Always Plan Your Exit Upon Arrival

My troubles begin when I hit the yard at 10 p.m., my Chevy’s headlights illuminating the absence of Dirty Thirty, the stretched-out Freightliner I usually drive. I might’ve known, being as bad luck follows worse and I’d spent an unlucky evening trying to get my damned pickup running properly. And around 9 p.m., as I finally conquered the sticking exhaust valves, my wife came outside to tell me my alarm clock had gone off.

Now on zero sleep and frustrated by my still poorly running Chevy, I park, grab my clipboard and lunch pail and head toward the warehouse to see what the fuck gives.

Inside, it’s the usual scene of outbound orders and inbound freight, chaotic to the uninitiated eye, scripted efficiency to those in the know. Half a million pounds of fresh fruits and vegetables sit on the dock, awaiting shipping or receiving. Pallet-jacks and speeding forklifts weave around the racks and refrigerated rooms, horns blaring and beeping under the florescent lights. Bleary-eyed warehousemen and truck drivers mill about, stacking crates, wrapping pallets in shrink film, joking, laughing, cussing, yelling. I wait for a break in the action, cross the main aisle and walk up a row of 1000-lb broccoli pallets toward the massive flannel-shirted man charged with running this rag-tag band.

“Hey, Tons-of-Fun,” I jab a greasy finger in his ribs as he turns to face me. “What’s the story on my truck?”

“Oh, hey Driver!” he booms, slapping at my finger with his clipboard and grinning maniacally through a bushy blonde goatee, his walleyed-stare coming into alignment as he gazes down at me. “Good news! Some dipshit swung into the yard last night and didn’t realize he needed to back his trailer in. And when he tried to turn it around, he wiped out Thirty’s driver-side mirror, so she’s over at Grommet’s waiting to get repaired.”

“These fucking long-haulers…” I sigh, pulling my stocking hat off despite the cold-air and scratching my achey head. “Don’t back up more than once a week, good for nothing but holding a steering wheel… Fuck, I wish Wes’ was here!”

“Who the fuck’s Wes’?!” His brow knots in a gesture of challenge.

“Nobody. Keep your blouse on!” I pause, shaking my head as the memory of Wes’ comes up through the endless miles of time, a wizened old trucker, Marlboro clamped between thin, dry lips, eyes squinting through an ancient Peterbilt windshield at a destination somewhere over the horizon. “Wes’,” I explain, “is the old-school driver who showed me the ropes. He used to say, ‘Always plan your exit upon arrival. It’s a sorry excuse for a driver who goes backing out of something ass-first’.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Tons-of-Fun lets go with a snort like a Bull Elk, his left eye wandering off-kilter as an errant loader streaks by. “Lookout, dumbass!” he roars, then turning conversationally to me, “That’s pretty good! I’m gonna use that!”

“Good advice for truckin’ and hard advice for livin’,” I nod.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he says, slamming a massive paw onto my shoulder, “you’ll never guess what you’re exiting the yard in tonight?” 

I tilt my head to the side and drop my jaw a little. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope!” He howls, ducking his huge head to mount his battle-scarred forklift. “Bills are in the office and your special lady’s in the yard! Slam your hand in the door and screw your boot to the floor!” And off he goes, laughing like a hyena, crewmen scattering before his screeching horn.

So I head out into the balmy spring night, not even bothering to check the equipment roster for a spare tractor. If Tons-of-Fun says I’m driving Screamin’ Jimmy, then rest assured, he doesn’t have any further interest in discussion. Despite being six and a half-feet of beer-fat over work muscle and bearing more than a passing resemblance to a freezer full of moose-meat, he’s damn good at balancing the demands of his job. Rest-assured he’s checked for any other option I might have. And tonight I have none.

I find Screamin’ Jimmy lurking under a leafy maple tree over in the far corner of the yard, rainbow rivulets of oil swirling lazily in the puddles under her running boards. She’s an International of some indeterminate ’80s vintage, with an ancient Detroit Diesel under the hood, a wide-ratio ten-speed, pad suspension, and a cab that fits like a farm-girl’s jeans. I tilt her hood, dump about three gallons of oil into her tired old motor, fill her fuel-filters with diesel since she’s forever losing her prime, and unload half a can of ether down her slobbering throat. Then I squeeze into the cab and hit the starter button. After a few coughing attempts, she roars into life, her single stack belching soot-black clouds into the pissy heavens.

I check her lights and wipers—amazed they work—and throttle across the yard to my trailer, my back already complaining against the rock-hard ride and the cramped little seat. Hell, it won’t be that hard of a night, I figure, as I hook up my air-lines and creep off the dock. I learned in trucks harder than this…

Boy howdy, when I figure wrong, I figure wrong like a nun in a titty bar.

Thing about the old Detroit’s is how efficiently they convert diesel into noise and heat. When Tons-of-Fun advised I smash my digits in the door-frame and affix my foot to the fuel-pedal, he meant exactly that: If you want to wring any kind of performance out of those gutless wonders, you gotta make ’em scream like drunken prom date. It’s been that same way since the late ‘thirties when Detroit’s were still called GM Diesels, hence the ‘Jimmy’ moniker. Sometime before it fell off, the tag on Screamin’ Jimmy’s cylinder-head claimed a laughable 350 horsepower—and that running at red-line with a tailwind and a steep grade—whereas Dirty Thirty puts almost twice as much to the road without any fuss. 

And Sweet Jesus, the temperature! It’s a warm, wet, late-spring night as I claw my way north on Interstate 5, and it dawns into a warmer, wetter Western Washington day—heavy rain interspersed with mist, drizzle, and an easy 65 degrees. In the cab, it’s got to be 140 with the humidity. After all, I’m smashed behind a red-hot 2500-lb cast-iron engine with a thousand pounds of similarly sizzling transmission under the floor. There’s no a/c to be had and I have a ten-stop run to crank out and 537 miles to drive. I skin down to my skivvies and a t-shirt, and search for a happy medium with the window: Somewhere between soaking and sweltering.

Between my pre-exisiting exhaustion and the sauna-like cab, I start in on a serious coffee binge just north of Castle Rock, pulling on my pants and visiting every gas-station, truck-stop and roadhouse through the dark, damp night of Tacoma, Port Orchard, Silverdale, Port Townsend, Sequim and Port Angeles, where I make my final delivery. Wes’ would be proud, I figure, the freight went where it had to go, the customers are happy and I’m paid by the hour. I climb back in the cab, get situated and begin grinding out the long miles to home.

I make Tacoma at about 10 a.m., steamed to the point of delirium and awake now for 26 hours. The rain lets up and just as I start to think I’m catching a break, I am wracked by urgent gastrointestinal rumblings. Coffee being full of caffeine—long known for it’s assistance in the arena of evacuation—and me having downed an easy seven or eight pints of the stuff, I hastily consider my options.

One of the many difficulties of driving a semi is finding a place that offers healthy food, strong coffee, clean restrooms and enough parking to accommodate a 70-foot semi. A judicious driver—and I count myself squarely as such—keeps a constantly updated mental-map of places meeting the above criteria. Starbucks and Chevron Stations are particular favorites of mine, both serving decent java, carrying a variety of cereal bars, fruit juices, and daily newspapers—and every bit as important: Offering clean, commodious single-occupancy restrooms. Without putting too fine a point on it, there are few aspects of being a truck-driver as repugnant as a morning visit to the long row of crowded stalls at busy truck-stop.

The ability to close and lock a proper door, turn on a fan and privately take care of one’s personal itinerary is an aspect of civility denied the common trucker. And after my barbarous night, I had a pressing need for a little amenity in my ablutions. So pressing in fact is my need that I opt for a Starbucks I’ve never visited and realize as I come downshifting into range of the driveway that I’ll never be able to turn around in their parking lot.

With the words of Wes’ again ringing in my ears, I swing Screamin’ Jimmy out over six-lanes of traffic and line up the ass-end of my 48′ trailer with the driveway. I stuff her in reverse, drop the hammer and back neatly down one side of the lot, my howling diesel accompanied by a chorus of horns from the angry motorists on Pacific Highway. I casually shut her down and shimmy into my trousers and boots, grab my coffee cup and make a beeline for the bathroom.

Inside, it’s the usual scene after the morning rush. A few straggling patrons glance up to take a gander at the crazed trucker who just momentarily blocked a state-highway. The counter girls wipe down the gleaming machinery. Some sort of new-age Kenny-G music wafts from the speakers.

“What can I get started for you?” asks a barista, intercepting me as I stride purposely past the counter. She’s a beautiful blonde girl of maybe 20, curvey, slender and from the look on her delicately-built face, she isn’t impressed with my expert backing-skills.

“Just a regular ol’ cup of coffee, please,” I answer, feeling like an incredibly foul, sweaty and corpulent hillbilly in comparison to her willowy, youthful grace.

She offers me a blank stare, regular ol’ not being part of her lexicon.

“Um, a Double-shot Americano, I think you guys call it?” I offer, hoping my knowledge will somehow make up for the fact I reek of diesel. “And I’m really sorry to ask, but could you rinse out my travel mug?”

“If you can give a minute, I would be glad to,” she replies, her brilliantine teeth flashing shark-like as she smiles and takes my sticker-plastered travel mug between thumb and forefinger. I cringe and take a second to consider the wisdom of the “I Heart Tits” decal affixed to it’s coffee-splattered body. “Do you have a name for that Americano?”

“Just Dave,” I tell her, trying to look anywhere but at her chest, desperately grabbing a Tacoma News-Tribune and stopping myself just short of announcing that I’m going to use the restroom. “Just Dave.”

“Double Americano for Just Dave,” she calls out, her warm, efficient smile still plastered to her face as I hand her a a ten. I don’t even bother waiting for change.

In the restroom, I shut the door and breathe deeply. It’s every bit the clean and commodious facility I’d expected: Sink, toilet, towel-dispensers, changing-table and plenty of warm, sanitary tile. And after that terrifying exchange, I’m moved to wash before attending to up other matters. Rather than get water all over my shirt and be forced to face that baleful beauty of a barista, I pull my t-shirt over my head, toss it on top of the paper-towel dispenser and spend several minutes working a fine, soapy lather over my face, chin, neck, hands and wrists. I rinse with copious amounts of gloriously clean, hot water, followed by equal amounts of bracing cold, feeling utterly refreshed for the first time since I started this run.

Then I realize there’s no paper towels to be had. No worries, I figure, calmed enough by the cleansing to take care of that other order of business. I’ll dry off by the time I’m done, right? So rather than pull my shirt back on, I drop my drawers, mount the porcelain throne, turn to the International News Section, and with Kenny G warbling inoffensively away in the background, I commence doing that thing we all do.

Mercifully, there is still a full roll of toilet paper and presently, I set the News-Tribune aside, grab a handful of two-ply, allow myself a courteous left-cheek lean, so as I might deftly apply the proper motion…

And just then, the door-knob rattles, turns, and in walks the blonde-girl, mop in hand, same look of innocent grace on her finely-featured face. “OHMIGOD!” she yells, her voice alarmingly full against the tiled walls as she finds me wide-eyed, damp-faced and bare-chested with my pants around my ankles—nude for all intents and purposes—perched atop the shitter, in the midst of a rather personal moment.

“OHMIGOD” she yells again, quickly beating her retreat. “OH. MY. GOD!”

And then I am alone with nothing but the wise words of Wes’ ringing in my rapidly-reddening ears.

Momentarily, I finish matters up, pull on my t-shirt and wash my hands again.

Out in the restaurant, Kenny G’s perpetual sax has given way to the saccharine screeching of Colbie Caillat, the few remaining customers are eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion or fear and the baristas have all assumed that horrendous corporate smile. Flanked by an equally willowy young man, the blonde girl is safely behind the counter where my travel mug now rests, steaming seductively, alerting all who may pass by that yes, the owner of this mug indeed loves tits.

I saunter over and nod to the blonde girl.

“Just Dave,” I tell her, raising my cup and turning toward the restaurant and the door. “Just Dave.”