03.27.2012
My truck broke down outside the Tri-Cities in eastern Washington, one Thursday afternoon in late Fall. Parts ordered arrived Monday, repairs were made Tuesday. Onions scheduled for an overnight delivery were 5 days late.
When I finally pulled in to the warehouse, set among more endless, aromatic onion fields, the receiving manager was visibly upset. As the load was C.O.D., I needed to get the check before unloading commenced. The manager declined, claiming he needed to verify the condition of the produce. I recommended we let the broker decide, headed inside to a nearly empty office, and reached for the phone. Whereupon he strode swiftly up to me and, to my utter astonishment, grabbed me around the waist with one of his massive arms, picked me up like a sack of those onions, and proceeded to stuff me into a supply closet.
As the door was closing, I got my footing and launched a kick at the panel, and hit the deck at a sprint. Out the warehouse bay door, headed back to my truck, I rounded the corner and saw, through teary eyes (remember the surrounding onion fields?) two men swinging open the back doors of the trailer, and one fellow who had climbed up the ladder on the drivers' side of the truck and opened the door.
Where he met Kilo, who hurled all of his 65 pounds straight at the intruder's chest, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. I spun to confront my pursuer, who abruptly halted in his tracks. I yelled that I was going to drive that load straight out the gate, open or not, tears from the pungent onions streaming from my blurry eyes. He countered with a threat to call the local authorities, whereupon I chimed in that if he didn't call them, I certainly would. From outside the gate.
But with the appearance of Kilo, the tables had turned. I did get that check, and took it to a very understanding truckdriver-turned-truckstop-owner, who listened to my tale, including my suspicion that check wouldn't clear. He smiled a Jack-o-lantern grin, held out his giant hand, and vowed that check would clear.
Kilo dined on T-Bone steak that night, rare, just the way he liked it.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
03.18.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Kilo, Sacramento
03.18.2012
That first summer, I hauled seafood up and down the West Coast. Kilo, a black lab mix belonging to my brother, accompanied me on most of my trips as a deterrent to over-zealous paramours and ne'er-do-well types.
One stop, a day's drive from all the rest of my deliveries, was one of those giant grocery chain distribution centers. Only 10 sample boxes were ordered, and an entire day could be saved if I could drop them on the Sunday night shift.
Circling the complex revealed no unlocked gates, distant workers loading their trailers were deaf to my shouts. I parked in an expanse evidently used for this purpose, facing East, to awaken early with the sun in my window. Giving up my efforts to get rid of my small cargo, I took the dog for a walk. Powdery orange-brown particles arose with each step we took, the impressions of beach sandals and paws clear in the silt-like grit that stretched, like the fields, all around us.
Returning to the truck, I stopped by the front office. Hours were listed on the glass. Holding my hand against the pane to shield from the glare of the setting sun, I leaned against the door to peer in. And the door gave way.
I padded in, dog at my side, the dust tracks on the tile floor. Stopping at the first desk, I picked up the phone, scanned the desk for a list of extensions to the warehouse, loading dock, tried dialing but got no connection. I moved to the hallway beyond the desk, noting time cards, confirmation of the workers I saw on my original circuit. The double doors leading to the warehouse beyond, however, would not give way.
So we returned to the unmarked lot that served as truck parking, where I lifted Kilo up into the truck, and settled myself into the drivers seat, my legs propped on the dashboard and an Agatha Christie mystery for company.
In about 8 minutes, I noticed flashing police lights, no sirens, approaching in a phalanx along the 4-lane boulevard in my mirror. Half a dozen cruisers halted in a semi-circle at the darkened front door of the complex. Emerging with guns drawn, German Shepherds straining at their leashes, they cautiously entered the building. A few remained outside. 20 minutes passed. Those inside rejoined their colleagues in the dusty lot, and all the dogs were handed off to a junior officer for walking. I noticed the clear impressions of beach sandals and paws leading away from, and returning to, my truck.
As the dog-walker passed my truck about 100 feet to my left, I leaned out in the hot night and asked what all the uproar was about. "Silent alarm went off," he responded. "Did you see anything?"
"Nope."
That first summer, I hauled seafood up and down the West Coast. Kilo, a black lab mix belonging to my brother, accompanied me on most of my trips as a deterrent to over-zealous paramours and ne'er-do-well types.
One stop, a day's drive from all the rest of my deliveries, was one of those giant grocery chain distribution centers. Only 10 sample boxes were ordered, and an entire day could be saved if I could drop them on the Sunday night shift.
Circling the complex revealed no unlocked gates, distant workers loading their trailers were deaf to my shouts. I parked in an expanse evidently used for this purpose, facing East, to awaken early with the sun in my window. Giving up my efforts to get rid of my small cargo, I took the dog for a walk. Powdery orange-brown particles arose with each step we took, the impressions of beach sandals and paws clear in the silt-like grit that stretched, like the fields, all around us.
Returning to the truck, I stopped by the front office. Hours were listed on the glass. Holding my hand against the pane to shield from the glare of the setting sun, I leaned against the door to peer in. And the door gave way.
I padded in, dog at my side, the dust tracks on the tile floor. Stopping at the first desk, I picked up the phone, scanned the desk for a list of extensions to the warehouse, loading dock, tried dialing but got no connection. I moved to the hallway beyond the desk, noting time cards, confirmation of the workers I saw on my original circuit. The double doors leading to the warehouse beyond, however, would not give way.
So we returned to the unmarked lot that served as truck parking, where I lifted Kilo up into the truck, and settled myself into the drivers seat, my legs propped on the dashboard and an Agatha Christie mystery for company.
In about 8 minutes, I noticed flashing police lights, no sirens, approaching in a phalanx along the 4-lane boulevard in my mirror. Half a dozen cruisers halted in a semi-circle at the darkened front door of the complex. Emerging with guns drawn, German Shepherds straining at their leashes, they cautiously entered the building. A few remained outside. 20 minutes passed. Those inside rejoined their colleagues in the dusty lot, and all the dogs were handed off to a junior officer for walking. I noticed the clear impressions of beach sandals and paws leading away from, and returning to, my truck.
As the dog-walker passed my truck about 100 feet to my left, I leaned out in the hot night and asked what all the uproar was about. "Silent alarm went off," he responded. "Did you see anything?"
"Nope."
03.18.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: The Beginning
03.18.2012
I sort of backed into truck driving. Sitting with longshoremen and other 4 AM breakfasters at the tideflat diner one morning, one regular customer at the counter suggested I sign up as an apprentice with the crane operators local. So I did. Awaiting a letter of acceptance (rejection never crossed my mind), picking up a bit of longshore work as an extra, I discovered an evening and weekend commercial driving course at the Vocational College.
I sort of backed into truck driving. Sitting with longshoremen and other 4 AM breakfasters at the tideflat diner one morning, one regular customer at the counter suggested I sign up as an apprentice with the crane operators local. So I did. Awaiting a letter of acceptance (rejection never crossed my mind), picking up a bit of longshore work as an extra, I discovered an evening and weekend commercial driving course at the Vocational College.
The American Civil Liberties Union nudged the Operating Engineers 3 years after I filed a claim. By then, I was well on my way to racking up my first million miles.
Despite the dangers inherent in traveling solo among some truly questionable characters, I was spared any genuine injury, although I had some very close calls. So many tales well up from those days that they would fill a liars journal many times over. Many are too ridiculous to be made up. I hope you will enjoy them with me as I reminisce.
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