small room behind an old analog microphone.

“You’re lost. Aren’t you?” blares a happy voice from the tinny speaker. Central Casting from Gilliam’s Brazil couldn’t have cast a better, vaguely ethnic, beguilingly cheerful disembodied countenance.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Jewel/Osco but I’m not doing very well. Do you know where they are?”

“Well, this is the railroad. You didn’t look like you were headed for the railroad. That might be them over there to your right.” The happy voice oozes with empathy. He’s been lost in the city at night too. “Turn left as soon as you leave our exit gate.”

My truck rumbles into the rail yard; another big circle. More post industrial buildings with weird catwalks and railroad sidings. There are monstrous cranes that swallow a whole rail car, lift off the container and then spit the car out again. Guys in yard switcher engines, pickups and, oddly, a Volvo. Hard hats, steel toe boots and worn denim wander everywhere. They all carry a smirk knowing I don’t belong here tonight.

Out the exit gate and . . . there is just no way to turn left. Even a small car couldn’t turn left. To go left is to climb a concrete barrier, leap to a scale the chain link fence. Then over the razor wire and you’re in. I’ve had enough of this fun and pull over most of the way down the driveway.

The small scale map of Chicago in my Atlas is no help. Not enough detail for the rail yard or even Lake Street. I look at my phone. It can reach the internet, but a detail map on that little screen is like looking at a computer circuit board; lots of unlabeled lines and intersections none of which I can decipher.

Its then when I have a vision. The sun is suddenly shining behind a large cloud. Angels appear from the left and the right. They bend over in unison and put big brass horns to the backs of their robes. In a glorious God calling chord, the cloud shimmies open like a Punch and Judy Stage. Monty Python’s Old Man God appears complete with his cut out, nut cracker mouth. His chin slips up and down, just out of sync with the audio and he says, “Viaduct Clearances for Chicago Streets and surrounding neighborhoods.” And with that the vision dissipates into a spray of confetti and a some noise of the bowels. They’re all gone, but I’m digging through my truck stuff with a determined grin.

In the Seventeenth month of my tenure, I have yet to touch a map that I was given at orientation. Miraculously, the map is called “Viaduct Clearances for Chicago Streets and surrounding neighborhoods.” In the chaotic world of freight shippers in the Chicago Area, you cannot cut across town on the surface streets without checking for low bridges. However, I have never had to cut across town in this manner and have yet to even unfold that nearly forgotten map. The very map I was now clawing open.

The Front side of the map is all downtown City of Chicago in close detail. With a sigh of relief, the back side is “surrounding neighborhoods.” There’s Lake Street! It _is_ IL-67!! That changes everything. Scanning the map for my next assumptions [Sixth] I see that IL-67 is the Northern border of Melrose Park, my destination. The sketchy details in the second half of my directions are “Take Lake St. East to 15th Ave. Proceed past first stop sign. Jog and continue to second stop sign. Turn left on Armitage. Jewel/Osco is on the right.

The Trucker Logic goes if IL-67 is the Northern Border of Melrose Park, the destination. Then traveling East to get there, I must turn right (south) to get to Jewel/ Osco Receiving [where was I?, seventh! Seventh Assumption]. With a new confidence, I exit the rail yard, find the loud “To IL-67” sign and turn left. At IL-67/Lake Street, I turn East (right). Whoever looked up these directions on Google Maps must have thought that you could easily take Exit 13A to East US20 and “Proceed to East Lake St.” However, not being from Chicago, not knowing IL-67 _was_ Lake Street, . . . I was lost and in the dark in more ways than one.

Cruising down Lake Street, I crossed 35th Avenue. Twenty blocks to go. Then there was 25th Ave.; right on time. There was a big Jewel/Osco logo on the left. WHAT!?! Rolling past in the dim light of dawn, I watch the Jewel/Osco facility move by. There is a sign I can’t quite make out by a truck size driveway. Several Potential Assumptions flip through my caffeine addled brain. Did Jewel/Osco move and my directions are still to the old location? Is that the dry goods warehouse and perishables is down 15th Ave.? Should I keep moving or stop and ask? Should I join the circus? Where is my other blue sock? Oh, never mind.

I’ve pulled a semi through lots of cities, including New York City, the Big Apple, where I once parked tractor and half a trailer, illegally, on the sidewalk for four hours while being loaded. My big city instincts have me pulling to the left without really thinking. The place to be for a confused truck driver, in the big city, as the morning traffic is about to start, is the left turn lane, mid block. Safely in the center, I pull on the four way flashers, set the brakes and stop to think; or find a stiff drink.

I can see 15th Avenue, a block or so up the street. Craning my shoulders, I can see back toward Jewel/Osco. Their logo and color scheme is orange. I can see orange trimmed buildings, behind the stores on the street, coming most of the way up toward me. There is a big facility back there. There is also no good reason to have dry goods and perishables several blocks apart. In the liquid logic of suburban boundaries, Jewel/Osco is on the North side of IL-67. This puts them outside the primary color shading of Melrose Park on my map, but apparently inside the actual boundaries of the town in real life. The unspecified turn on 15th Avenue must therefore be left or North [the Final Assumption?]

The smoke test will be the two stop signs and the jog. If I turn left and see them right away, I’ve made the right guess. If not, I’ll need another large space to turn around in a big circle and a new assumption.

Before I even complete the turn, I can see two stop signs, askew. I’m on the right path. From completely lost to making the delivery, I ended up only twelve minutes late. Another nearly Zen night on the American Byways.

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The Snapping Turtle That Ate Milwaukee!

Oct 7

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off

It was a classic Monster Movie motif; big city traffic jam confronted by raging prehistoric monster. South of Milwaukee, I was diverted off the highway and straight into its path. But no screaming pedestrians, no thump thump thump of police helicopters, no city bus lifted to the monster’s bloodshot eye. Just an ancient Snapping Turtle lumbering across the pavement.

He was huge for a turtle. In each cautious step, a foot would stretch forward, almost pointing the toe and then drop to the ground. Each stride just less than the reach of his toe, oddly mimicking the strut of a majorette. In a panic, his neck stretched impossibly far out of his shell, like he was taking turtle enhancement supplements. Yet he stared straight ahead and strode on like a general into battle. Rather than medals, he wore a shawl of moss. It looked less like a turtle shell than an old stump crawling out of the swamp.

The detour had taken me off the highway. The road widened into two lanes just as I spotted the majestic turtle. I made an exaggerated arc into the left lane and around him. The first several cars behind me caught my drift and followed me around him. It was a good start. I hope he made it.

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Ice Dancing

Jan 9

Posted by trt in Rambling | Comments off

It was clearly a night that I should have called in sick. Or at the very least bailed as soon as it started to go bad. We had had a slight warming and then a ferocious cold snap. The drop yard was thick with ice and full of ruts and clumps and holes from the last traffic before the freeze.

Creeping along in my pickup, I bounced and shimmied and shook across the lunar lot. Occasionally, the violence of falling in a hole or clammering over a ridge was almost painful. My forward progress interrupted enough that I wasn’t sure I could get moving again.

Dispatch had given me a tractor number to use. After two painful trips around the yard, I was convinced it wasn’t there. Calling back in, I got “Well, let me see here . . . damn, someone else is in that one.” Armed with a new, and successful, truck assignment, I started packing. I’ve got a duffel of clothes, a cooler, a tub of truck stuff and another tub that serves as my pantry. As usual, I also have a 12 pack each of water and Diet Mountain Dew. This week, I didn’t bring my guitar. All that and a broom to hang on the back of the cab; I’m ready to roll.

It takes a couple more trips bouncing around the lot to find that the trailer my load is on rests across the street. I get hooked up and check the paperwork. I am 1200 lbs. over gross; not legal for the highway. The previous driver thinks its the ice on the roof. He’s probably right but this load is very heavy – bottled water for a warehouse store somewhere in Illinois.

This is where right and wrong, risk and reward, get paved over for a new Bypass to maintain economic activity. I could call in and refuse the load. More politically, I could call and ask for advice. They can’t tell me to go around the DOT Scales but they would really rather that I did. It is unspoken and retains the Clintonesque plausible deniability. Anything I do, other than drive away with the load, is going to cost me a couple hours and damage my working relationship with dispatch. I craft a plan.

I’ve got 7 hours to make a 2 1/2 hour trip. Its a set appointment, so getting there early won’t do me any good. There is only one scale between them and me. If I leave now, and get past the Indiana Scales, I can take a nap at a truckstop and then go in for the delivery. At this hour, on Dec. 26th, the scale is likely to be closed up tight. I take the gamble and drive off.

The trip goes fine. I run down the West side of Michigan. In the summer, I can smell the lake from the highway. I scoot through Michigan City, past the Scale and stop at Burns Harbor. The forecast is for warmer weather with the possibility of freezing rain. All I need is a three hour nap and I can roll again.

Halfway through my nap, I wake just enough to hear the rain. It must be getting warmer. I roll over.

When my alarm goes off and I climb out of the truck to make a pitstop, the last meddling detail of the forecast slaps me awake – Freezing Rain! The entire earth, as far as I can see in all directions, has been glazed over like a Krispy Kreme Donut. I can barely walk.

My well planned, half executed, plan has gone to hell. Rumors are that the State Police have closed the highway. I need to fuel up and get on down the road. I gotta go!

I break out my Motor Carrier Atlas and paw to the State Road Conditions page. I call Indiana and Illinois. Each prerecorded message gives weather conditions that sound hours old and cheerfully better than what it looks like now. Neither mentions any highway closures.

To get to the fuel island, I have to pull forward and off to the left. There is a small ridge of leftover snow right in front of my steer tires. Ice is everywhere.

I back up to nudge my way over the ridge with a running start. It seems to work, steer tires, then drive tires, both axles, lumber over the ridge. The trouble comes when I have to start turning right at the moment the first trailer axle reaches the ridge. It stops me cold, like a cow looking at a new gate. I back up and try to hit it a little harder, but the acceleration causes the drive tires to spin. The lot is so slick I can’t turn and clear the ridge at the same time.

A driver steps out to repeat the rumor that the highway is closed. I know its a mess out here, but I don’t want to shut down on hearsay alone. I back back into my parking space.

After a few moments’ contemplation, considering the lot is only two thirds full, I decide if I back up, there is no ridge to intercept my turn. Trouble is the parking lot imperceptibly cants down toward the back row. When I back up to come around the other way, the weight of my load takes over. Now I don’t have enough traction to pull the load up the slope. Back was easy; downhill. Forward is now impossible. Luckily no one is behind me, and I back into a slot in the back row. Now I’ve got to call this in. I’m not going to make my appointment.

Dispatch gives me to the shop and they call a wrecker to winch me out. The shop calls back to tell me the wrecker is two hours out if the highway remains open. The day is shot and I’ve driven 137.5 miles.

I jump out and slither my way across the lot to get a newspaper. About halfway across barely able to stand, let alone walk, an icy finger runs up my spine. The keys I confirmed were in my pocket are still my personal keys. I’ve just made my morning even better – I’ve locked my rig keys in the cab. It’s then that I notice the trucks sitting out on the highway. The State Police have shut it down. The wrecker can’t move.

Six hours, three newspapers and four cups of coffee later, the highway is open and the wrecker arrives. The ice has melted enough I could drive out, but I need him to pop the lock. I spent the entire time in a booth at McDonalds and milling around the truckstop, chiming in to complain about the ice, not letting on that I would rather be in my truck reading or sleeping but for the lack of a key!

Things were looking up for a minute or two. Then I learned the customer won’t take the delivery late. The warehouse store concept calls for deliveries after midnight but not during store hours. Dispatch has me take the load to a drop lot in Hammond. Someone else will take the load in tomorrow night.

Everyone on the highways is still a little skittish but they are moving along. The exit is fairly well groomed. The service road is pretty sloppy. Around the curve, first drive past the International Dealer, the drop lot is slick and white; like the underbelly of a great fish. Ice all the way back between the buildings, beyond the parked trucks – some waiting for Monday, some rusting hulks.

If I don’t pause, don’t hesitate for a split second, I can move over the ice. I see another of our trailers and turn toward it. My forward motion doesn’t even change. There’ll be no turning here. As I coast to the last curve before the fence, there is just enough traction at this speed to go around to the right. Carefully positioning the truck, I back into a hole next to my sister trailer.

I can’t get out from under the trailer. Traction, or lack thereof, still devil’s me. Dolleys are down, king pin unlocked, but my tires just spin. I try taking weight off, putting it back on to no avail. For traction, I decide to pull out and back in a couple feet to the right. There is snow there where no tires have travelled.

Halfway back in the lot, the trailer is not traveling with me! It has followed me out but is lolling side to side on the fifth wheel. When I bumped the trailer to re-lock the kingpin, the lack of traction psyched me. Luckily, the dolleys are still mostly down. If I’d have lost the trailer it would still be standing. I manage to get out from under the trailer but it is in the middle of the yard. Amazingly, the truck slips back under and I back in over the snow.

The snow offers no help – no traction. I’ve spun the drive tires a couple times. I might as well be on a lake Ice Fishing.

Over by the back of one of the warehouses, a skid with a built up crate of 2×4′s and big thick cardboard rest akimbo at the edge of a pile. The long sides are three foot by four foot pieces stapled on. I yank them off and skitter back to the truck. Stuffed under the drive tires, they might offer some grip. My Kingdom for some traction! Of course, my Kingdom is 8 or 10 boxes in my parents basement, mail at my sister’s and a boat that doesn’t float yet.

Easing the clutch out as slow as I can, in a gear just a notch too high to prevent spin, I eye the cardboard in my convex mirrors. Sweet potential savior cardboard, hear my croak; my anguished plea for mercy.

The tires begin to move, is it?!?!? Come on! And Zip!! . . . the cardboard slips under the first drive axle and curls up in front of the second. Like a Cash Register Receipt paper jam – my transaction could not be completed. Plenty of traction on top of the cardboard; absolutely none on the bottom. I call dispatch for my second winch out of the morning.

Same company, same model wrecker, new driver. A wrecker to haul semis is a special beast; one huge animal. He has little trouble on the ice. The wrecker is part crane for trucks in ditches. He backs in front of me, hooks a cable and pulls forward.

The crane part has feet that fold out to stabilize like cranes and overhead lifts do. Rather than folding the feet out flat, he stomps the toes into the ice and pulls the cable taut with a dip of the crane – like a Transformer doing the Macarena.

I’m literally yanked out from under the trailer. He left me in a spot of ice, so there’s a second yank. I crawl under the empty sister trailer but can’t get out. This time he connects the cable and tows me all the way out to the road. I’m back on the lake, but Water Skiing rather than Ice Fishing.

I sign his ticket and get on my way. A glutton for punishment, now I’m chasing the storm into Michigan with an empty trailer. What a week and its only my Tuesday! Two days in, I’ve spent $385 of the company’s money and, for me, I’ve driven less than 150 miles; about $50 before taxes.

The very next day, I made it to Ohio and sat for four hours to get a twenty minute fuel filter change. Things are looking up! It’ll cost you a case a beer to hear that story.

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