One of
the most wretched jobs I ever had involved a broker based out of
Westboro, MA. He had a truck or two, and a contract to haul huge bags
of iron-rich ore in giant poly bags in dry vans from East St. Louis
to Groton, CT where a big name in vitamins would extract the mineral
from the sediment. Typically, each morning I was scheduled to pick up
in Illinois or deliver in Connecticut, a trip of around 1,100 miles
or so. Interspersed were longer trips to points to the West Coast,
those 3-day ultra-marathons which rendered solo drivers comatose for
24 hours following.
The
grueling pace was but one factor in making this possibly the worst
job ever. Besides the 62-MPH top-out speed and lack of any radio, I
found cardboard lined the interior, stuffed along the back wall of
the sleeper, the front and door kick panels on both the passenger and
driver sides. Removing all the paper revealed the original reason for
its existence: frigid winter air whistled through the gaps in the
aging cab, twisted and no longer airtight. Raising and lowering the
cabover confirmed it didn't settle into the saddles without leverage.
An underpowered 2-stroke 6-V Silver 92 Detroit combined with a heater
that was no match for a winter in the Midwest and Northeast. That the
truck topped out at 62 miles an hour guaranteed I would never make
good enough time to grab more than 4-5 hours sleep. The rubber was a
medley of rags and radials of varying outside diameters, featuring
the spectrum of brands available for split-rims and most near their
legal wear limit which cost me the precious little sleep available as
I was blowing tires and caps regularly.
Since
my first truck had taught me that axles out of alignment quickly
ruined tires, I was up on rubber specs. Around the fourth or fifth
tire I reported blown, I got a frustrated complaint about “the new
set of matched tires” and the suspicion that I was trying to pull a
fast one on the boss. That was my second clue something was amiss.
First was a dispatcher turning the truck around within 12 miles
of the office, preventing me from picking up a paycheck.
On a
long trip from Los Angeles to Wyoming, empty per dispatch, the Jimmy
failed to work hard enough in the -40 degree weather conditions
throughout the Rockies to generate enough heat to keep frost from
forming inside, compelling me to scrape the inside of the windshield
frequently. Windchill factors plummeted to around -70, cars grew
scarce and truckers gelled at the pump as they fueled. Running a
50/50 mix of antifreeze to water, tripling the usual dose of Power
Service and adding it prior to fueling kept me on the road long after
even the State Patrol in Idaho disappeared.
Buttoning
up the winter-front didn't keep the radiator from overheating, the
contents a green Slurpee consistency surrounding the clutch fan
silhouette. Limping into an indie shop outside Pocatello, I
luxuriated in the warmth of the tiny office while the radiator thawed
and the truck dropped filthy icicles onto the garage floor. I left
the owner/mechanic behind his closed door to break the news to my
boss and get authorization for repairs. Within a few minutes, the
mechanic was gesturing for me to return, holding a finger to his lips
as he quietly opened the door for me, indicating I should listen to
the call on speakerphone. He re-framed his question: “Do you mean,
is this overheating due to driver neglect?” he asked aloud.
“That's
what I asked,” replied the disembodied voice, 2300 miles distant.
“Listen,”
replied the mechanic, looking right into my eyes and shaking his
head, “It's 40-below out here, the windchill puts it around
70-below. Even fire trucks and ambulances aren't running. Nothing has
moved for hours. The driver didn't do anything wrong. Frankly I'm
amazed your driver got this far in these conditions. It's just
freezing!”
To
which the far-away voice pleaded:”Can't you pin it on the driver
somehow?”
The
rest of that conversation was moot. The mechanic ventured his
opinion. “It's none of my business,” he exclaimed, “but you
need a new boss!”
I
holed up in a tiny ancient motel, turned the heat up, drained the hot
water tank in the shower and caught up on some badly needed sleep.
Back
on the road, I consulted my fellow truck drivers via CB radio for my best case scenario to escape this job without stranding
myself in the wilderness – in other words, how
to drive to my next job. One recommended I hold onto whatever paperwork I still retained in
exchange for my over-due pay.
No dice. Either
the previous driver was creative enough to sell his matched set of
new tires and wheels (as if anyone would spend good money on that
wreck of a truck) to recoup some of his losses, or they never
existed. The truck died in Fort Smith Arkansas a day or so following
my ultimatum to pay up or else, saving me headache over the broker
calling the authorities on me as a truck thief.
They
probably hadn't paid a driver in eons.
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