It was an old mill town in Ohio. Ancient brick factories groaning, leaning against each other on a river; like Samoan Grandmothers beating their laundry on the rocks. I’d been through here before. The main corner in town is the junction of two state highways. Its an old main street with restaurants and boutiques struggling in old storefronts; bleeding on the unfinished hardwood floors. All these old little towns striving to become an antiquing destination; with few succeeding.

There is barely enough room for a semi to make the turn in town. I stopped traffic in all four directions and still would be sitting there if it wasn’t the help of the driver behind me on the CB.

On the north side of town, one of the old brick factories still spews steam as activity buzzes around her skirts. Its a paperboard recycling plant. My trailer is loaded with bales of cardboard boxes from the back of a store. The downside of most of these old places, despite their tragic beauty, is that they were designed in the age of 48′ trailers; sometimes horse wagons. Today we pull 53 footers. You’d be amazed at the heartache caused by another five feet.

I danced my way on to their scale with my big trailer; amusing the other drivers. Most were here for pickups, I had a delivery. Receiving is three outdoor docks in a pit, littered with scrap cardboard and various paper. Trailers jammed with bales of cardboard regurgitate misshapen empty cases from laundry soap or cat food or Italian Tomato Sauce. Swirling about the bales is other trash; store circulars, newspaper, paper towels, etc. The dock looks like the aftermath of a tornado without the scattered mobile homes.

The truck ahead of me backs in but not quite far enough. The receiver honks and waves him further in. These old docks have some plunger thing. I watch as his trailer pushes the plunger like cocking a gun. I can’t see what that does. Litter has cascaded down into the pit making it hard to see the dock. It must have been hard to ‘feel’ it too.

The other truck leaves and I back in. I’ve got a roll door trailer, so I don’t open the door I just back in. After chocking my wheels, I walk around to the hut-like office. It is hard to tell if the office trailer was set on top of a pile of debris or it just collected there. Forklifts buzz around grabbing bales and hustling them around a corner at the base of a huge brick smokestack. While I’m waiting for someone to check my paperwork and unload me, I happened to glance at the trailer. The dock plate is akimbo, halfway up the door trying to slice its way into the trailer! What the hell is that?!?!

Just then a forklift pulls up.

“Hey, I’ve got to fix that obviously,” I say pointing at my trailer door straining against the dockplate. “Hopefully it will open again. Is there something we need to coordinate?” I ask sheepishly never having seen anything like this dock.

The driver on the forklift is midwestern farmer stock; drawn, gaunt and grizzled. Generations of dirt farmers stare back at me from his watery bulging eyes. Impossibly long fingers squirm and slither around the steering wheel. Veins crawl around his arm like ivy on a fallen branch. A tattered work shirt holds the fallen branch arm like the loam of the forest.

“Well,” he starts, in a more back holler drawl than Tom Bodett’s. “You’ll have to pull back out . . . open that door . . . and then back back in,” he states flatly.

Ahhhh . . . it was all me.

Tags: I swear, On The Road

I drove through Wisconsin in the inky darkness of midnight.  The little town had an airport next to a Toro Mower Plant and a couple truck terminals.  The air was crisp and the leaves and longer grasses were thickly frosted.

I was supposed to pickup a new-to-us trailer and head on down the road to a load.  The trailers were on a grassy back lot without much light. They were clean and white, like ghosts lit only by a sodium light on a pole half way back to the terminal building. The outlines of former logos made grey splotches on each side and on the nose. 

Another driver pointed out the last trailer with a license plate; I hooked up.  Dispatch gave me a specific trailer number and told me the trailers were marked in small felt marker letters; I unhooked.  Slipping and slogging around on the frosty grass, I found one other plated trailer, but neither had my number.  Dispatch reassigned me to the trailer I had been hooked to; I re-hooked. 

I huffed long silver clouds of exasperation in the chilly air as I cranked the dollies back up.  "What can you do?" I asked my unconvinced self.  Something caught my eye and I looked up.  Up over the dark outlines of trees at the end of the yard.  Stars! 

Out here on the eastern edge of the prairie, in the boondocks, far from any city lights, stars crowded the sky.  Smaller, Dimmer stars and shades of galaxies textured a backdrop for major stars and constellations.  The sky was abuzz and a blaze.  I stood there staring, my head craned back on my neck.  Slowly turning around where I stood, I soaked them all in.  I thanked the stars for coming out and blessed the clouds for staying away. 

I had my answer.  The stars had shouted down "What can you do?"  What you can do is slow down and take a look; find the beauty. 

Cruising on into Minnesota, with a fresh attitude, a serenity, eyes wide open.  The sun broke through behind me, four deer and a majestic buck stood on a ridge over the other side of the highway.  I went by a field full of bison.  Later in the morning, a bald eagle soared over me as I found my exit. 

The most spectacular sight was over the Mississippi River.  To enter Minnesota from Wisconsin on I94, you go down into the river valley at Hudson.  South of the bridge is a wide swath of river surrounded by pine covered hills, fancy houses and marinas.  To the north the river narrows behind a larger marina and rows of boats swinging on moorings. 

In the cool just barely fall morning, the water was warmer than the air.  Opposite of springtime, the shallows along the river bank had cooled compared to the deeper waters holding onto summer's disappearing warmth.  As the cool air came down into the valley, a shallow fog skimmed off the banks.  In the center of the river, a great cloud rose up.

The cool air  swirled down into the valley like running down a drain.  The fog built a cloud in a roving oval.  The thin fog from the banks juts into the air and makes a bigger cloud; an upside down pile.  A column of fog piling up; quietly swirling and expanding into a compote shape.  An apparition, the Grail, in gossemer whisps, calling out to Arthur, but somehow lost on the edge of St. Paul rather than nearer to Camelot. 

Tags: I swear, On The Road

I’m walking into a Meijer’s in Lexington, KY when I notice a service van parked right up front. I can read “Pop A Lock” across the hood. As I’m thinking that this is a weird name for a locksmith, I make out the logo is the Plan View of a minivan with its doors open. Aaaahhhh! Pop A Lock! A guy who gets people back into their cars. Hold that last thought.

Later, leaving the store, I’m right behind a guy with four or five bulging plastic grocery bags, arms straining. We both turn right out of the store and I can’t help but notice we are two shaved heads, he’s got a gold hoop in his ear, mine is silver. It’s a middle aged poser dork parade. Then he stops short at the Pop A Lock van. Oh, it’s him. Baldy proceeds to grab at the handle of the van, but the handle snaps and stays locked.

We’ve all done this. You grab the handle, thinking it’s unlocked, and then tear three layers of skin from your fingers as it rejects you. I could give anyone a pass for doing this same thing. Except this guy! You’d think a guy who helps people get back into their cars EVERY DAY, would know whether he’s locked the door or not. I’m just thinking. . .

Tags: I swear, On The Road

I pulled behind the building with a delivery. All the docks were full, but a trailer was one of ours. I’d have to drop mine, hook to that one, pull it out and drop it, then grab mine again and back it into the hole I created. As I walked into the Recieving Department, I noticed a sloppy gang sign scrawled on the nose of one of the other trailers. It looked for all the world like it said “Crochet Furies;” like a gang started by Martha Stewart while she was in the slammer.

The Crochet Furies would roam the streets in comfortable shoes and stretch jeans. Their hair short and spiky; equal parts Pixie, Punk and Butch. They all have black leather, but little cropped jackets with just enough ruffle to be more cute than biker. On one sleeve, a quill of knitting needles as throwing knives. They cruise in Minivans with Low Rider Hydraulics to bounce and roll and shuck their way down the avenue.

Back in Columbus, I got unloaded. Just as I was about to pull back out on the road, I decide to run into the store and grab a sandwich. Inside, I found Ham and Havarti and a drink. Almost back out to the truck, I reach for my keys. Yeah, you’re way ahead of me. No keys. I know I locked the truck on the way in. Now I’m stuck. I’m supposed to be on the way to another stop and I’m locked out of my tractor.

At first, there’s no panic. Often a key is hidden somewhere under the hood. This is not my truck it is a floater/loaner. I snap open the hood and root around. The engine compartment is huge with all kinds of nooks and crannies. There is no key, no key box, not even a crow bar.

The next place to check is the back of the cab. I close the hood and wander back. I’m looking near the wire harness and the air lines; checking by the load lock rack. I look inside the frame and under the sleeper. I open the battery box and poke around. I check near the fuel tank and the steps. Nothing. I switch to the passenger side and check all those spots again. I even started to look in the nose box of the trailer, but how could a key to my tractor be hidden on some random trailer.

I check every place I could think of and then rechecked them again. That’s when I realize my phone is locked inside too.

At Orientation last week, the company issued all of us the “Green Book.” In it are procedures, directions, ComCheks, trailer inspection forms and all the contact information for anyone I would ever want to talk to in the entire company. The Green Book is not something I carry when I run inside for a sandwich. It too is locked up tight in the tractor.

This is my first week at the company. There is no chance that I’ve managed to memorize any phone numbers. I don’t dial numbers anymore. Nobody dials numbers anymore. In this age of speeddial, anyone in my phone can be called with two clicks; letters not numbers. There must be a phone number on the truck. I wander around again.

On the truck, there are D.O.T. permit numbers, an IFSA sticker, even the ‘Last Six’ of the VIN number. All the way out back, on the trailer door, there is the ubiquitous recruiting sign. “We’re Looking For Quality, Experienced Drivers.” These recruiting 800 numbers are always some easy to remember acronym. This is good; I have nothing to write on.

I have a bite of sandwich and a drink. My lunch has been sitting on the step to the cab. Walking back to the store and a payphone, I wonder if anyone will answer at 5:30 AM. Sure enough, the 800 number is into the recruiting department and not the main switchboard. I can leave a message for ‘recruiting, press two” or “Safety, press three.” Nobody is home. I tried pressing zero and a even couple random extensions but don’t get through to a human.

Back out to the truck, what’s left of my lunch is still sitting on the step. The truck is parked along the outer edge of the property against a curb. Past the curb is a low cinderblock wall, a chain link fence and some bushes. Some trees are evenly spaced from the road back past me and out to the property line out back. Over the fence and in the back is a nondescript apartment building. No one is stirring. Right over the fence near me is a business that goes out to the road. I can see their loading dock and random skids laying around. Not enough clues to guess what they do over there.

Then a semi pulls up into the lot across the fence. Occasionally, a fellow truck driver can get you back into your cab after you’ve locked your keys inside. The trucks don’t have unique keys like a car. One company, one model year might only have one, or more likely, just a few key patterns. Alas, this guy is driving a Kenworth; mine is a Freightliner.

I’m back to driving a Freightliner at this new company. My first truck last year was a Freightliner, but this year, driving out of Grand Rapids, I’ve been driving a Kenworth up until I started the new job last week. This seems appropriate as “Freightliner Blues,” by Townes Van Zandt is one of the favorite songs I play.

I finish the last bites of sandwich and just as I drain the last of my Berry Boost Bolthouse Juice, a thought seeps into my feeble brain, addled by diesel fumes. I wonder if I can jimmy the little triangle side vent window somehow. Maybe even break it to get in. I stood up from the curb, where I was sitting. My gaze drifted up the side of the truck to the little triangle of glass. In the triangle, is a little black knob. This knob is the outer part of the handle/latch that opens the vent window. The black knob is all chewed up. Someone else had locked themselves out! They must have used pliers to twist the latch from the outside. Brilliant!!

I step up the side of my tractor and grab the chewed up knob. It turns at the slightest grip. I push one corner, then grab the opposite one and twist the window open. There is just enough room to stuff my forearm in and open the door! I’m back in business!

I look at my phone and I’ve only lost a half hour. I’d have burned through a half hour if I had stopped somewhere else for lunch. I twist the key and the diesel growls to life. On the road again.

Tags: I swear, On The Road