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."