Monday, January 23, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
Sorry, Doug
On June 12, 2002, local pharmacist Doug Smith, 60, was
murdered. A missing persons report was filed, and the
Sheriff’s Department asked for help in locating him.
His body was found (several days later) in a parking
lot near the drug store, placed in the rear seat of
his SUV, shot twice.
In April, 2004, 48 year-old Tab Morgan, a drug addict,
was arrested for 1st degree murder as he was being
released from jail after serving time for a drug charge.
He was a suspect because Doug was set to testify
against him on another drug charge, a prescription
fraud case. Doug had become suspicious of Morgan,
when he had submitted prescriptions from several
doctors for Oxycontin.
Morgan’s trial began this week. I agreed with the
majority of other locals who believed that Morgan
would be convicted swiftly and given the death penalty.
The lead story on last night’s newscast was, “Verdict
reached in murder trial.” When they mentioned in the
teaser that the verdict had come after only about 3
hours of deliberation, I knew that Morgan was headed
for an injection. It would not be a flu shot.
Earlier in the week, the local TV station had broadcast
portions of the trial, including the testimony of a former
female “associate” of Morgan’s, Sonya Stiwinter. Although
she testified that she heard two gunshots as Morgan
confronted Doug that night she also admitted that she and
Morgan had just smoked crack and she didn’t remember
everything that went on. She was not a very credible
witness.
Admittedly still a crack addict and promised leniency on
a pending drug charge in Florida, she looked every bit the
part of a hard-core druggie. She had an 80-year old face
placed on a 40-something body. Sores covered her face, arms
and lips. She appeared to not know exactly where she was or
why. But she was the best the DA could come up with.
Morgan was acquitted, and walked from the courthouse a free
man. With any luck, he’ll succumb to his addictions soon.
Sorry, Doug.
Obi.
murdered. A missing persons report was filed, and the
Sheriff’s Department asked for help in locating him.
His body was found (several days later) in a parking
lot near the drug store, placed in the rear seat of
his SUV, shot twice.
In April, 2004, 48 year-old Tab Morgan, a drug addict,
was arrested for 1st degree murder as he was being
released from jail after serving time for a drug charge.
He was a suspect because Doug was set to testify
against him on another drug charge, a prescription
fraud case. Doug had become suspicious of Morgan,
when he had submitted prescriptions from several
doctors for Oxycontin.
Morgan’s trial began this week. I agreed with the
majority of other locals who believed that Morgan
would be convicted swiftly and given the death penalty.
The lead story on last night’s newscast was, “Verdict
reached in murder trial.” When they mentioned in the
teaser that the verdict had come after only about 3
hours of deliberation, I knew that Morgan was headed
for an injection. It would not be a flu shot.
Earlier in the week, the local TV station had broadcast
portions of the trial, including the testimony of a former
female “associate” of Morgan’s, Sonya Stiwinter. Although
she testified that she heard two gunshots as Morgan
confronted Doug that night she also admitted that she and
Morgan had just smoked crack and she didn’t remember
everything that went on. She was not a very credible
witness.
Admittedly still a crack addict and promised leniency on
a pending drug charge in Florida, she looked every bit the
part of a hard-core druggie. She had an 80-year old face
placed on a 40-something body. Sores covered her face, arms
and lips. She appeared to not know exactly where she was or
why. But she was the best the DA could come up with.
Morgan was acquitted, and walked from the courthouse a free
man. With any luck, he’ll succumb to his addictions soon.
Sorry, Doug.
Obi.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
James and the Sky Bars
Just before Christmas, I received an e-mail from my old boss, James. It contained a questionnaire designed to “give an insight into the likes and dislikes of your friends.” We’ve all gotten them before. Of the ten or so I’ve received, I’ve answered maybe four.
One of the 38 questions asked, “What’s your favorite candy bar?” The first thing that entered my mind was, “Hershey bar, no nuts – the big ol’ thick kind.”
Of the answers that preceded mine, most said, “Hershey bar.” Then nostalgia kicked in.
The Necco company makes a candy bar that I truly adore. Whenever I see them in a store, I immediately buy 3 or 4 of them, since I never know when I’ll see one again. They are getting rare.
“Sky Bar,” I typed in as my answer. “They’re getting very difficult to find any more.”
This morning a package arrived in the mail from a country store in Vermont. “What the hell is this? A late Christmas present?”
Inside were 12 Sky Bars from James. Faith in the goodness of my fellow man has been restored.
Later,
Obi
One of the 38 questions asked, “What’s your favorite candy bar?” The first thing that entered my mind was, “Hershey bar, no nuts – the big ol’ thick kind.”
Of the answers that preceded mine, most said, “Hershey bar.” Then nostalgia kicked in.
The Necco company makes a candy bar that I truly adore. Whenever I see them in a store, I immediately buy 3 or 4 of them, since I never know when I’ll see one again. They are getting rare.
“Sky Bar,” I typed in as my answer. “They’re getting very difficult to find any more.”
This morning a package arrived in the mail from a country store in Vermont. “What the hell is this? A late Christmas present?”
Inside were 12 Sky Bars from James. Faith in the goodness of my fellow man has been restored.
Later,
Obi
Friday, December 30, 2005
LC and Sir
We have seven – that’s right seven - cats. That’s in addition to a dozen or so goldfish and the dog, Tina Turner. The cats range in age from older than God to our newest addition LC, pictured, who’s about 7 months.
LC, short for Elsie because she looks like a little cow, is primarily a house cat. For the first few months we kept her inside because she wasn’t spayed. Then we kept her inside because it was damned cold outside.
Being cooped up was not sitting well with her. She chased all our other female cats demonically, but got along famously with our only male feline, Sir. Prior to LC’s arrival, it was Sir’s job to keep all the females in line by beating the shit out of them at every opportunity.
Strangely enough, he gets along famously with LC. They play together, and even when she attacks his tail as he strolls past her, he just gives her a look as if to say, “OK. Since it’s you, I’ll let it slide.” They seem to be our most intelligent cats. In fact, my wife insists that they’re not cats at all, but some highly intelligent beings sent here to straighten us out.
Today, LC got out. It was an unseasonably warm day and we were in and out of the house many times. During one of those excursions, she slipped out with us.
I noticed her playing in the back yard, then got involved with a chore and lost track of her. Then I noticed something move on the roof. LC. She had apparently climbed the apple tree next to our front deck and jumped to the roof. We’ve had the same problem with all our other cats. They get up there, then can’t get back down.
I went to the basement, got the ladder and went to the back deck. With a 6-foot ladder I can get high enough to entice a cat to the edge, then reach up and grab it. I’ve done it several other times.
As I reached the top of the ladder, I noticed the apple tree moving. I came down off the ladder and peeked around the side of the house.
There was Sir, leading LC back down the apple tree. Yep. They’re smarter than we give them credit for, and possibly smarter than we are.
Later,
Obi
Thursday, December 22, 2005
It's Fish Tank Day
Today was fish tank day. That means I drain about 5 gallons of water out of the 55-gallon tank, scrub down the inside tank walls, clean the gravel, clean the outside filter and change the cartridges if needed, then water the house plants with the dirty water and refill the tank with fresh H2O.
Normally a 30-45 minute job with no hassles. Plus it’s kind of relaxing – nothing requiring deep thought or concentration.
After all the steps listed above were completed today, I was left with about ½ gallon of extra water. Normally, that gets thrown off the deck into the back yard, and the plastic buckets are stored outside until the following week.
This afternoon, instead of picking the pail up by its handle, I grabbed the bucket's rim and lifted it off the floor. The next word out of my mouth was, “MOTHERFUCKER,” as the rim broke, the bucket dropped and water poured over the living room’s parquet and white oak floor.
Four old bath towels and much cussing later, the floor was no longer flooded. There’s still a fine sheen of moisture over a 6-foot square area, but heat and air should dry that up in about an hour.
So much for my weekly Zen experience. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Happy New Year and have a big bang on the 4th.
Later,
obi
Normally a 30-45 minute job with no hassles. Plus it’s kind of relaxing – nothing requiring deep thought or concentration.
After all the steps listed above were completed today, I was left with about ½ gallon of extra water. Normally, that gets thrown off the deck into the back yard, and the plastic buckets are stored outside until the following week.
This afternoon, instead of picking the pail up by its handle, I grabbed the bucket's rim and lifted it off the floor. The next word out of my mouth was, “MOTHERFUCKER,” as the rim broke, the bucket dropped and water poured over the living room’s parquet and white oak floor.
Four old bath towels and much cussing later, the floor was no longer flooded. There’s still a fine sheen of moisture over a 6-foot square area, but heat and air should dry that up in about an hour.
So much for my weekly Zen experience. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Happy New Year and have a big bang on the 4th.
Later,
obi
Friday, December 16, 2005
Dispatchers Strike Again
An ice storm has moved through the South, so it seems like a good day for another post. In keeping with the “lost” theme, today we’re going to the Bronx.
After picking up pasta north of Des Moines, IA, I headed east toward the “Big Apple.” Once again, I had “excellent” directions from my dispatcher. They were, verbatim, as follows:
GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE TO WEBSTER
STREET EXIT. LEFT ON WEBSTER. LEFT
ON FORDHAM ROAD. AT AMOCO STATION
RIGHT ON ARTHUR
Not knowing if there would be any parking spots near my drop, and not wanting to drive around the Bronx until my 10 am delivery time, I waited until about 7 am to head across the bridge.
I crossed the GW, got off at Webster Avenue and followed it to Fordham Road. As instructed, I took a left on Fordham and started my trek through da Bronx. Block after block and still no Amoco gas station.
I crossed the Deegan Expressway and could see the Hudson River in the distance. I assumed that Fordham would end there. Another obstacle loomed in the closer distance – a low-clearance underpass.
A Hess gas station appeared on my right, so I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, pulled on my flashers, locked my truck and headed inside. I asked the clerk where Arthur Street was.
I assumed that he gave me excellent directions because he went on for about three minutes, complete with hand gestures. You can always tell good directions – they include many gestures and lots of pointing.
They may have been excellent, but I didn’t understand a single word he said. The only thing I got during that three minute monologue was that he kept pointing back in the direction from which I had just come. Not Good.
Luckily Fordham Road, while heavily traveled and congested, is a wide thorofare. Plenty wide enough to swing a 70-foot tractor and trailer around. My mind was racing. I could theoretically swing a U-turn, but there was so damned much traffic.
Fuck it! Let’s go for it. I hit my left turn signal and merged into traffic. Then I inched the nose of my truck into the next lane, blocking all traffic headed East. Amid blaring horns and angry gestures from the New York drivers, I swung the truck across the road and executed a perfect, if not highly illegal U-turn.
Back up Fordham Road. All of a sudden, Fordham disappeared. I was now on E 188th Street. Great!
I pulled into a “BUS ONLY” parking place, pulled on the brakes and flashers once again and headed to a pay phone.
“How do I get to where you are from where I am,” was the gist of my question. “Where the hell are you?” was the reply from the deliveree. “How the fuck did you get there?” followed my answer to his question.
“Man, you should have taken a right on Fordham, not a left. Go to the next light and take a left. Then at the next light, take a right on Fordham. Arthur is only a few blocks from there.”
Sure enough, once I crossed Webster Avenue, there was Arthur Street. Had I turned right instead of left on Fordham, I would have been there in 5 minutes, not the hour it actually took.
Dispatchers strike again!
Later,
obi
After picking up pasta north of Des Moines, IA, I headed east toward the “Big Apple.” Once again, I had “excellent” directions from my dispatcher. They were, verbatim, as follows:
GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE TO WEBSTER
STREET EXIT. LEFT ON WEBSTER. LEFT
ON FORDHAM ROAD. AT AMOCO STATION
RIGHT ON ARTHUR
Not knowing if there would be any parking spots near my drop, and not wanting to drive around the Bronx until my 10 am delivery time, I waited until about 7 am to head across the bridge.
I crossed the GW, got off at Webster Avenue and followed it to Fordham Road. As instructed, I took a left on Fordham and started my trek through da Bronx. Block after block and still no Amoco gas station.
I crossed the Deegan Expressway and could see the Hudson River in the distance. I assumed that Fordham would end there. Another obstacle loomed in the closer distance – a low-clearance underpass.
A Hess gas station appeared on my right, so I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, pulled on my flashers, locked my truck and headed inside. I asked the clerk where Arthur Street was.
I assumed that he gave me excellent directions because he went on for about three minutes, complete with hand gestures. You can always tell good directions – they include many gestures and lots of pointing.
They may have been excellent, but I didn’t understand a single word he said. The only thing I got during that three minute monologue was that he kept pointing back in the direction from which I had just come. Not Good.
Luckily Fordham Road, while heavily traveled and congested, is a wide thorofare. Plenty wide enough to swing a 70-foot tractor and trailer around. My mind was racing. I could theoretically swing a U-turn, but there was so damned much traffic.
Fuck it! Let’s go for it. I hit my left turn signal and merged into traffic. Then I inched the nose of my truck into the next lane, blocking all traffic headed East. Amid blaring horns and angry gestures from the New York drivers, I swung the truck across the road and executed a perfect, if not highly illegal U-turn.
Back up Fordham Road. All of a sudden, Fordham disappeared. I was now on E 188th Street. Great!
I pulled into a “BUS ONLY” parking place, pulled on the brakes and flashers once again and headed to a pay phone.
“How do I get to where you are from where I am,” was the gist of my question. “Where the hell are you?” was the reply from the deliveree. “How the fuck did you get there?” followed my answer to his question.
“Man, you should have taken a right on Fordham, not a left. Go to the next light and take a left. Then at the next light, take a right on Fordham. Arthur is only a few blocks from there.”
Sure enough, once I crossed Webster Avenue, there was Arthur Street. Had I turned right instead of left on Fordham, I would have been there in 5 minutes, not the hour it actually took.
Dispatchers strike again!
Later,
obi
Friday, December 09, 2005
Just Plain Lost
While I was driving, I spent a good portion of my time lost. Dispatcher directions are not the best in the world. That’s probably because none of them can read a map.
I’ve been lost in LA, lost in Chicago, lost in the Bronx, lost in Laredo. You name a city that I drove to, and I’ve probably been lost in it.
Chicago can be a real bitch for a truck driver. Heavy traffic, narrow streets and the fact that it has countless low overpasses add up to driving nightmares.
In October, 2002, I got a two-drop load from Massachusetts to Illinois. I had three sets of directions to this place, a specialty foods retail outlet in Downers Grove, IL, west of Chicago. One set of directions came from my office, one set came from a driver at my pickup location in Taunton and one was gleaned by yours truly from my Atlas. The set from the other driver contained too many toll roads, so I held them for an emergency. The set that I got from my Atlas looked too simple, given the complexity of the other two. I went with my office directions.
My directions took me north on I-55 to its junction with I-90/94 north. I was to get off at exit 50 onto Ogden Avenue, west – the street my drop was on. I was to follow Ogden Avenue 4½ miles and the store would be in a little strip mall on the right. The mileage total was right at 60 miles.
I followed the directions, missing only one turn which cost me about ten miles. I found exit 50, got off onto Ogden Avenue and into a pretty run-down neighborhood just west of downtown Chicago. About three miles after I left the interstate, I encountered something Chicago and Boston are both famous for in the trucking world – a low-clearance underpass. It was 13 feet on one side and 12 ½ feet on the other. My truck was 13’6” tall.
I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, definitely locked my doors and headed to a Burger King across the street. Normally, fast food workers are not the best at giving directions – or even knowing where they are at any given moment - but I lucked out. A Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy was standing in line. I apologized for bothering him while he was on break, and asked him where Downers Grove was. “Let’s see,” he said. “From here you’re about 25 miles from there. You drivin’ that semi?” I assured him that I was indeed driving that red monster. “You’ll never get under that bridge,” he informed me.
“Yeah, I realize that. How do I get to Downers Grove if I can’t go that way,” I asked? “You got me, man. You better call and find out.”
Great idea, but I did not have their number and they weren’t listed in the Chicago book. I was just preparing to go back to my truck, release the brakes and lay down under the trailer tandems, when a black man coming out of the burger joint asked, “Where ya lookin’ to get to, driver?” I told him. “Shit – take a right at this light, go to 31st Street and hook a right, go to California Avenue and take a left – there’s a sign for 55. That’ll put you on 55 south. Go to Route 83 north – it’ll take you right into Downers Grove.”
I should have figured that. Those were the directions I had taken from my Atlas, and would have saved me 40 miles and a ton of aggravation. I followed his directions, sort of. Someone had removed the sign for I-55 at the intersection of 31st and California. I couldn’t see the street sign until it was too late to make my turn, so I headed further down 31st to find a place to turn around.
All the side streets were too narrow for me to loop around with right or left turns, so I kept going. Needless to say, that was not where I wanted to be. I passed through a large
Hispanic/Asian neighborhood and ended up at Cicero Avenue. To my right was a large vacant, gravel lot, used as a flea market/farm market during the warmer months. That day, it was vacant.
I made a right onto Cicero and swung into the lot. There was plenty of room to turn around, but getting back out onto Cicero and into the left turn lane was a bitch. Chicago has almost as many drivers as LA.
I finally got out into traffic, made my turn, found California Avenue, I-55, I-83 and Ogden Avenue in Downers Grove.
I located the drop, and pulled behind their strip mall. I was two hours late and expected to get some shit about it, but everyone was cool. A young fellow came out through the back door with a hand-operated pallet jack, and we proceeded to unload half my trailer – about 10,000 pounds. When we finished, I reaffirmed my directions to their Glenview location, and hit the road.
About five blocks down the street, just before I was to get back on highway 83, my truck lurched and I heard a loud “whooshing” sound. An air-line on my trailer had blown, locking down one set of trailer wheels. I pulled slowly into a parking lot, located the line that was leaking by the sound of escaping air, shut the air off to my trailer brakes and messaged road service.
Four hours later I was back on the road, already four hours late for my delivery, with an hour’s drive ahead of me. It took about five minutes to repair the air line, but the service man had gotten lost. It must be something about Chicago.
I arrived at the second drop at 2330, expecting to pull behind their store and sleep until they arrived the next morning. Believe it or not they were waiting for me. It seemed road service had called them, and after explaining my plight, they had agreed to wait until midnight for me, “but not a minute later.” We had the other 10,000 pounds of foodstuffs off-loaded by 0030, and I was on my way back to our drop yard. It turned out to be a 23-hour day, but my log only showed 8¼ hours of it. I made it to the bunk and don’t even remember hitting the pillow.
Next up – Lost in da Bronx. Stay tuned.
obi
I’ve been lost in LA, lost in Chicago, lost in the Bronx, lost in Laredo. You name a city that I drove to, and I’ve probably been lost in it.
Chicago can be a real bitch for a truck driver. Heavy traffic, narrow streets and the fact that it has countless low overpasses add up to driving nightmares.
In October, 2002, I got a two-drop load from Massachusetts to Illinois. I had three sets of directions to this place, a specialty foods retail outlet in Downers Grove, IL, west of Chicago. One set of directions came from my office, one set came from a driver at my pickup location in Taunton and one was gleaned by yours truly from my Atlas. The set from the other driver contained too many toll roads, so I held them for an emergency. The set that I got from my Atlas looked too simple, given the complexity of the other two. I went with my office directions.
My directions took me north on I-55 to its junction with I-90/94 north. I was to get off at exit 50 onto Ogden Avenue, west – the street my drop was on. I was to follow Ogden Avenue 4½ miles and the store would be in a little strip mall on the right. The mileage total was right at 60 miles.
I followed the directions, missing only one turn which cost me about ten miles. I found exit 50, got off onto Ogden Avenue and into a pretty run-down neighborhood just west of downtown Chicago. About three miles after I left the interstate, I encountered something Chicago and Boston are both famous for in the trucking world – a low-clearance underpass. It was 13 feet on one side and 12 ½ feet on the other. My truck was 13’6” tall.
I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, definitely locked my doors and headed to a Burger King across the street. Normally, fast food workers are not the best at giving directions – or even knowing where they are at any given moment - but I lucked out. A Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy was standing in line. I apologized for bothering him while he was on break, and asked him where Downers Grove was. “Let’s see,” he said. “From here you’re about 25 miles from there. You drivin’ that semi?” I assured him that I was indeed driving that red monster. “You’ll never get under that bridge,” he informed me.
“Yeah, I realize that. How do I get to Downers Grove if I can’t go that way,” I asked? “You got me, man. You better call and find out.”
Great idea, but I did not have their number and they weren’t listed in the Chicago book. I was just preparing to go back to my truck, release the brakes and lay down under the trailer tandems, when a black man coming out of the burger joint asked, “Where ya lookin’ to get to, driver?” I told him. “Shit – take a right at this light, go to 31st Street and hook a right, go to California Avenue and take a left – there’s a sign for 55. That’ll put you on 55 south. Go to Route 83 north – it’ll take you right into Downers Grove.”
I should have figured that. Those were the directions I had taken from my Atlas, and would have saved me 40 miles and a ton of aggravation. I followed his directions, sort of. Someone had removed the sign for I-55 at the intersection of 31st and California. I couldn’t see the street sign until it was too late to make my turn, so I headed further down 31st to find a place to turn around.
All the side streets were too narrow for me to loop around with right or left turns, so I kept going. Needless to say, that was not where I wanted to be. I passed through a large
Hispanic/Asian neighborhood and ended up at Cicero Avenue. To my right was a large vacant, gravel lot, used as a flea market/farm market during the warmer months. That day, it was vacant.
I made a right onto Cicero and swung into the lot. There was plenty of room to turn around, but getting back out onto Cicero and into the left turn lane was a bitch. Chicago has almost as many drivers as LA.
I finally got out into traffic, made my turn, found California Avenue, I-55, I-83 and Ogden Avenue in Downers Grove.
I located the drop, and pulled behind their strip mall. I was two hours late and expected to get some shit about it, but everyone was cool. A young fellow came out through the back door with a hand-operated pallet jack, and we proceeded to unload half my trailer – about 10,000 pounds. When we finished, I reaffirmed my directions to their Glenview location, and hit the road.
About five blocks down the street, just before I was to get back on highway 83, my truck lurched and I heard a loud “whooshing” sound. An air-line on my trailer had blown, locking down one set of trailer wheels. I pulled slowly into a parking lot, located the line that was leaking by the sound of escaping air, shut the air off to my trailer brakes and messaged road service.
Four hours later I was back on the road, already four hours late for my delivery, with an hour’s drive ahead of me. It took about five minutes to repair the air line, but the service man had gotten lost. It must be something about Chicago.
I arrived at the second drop at 2330, expecting to pull behind their store and sleep until they arrived the next morning. Believe it or not they were waiting for me. It seemed road service had called them, and after explaining my plight, they had agreed to wait until midnight for me, “but not a minute later.” We had the other 10,000 pounds of foodstuffs off-loaded by 0030, and I was on my way back to our drop yard. It turned out to be a 23-hour day, but my log only showed 8¼ hours of it. I made it to the bunk and don’t even remember hitting the pillow.
Next up – Lost in da Bronx. Stay tuned.
obi
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Still Lost in East LA
Why is it that chicken plants have the smallest loading docks in the world? I’d been to several chicken suppliers in the past (I was driving a for a refrigerated carrier) and every single one of them had been the tightest docks I’d ever seen.
The first drop on this load was located off an alley in East LA. That section of the City does not have the best reputation in the world. Remember Cheech Marin’s song, “Born in East LA?”
I found the street and turned into the alley that housed the warehouse. Four other trucks were parked on the narrow street.
I went into the office, checked in with the Hispanic dock workers and went back outside since I was told, “It will be long time we get to you.”
Naturally, I was facing in the wrong direction. If I tried to get into the dock from where my truck was parked, it would be a blindside backing maneuver, not good even where you have enough room. I went down a few blocks and circled around so that I was facing the right way.
About two hours later, after about five attempts getting into their dock, I was unloaded and on my way to drop number 2.
Following directions from the first stop, I crossed 4th Street, went up to the first stop sign, turned right and then right again at the next street. Sure enough, it was Utah Street. I cruised down slowly, but all I saw were two abandoned apartment houses on the left and some single-family dwellings on the right. None had the street number that I needed.
I went around the block. My directions said Utah Street, but they also mentioned Second Street. As I crept down the street behind Utah, I spotted Second and started to pull in. “No”, I thought luckily, “let’s see what’s down there first.” It was a dead-end alley! There was an empty and gated parking lot, but nothing that looked like a warehouse. It was almost midnight and I couldn’t see shit in the dark.
Back onto Utah Street – park – go to sleep and see what the situation looks like in the morning light. At 0530, I arose and cruised around the block again. I found a warehouse with an open door and a refrigerated truck sitting outside. That might be the place. “No,” said the Vietnamese man inside. “It around corner behind toy store.”
Back to where I was the night before. I got to Second Street, parked the truck and walked down the dead-end alley again. Now, instead of being empty, the small parking lot had a BMW and a Honda parked in it. There was also an open doorway. It had the Utah Street address that I was looking for. But, that wasn’t Utah Street. For some reason they didn’t use the Utah side of the building, just the back half on the alley.
I squeezed my rig into that small lot. Then I helped a very nice Mexican man unload 15,000 pounds of chicken and left. They did help me out by opening a gate so that I could pull straight out onto another side street. Otherwise, I’d probably still be there.
The third drop on that load was a ball-buster, too. The directions to Garden Grove were fine until I got off the Freeway. They directed me to follow Euclid Street past the intersection of Westminster. The Vietnamese Trading Company would be on the right.
When I passed Westminster, all I saw was a car wash and then a row of houses on the right. Well, maybe they meant on the left. I made a U-turn. Nope - nothing but houses and apartments. I knew some of these little businesses could operate out of almost any structure, but these people were getting 4,000 pounds of chicken. The place had to be larger than an apartment.
After three more illegal U-turns, going up and down Euclid Street, I spotted a local cop. I pulled over into the slow lane, put on my flashers, set my brake and got out to ask directions.
He was not very helpful. He did tell me I was in the right area, judging by the street address, but he had never heard of the company. Since I was already illegally parked and the cop didn’t seem to mind, I ran over to a pay phone and called the customer.
In very broken English, she told me to go south to a business park and then take quite a few turns. I couldn’t understand which way to turn, but at least I would be closer and maybe could get help from some of their business neighbors.
I pulled into the business center, and it was a combination shopping center, business park and storage unit facility with very narrow, curving streets. I parked the truck in a tow-away zone. I figured that by the time they got something big enough to tow an 80,000-pound semi out of there, I’d be back. I wandered around on foot until I found an Asian man on a forklift moving produce into one of the larger storage units. He pointed me right to where I needed to be. Of course, with the narrow, curving streets it was a bitch getting the truck in. I also had to block a street while they unloaded me, but no one seemed to care.
After I was unloaded, I headed to our terminal in Mira Loma to wash the stale chicken blood and the foul stench that it produced out of my trailer. Then I sat and waited for my next load.
I had several more trips to Southern California in general and LA in particular, but none were as confusing as that one.
More later,
obi
The first drop on this load was located off an alley in East LA. That section of the City does not have the best reputation in the world. Remember Cheech Marin’s song, “Born in East LA?”
I found the street and turned into the alley that housed the warehouse. Four other trucks were parked on the narrow street.
I went into the office, checked in with the Hispanic dock workers and went back outside since I was told, “It will be long time we get to you.”
Naturally, I was facing in the wrong direction. If I tried to get into the dock from where my truck was parked, it would be a blindside backing maneuver, not good even where you have enough room. I went down a few blocks and circled around so that I was facing the right way.
About two hours later, after about five attempts getting into their dock, I was unloaded and on my way to drop number 2.
Following directions from the first stop, I crossed 4th Street, went up to the first stop sign, turned right and then right again at the next street. Sure enough, it was Utah Street. I cruised down slowly, but all I saw were two abandoned apartment houses on the left and some single-family dwellings on the right. None had the street number that I needed.
I went around the block. My directions said Utah Street, but they also mentioned Second Street. As I crept down the street behind Utah, I spotted Second and started to pull in. “No”, I thought luckily, “let’s see what’s down there first.” It was a dead-end alley! There was an empty and gated parking lot, but nothing that looked like a warehouse. It was almost midnight and I couldn’t see shit in the dark.
Back onto Utah Street – park – go to sleep and see what the situation looks like in the morning light. At 0530, I arose and cruised around the block again. I found a warehouse with an open door and a refrigerated truck sitting outside. That might be the place. “No,” said the Vietnamese man inside. “It around corner behind toy store.”
Back to where I was the night before. I got to Second Street, parked the truck and walked down the dead-end alley again. Now, instead of being empty, the small parking lot had a BMW and a Honda parked in it. There was also an open doorway. It had the Utah Street address that I was looking for. But, that wasn’t Utah Street. For some reason they didn’t use the Utah side of the building, just the back half on the alley.
I squeezed my rig into that small lot. Then I helped a very nice Mexican man unload 15,000 pounds of chicken and left. They did help me out by opening a gate so that I could pull straight out onto another side street. Otherwise, I’d probably still be there.
The third drop on that load was a ball-buster, too. The directions to Garden Grove were fine until I got off the Freeway. They directed me to follow Euclid Street past the intersection of Westminster. The Vietnamese Trading Company would be on the right.
When I passed Westminster, all I saw was a car wash and then a row of houses on the right. Well, maybe they meant on the left. I made a U-turn. Nope - nothing but houses and apartments. I knew some of these little businesses could operate out of almost any structure, but these people were getting 4,000 pounds of chicken. The place had to be larger than an apartment.
After three more illegal U-turns, going up and down Euclid Street, I spotted a local cop. I pulled over into the slow lane, put on my flashers, set my brake and got out to ask directions.
He was not very helpful. He did tell me I was in the right area, judging by the street address, but he had never heard of the company. Since I was already illegally parked and the cop didn’t seem to mind, I ran over to a pay phone and called the customer.
In very broken English, she told me to go south to a business park and then take quite a few turns. I couldn’t understand which way to turn, but at least I would be closer and maybe could get help from some of their business neighbors.
I pulled into the business center, and it was a combination shopping center, business park and storage unit facility with very narrow, curving streets. I parked the truck in a tow-away zone. I figured that by the time they got something big enough to tow an 80,000-pound semi out of there, I’d be back. I wandered around on foot until I found an Asian man on a forklift moving produce into one of the larger storage units. He pointed me right to where I needed to be. Of course, with the narrow, curving streets it was a bitch getting the truck in. I also had to block a street while they unloaded me, but no one seemed to care.
After I was unloaded, I headed to our terminal in Mira Loma to wash the stale chicken blood and the foul stench that it produced out of my trailer. Then I sat and waited for my next load.
I had several more trips to Southern California in general and LA in particular, but none were as confusing as that one.
More later,
obi
Friday, December 02, 2005
California - Here I Come
California. What a great place to send a newbie driver – especially on one of his first trips. I had been there twice before with my trainers, but this was a solo experience.
I picked up a load of chicken in Kentucky and headed to LA. There were three drops on this load, two in LA and one in Garden Grove which is south of LA, on the way to San Diego. My first drop was on Sunday night, the second early Monday morning and the third on Monday afternoon.
I-40 to I-15 then onto I-10 to I-5 to exit 4. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? But traffic into LA on a Sunday evening is not an experience that I want to repeat any time soon. Six lanes heading west, all packed with speeding vehicles. Plus, someone had removed the sign signaling the entrance to I-5. I happened to guess where it should have been, but was headed in the wrong direction.
I realized there was a problem when a sign sprang up in front of me that read, “Wilsher Boulevard – Next Right.” That and the facts that three more lanes were merging in from the San Bernadino Freeway, there was a three-lane exit ahead and I was surrounded by what appeared to be downtown Los Angeles.
It was panic time! I slid my truck into the “V” between the Freeway I was on and the exit ramp, pulled on my flashers and set the brakes. With three lanes of fast-moving exit traffic on my right and the six-lane freeway on my left, I realized that even if I discovered a route to my delivery point, there was no way to get out of my “safe harbor” without killing someone.
My immediate solution was to light up a cigarette. “When in doubt, smoke.” I checked my Atlas, but the city map for LA was rather sketchy, so I had no real clue where my exit was in relation to my position. I tried my CB, but I had seen no other trucks since stopping – another indication that I was probably somewhere that I shouldn’t be.
Next, I took some pictures. I figured I wouldn’t be back there again so I might as well immortalize the moment. Then I had another smoke, thinking about Cris Rea’s late 1980’s song, “The Road to Hell.” One line in particular kept running through my mind:
“On your journey ‘cross the wilderness
from the desert to the well
you have strayed upon the motorway to hell.”
In my mind, the wilderness was Oklahoma, the desert was Arizona and the well was the Pacific Ocean. It all made perfect sense at the time.
My rationale was, if I sat there long enough a cop would stop. I mean, here sat this 70-foot long tractor-trailer in the middle of a busy Interstate with its flashers on and its driver chain-smoking cigarettes and looking bewildered. Somebody had to notice.
So I sat – and smoked – and smoked – and cussed – and sat some more. And smoked some more. And cussed a whole lot more. Nothing! I ended up sitting there for about two hours chain-smoking and cussing watching sheriff’s cars go by.
At about 2000 hours, I glanced in my mirror just in time to see an LAPD car slip in behind my truck with its flashing lights on. Since I was very close to the road on the driver’s side, I slid over to the right-hand seat and rolled down my window. A cop was actually coming up beside my truck and his ticket book was not in his hand. Maybe I wouldn’t get a littering citation for the pile of cigarette butts beside my truck or for being an eyesore on the chic LA landscape.
“What’s the problem,” he said when he reached my window.
“Well,” I said, “At first my problem was that I was lost. Now it’s not only that I’m lost, but also I couldn’t get out of here even if I knew where I was going. If I pull out to the right, I’ll lose sight of traffic and probably kill somebody when they run under my truck at 70 miles an hour. If I pull out to the left I’ll probably kill myself because there hasn’t been a break in that traffic for two hours.”
“OK”’ he said. “Let’s start by getting you unlost. Where is it you need to go?” I told him. “You didn’t miss it by much. Your turnoff is only about a mile from here. The problem is to get there you need to be going the other way.”
He proceeded to give me directions on where to turn around at an exit about three miles down the road. “Thanks”, I said. “Now, how do I get there without killing a dozen motorists?”
The next thing I knew, he was on his shoulder microphone. “Escort - what’s your 20? OK. I need you to slow traffic up here so I can get a big-rig back on the road. How long ‘till you can get here?” Then to me he said, “Be an officer here to assist in about three minutes. I’m going back by my car and wait. When you see my flashlight shine in your driver-side mirror, haul it out of here.”
Within three or four minutes, I saw his flashlight reflect in my mirrors. I looked in my right-side mirror and to my delight and amazement, there was nothing - no traffic at all. Those two cops had completely stopped traffic on a busy section of LA freeway, and I was outta there – fast.
Believe it or not, I was still early for my appointment. But the adventure had just begun.
More on the LA saga soon.
obi
I picked up a load of chicken in Kentucky and headed to LA. There were three drops on this load, two in LA and one in Garden Grove which is south of LA, on the way to San Diego. My first drop was on Sunday night, the second early Monday morning and the third on Monday afternoon.
I-40 to I-15 then onto I-10 to I-5 to exit 4. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? But traffic into LA on a Sunday evening is not an experience that I want to repeat any time soon. Six lanes heading west, all packed with speeding vehicles. Plus, someone had removed the sign signaling the entrance to I-5. I happened to guess where it should have been, but was headed in the wrong direction.
I realized there was a problem when a sign sprang up in front of me that read, “Wilsher Boulevard – Next Right.” That and the facts that three more lanes were merging in from the San Bernadino Freeway, there was a three-lane exit ahead and I was surrounded by what appeared to be downtown Los Angeles.
It was panic time! I slid my truck into the “V” between the Freeway I was on and the exit ramp, pulled on my flashers and set the brakes. With three lanes of fast-moving exit traffic on my right and the six-lane freeway on my left, I realized that even if I discovered a route to my delivery point, there was no way to get out of my “safe harbor” without killing someone.
My immediate solution was to light up a cigarette. “When in doubt, smoke.” I checked my Atlas, but the city map for LA was rather sketchy, so I had no real clue where my exit was in relation to my position. I tried my CB, but I had seen no other trucks since stopping – another indication that I was probably somewhere that I shouldn’t be.
Next, I took some pictures. I figured I wouldn’t be back there again so I might as well immortalize the moment. Then I had another smoke, thinking about Cris Rea’s late 1980’s song, “The Road to Hell.” One line in particular kept running through my mind:
“On your journey ‘cross the wilderness
from the desert to the well
you have strayed upon the motorway to hell.”
In my mind, the wilderness was Oklahoma, the desert was Arizona and the well was the Pacific Ocean. It all made perfect sense at the time.
My rationale was, if I sat there long enough a cop would stop. I mean, here sat this 70-foot long tractor-trailer in the middle of a busy Interstate with its flashers on and its driver chain-smoking cigarettes and looking bewildered. Somebody had to notice.
So I sat – and smoked – and smoked – and cussed – and sat some more. And smoked some more. And cussed a whole lot more. Nothing! I ended up sitting there for about two hours chain-smoking and cussing watching sheriff’s cars go by.
At about 2000 hours, I glanced in my mirror just in time to see an LAPD car slip in behind my truck with its flashing lights on. Since I was very close to the road on the driver’s side, I slid over to the right-hand seat and rolled down my window. A cop was actually coming up beside my truck and his ticket book was not in his hand. Maybe I wouldn’t get a littering citation for the pile of cigarette butts beside my truck or for being an eyesore on the chic LA landscape.
“What’s the problem,” he said when he reached my window.
“Well,” I said, “At first my problem was that I was lost. Now it’s not only that I’m lost, but also I couldn’t get out of here even if I knew where I was going. If I pull out to the right, I’ll lose sight of traffic and probably kill somebody when they run under my truck at 70 miles an hour. If I pull out to the left I’ll probably kill myself because there hasn’t been a break in that traffic for two hours.”
“OK”’ he said. “Let’s start by getting you unlost. Where is it you need to go?” I told him. “You didn’t miss it by much. Your turnoff is only about a mile from here. The problem is to get there you need to be going the other way.”
He proceeded to give me directions on where to turn around at an exit about three miles down the road. “Thanks”, I said. “Now, how do I get there without killing a dozen motorists?”
The next thing I knew, he was on his shoulder microphone. “Escort - what’s your 20? OK. I need you to slow traffic up here so I can get a big-rig back on the road. How long ‘till you can get here?” Then to me he said, “Be an officer here to assist in about three minutes. I’m going back by my car and wait. When you see my flashlight shine in your driver-side mirror, haul it out of here.”
Within three or four minutes, I saw his flashlight reflect in my mirrors. I looked in my right-side mirror and to my delight and amazement, there was nothing - no traffic at all. Those two cops had completely stopped traffic on a busy section of LA freeway, and I was outta there – fast.
Believe it or not, I was still early for my appointment. But the adventure had just begun.
More on the LA saga soon.
obi
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Flashbacks
Yeah…I know. It’s been a long time since my last post. No particular reason except for plain ol’ laziness.
Something weird has been happening lately. I haven’t been on the road for almost two years now and I’m starting to get flashbacks. They’re not constant, but I get them on a frequent, but irregular, basis.
It doesn’t matter what I’m doing – there they are. I can be watching TV, talking to someone, driving down the road or reading a book. Strangely enough, they never come while I’m sleeping.
All of a sudden, somewhere I’ve been on the road just flashes into my mind. It could be a memorable stretch of highway, a truck stop, a loading dock – almost anything.
They’re vivid and they appear to be accurate. Where the fuck are they coming from? Maybe I’m just reliving sections of the book that have been burned into my brain. But I haven’t even looked at that bitch since I sent it off to my agent. Too much of a good thing and all that. Not really. Just sick of reading and rereading, editing and reediting, changing and changing back again.
That must be it. I’m not really going crazy, just trying to rid my subconscious of all that crap I lived with for four years. “Goodbye and good riddance.” Until the next edit or rewrite, that is.
obi
Something weird has been happening lately. I haven’t been on the road for almost two years now and I’m starting to get flashbacks. They’re not constant, but I get them on a frequent, but irregular, basis.
It doesn’t matter what I’m doing – there they are. I can be watching TV, talking to someone, driving down the road or reading a book. Strangely enough, they never come while I’m sleeping.
All of a sudden, somewhere I’ve been on the road just flashes into my mind. It could be a memorable stretch of highway, a truck stop, a loading dock – almost anything.
They’re vivid and they appear to be accurate. Where the fuck are they coming from? Maybe I’m just reliving sections of the book that have been burned into my brain. But I haven’t even looked at that bitch since I sent it off to my agent. Too much of a good thing and all that. Not really. Just sick of reading and rereading, editing and reediting, changing and changing back again.
That must be it. I’m not really going crazy, just trying to rid my subconscious of all that crap I lived with for four years. “Goodbye and good riddance.” Until the next edit or rewrite, that is.
obi
Friday, October 21, 2005
The Joy of Trucking (Part 1)
Truck driving is similar to serving in the Army. Most of the job consists of, “Hurry up and Wait.” If I dropped a load at 0800, I’d get another load assignment at 0815 that read, “Next pickup @ 0845 in Bumfuck. High priority load. Must be on time.”
No matter that the pickup was over 100 miles away and the directions sucked. I could message dispatch that there was no way I’d make it on time or that I was about out of driving hours for the day. The return memo would read, “Do the best you can.”
I’d bust ass to get to the pickup and guess what. The load would not be ready for another two hours. I hurried, now I’d wait.
At the other end of the run, the delivery, it would be a repeat performance.
Many a night I sat in a WalMart distribution center for 6, 8 or even 10 hours while they fiddle-farted around unloading 6 pallets from my trailer. Then I’d wait another hour while they processed the paperwork and got the signed bills of lading back to me.
It didn’t take long for my attitude to shift from, “If it’s due at 0800, I’ll be there at 0630,” to, “I’ll get there when I can.”
Yes, truck driving is a joy.
Later
obi
No matter that the pickup was over 100 miles away and the directions sucked. I could message dispatch that there was no way I’d make it on time or that I was about out of driving hours for the day. The return memo would read, “Do the best you can.”
I’d bust ass to get to the pickup and guess what. The load would not be ready for another two hours. I hurried, now I’d wait.
At the other end of the run, the delivery, it would be a repeat performance.
Many a night I sat in a WalMart distribution center for 6, 8 or even 10 hours while they fiddle-farted around unloading 6 pallets from my trailer. Then I’d wait another hour while they processed the paperwork and got the signed bills of lading back to me.
It didn’t take long for my attitude to shift from, “If it’s due at 0800, I’ll be there at 0630,” to, “I’ll get there when I can.”
Yes, truck driving is a joy.
Later
obi
Friday, October 14, 2005
Fall is Here
Fall is here. The leaves are beginning their magical transformation from green to yellows and reds then to withered browns. Everyone knows this change takes place every year, but they need to see it for themselves – over and over again.
Businesses in the western North Carolina region depend on tourism for a good part of their annual income. The most profitable season is fall. “Come see the fall colors in the beautiful mountains of western North Carolina. Spend lots of money while you’re here.”
We may be hurting this year, though. Gasoline prices are through the roof, and while they are under $3 per gallon, they still ain’t cheap. Petroleum prices in this area are some of the highest in the nation. Why? Who the fuck knows.
The old logic was that North Carolina has high gasoline taxes. Of course we have good highways too, paid for by those tax revenues.
Added to this, as the legend goes, it costs more to truck the fuel up the mountains. It must be true. All you need to do is drive 30 miles down the mountain into South Carolina and gas is 10 to 15 cents less expensive. Drive another 60 miles to Georgia and the prices drop another 10 cents.
The real question is: Why did fuel prices jump from $1.50 a gallon to $3.50 a gallon in a month? “Oh,” you say. “It was because Hurricane Katrina knocked out so many Gulf shore oil refineries.” So what? All that did was make fuel less plentiful, not more expensive.
OK. So if there’s less fuel, then the oil companies are going to make less money. That makes sense. They’ve only been posting 300 to 500% profit increases each year for the past few years. They need to jack prices up so that their upper management people can still afford their luxury condos and BMW’s.
I guess it’s comparable to me selling bubble gum. My supplier had a fire in his production facility, so I won’t be getting any bubble gum for a month while he retools. If I’m going to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, I need to triple the price of my gum. I don’t need to worry about my customers not buying, because everybody loves bubble gum. They can’t live without it.
But you know what? They can live without it. They can just say, “Screw you. When the price comes back down, which we know it will, we’ll start chewing gum again. You can sit on what you’ve got, and throw it away when it gets stale.”
People can live without using so much fuel, too. First off, get rid of those gas guzzling fuel hogs that we’ve named SUV’s. Who, besides the military, needs a Hummer? Next, quit making 15 trips to the grocery store when 2 or 3 planned trips would be more convenient and a whole lot cheaper. Lastly, look into those “hybrids.” They are the wave of the future.
The only people I feel sorry for in this whole mess are truck drivers. Not the company guys, but the ones who own their own rigs. Fuel costs come right off their bottom line.
My neighbor still drives, and owns his truck. He’s leased out to a large company, but still buys his own fuel. I spoke to him last weekend and he told me that his fuel cost went from $1600 a week to almost $3000.
That’s a hell of a cut when he still has a truck payment, maintenance and repairs, taxes and a mortgage to pay. Yeah, independent truckers make a lot of money. But by the time all the overhead and expenses come out, it may get to the point that it’s just not worth the aggravation any more.
Then watcha gonna do for that gallon of milk or loaf of bread or that new storm door. Most of our commodities are still delivered by trucks.
Be back soon,
obi
Businesses in the western North Carolina region depend on tourism for a good part of their annual income. The most profitable season is fall. “Come see the fall colors in the beautiful mountains of western North Carolina. Spend lots of money while you’re here.”
We may be hurting this year, though. Gasoline prices are through the roof, and while they are under $3 per gallon, they still ain’t cheap. Petroleum prices in this area are some of the highest in the nation. Why? Who the fuck knows.
The old logic was that North Carolina has high gasoline taxes. Of course we have good highways too, paid for by those tax revenues.
Added to this, as the legend goes, it costs more to truck the fuel up the mountains. It must be true. All you need to do is drive 30 miles down the mountain into South Carolina and gas is 10 to 15 cents less expensive. Drive another 60 miles to Georgia and the prices drop another 10 cents.
The real question is: Why did fuel prices jump from $1.50 a gallon to $3.50 a gallon in a month? “Oh,” you say. “It was because Hurricane Katrina knocked out so many Gulf shore oil refineries.” So what? All that did was make fuel less plentiful, not more expensive.
OK. So if there’s less fuel, then the oil companies are going to make less money. That makes sense. They’ve only been posting 300 to 500% profit increases each year for the past few years. They need to jack prices up so that their upper management people can still afford their luxury condos and BMW’s.
I guess it’s comparable to me selling bubble gum. My supplier had a fire in his production facility, so I won’t be getting any bubble gum for a month while he retools. If I’m going to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, I need to triple the price of my gum. I don’t need to worry about my customers not buying, because everybody loves bubble gum. They can’t live without it.
But you know what? They can live without it. They can just say, “Screw you. When the price comes back down, which we know it will, we’ll start chewing gum again. You can sit on what you’ve got, and throw it away when it gets stale.”
People can live without using so much fuel, too. First off, get rid of those gas guzzling fuel hogs that we’ve named SUV’s. Who, besides the military, needs a Hummer? Next, quit making 15 trips to the grocery store when 2 or 3 planned trips would be more convenient and a whole lot cheaper. Lastly, look into those “hybrids.” They are the wave of the future.
The only people I feel sorry for in this whole mess are truck drivers. Not the company guys, but the ones who own their own rigs. Fuel costs come right off their bottom line.
My neighbor still drives, and owns his truck. He’s leased out to a large company, but still buys his own fuel. I spoke to him last weekend and he told me that his fuel cost went from $1600 a week to almost $3000.
That’s a hell of a cut when he still has a truck payment, maintenance and repairs, taxes and a mortgage to pay. Yeah, independent truckers make a lot of money. But by the time all the overhead and expenses come out, it may get to the point that it’s just not worth the aggravation any more.
Then watcha gonna do for that gallon of milk or loaf of bread or that new storm door. Most of our commodities are still delivered by trucks.
Be back soon,
obi
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Drinking and Driving
Watched the football game last night – Steelers won!!! I had a few drinks and fell asleep at the beginning of the fourth quarter. When I woke up, the damned news was on.
While I was driving a truck, I didn’t drink much at all. I’d get home every three of four weeks and do my share then. When I was on the road, I didn’t drink at all. It’s difficult to do your best at a dangerous job when you’re hung over. Once or twice when I knew I wouldn’t get a load for a day or two, I bought some beer and drank a few in my truck.
Prior to that I was pretty much a functioning alcoholic. Who you gonna kill managing a restaurant? If I was working nights we closed at 2 a.m. I'd kill a few at the restaurant after the paperwork was done, then head home for a few more. Shit, I could sleep until 2, then head to work again.
I don’t know how I got through all those years without either killing someone or getting a DUI. Many a night I arrived home not knowing how I got there.
When I split from my first wife, I stayed drunk for a solid year. I lost my job, a good one, and ended up working in a gas station for three bucks an hour. Quite a comedown from a job that had afforded me an upper-middle class income.
I found that the best way to avoid a hangover was to stay drunk. For about six months I wore sunglasses with blue lenses, day and night. The world looked so nice. It was soft and warm and furry. Everything was a bathed in a hazy, shadowy blur. I loved it.
No matter that I rolled my future wife’s car one night. I had taken her home after a night of partying and immediately headed back to the party. A little more beer, a little more grass and I was ready for the ride home. I lost it in a curve on a rain-slicked highway, spun several times, hit a road sign and flipped it into the median.
With the help of a passerby, I got the sports car back on its wheels and drove the bitch home. I called the future Mrs. and told her that I had gotten out through the top door. “My car doesn’t have a top door,” she screamed.
“It did tonight, sweetheart,” I said.
That’s why I don’t drink and drive anymore.
Another entry soon.
obi
While I was driving a truck, I didn’t drink much at all. I’d get home every three of four weeks and do my share then. When I was on the road, I didn’t drink at all. It’s difficult to do your best at a dangerous job when you’re hung over. Once or twice when I knew I wouldn’t get a load for a day or two, I bought some beer and drank a few in my truck.
Prior to that I was pretty much a functioning alcoholic. Who you gonna kill managing a restaurant? If I was working nights we closed at 2 a.m. I'd kill a few at the restaurant after the paperwork was done, then head home for a few more. Shit, I could sleep until 2, then head to work again.
I don’t know how I got through all those years without either killing someone or getting a DUI. Many a night I arrived home not knowing how I got there.
When I split from my first wife, I stayed drunk for a solid year. I lost my job, a good one, and ended up working in a gas station for three bucks an hour. Quite a comedown from a job that had afforded me an upper-middle class income.
I found that the best way to avoid a hangover was to stay drunk. For about six months I wore sunglasses with blue lenses, day and night. The world looked so nice. It was soft and warm and furry. Everything was a bathed in a hazy, shadowy blur. I loved it.
No matter that I rolled my future wife’s car one night. I had taken her home after a night of partying and immediately headed back to the party. A little more beer, a little more grass and I was ready for the ride home. I lost it in a curve on a rain-slicked highway, spun several times, hit a road sign and flipped it into the median.
With the help of a passerby, I got the sports car back on its wheels and drove the bitch home. I called the future Mrs. and told her that I had gotten out through the top door. “My car doesn’t have a top door,” she screamed.
“It did tonight, sweetheart,” I said.
That’s why I don’t drink and drive anymore.
Another entry soon.
obi
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Rain, Rain
It’s raining today, the first time in what seems like months. Just a nice, steady drizzle that all the house-plants on the deck will enjoy.
When I was driving for a living, I hated rain almost as much as I disliked snow. If I saw snow on the road I knew, along with most other drivers, that stopping would be more difficult. It’s not quite the same with rain.
Most non-professional drivers think, “Shit – it’s just water. No problem.” They’re wrong. Water on the road can be as dangerous as snow or ice.
Coming into Knoxville, Tennessee from the west on I-40 one rainy Saturday around noon, this theory was proven. Five cars, all sporting orange UT banners, had attempted to occupy the same piece of the Interstate at the same time. There’s some law of physics that says that can’t be done, and these drivers found out it’s true.
Two vehicles ended up against the right-hand guard rail, two more landed in the median and the fifth had rolled and was on it’s side in the middle of the road. Vehicle “pieces-parts” littered the highway and stunned occupants were either sitting in the median or standing next to their wrecked rides.
No more than a mile down the Interstate, two more cars and two big trucks had suffered the same fate. Damage to the automobiles was extensive. The drivers and passengers looked shaken, but unhurt.
All because of a little rain, a little hydroplaning and the urge to beat everyone else to a college football game.
More to come,
obi
When I was driving for a living, I hated rain almost as much as I disliked snow. If I saw snow on the road I knew, along with most other drivers, that stopping would be more difficult. It’s not quite the same with rain.
Most non-professional drivers think, “Shit – it’s just water. No problem.” They’re wrong. Water on the road can be as dangerous as snow or ice.
Coming into Knoxville, Tennessee from the west on I-40 one rainy Saturday around noon, this theory was proven. Five cars, all sporting orange UT banners, had attempted to occupy the same piece of the Interstate at the same time. There’s some law of physics that says that can’t be done, and these drivers found out it’s true.
Two vehicles ended up against the right-hand guard rail, two more landed in the median and the fifth had rolled and was on it’s side in the middle of the road. Vehicle “pieces-parts” littered the highway and stunned occupants were either sitting in the median or standing next to their wrecked rides.
No more than a mile down the Interstate, two more cars and two big trucks had suffered the same fate. Damage to the automobiles was extensive. The drivers and passengers looked shaken, but unhurt.
All because of a little rain, a little hydroplaning and the urge to beat everyone else to a college football game.
More to come,
obi
Friday, October 07, 2005
My First Big Truck
I was an over-the-road trucker for two years, and worked for two companies during that time. The first company didn’t pay for shit, but they did have nice equipment.
My first truck had all the bells and whistles.
A massive amount of storage space helped since I was on the road for a month at a time. That meant a lot of clothing, unless I wanted to stop to do laundry every week or run around the country in dirty, smelly clothes. There are drivers who do that, but I wasn’t one of them.
It had a bunk warmer that ran off the battery so the truck didn’t need to idle while I slept in cooler weather. Of course, when the weather got downright cold, the truck idled anyway to keep the engine and fuel warm.
There were bunk lights, reading lights and a skylight to brighten the inside of the living area. I had a roll-out desk, with storage, for doing my paperwork, a space for a small refrigerator, a nook for a TV set, a cupboard for my food supplies and a night stand for my alarm clock.
The dashboard featured an outside-air thermometer, readings that showed my fuel miles per gallon, a cup holder, a four channel stereo with a CD deck and yet more storage above the windshield.
The second company paid much better, but made up for it by equipping their truck with the bare essentials. I had half the storage space that I was accustomed to, no desk, no space for a refrigerator, no night stand and the dashboard basically showed me how fast I was going and how much fuel was in my tanks.
I stuffed my fridge into a closet and did paperwork on the steering wheel. My alarm clock rolled around on the floor. If I wanted to use my laptop, I balanced it on my knees and worked until it got too hot for my kneecaps.
It was a strange way of life, but I got to see most of the country over those 23 months. I drove over 213,000 miles and saw 47 states. Some of them, like West (by God) Virginia, I saw more times than I wanted to.
California was – interesting. LA was a nightmare as was Chicago. California’s freeways are a bitch – so crowded that you can’t move and under-marked. Chicago is notorious with truckers for having a lot of low-clearance underpasses. I spent more time lost in those two cities than all the others I delivered to.
But the job did afford me the time and subject material to write a book. I dictated notes into a mini-tape recorder as events happened, then later transcribed them and fleshed them out on my laptop.
After another 18 months of rewriting, editing, rewriting some more and a whole lot more editing, I sent it off to an agent. Soon, I hope, I’ll be able to call myself a published author.
The name of my masterpiece? It’s Mother*ucker, Life on the Road.
I'll be back,
obi
My first truck had all the bells and whistles.
A massive amount of storage space helped since I was on the road for a month at a time. That meant a lot of clothing, unless I wanted to stop to do laundry every week or run around the country in dirty, smelly clothes. There are drivers who do that, but I wasn’t one of them.
It had a bunk warmer that ran off the battery so the truck didn’t need to idle while I slept in cooler weather. Of course, when the weather got downright cold, the truck idled anyway to keep the engine and fuel warm.
There were bunk lights, reading lights and a skylight to brighten the inside of the living area. I had a roll-out desk, with storage, for doing my paperwork, a space for a small refrigerator, a nook for a TV set, a cupboard for my food supplies and a night stand for my alarm clock.
The dashboard featured an outside-air thermometer, readings that showed my fuel miles per gallon, a cup holder, a four channel stereo with a CD deck and yet more storage above the windshield.
The second company paid much better, but made up for it by equipping their truck with the bare essentials. I had half the storage space that I was accustomed to, no desk, no space for a refrigerator, no night stand and the dashboard basically showed me how fast I was going and how much fuel was in my tanks.
I stuffed my fridge into a closet and did paperwork on the steering wheel. My alarm clock rolled around on the floor. If I wanted to use my laptop, I balanced it on my knees and worked until it got too hot for my kneecaps.
It was a strange way of life, but I got to see most of the country over those 23 months. I drove over 213,000 miles and saw 47 states. Some of them, like West (by God) Virginia, I saw more times than I wanted to.
California was – interesting. LA was a nightmare as was Chicago. California’s freeways are a bitch – so crowded that you can’t move and under-marked. Chicago is notorious with truckers for having a lot of low-clearance underpasses. I spent more time lost in those two cities than all the others I delivered to.
But the job did afford me the time and subject material to write a book. I dictated notes into a mini-tape recorder as events happened, then later transcribed them and fleshed them out on my laptop.
After another 18 months of rewriting, editing, rewriting some more and a whole lot more editing, I sent it off to an agent. Soon, I hope, I’ll be able to call myself a published author.
The name of my masterpiece? It’s Mother*ucker, Life on the Road.
I'll be back,
obi
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Time Flies
Is it possible? It can’t be. I’m not that old, am I?
It’s been 50 years since James Dean died in a car crash on September 30, 1955.
I saw Rebel Without a Cause as a teenager later that year and knew I wanted to see more movies by that guy. He was great. So hip. So cool. So rebellious. And he could act too.
He wore clothes that made him look like we all wanted to look. He drove the car that we all dreamed of owning. His girlfriend in the movie(Natalie Wood)was our dream girl. He was my new hero. My first hero had been Hopalong Cassidy.
When I got home later that afternoon, I announced to my parents that I’d seen a great new actor – James Dean. I told them that I was going to see all his future movies as soon as they were released.
Then my father told me the news. “Son,” he said, “James Dean died in an automobile accident a few months ago. I don’t think he’ll be in many more new movies.”
I was crushed. How could this be? My new hero was now my new dead hero? What a kick in the nuts.
But he was in one more new movie. Giant. And what an epic performance. Still cool. Still hip. Still a rebel. I don’t remember how many times I went to the local theater on Saturday afternoons and watched it twice.
I do know that even though Rock and Roll was becoming THE music of my generation, the song that stayed in my head for months was, “This land is Texas – Lone Star State of Texas – Land I love.”
James Dean epitomized the phrase, “Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse.”
Later
obi
It’s been 50 years since James Dean died in a car crash on September 30, 1955.
I saw Rebel Without a Cause as a teenager later that year and knew I wanted to see more movies by that guy. He was great. So hip. So cool. So rebellious. And he could act too.
He wore clothes that made him look like we all wanted to look. He drove the car that we all dreamed of owning. His girlfriend in the movie(Natalie Wood)was our dream girl. He was my new hero. My first hero had been Hopalong Cassidy.
When I got home later that afternoon, I announced to my parents that I’d seen a great new actor – James Dean. I told them that I was going to see all his future movies as soon as they were released.
Then my father told me the news. “Son,” he said, “James Dean died in an automobile accident a few months ago. I don’t think he’ll be in many more new movies.”
I was crushed. How could this be? My new hero was now my new dead hero? What a kick in the nuts.
But he was in one more new movie. Giant. And what an epic performance. Still cool. Still hip. Still a rebel. I don’t remember how many times I went to the local theater on Saturday afternoons and watched it twice.
I do know that even though Rock and Roll was becoming THE music of my generation, the song that stayed in my head for months was, “This land is Texas – Lone Star State of Texas – Land I love.”
James Dean epitomized the phrase, “Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse.”
Later
obi
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Freaky
OK…OK. Enough already. Hundreds of you have sent comments asking about the “freak” accident mentioned in my first post – “The Journey Begins.” Well, not yet you haven’t, but I’m sure you will, so I’m saving you the effort.
In my second post – “My Agent” – I mentioned that I have, on occasion, zoned out. Well, the accident happened at one of those times. Timing is everything.
It was the day after Thanksgiving. After lunch, my son-in-law Greg and I went to the local Home Depot to pick up some plywood for a home project. We loaded it into my pickup truck along with a few other things we spotted as we roamed through the warehouse. “See that? Man, I just gotta have one of those.” Yep, the old impulse buys.
Here’s where the zoning out starts. We put the 4X8 sheets of plywood into the truck, and I placed the other purchases on top of them. “Yeah, that’ll hold the wood down,” I thought. “No need to tie it down.” Zone out # 1.
As we left the parking lot, I took a wrong turn and headed toward town instead of the Interstate. “No problem,” I told Greg. “It’ll just take a little longer to get home this way.” Little did I know long it would take. Zone out # 2.
As we stopped for a traffic light in downtown Asheville, the driver behind us blew his horn. “Asshole,” I thought. “The damned light is still red.” As I turned around to give him the finger I saw that he was trying to warn me. A stiff breeze had come up and the plywood was lifting out of my truck.
By the time Greg and I jumped out of the pickup, both sheets of wood were on the pavement. He grabbed one while I got the other. Now, this is where it gets more like a cartoon than real life. Not funny, just sort of surreal.
Greg had thrown his wood into the truck’s bed, but just as I lifted mine up in front of me a huge fucking gust of wind blew down the canyon created by the cityscape.
I was lifted several feet off the ground, blown across two lanes of traffic and deposited in the gutter. I could see where I was about to land, but there was nothing I could do about it.
The next 30 minutes were a blur of concerned passersby calling 911, cops, EMT’s, ambulance drivers, backboards and finally nurses trying to remove my clothing with scissors.
Following a brief exam by an ER doctor, I was off to X-ray where we discovered that I had fractured my pelvis in several places and had too many breaks in my left elbow to count.
Wheeled back to my little curtained cubicle, I watched as doctors, nurses and other ER personnel stopped to look at my X-rays. They were posted on a viewer just outside my room. One doctor even stuck his head through the curtain and said, cheerfully, “Very impressive.” I was not amused.
To make a long story short, three surgeries, eight pins, a long screw that looks like the big brother of the ones I built my deck with and assorted Teflon wires later, my elbow doesn’t work for shit. The prognosis for returning to gainful employment was, “a minimum of 6 months, if ever.”
All the bones in what was my elbow have been moved around. They stick out at weird angles and the head of the screw that runs from my elbow down into my forearm is sticking out. The screw was supposed to hold everything together, but it doesn’t. The bone that was the point of the elbow keeps moving around. That’s a great feeling.
On the subject of feeling; there is none on the outside of my forearm from elbow to pinky finger.
Now, I ask you, does that qualify as a “freak” accident or what? Rick James could have written a song about it.
Oh, have I told you that my agent wants me to write more?
Later,
obi
In my second post – “My Agent” – I mentioned that I have, on occasion, zoned out. Well, the accident happened at one of those times. Timing is everything.
It was the day after Thanksgiving. After lunch, my son-in-law Greg and I went to the local Home Depot to pick up some plywood for a home project. We loaded it into my pickup truck along with a few other things we spotted as we roamed through the warehouse. “See that? Man, I just gotta have one of those.” Yep, the old impulse buys.
Here’s where the zoning out starts. We put the 4X8 sheets of plywood into the truck, and I placed the other purchases on top of them. “Yeah, that’ll hold the wood down,” I thought. “No need to tie it down.” Zone out # 1.
As we left the parking lot, I took a wrong turn and headed toward town instead of the Interstate. “No problem,” I told Greg. “It’ll just take a little longer to get home this way.” Little did I know long it would take. Zone out # 2.
As we stopped for a traffic light in downtown Asheville, the driver behind us blew his horn. “Asshole,” I thought. “The damned light is still red.” As I turned around to give him the finger I saw that he was trying to warn me. A stiff breeze had come up and the plywood was lifting out of my truck.
By the time Greg and I jumped out of the pickup, both sheets of wood were on the pavement. He grabbed one while I got the other. Now, this is where it gets more like a cartoon than real life. Not funny, just sort of surreal.
Greg had thrown his wood into the truck’s bed, but just as I lifted mine up in front of me a huge fucking gust of wind blew down the canyon created by the cityscape.
I was lifted several feet off the ground, blown across two lanes of traffic and deposited in the gutter. I could see where I was about to land, but there was nothing I could do about it.
The next 30 minutes were a blur of concerned passersby calling 911, cops, EMT’s, ambulance drivers, backboards and finally nurses trying to remove my clothing with scissors.
Following a brief exam by an ER doctor, I was off to X-ray where we discovered that I had fractured my pelvis in several places and had too many breaks in my left elbow to count.
Wheeled back to my little curtained cubicle, I watched as doctors, nurses and other ER personnel stopped to look at my X-rays. They were posted on a viewer just outside my room. One doctor even stuck his head through the curtain and said, cheerfully, “Very impressive.” I was not amused.
To make a long story short, three surgeries, eight pins, a long screw that looks like the big brother of the ones I built my deck with and assorted Teflon wires later, my elbow doesn’t work for shit. The prognosis for returning to gainful employment was, “a minimum of 6 months, if ever.”
All the bones in what was my elbow have been moved around. They stick out at weird angles and the head of the screw that runs from my elbow down into my forearm is sticking out. The screw was supposed to hold everything together, but it doesn’t. The bone that was the point of the elbow keeps moving around. That’s a great feeling.
On the subject of feeling; there is none on the outside of my forearm from elbow to pinky finger.
Now, I ask you, does that qualify as a “freak” accident or what? Rick James could have written a song about it.
Oh, have I told you that my agent wants me to write more?
Later,
obi
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
My Agent
My agent says I need to write more. About anything. He doesn’t give a shit. “Just write,” he says. Maybe it’s so he can make money if I come up with something good. I don’t know.
It ain’t as easy as it sounds, though. I think, “OK. I’m gonna write something – at least start something - new today.” That’s the kiss of death right there. Thinking about it.
Maybe if I could just make my mind blank for an hour or so, I could come up with something. I’ve been accused, on more than one occasion, of “zoning out,” losing all touch with reality. But, I can’t seem to do it at will.
Maybe if I got really, really drunk it would work. No. My spell checker would probably have a stroke and die.
Maybe if I closed my eyes and meditated. Chant a little or sit cross-legged on the floor. Touch my “fuck you” finger to my thumb and say, “Ooooooommmmm.” Then, I’d just fall asleep. Another hour or so wasted.
I know what doesn’t work. Just sitting here thinking about what to write. My mind does go blank, but when I come to there’s still no idea dangling at the edge of my consciousness.
It must be nice to be Robert B. Parker. Able to write 40 or 50 novels, most about the same characters. All set in the same city. Double-space them, leave wide margins and six inches of blank space at the top and bottom of each page. If a 300-page Parker book was printed the same way that a James Lee Burke book was, Parker would be down to about 100 pages. The problem is, I read every damn one of his books and can’t wait for the next. Burke affects me the same way. Carl Hiassen, too.
I’m not that much dumber than those guys. At least I don’t think I am. I worked on my first book for three fucking years. I wrote it, then I revised it, then I edited it, then I revised it. Three years. I got sick of the damn thing. I got to the point that I couldn’t stand to read it any more. It bored the piss out of me. So, I sent it to an agent. He seemed to like it.
Did I mention that he wants me to write more?
Later,
obi
It ain’t as easy as it sounds, though. I think, “OK. I’m gonna write something – at least start something - new today.” That’s the kiss of death right there. Thinking about it.
Maybe if I could just make my mind blank for an hour or so, I could come up with something. I’ve been accused, on more than one occasion, of “zoning out,” losing all touch with reality. But, I can’t seem to do it at will.
Maybe if I got really, really drunk it would work. No. My spell checker would probably have a stroke and die.
Maybe if I closed my eyes and meditated. Chant a little or sit cross-legged on the floor. Touch my “fuck you” finger to my thumb and say, “Ooooooommmmm.” Then, I’d just fall asleep. Another hour or so wasted.
I know what doesn’t work. Just sitting here thinking about what to write. My mind does go blank, but when I come to there’s still no idea dangling at the edge of my consciousness.
It must be nice to be Robert B. Parker. Able to write 40 or 50 novels, most about the same characters. All set in the same city. Double-space them, leave wide margins and six inches of blank space at the top and bottom of each page. If a 300-page Parker book was printed the same way that a James Lee Burke book was, Parker would be down to about 100 pages. The problem is, I read every damn one of his books and can’t wait for the next. Burke affects me the same way. Carl Hiassen, too.
I’m not that much dumber than those guys. At least I don’t think I am. I worked on my first book for three fucking years. I wrote it, then I revised it, then I edited it, then I revised it. Three years. I got sick of the damn thing. I got to the point that I couldn’t stand to read it any more. It bored the piss out of me. So, I sent it to an agent. He seemed to like it.
Did I mention that he wants me to write more?
Later,
obi
Monday, October 03, 2005
The Journey Begins
Hot damn - six months ago I didn't know what a blog was and now I are one.
I'm a first-time author, attempting to have my baby published. I have an agent, and the blog was his recommendation.
The first-person narrative follows my life for two years. It begins in January, 2002, when I attended a 17-day school for prospective truck drivers.
I began the project not as a future book, but simply as a diary of my adventures, writing things down so that I could relate them to my family and friends when I returned home. The deeper I got into it, the more I thought that much of the information contained in my notes might be of interest to others. When I showed the project to my wife, she agreed that there might be a book in there, somewhere.
Chapters relate my experiences on a month-to-month basis during training and later on the road as a professional driver.
Truckers are seen by the general public on a daily basis, but are a relatively unknown breed. Long hours, solitary meals and weeks away from home are the norm.
The people I met along the way are a large part of the story, as well as the places I visited, the sights I saw and the mistakes I made. And there were mistakes.
This monthly diary reveals my experiences both good and bad. It follows me back and forth across the country many times while I visited 47 states and racked up over 213,000 miles in 23 months.
It ends with a non-driving, non-work related freak accident that left me unable to work and on disability.
My agent likes it, I like it and hopefully you will to. With luck, it will be published soon.
I promise another entry soon.
obi
I'm a first-time author, attempting to have my baby published. I have an agent, and the blog was his recommendation.
The first-person narrative follows my life for two years. It begins in January, 2002, when I attended a 17-day school for prospective truck drivers.
I began the project not as a future book, but simply as a diary of my adventures, writing things down so that I could relate them to my family and friends when I returned home. The deeper I got into it, the more I thought that much of the information contained in my notes might be of interest to others. When I showed the project to my wife, she agreed that there might be a book in there, somewhere.
Chapters relate my experiences on a month-to-month basis during training and later on the road as a professional driver.
Truckers are seen by the general public on a daily basis, but are a relatively unknown breed. Long hours, solitary meals and weeks away from home are the norm.
The people I met along the way are a large part of the story, as well as the places I visited, the sights I saw and the mistakes I made. And there were mistakes.
This monthly diary reveals my experiences both good and bad. It follows me back and forth across the country many times while I visited 47 states and racked up over 213,000 miles in 23 months.
It ends with a non-driving, non-work related freak accident that left me unable to work and on disability.
My agent likes it, I like it and hopefully you will to. With luck, it will be published soon.
I promise another entry soon.
obi
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