Running
for a meat hauler out of St. Paul kept me bouncing mostly between NYC
and the Twin Cities, with rare trips South to Texas and the Midwest.
My beau pushed paper from Wisconsin mills to NYC and points East
also, and we would meet up occasionally as our paths crossed. One
particular truck stop attracted many of my fellow meat haulers,
including Carl, who was sweet on a waitress there.
Carl
and my own beau worked together years earlier, had stayed in touch
over time - as much as any over-the-road driver could maintain any
social life in those pre-Facebook days. The three of us were gathered
for coffee with several other drivers, discussing our next loads and
destinations. The waitress topped off our coffees, asked
conversationally about our destinations. Half a dozen of us were
headed back to the Twin Cities to pick up loads bound for Texas,
whereupon she stage-whispered to me, “Keep an eye on Carl for me!”
Then she winked conspiratorially as she left.
A
few days later, we were empty outside
Dallas – Fort Worth,
awaiting dispatch to our next destination. Company policy was to pay
room charges beginning the second night, incentive for dispatchers to
keep trucks loaded, and keep truckers from finding their own loads.
Second day, everyone checked in at the local motel where all the meat
haulers awaited dispatch.
The
heart of Texas gets their fair share of winter
weather, with drifting
snow and
temperatures either side of zero. Heading
out to warm up the rig following next
morning's
dispatch, I noticed Carl's truck already running. I knocked on his
room door, and he let me inside where it was warm while he finished
with the hairdryer. I
watched the weather forecast on the muted TV. The phone rang.
Trucker
motels don't always attract the Knights of the Road. In fact, some
rather unsavory characters traveled the highways in the days before
reciprocity between agencies eliminated multiple drivers licenses and
tracked felons a bit better. Trucker motels weren't the place to
stop with your family, if you get my point. So the motel maids would
call the room next door as they worked to ensure that the room was
empty before arriving to clean.
I
picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Who
is THIS?!”
demanded the Anglo voice at the other end.
I
introduced myself, asked
who I was addressing.
“This
is his WIFE! Where's CARL?!”
she demanded.
“Oh,
I didn't know he had a wife,” I said, remembering the waitress.
“He's drying
his hair. I'll
get
him for you.”
Carl
put down the hairdryer, and I left the room so he could speak
privately to his wife. As several of us were headed to the packing
plant some 250 miles distant, we traveled in a herd in case of
breakdown on a remote stretch.
Carl
finished up and off we went.
A
week or two later, I crossed paths with my beau, and he told me a
tale.
Now,
I thrived on Agatha Christie mysteries, Clive Cussler novels and
assorted other works of fiction. Of absolutely no interest to me were
romances or TV soaps. I never read supermarket tabloids or celebrity
rags, just wasn't interested in non-fiction outside the occasional
biography. But many people adore soap operas.
My
beau, traveling between Wisconsin and the East Coast on his regular
runs stopped for coffee at that truck
stop,
where Carl's waitress poured
coffee and filled him in on her version of the conversation between
us. According to her, “that little b****” answered the phone in
Carl's room, obviously after a wild night with Carl, and that waitress was
going to get even by propositioning one of Carl's friends.
My
beau turned her down (he said), but the next chapter featured her
victory in this endeavor. Carl, for his part, felt that the score was
NOT even (at least, not where I was concerned) and set out to even
things up with one of her coworkers, in
yet another installment of this drama.
Last
I heard, they were still
writing that tale, somewhere
between scoring more points against each other and make-up
encounters. To
no one's surprise, I decided to take my coffee elsewhere, to avoid
spit in my cup.
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