I'm sorry

Just another day in the big rig.

Well, almost.

I had had ENOUGH! Ever have one of those days? Apparently I owe an apology (kinda sorta) to a four-wheeler driver in Chicago.

As a big truck driver one of the realities of your job is that you deal with being cut off all day every day. It’s a fact of life. Often it doesn’t really bother me anymore. Some drivers fight back, I know you’ve seen them, blocking lanes to keep the four-wheeler from running up the shoulder and cutting in. Why is this an appropriate action when we wouldn’t think of cutting in front of people in the grocery store check-out? I move slower, it’s a fact of life, and my truck does as well. Fully loaded I weigh 20 times what the average mini van weighs. You can get that off the line in a hurry.

Anyway, I had had enough, as I said. Long day driving to and around Chicago, folks cutting in and out, bumper to bumper traffic, and I was running a later than I wanted so I changed my route and ended up on a road I don’t normally travel.

Get this picture. Sign says right lane closed. I move to the center 2 miles early. No sense fighting. Got an exit I need coming up in 2 ½ miles. I figure the exit is after the lane closure. Get close. Right lane is closed but not the right lane that I was in. It was the right lane that was added when traffic merged from another road. So now I am one lane further left than I need to be and the exit traffic is slowing down to get off and I’m stuck. I signal right, slow down, try to find a hole to fit in, not easy when you’re 80 feet long in bumper to bumper traffic. No one is letting me in. So I did something I never do. If figure “run it on up to the exit and just cut in front of everyone like all the four wheelers do. Sorry, I had had enough, remember?

So I did just that and lo and behold I found an opening right at the exit I could squeeze into. The car didn’t see me coming and had backed off so I had room. I hit the exit, (turn signal on all the way up the row) and he finally saw me wanting in. No way, buddy. You’re not getting in front of me, and so he speeds up to keep me out. Bad move. On his part and on my part. I should have gone on down the road, found another exit and came back. But I had…well, you know. So I just kept on coming. His choices; 1) back off and let me in, 2) stay in his lane and hope that I will not roll over top of him, 3) duck between the orange barrels and get out of that lane, 4) shoot out the tires of my truck.

He chose option #3.

He was not happy with his choice.

Neither was I.

At that exact moment I was sort of hoping for him to choose #2 but about 3 miles down the road I started feeling bad about what I had done. That’s not like me. I’m not an aggressive driver. Usually I’m a really “go with the flow” kind of guy. Just a bad day. But it reminded me that there are a lot of things about driving a big rig that the general public has no knowledge of. And everybody can have a bad day. They don’t understand why we do the things we do sometimes.

Do you wonder sometimes why we do what we do? It’s discussion time.

And to that fellow in Chicago, I’m sorry. Dinner’s on me.

The Rest? Room

Amid the recent news regarding Senator Larry Craig of Idaho and his restroom adventures at the Minneapolis Airport I thought I might share with you all some of a truck drivers adventures with rest rooms. I promise not to get gross.

You know how when you go into your favorite grocery store and the milk is right where it always is and the meat is right there where you left it last time? And even if you happen to visit that same type store in another city you can count on the milk and the meat being in the same place...usually.

And lets say you are a shopper of the Wally World and you need the rest room. It's always right there in the front of the store near the optical center and the cash registers.

Well, truck stops are the same way. If you go into a Pilot or a Flying J you can usually count on the coffee, sodas, or the rest rooms being in the same place. Usually.

I know. You can probably see where this is going.

In the beautiful town of Terre Haute, IN is a Pilot truck truck stop. Just far enough west of Indianapolis for that soda to being making it's way out of one's system. And so since I was in need of fuel on this particular day anyway, I figured a quick swing into Pilot, empty one tank and fill another.

Inside, back wall, in a rush, Men on the left and Women on the right. In a rush. Wow! This men's room has a big bright mirror with bright lights all around it. Guess it's a new type of shaving area. Except there are no sinks there. Can't stop. Must go. Where are the urinals? Can't find them. No time to think. Get in the stall. Lift the lid. Unzip...Ahhhhh. Much better.

Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. Leisurely walk out. Pass woman entering the door I just left. Why is she going in the Men's room. Turn around. Oh...I see.

Guess I'll fuel at the next stop.

In Terre Haute, IN be aware. The men's room is on the right and the women's is on the left. Take my word for it. Not like every other Pilot I've been in, but that's ok. Life goes on. But it sure was a pretty Women's room. Ya'll got it nice. And yes, I did put the lid back down.

Next:
Ohio rest area. South bound on I-71. No particular hurry. Just need to stop and "see a man about a dog". So I'm sitting there playing Yahtzee on my phone taking care of business and the stall door next to me opens and closes. I hear the usual noises associated with this type of rest room activity.

And then I here "Hi, how ya doing?"

Now I usually don't carry on conversations with people in the next stall, and if you're wondering why just ask a senator from Idaho. But I don't want to be rude so I answer. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"Doing good, What are you up to today?"

I figured that it was probably fairly obvious what I was up to at that very moment so I assumed that he meant what was I doing for the day overall.

"Just heading to Cincinnati and then on to St Louis."

And then...

"Let me call you back. I'm in the rest area and the guy in the next stall keeps talking to me."

People really shouldn't use cell phones in the rest room.

Really.

And lastly...

It was several months later that I began to remind myself that highway rest areas have become known hang outs for men seeking homosexual activities and so I decided to be a little more aware of the fact.

I-96 heading west at Howell, MI, rest area. I've seen guys hanging around there as if they are looking for something or someone but I go about my business and ignore them.

Again, in the reading room, Scrabble this time on the phone, trying to figure out what to do with the Q and the X and I notice the "signal" next door. the foot is tapping away.

I ignore it. It keeps tapping. I keep ignoring. Tap. Ignore. Tap. Ignore. Taptap. Ignoreignore.

The foot stops tapping. Guess he got the signal. I'm not interested.

Then comes a knock on the wall and I quiet, "Hey, can you help me out?" accompanied by a hand under the wall.

"Look," I say. "If you want to participate in that sort of activity that's your business. But all I'm trying to do over here is use this little stall for what it was made for and try to figure out where to put Q and X, preferably in a double word spot. So will you just leave me alone?"

Nothing.

And then...

"Uhm...I'm out of paper over here....that's all."

oh

"Uh...sorry...ok...well...you know...here's some...here's a lot...sorry...i just thought...you know...what was the foot tapping all about?"

Sheepish. "Mp3 player."

oh.

"Ok."

When you're in the rest room, either turn it down or don't tap your foot.

Really.

Translation of Trucker Language

Here is the trucker language translation.
Distinguish original from translation like this.


This is original
This is translation

Anything new?
How are you this fine day? Have you had any interesting events occur in your life since we last spoke?


Not much.
I am fine today and thank you for asking. Very little has occurred out of the ordinary.

I was running across the Buckeye yesterday.
I was driving across the state of Ohio yesterday.


Called out for a hand to tell me which word was out at the coop.
I inquired on the CB radio of another driver whether the sign at the weigh station said "open" or "closed".

Big word was out. All locked up and nobody home.
The sign indicated "closed". There were no officers in the weigh station and all the lights were off.


But there was a full grown sitting in the middle at the 11 with the porch light on and one in the Hoosier at the the 142 shooting my side.
But there was an Ohio State Trooper parked in the median at mile marker 11with his dome light on doing some paperwork and an Indiana State Trooper at mile marker 142 in Indiana with his radar gun aimed at the west bound traffic.

I didn't worry about the Hoosier full grown cause I was against the wall at 68.
I was not concerned about the Indiana State Trooper at mile marker 142 in Indiana because my truck is governed at 68 mph and trucks are allowed to drive 65mph in Indiana.


Even with a 475 Cat and 13 on the stick I was doing it all.
Even with a Caterpillar engine rated at 475 hp and 13 gears I was unable to drive any faster.

I was heading for the speed circle
I was driving towards Indianapolis


and was feeling the rumbles.
and I was feeling hungry.

I stopped at a choke n puke and filled up
I located a diner where I was able to gather some nourishment


then went a little further for some go juice.
then I drove a little further and purchased some fuel.

Got to the speed circle and took the bottom half cause the middle was shut down for me.
I arrived in Indianapolis and I traveled 465 around the city on the south side due to the construction on I-70, which travels through the center of town, not allowing vehicles over 13 tons at this time.


I stopped at the flying hook at the 4
I stopped at the Flying J truck stop at Exit 4

to catch my comic book up and get some shuteye.
to bring my log book up to date and to get some sleep.


Had a lot lizard knockin about 3 wanting to know if I needed any company. I was cool, so I said no thanks.
A prostitute that frequents truck stops knocked on my door and asked if I would be interested in purchasing her time. I said thanks, but no thanks.

A reefer had pulled in next door while I was out and there was no way for me to get back down so I headed out.
A tractor trailer unit carrying refrigerated goods parked next to me while I was in the truck stop using the rest room. With the constant noise of the refrigeration unit running I was unable to go back to sleep so I left the truck stop and continued on my journey.

I usually look for drop decks or skateboards as neighbors. Much quieter.
I usually try to park my vehicle next to open trailers that have the rear portion of the trailer lower than the front portion or next to flatbed trailers. Then I am able to see what is being carried, the open trailer allows for more air flow through my vents and they are readily observable as NOT being a refrigerated trailer and therefore much quieter to sleep by.

Got down the road a piece and a wiggle wagon had hit the get off for a quick whiz.
I ventured further down the highway and a truck pulling two trailers had taken the exit ramp in order to relieve himself without having to try to maneuver into a truck stop or parking area.

Soft shoulder so he laid it down.
The side of the road was not firm enough to support the weight of the truck and trailer and the trailers tipped over on their sides.

There were two hookers and a county mounty trying to help when I went by.
There were two Heavy Equipment Tow Operators and a County Sheriff at the scene attempting to raise the trailers upright again.


It was a busy morning cause a little later every one hit the granny lane to let a meat wagon by. Traffic was quite busy and a short time later all the traffic merged into the right slow lane in order to allow an ambulance to pass on the left.

Got to the big muddy arches that afternoon and had to get a lumper to hustle the load out.
I arrived in St Louis that afternoon and the particulars of my cargo necessitated the hiring of a laborer in order to get my trailer unloaded.


Needed that time anyway to let the comic book catch up with me.
I could use the time needed for unloading to allow the time on my watch to catch up with what I had already written in my log book thereby insuring that further travel would be accomplished in a forthright and legal manner.

But there was no bedroom in the yard so I headed out for the next pickle park.
But there was no place for me to park my truck where I would not be in the way after being unloaded so I drove towards the next available rest area.


Rolled in there with the jake on and growlin'.
I entered the rest area with my engine brake engaged thereby creating a low growling sound from the motor.

Found me a spot next to a wide load and drew the curtain.
I located a parking space next to a truck carrying over sized equipment and drew the curtains in my window and went to bed.

Another day in paradise.
Another day in Paradise.

Ducks on the hoof

I’m sitting here in my truck writing this even though I’m not connected to the internet and have no way of posting this just yet, but I figured if I write it now, then when I get home I can just add it and it’ll seem like I’m really fast. That’s a good thing, well, usually.

I’m parked in front of Supreme Windows in St. Louis and it’s eleven o’clock local time. I have a bag of parmesan herb baked pita chips that I bought from a Target store in Chicago last week and I’m snacking as I type this and watch The Sum of All Fears on the TV.

It was a pretty uneventful day. I thought I was getting a ticket this morning but the police officer went after the car on my left instead of getting me. By the time I realized that he wasn’t after me I was nearly on the shoulder. I was so relieved that I nearly laughed out loud. Not that I was doing anything worth being pulled over for but when your driving a truck there never has to be a reason to be stopped. Sometimes it’s just your turn to be checked out.

I left Cincy and headed to Indy where I was to deliver to a warehouse in which all the employees leave in the middle of the day and come back at five. I have a key but apparently someone forgot to tell me that the company had installed a new alarm system, for which I had no code. Interesting thing was that it was one of those silent alarms. Sooo…here I am unloading my bay windows and the cops come flying up, sirens wailing, lights flashing, tires squealing, guns drawn, dogs barking, cats meowing, canaries chirping and ice cream melting. The situation was quickly brought under control and no one was hurt except for a sore throat from the tear gas, but I’ll get over it.

I hit my second stop in Indy and headed on towards St Louis. Everything went well for the rest of the day. Effingham, IL is about 3 hours from Indy and that was probably where I was going to stop for the night, at least as far as my logbook was concerned. Now you need to understand, I usually go from Indy to Lafayette, IN on this run but the folks in Lafayette didn’t order anything and so it was a straight shot to St Louis for me. Having not been on the west bound side of I-70 between Indy and Effingham for a while I was not aware of some of the changes that have occurred on that road.

You see, each highway has it’s own personality. I-76 through PA is a rough windy road, I-95 up the east coast is crowded with intermittent spots of scenery, I-90 through South Dakota is mostly just grass (the scenery, not the highway itself) and I-10 across the south is so flat and boring you can fall asleep in a heartbeat if you’re not careful.

As for I-70 through the Midwest, well, it’s the Midwest, average in every respect. Some flat stretches, some small hills, mostly grass and crowded only around Columbus, Indy, Effingham and St Louis, as far as I go anyway. A fairly boring road for the most part, that is until this week.

I was coming up on Brazil, IN and a flatbed hauling crates full of ducks going to slaughter had passed me not 10 minutes before. Apparently, the driver came around a curve and discovered a deer standing in the road looking as if he was wondering where all the grass went. Braking hard, he swerved to miss the deer; they can really do a lot of damage to the front end of a Pete, and lost control, sending the truck into the ditch. Trying to save it, he got it back on the road but couldn’t keep it upright and laid her over on her side.

Ducks went everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. There were ducks in the trees, ducks in the bar ditch, ducks on the shoulder, and ducks standing on the yellow line pondering their newfound freedom. It seems that these ducks were no longer capable of flight and so they just wandered around looking a little lost and dazed.

The driver climbed out through his window and jumped to the ground, a little bruised and battered, but basically unhurt, walked a few paces away and sat down in the grass.

His truck, on the other hand, was going nowhere anytime soon, and besides that, it was blocking the entire highway, shoulder to shoulder. So the traffic behind him was going nowhere either.

In a situation like this there is really nothing you can do but sit and wait. A semi can’t negotiate the median strip like a car and since both shoulders were blocked, there was no way around this fellow. You make the best of the situation that you can. Which means that everybody gets out of his or her vehicles and, after determining that there is no more danger at hand, walks around and talks about how beautiful a sight it was to see that truck just slowly lay down in the middle of the road. There is always one or two idiots who figures that their time is more important than anyone else’s and they think we should all just walk up and pick that truck up and move it by hand so he can get home and take down his Christmas lights.

So we walked and we talked and we discussed the finer points of interstate design and we bided our time until the staties showed up. We also watched the ducks wandering around.

“It’s a shame those dead ones can’t be put to use”, said one driver. “Sure seems a shame to let em go to waste like that.”

“What’d you have in mind”, I asked.

“A barbecue would be nice”, and an idea was born.

It didn’t take long. I got on the CB and found a fellow hauling Weber grills to Colorado Springs and there was a Wal-mart driver right behind him. I was sure he would have some charcoal and lighter fluid. If he wasn’t carrying lighter fluid we could always suck a little diesel out to get the fire going, but he had some fluid so that was cool. The party was really getting going. We set up about 15 grills and got them going while a couple of little old ladies from Arkansas started plucking ducks. You should have seen the feathers a’ flying. Those old women were going to town. After a few more calls on the CB we had a bunch of lawn chairs, four large picnic tables, the entire load of a Coors truck, two medium sized wading pools and all the fixin’s for the barbecue. There was a van about a hundred yards back that had a band in it that was trying to get to California to get a break. They snagged about a half dozen generators off some RV’s that were in the line and set their equipment up about 100 feet from the grills. I believe they called themselves Pukin’ Dogs.

Just as the band was setting up the staties showed up and started looking over the situation. Since so many ducks had been killed in the wreck they were calling it a fatal accident and the highway would be down for some time as an investigation ensued. The highway had been blocked at the last exit and we were given the option of turning around and going back to the last exit or waiting it out. The majority of us decided to wait it out. Why miss a good party when it’s just getting started.

The first batch of ducks had been grilled and the Arkansas ladies were starting on the second batch when one of them mentioned to me that if the party lasted more than another two hours they would have to start killing some of the ducks that survived the accident. There just wasn’t enough to go around. I told them to do whatever they had to and carried a platter of grilled duck and potato salad up to the staties and the wrecker driver.

When I got back I sat down in a lawn chair on the side of I-70 sucking on a duckstick and working on my third adult beverage when up walked 11 gorgeous ladies in bikinis. “So this is the hold-up”, one of them said. The fellow who found the lawn chairs said, “This accident just keeps getting better and better.”

Seems this bevy of beauties were on a tour bus about 200 yards back that belonged to the Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Tour. They had just finished a competition in Columbus the night before and were headed to St Louis for the next event. Imagine that. St Louis. And me going there as well. Well, I’ll be, I though.

As the band cranked it up (they knew a lot of classic rock which was cool) the cars ladies started dancing in the road and whatever cars weren’t empty by then soon were.

Well, all I can say is you should have been there. It was the best wreck I’ve ever seen. No one was hurt except about 430 ducks and one young fellow who tripped over a croquet wicket and broke his wrist when he grabbed the side of the trampoline to try and break his fall. About 730 the staties started back down the line saying that the wreck would be cleared shortly and we needed to wrap up the party. The bikini ladies took down their kissing booth and the table where the were signing t-shirts and photos and just about anything else anyone brought them. The little old ladies from Arkansas finished pitching out all the duck innards and the rest of us broke down the tables and chairs, the wading pools, the trampoline, the croquet and miniature golf courses, and the climbing wall. The wreck had only been cleared for about 45 minutes before we finished cleaning up. We sure didn’t want to leave a mess. We were civic-minded folks you see, just making the best of a bad situation.

So if you find yourself running west on I-70 through Indiana in the next few days, keep your eyes open around the 19 yardstick. There will probably be quite a few fat buzzards feasting on duck leftovers.

And who says truckers can’t be environmentalists as well.

Breakdown

I hate being late. I absolutely despise it. I have been running the same runs now for a little over six years and I know when I'm supposed to be somewhere. I don't have any set appointment times but if I'm not at a certain spot by a certain time then I may not get it all done that day.

This looked like it was going to be that kind of day.



I had two stops in Columbus, three in Cincinnati, one in Lawrenceburg, IN, one in Indianapolis and one in Lafayette, IN that I was due to get off the truck on Monday. This was three weeks ago.



I made my first stop in Columbus and as I pulled into the parking lot I could hear air leaking around the service valve on my dash. (Also known as the parking brake knobs.) Not a good sign when you hear air.



I pulled the knobs out and the air quit, which means one thing. The air is leaking from the brake system somewhere. The next step is to find it. The first place I looked was the brake chambers. Now for those of you not familiar with the mechanical workings of a tractor trailer, each axle of a truck and trailer has two brake chambers on them. They are air operated and the system operates between 90 and 120 psi. If it falls below 60 psi then the emergency spring brakes lock up and the truck is not going nowhere. I really didn't want that to happen. You're pretty much dead in the water, so to speak, if you get below 60.

I made a few phone calls and found a shop that would take care of my problem and I figured I could limp her over there since it was only about 20 minutes away. All seemed to be going good at this point. I found the shop, checked in, promised my next child or motorcycle, whichever came first, and went to the drivers lounge to watch some TV and wait for my truck to be fixed. (The new shiny part in the picture is a brake chamber.)

The repair normally should only take about an hour to fix and so after two hours of not hearing anything from them I went back out to the desk to check on the progress. At this point, they had not even started on my truck, even though they had an available mechanic and an open bay. I asked what the problem was.

"We have to give the customer a quote first before we can start the work and we don't know if you need the whole chamber or a piggyback."(A piggyback is basically half of a brake chamber.)

"What's the difference in price?" I asked.

"A full chamber is $57 and a piggyback is $39."

"Put the full one on," I said. I figured for $18 bucks difference it was worth knowing that the whole thing was good for another few hundred thousand miles. Besides, I needed to get going and a full chamber is easier to install than a piggyback.

Back to the lounge I went to watch a snowy version of The View, (not my favorite show, always figured they should have been in front of a fence instead of a coffee table) on the one channel that would come in, and began to wait again. At times I would wander outside and check the progress of my truck and was not very pleased with what I saw.

At three hours I was once again sitting out front, smoking a cigarette, and stewing about being late. Another trucker who needed repairs done had tied his dog up to a post by the front door and I sat there fuming while this black and white mutt, who looked like he had a lot of Pit bull in him, chewed on his bone.

The day was beautiful and I should have been enjoying it cruising down the highway, but I was stuck here on a bench while some mechanic took his sweet time with my ride. I was getting hotter by the minute.

"You really need to learn to relax."

I looked around to see who had given me these great pearls of wisdom and was a bit confused to see that I was still alone. No one else was within 50 feet of me, except for that mixed mongrel, and the voice had definitely come from withing just a few feet. Or so it seemed. I began to think I was hearing things in my stressed out condition.

"Who was that?" I said glancing around.

"Just me," I heard and still saw no one but the dog.

I took a long look at the dog wondering if he had heard it too since he was staring right at me.

"Did you hear that too, boy?" I asked the mutt.

"Of course I heard it," the dog answered. "I'm the one who said it, and please don't call me "boy". I'm 37 and I find it demeaning." It was at this point that I knew I had been waiting way too long. I was mad and hot and fuming and I was hearing things. I picked up my cell phone and thought about calling my boss to tell him to send a replacement driver since I was obviously cracking up.

"Who you calling?" I heard and glanced up quickly to see the lips of the dog form the last word of the question.

I just stared at him wondering if I was really losing my mind or if a miracle was happening or if...I don't know what.

I was staring straight at the dog when he said, "Didn't your mother teach you not to stare? And it's also pretty rude not to answer a question that's been posed to you. At least my mother taught me that much."

" I was calling my boss," I said. "Obviously I'm too sick to drive if I'm hearing dogs talk."

"You've never heard dogs talk?" he asked.

"No. Can't say that I have," I said and I could not believe that I was carrying on a conversation with a dog.

"Hm," was all he said as if he found this quite curious.

"Do you often hear dogs talk?" I asked immediately realizing how stupid the question was.

"No," he said and I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. "Usually it's just rocks that I hear talking."

I stared at him wondering if just maybe he had sent a little barb my way. Yes, he had. I had just been insulted by a mixed-blood mongrel of a mutt outside a truck garage in Columbus, Ohio.

Might as well roll with it, I figured. "So why do you say I should learn to relax?" I asked obviously expecting some great pearls of wisdom to come forth. Why else would I be hearing a dog speak to me if not to gain some message meant only for me.

"You just do," he said. "I can see you're all worked up by the way you're smokin' and cussin'. Even a cat could see that you're pretty pissed about having to wait for your truck. Just relax. You can't make 'em work faster but you can make 'em work slower if you piss 'em off."

"So how do I relax when I'm pushing 4 hours behind right now?"

"I don't know. Just relax. I'm not God you know. I don't have all the answers."

Here I was talking to a dog! I could not believe it! Why else would I be talking to a dog if not to gain some message from the event, some great new thought for my mixed up life, some ecclesiastical teaching that could lead me to greater heights of wisdom than any man has ever reached. And he was just saying "Relax".

"That's it? No great insights? Just that I should relax?" I said.

"Yeah, that's it," he said.

"I figured if I'm talking to a dog you would have some great message for me."

"Why's that?" he said. "I already told you I'm not God."

"Yes, but you're a dog! Dogs don't normally talk so there must be a reason for this conversation to be taking place other than for me to just calm down a little."

"Don't know where you've been living, buddy," he said. "But I hear dogs talk all the time."

"Yes, but you ARE a dog!" I shouted.

" I think we've already established that," he said. "And I'm not sure I really like the way you keep saying that."

I had just offended the sensibilities of a black and white pit-bull mixed dog. What was my world coming to?

"I'm sorry I said. I didn't mean to offend you," I said.

"Apology accepted."

"So there's no other message other than that I should calm down."

"Nope"

"No great pearls of wisdom?"

"Uh-uh."

"No insight into the inner workings of the cosmos?"

"I'm a dog for crying out loud," he said. "You can't seem to get that through you're head!" At this point he cocked his head a little and said,"You want some insight? some wisdom?"

"Yes," I said. "Maybe that would make this whole encounter mean something profound to me."

"OK," he said, as he stood and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Here's your great pearl."

I leaned forward expecting something that might come from the mouth of Gandhi or Mother Teresa or Martin Luther King Jr.

"At least you don't have to worry about being neutered against your will," and with that he walked around to the other side of the bench and lay down with a sigh.

I sat there staring at his tail twitching in the dirt and realized that he was right.

Maybe I would just go back inside and watch some more of The View while they finished my truck.

The company I keep

One of the pluses of being a truck driver is that when you finally park for the evening and go inside the diner to eat dinner, you run into all sorts of conversations. We spend so much time alone in the truck, 10 to 14 hours a day or more, that when we finally get around those of our own kind it seems we can't shut up. When it comes to politics you can hear every imaginable variation on why the government is the way it is.
Here are some of the comments that I've heard over the last few days in various truck stops and trucker hang-outs.

• One of the jobs of the President is to control the amount of drugs that come into this country and he gets an extra $12,000, yes, that's twelve thousand, dollars a year to do this task. Why else would he spend 25 million to get a job that only pays $400,000? It's the side benefits.
• The reason gas prices are so high is because the oil companies want to make more money so that they can push through the super highway that's supposed to go between Mexico and Canada and so that they can hire cheaper labor.
• If they wanna be here illegally then at least make sure they pay taxes like the rest of us.
• We're gonna miss Anna Nicole!
• Paris Hilton should have gotten a whole lot more time than that. I bet she won't be such a brat when she gets out.
• That tornado in Kansas reminds me of the time that I got caught in one just outside of Lufkin, TX or Tulsa, OK or comin across I-10 or Nebraska or another time in Kansas.

I actually heard, this evening three different tales of being caught in tornadoes by three different drivers. All of them, obviously, survived their ordeal with the twister.

The best story I heard this evening though, by far, was from an elderly African-American gentleman who sat across the aisle from me and told me of the time he heard God tell him to go see his brother.

Sammy Bailey was my fellow diners name and he was coming through Florida bob-tailing a tractor back to the terminal. (That's running without a trailer on the truck for those who are uninitiated in the trucking world.) He said," I was sitting there parked right off 95 finishing some paperwork when ah heard a small voice say, 'Go see ya brotha.'

"Now mah brotha was just up the road a piece and ah did consider it but ah hadn't seen mah brotha in a few years and ah didn't really wanna go see him today. Mah brotha was a bishop in his church and ah hadn't been all that faithful so ah really didn't wanna listen to his preachin'. At least not in his own livin' room. But I said, 'God, is that you? If this is you, God, then send me a sign.' It was at that very moment that ah remembered that little scripture in the bible that says something about only the wicked look for a sign. Well, ah didn't look for no more sign but ah decided ah was gonna go ahead and get that truck home anyway.

"Ah pulled out on 95 and headed north and as ah got to the end of the ramp ah pulled in behind a moving van that said Bailey's moving company on the back of it and I said, 'God, there's my sign.'

"You see my brotha's last name is Bailey and so is mine for that matter."

I had to chuckle a little at that particular comment. But he went on.

"Well, ah pulled right back over behind that moving van and followed him on down the road and wouldn't you know it, he got off the exit that goes towards mah brotha's house. So ah figured here was another sign that ah was supposed to go see mah brotha.

"Ah pulled up in his yard and went and knocked on the door. His wife Erlene answered the door and she looked at me like she was seeing a ghost. She backed up down the hall and hollered for her husband. 'Bishop! You gotta come see this!'

"He come around the corner there in the hall and he was a'sayin' 'Who is it, sweetie?' An' I'll tell you right now, when he saw me you coulda knocked him over with a piece a paper.

"'What you looking at me like that for?' ah said. He said, 'We thought you was dead.' Turns out he and his wife were just about finished packing so that they could go to Decatur, IL for mah funeral."

At this point, this elderly man laughed loud enough so that everyone in the diner turned and looked and he said, "Ain't that a hoot. Ah nearly missed seein' mah brotha cause I didn't wanna listen to that voice which ah believe was God talkin to me. Maybe He was tryin to tell me that ah was already dead." And there came that laugh again.

He continued to tell us that apparently someone in Decatur, IL had stolen his identity and that person had been killed in a bar fight in Decatur. He said after his brother made sure that he wasn't a spirit, he told him that he wasn't sure which upset him more; the fact that he was dead or that he had died fightin in a bar.

Can you see why I love my job so much. If I was working in a factory I never would have met Mr. Sammy Bailey, who has the same last name as his brother, from St Petersburg, FL.