Here I Sit – Edwardsville

I’m a long way from The Big Rotten Apple. After waiting an hour and a half at the Vince Lombardi Travel Plaza on the New Jersey Turnpike for a load I finally got one. By the way, this service plaza had several hundred trucks parked and another few hundred cars in the four-wheeler section. It was the absolute busiest rest stop I had ever seen. I asked a maintenance guy if it was always like this. Lifting the full bag out of a trash receptacle, he just nodded.

I went inside the plaza that had half dozen franchise food places and got myself a Starbucks since I hadn’t had a coffee in more than a day. It was as good as Pilot coffee. I was impressed.

On the way out there were two society looking older ladies and one of them was telling the other in a very upscale Yankee accent (there was a lot of that in this area – wonder why) that they would be having dinner in the city before they drove up to the Hamptons.  Wooo. Swohawk was impressed.

I was to pick up a load of Hersheys product in Hazelton, Pennsylvania at 5 p.m. that very afternoon. Unfortunately, I would not be able to make it by then given the 90 minute delay in getting the assignment. I messaged that I was on my way and would get there as soon as I could.

As I pulled out of the lot I realized that I would have to clean out the trailer. Ya think I could spot a truck wash along the way?  Nahhhh.

It doesn’t take long once you’re west of New York City in the New Jersey hinterland for the scenery to go from Bronx grime to Manhattan skyline glitz to forested countryside. The Delaware Water Gap is really quite beautiful. And it stays rustic and beautiful most of the way through Pennsylvania on I-80. Seeing no truck washes and very few truck stops, I pulled into the last truck stop before I-81 where I would cut to the south.

Climbing into the trailer, I had a sinking feeling. It was nasty. Not just a dusty, dirty coating of crud on the back half of the trailer but there were big patches of what looked like mold growing. I wasn’t going to be able to just sweep this one out. Walking into the truck stop fuel desk I asked a trucker walking the other way if he knew of a truck wash within 20 miles. Almost. The one he told me about was 50 miles past where I had to turn off.

I asked the clerk at the fuel desk if he knew of one. Why yes he did. And it was right on the way. I saddled up and put the pedal to the metal. I was bumping up against my 62 mile an hour limit the whole way. I found the truck was and it was almost across the street from the Hersheys plant. Cool.

The nice young Indian (Punjab not Native American) dude took care of my trailer and collected my T Check. He was multitalented. And even though I told him it was the nastiest trailer I had ever seen, he laughed and said I ain’t seen nothin’.

Starting up my truck to pull out of the wash bay, the QualComm chick told me I had a message waiting. I stopped and called it up. I was informed that my load had been cancelled and that I was slated for another load from the same place at  5 p.m. The. Next. Day. Steam slowly curled out of my ears.

I called dispatch, it was after regular business hours so I steeled myself for a long hold. After only a couple of minutes my target answered the phone and I unloaded. I was not a nice guy. Of course none of it did any good. The load was gone, but the ray of sunshine was that I would probably be able to pick up the new load by midday. Either way I’d have to find a place to spend the night.

With my ear steam slowly dissipating, I drove out of the truck wash, past a teensy truck stop just across the street which was already full. I was going to drive back east to the truck stop where I was going to sweep out my trailer but my smartphone truck stop finder app found a Pilot that was a bit closer. It too was full, but I found an almost legit place to park on one of the driveways between the rows. I didn’t think anybody would chase me out of the spot, howsomever my truck ended up on a very noticeable incline and would be tilting to the left. I spent the night with my head significantly lower than my feet but survived.

The next morning I was just coming out of the mens room with contacts in and freshly brushed teeth and was on my way to get a coffee. Now one of the little known facts about many truck stops, especially Loves and Pilot truck stops, is they play music, oldies, that takes me back my youth. Today they were playing songs from the 80’s (okay – just past my youth) and I heard Men at Work’s “Land Down Under” as I was approaching the front desk. Just then what looked to be the manager say to everybody waiting in line, “Tell you what. A contest. I’ll treat the person who can answer this question to a 16 ounce coffee.”

The question? “Who can tell me what vegemite is?”

“It’s the national spread of Australia – they spread it on crackers and it’s kind of yeasty stuff,” I answered. BOOM! Free coffee refill!

I picked up my load of KitKat bars and Rolos (no samples) and was on my way to the Illinois side of St. Louis. An uneventful trip. I spent the night at Loves in Clayton, Indiana, and grabbed a shower. I discovered that I had made Platinum Club! Unlimited drink refills and showers for the month of June! Woohoo!

I woke up early and made my delivery in Edwardsville. Another simple drop and hook, and I actually got a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup on the way in. It wasn’t Hersheys Milk Chocolate, but PBCs are my second favorite candy treat. In fact, this was the nicest drop I think I have ever made. The people at the security shack were very positively bubbly and smiling as were the people at the receiving office.

After the drop I had only to wait to see what I might be hooking to. Alas, I would be catching a hook, but it was not scheduled until 1:30 … tomorrow. Sigh. I checked back with the shipping office and they were confident that it would be ready by 8 a.m.

Fine, except that the load isn’t scheduled for delivery until the 9th at 7 a.m., two days away. Two days to cover 800 miles. Sigh. I messaged my worthless DM and inquired as to whether I might be able to make the delivery early. He responded that he didn’t think so. Thanks for going the extra mile for me dickhead. I’ll call the receiver sometime tomorrow but don’t expect a positive reply. This receiver is not trucker friendly.

Well, at least it will get me within 200 miles of home and my next stop is Houston and five or six days of time off. And just to show you that no matter how bad you have it there’s always somebody who has it worse, on one of my walks back to my bobtail from the FJ, a little round man gave me a “How’s it goin’?”

“Not bad,” I replied and before I could take another step he informed me that he’d had the week from hell. He was in an accident in Spokane at the beginning of the week and on the way into St. Louis his brake drum blew up and he ended up hitting another car. A twofer bummer. And all I am, for the moment, is bored spitless.

So here I sit at the Flying J. Thankfully I have enough bandwidth on my 3G smartphone to watch a movie, Punisher: War Zone (juicilly violent, but not bad) and a couple of Longmires. And I’ll be able to sleep in. I can get practiced up for my time off.

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The Big Rotten Apple

My first trip to New York City lived down to my expectations. I was not terribly excited when I got the load assignment but figured a load was a load and I needed to do a New York trip with the worst trucking company in the world. It would probably make for a great story. I’ll let my readers (reader?) be the judge.

I picked up a load of meat in Plainwell, Michigan at 3 a.m. It was gently raining as I pulled up to the guard shack. They thoughtfully sent me to the wrong place. The guys in the wrong place sent me to the right place. That’s about 200 yards of fast walking in the rain. Oh, and lightning was rending the sky.

At the right office they quickly sent me to the right door. Unfortunately, there was already a trailer parked there. I called the right office and reported that fact. So sorry. A yard dog would be around directly to tug the orphaned trailer away.

After “directly” strung out to 20 minutes, I called again.

He was there within three minutes.

The loading took less than an hour and I was off on a delightful drive to as far east in Pennsylvania as I could get in the hours I had or before falling asleep. We’ll call it a draw. Through the whole span of Ohio it rained. Through the 45 miles past Cleveland it was torrentially raining. Add 30 miles of construction, and you can guess the condition of my sphincter.

On the positive side, all that rain and construction kept me alert. When the rain ceased as I crossed into Pennsylvania, the fatigue gradually worked its way up to my eyes. I made it as far as a Flying J off I-80 at exit 178 before I limped into my parking space for the night – although by that time it was day.

I didn’t even do a Post Trip Inspection. I logged myself into the sleeper berth and commenced to do what its name suggested. With a single wakeup at around 9:45, I slept until 1:30 p.m. That’s when I was instructed via a message to head into NYC soon as my 10 hour break was up. After a phone conversation to clarify things for me, I learned they were asking me to:

1. drive to the delivery legal;
2. go on break,
3. make the first two deliveries – 3 and 8:30 a.m. – while I was technically off duty;
4. then go on duty after my new 10 hour break and make the final delivery 43 miles to the east on Long Island.

Works for me.

The folks in Safety provided me with the approved route to Hunts Point in The Bronx. The good old heading home at the end of weekend traffic made for a 30 minute experience through the toll gate and over the George Washington Bridge. Glad I had EZ Pass or it would have been much longer.

SwoNote: I did not take this photograph (smile).

More traffic backups as I corkscrewed my way down from the upper deck of the bridge to I-287 South on the western edge of Manhattan Island. My impeccable timing had me driving that stretch of highway just before a Yankees game.

After I got past Yankee Stadium, it opened up but by that time I was leaving the interstate and heading to the seamy underbelly of Da Bronx. Nasty, bumpy, grimy streets took me past nasty, pimpled, grimy people of all sizes and shapes. I fervently hoped nobody would run into me and carefully made my way through the half dozen turns that got me – finally – to Hunts Point Market, which is the largest wholesale food market in the [they don’t really say – oh, wait] THE WORLD.

Interesting side note, when I googled Hunts Point and then clicked on “Images” this is what I found:

Related searches:hunts point ghetto

hunts point crime

hunts point hookers

hunts point distribution center

hunts point graffiti

hunts point prostitution

Other than the chick(?) at the bottom right, none of it looked like any of these photographs.

After a wrong turn into the back of the Produce Market, I was directed by the nicest guy I’d met in days, a security dude at the back gate, to the Meat Market just up the street. There I paid my $25 in cash to be allowed into the hallowed grounds and was directed to the back where I would find a place to park for the night.

It was dusk but still light enough to see rows and rows of buildings that looked like they were built in the early 1900s although Wikipedia says the place opened in 1974. It was ratty, grimy, bumpy and yet strangely fascinating. As nasty as everything looked I didn’t feel unsafe.

I found a parking spot and another Stevens driver told me that the only company open was a quarter mile hike and they would let me use their bathroom. I made the hike but there was noone to let me into the men’s locker room, So I took care of business in their lot and made my way back to my truck where I set the alarm for 2:15 a.m. and hit the sack.

I was startled awake by my smartphone at 11:45 – a weather alert. Never had that happen before. I ignored it, and was startled awake again at the appointed time. There was nobody at my receiver so I waited 30 minutes and went back. There was action in Hunts Point and things were heating up. Hundreds of trucks, ready and able to deliver to the almost 50 wholesalers that populated the market. At 3 a.m. Sam, a black dude who had a West Indies accent, took my Bill of Lading and directed me to park at a dock across from his location.

Really?

Yes, he said. They had storage space over there too.

So I snaked through the dock lanes and backed up to the open dock with my doors open. Bear in mind that I was refrigerated and when the doors are open, the refrigerated air yearns to escape. After 20 minutes of a continuously warming trailer, and with two more deliveries to make after this one, I walked back to the office. There was now a white dude actually sitting in a little office who looked just tickled to be there.

“So I’m backed in across the way,” I said.

“What do you want from me?” the Yankee prick replied.

If Sam had checked me in, I would be taken care of. I walked back to my truck and within five minutes I felt the unloading begin. Perhaps 30 minutes later, Sam gave me my paperwork. I closed things up and went back to park. It was a serious challenge getting out of my space. I couldn’t make a left turn or a right turn.  After a little cogitating, I found that if I pulled forward through a hole in the worker parking,  I could turn to the right and get to a parking slot.

Once parked, I walked to my second delivery just a block and a half away. A nice man took my paperwork, asked for my cell phone number and told me there was one truck to unload after he finished the one he was working on. He’d call when he was ready.

I walked back to my truck – did I mention it was raining lightly – and laid down in my bunk to meditate. I woke up an hour and a half later. No call. I walked back to delivery #2.

There was another white guy in a little glass-enclosed cubicle on the dock who was shuffling paperwork. I told him I had been there earlier and were they ready for my yet. In his best New Yawk accent he kindly stated, I have no idea who you ahr.”

About that time my original guy walked up. “Stevens, right?” He then explained, “Ah, another truck had his paperwork in first and I had to take him before you.” He told me to bring my truck around and park at the curb next to his warehouse. I thought to myself, why not just stay put, it’s only a block away, but then thought, if I’m right there he can’t snake another load in in front of me.

So I pulled around and parked where he had indicated. Within three minutes a market policeman in a marked pickup drove up and blipped a siren at me. I rolled down the window.

“You can’t pahk theah,” he said in his New Yawk accent.

Pointing toward the building I said, “But the guy -“

“It’s a hundred dollar fine. You okay with that?”

I was not. So I drove back, waited a few minutes, and drove back again just as the other truck was pulling out. I horsed my way back into his open dock, the most challenging back up yet, and he got his product off within 30 minutes.

Somewhere in all this I got a call from The Yard. It was Merle and he was asking how I got to Hunts Point the night before. My mind raced to why he could be asking this. Had I hit something and the hittee had called Stevens to report me? Poop! But I calmly explained how I had gotten there and he said they were having trouble with some drivers freelancing their way to the market. I was okay.

I then asked about getting out of Hunts Point and to the last drop on Long Island. He couldn’t talk me through it right then but promised to call me back. I think it is strange that they can’t program into the NaviGo program on QualComm the proper way to get to places that we, as a company, go all the freakin’ time. But that’s the way it is.

I finally connected with him again 30 minutes later and he told me to get my map book out. I said sure, and just got out paper and pen to write down the turn by turn directions. I did use my  QualComm, but ignored about half of Nav Chick’s instructions when it differed from Merle’s.

It was still raining lightly as I made my way across the Throgs Neck bridge, down I-295, and then west on I-495. I found my way to the meat wholesaler in West Babylon. I was at the edge of a light commercial district ready to head onto residential streets when I saw the sign and stopped – right on the road. You had to be kidding me. The itty bitty sign said meat company but I was looking at a tiny strip mall that had an insurance office, nail parlor and small employment agency. There was a narrow road on the left side of the building. I put on the four way flashers and ran to the back of the building. There was actually a meat wholesaler back there with two dock doors. The lot was the size of a large beach towel. How the hell would I be able to get backed into the dock. It was obviously made for smaller delivery box trucks.

“No,” said the Hispanic dude who seemed to be running the dock, just pull allllll the way back into the corner and you can make it work.

Back out on the street I backed my truck up 50 feet into traffic, waited for a clear roadway and made a sweeping turn into the narrow driveway. Once behind the building I pulled alllll the way back into the corner and got myself backed in, albeit at a slight angle. It only took 20 or so pull forwards and I hit the building – slightly – only once. I got a small assist from an arriving delivery driver.

This guy had me unloaded in 15 minutes and handed me my paperwork. Three drops. No lumper fees. No damage. No shortages. No returned product. It was a Big Rotten Apple miracle.

I got my a$$ out of there and encountered pretty smooth sailing back west, back across the GW bridge found my way to the Vince Lombardy travel plaza, the busiest turnpike service plaza I had ever seen. I would take care of my incoming and outgoing biological needs and wait for my next load assignment. My expectations were not high. I was just glad to be out of New York City and figured I would be out of Yankeeland and back into the hinterland before dark.

An Open Letter to the Chief of Cheetos

Greetings:

I came to Cheetos rather late in life – after age 40 – and have been an infrequent and moderate consumer until about eight months ago when I started driving 18-wheelers. It is now one of my five main food groups, the other four being, meat, green vegetables, coffee and TAB (the first diet cola). I now consume an 18 ounce bag of Cheetos every two to four days. Let me state that I am a Crunchy kinda guy. No baked for me.

Here’s what it does for me:

1. Banishes hunger pangs – if it’s going to be awhile before I’m able to eat, a few Cheetos tide me over.
2. Keeps me awake – probably through a combination of the busywork of feeding the little worms into my face and the salt. I know, no scientific basis for the last, but it works for me. Part of it might be the head noise you get from crunching on one. You can hardly hear it externally but the sound works it’s way through your teeth to make a very satisfying sound inside your own head. This is called “mouth feel,” right?
3. Keeps me occupied – driving can be boring and eating Cheetos give me something to do other than gripping the steering wheel.
4. Keeps me from eating more fattening snacks. I’m sure you’re aware that a single crunch on an orange worm takes it down to perhaps a thousandths of the volume. I haven’t done the science, but it seems as though a single worm, of almost any size, crunches down to 12 or 13 molecules after a single chew.

I have the consumption down to a science. I use only my thumb and pointer finger. I pluck only one Cheeto at a time, no matter how small. I swallow the “food” that results from that single Cheeto, It’s barely Cheeto flavored spit, but evidently it is enough. This technique minimizes the after-consumption cleanup of Cheeto dust. Just two digits to lick off. This technique also helps me pace myself and not overconsume (this is something you are probably not interested in). I have disciplined myself to eat just enough to keep me from further hunger and / or or to keep me from falling asleep.

Here are a couple of problems I have with Cheetos:

1. They’re pretty damn messy. I’ve thought about inventing a two finger plastic disposable plastic glove. Not sure that will work. I’m wondering if you’ve experimented with a formula that has the cheese dust stick to the actual Cheeto a bit better. Most of the time I don’t mind licking my fingers off but sometimes they’re a bit too dirty to lick. I still do, mind you. Perhaps there is some medicinal quality in the Cheetos dust that has kept me from getting sick.
2. Sometimes a bag of Crunchy Cheetos has too many big, fat, baked-like worms in it. I don’t like the baked. Look after the quality control a bit better, okay? I did finish a bag that had a better than average ratio of really crunchy worms. Here is the number that was on the bag: 2 453 12704 21 00:45. Not sure if this means anything, but there it is. Reward the crew that fried this bag up please.

Finally, here are three suggestions for you:

1. There is often, not always, a buttery quality to a Cheeto. I would recommend a new flavor: Buttery Cheetos. Hey, you came out with the flaming hot ones, how about a little buttah.
2. My favorite Cheetos are an inch to an inch and a half long. They are real skinny and almost hard to the bite – a good amount of resistance before the structure of the worm yields to my molars and dissolves to molecule think layer of dust on my teeth. To optimize of my Cheeto of choice I’d recommend another new line called Skinnies or something similar.
3. Buttery Skinnies? Almost more than I could hope for.

So there you have it then. I await a call from your quality control and product development departments.

Now, if you could connect me with your counterpart on the potato chip side of things. I have an idea for a new flavor of chip that tends towards the burnt or brown side of things. I’ve assigned a working name of Darkies. (I understand this might not work in the marketplace.) Much more interesting and flavorful than the traditional blonde chip.

Thank you for your attention to these issues.