Mojave Desert to Oakland.

As I drove through the desert of Arizona and California, the clouds had cleared. Stars! I could see stars! It has been a long time since the clouds, urban lights and my schedule had all allowed me to see the stars. Off to the Southwest, a bright light; probably a planet. Dead ahead, Orion. He has always been my favorite constellation, though I'm not sure why. Off in the dark to my right, railroad track runs parallel to the highway. There are often huge trains of containers going by. Tonight, the moon reflects on the shiny top of the rail; burnished by all that fodder for American Consumerism. Reflecting on the rail, the moon spot chases alongside the truck like the mechanical rabbit at a dog track.

As the sun slides into dawn, the desert shrubs begin as clumps on the hills and then splotches in the darkness as it crosses from black to charcoal grey. Supposedly, there's elk around here; signs have warned since Flagstaff. I haven't been privileged to meet any. In the early light, the desert is white tufted with brown and tan scrub grasses; like a meringue.

Morning breaks and I'm crossing the mountains, passing Bakersfield and coming down into the San Joachim Valley. I am just blown away. The sheer size of all this agriculture is astounding. Fields, groves and cultivation surround me and go to the horizon in all directions. I've lived in Michigan, Indiana and Florida; seen big farms and groves, but the magnitude is different here. There is cotton, oranges, corn, pecans and almonds; I smell garlic or onions. It goes on for 200 miles.

Coming up out of the valley and then down into Oakland, even the hills are shaped different around here. They seem to be tufted and folded rather than the rolling hills at home. There are wind turbines all over the place. They say that Texas is like a whole other country, well California certainly is too.

Holiday 2007

Some of you, Dear Readers, will be shocked to know my reading list for the last couple weeks. I have read "The Universe in an Atom; the Convergence of Science and Spirituality" by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I am reading "The Complete Idiots Guide to Zen Living" and rereading "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" by Robert Pirsig; a book that almost ruined my sophomore year at Michigan State.

Pirsig's book will make you think harder than you have in years. I did almost nothing else but read and talk about it in the Winter of 1983. I mentioned the Midnight Heathen Philosophes obliquely some time ago. My dorm friends and I stayed up to all hours saving the world many years ago. I miss that too. Pirsig has an interesting argument for a layer he calls "Quality" that comes before intellectual or scientific understanding. I've wanted to reread the book for some time.

I have long been a Scientific Materialist. If you couldn't touch it or smell it or prove that it was there, it didn't exist; an Atheist by default. This has not been completely satisfying for a number of months. I am not prepared to walk away from my previous sentiments, but I am exploring if they are enough. It seems a bit like cooking without salt or that blanket that is just a bit too small. My cold toes have been hanging out the bottom in recent months.

Last weekend, despite my earlier post, I ended up having a wonderful holiday in New Jersey with my cousin, Sherry and her family in their beautiful house. Thanks to my sister, Amy, for setting the plan in motion. Sherry's husband took me sailing through the magic of a beautiful radio controlled boat he made. Their son kept me jumping with Wii Video Games and Guitar Talk. Sherry's wonderful and delicious hospitality was only overshadowed by the joy of being able to just hang out with them for a while.

We were headed into town. Sherry was walking the dog when a old song that her Dad liked began running through her head. Ben had lost a video game disc behind the entertainment center and was fishing around for it. He found a CD and set it on a shelf by the TV. As I pulled on my coat, I saw the CD laying there; Neck and Neck by Mark Knoeffler, x-Dire Straits, and Chet Atkins, country music guitar legend. I said something like "Hey there's some good music." The song that Sherry had been humming to herself just minutes before, was from that CD!

We took the CD with us and listened to it on the way into town. Sherry said her Dad must have wanted me to have the CD and gave it to me. Even just weeks ago, I would have gently scoffed at the concept, but I felt immediately that she was right. And I was comfortable with that. I even felt some relief, as if I was a little less unforgiven for what I described in a post last year.

Thanks again, Sherry, Ed and Ben. It was a great weekend!

I have been in flux for some time. My reading is way out in left field for me. There are many things I am thinking about in new ways. Stay tuned, this fertile ground for blog posts.

Friday Afternoon in Nashville, 2007/12/21

The Friday before Christmas, I treated myself to an afternoon in Nashville, TN. Not JUST Nashville, but Broadway St. Nashville! Home of the Honky Tonks. Tootsie's, Legends Corner, Bluegrass Inn, Station Inn, Ernest Tubbs Record Store and Robert's Western World. Robert's sounds like a Tack Shop as much as a Honky Tonk, but its the real deal. However, you can also buy a pair of cowboy boots there.

Thursday Night in West Memphis, I did some research on the web. Roberts has no cover and the burgers are cheap; works for me. I parked at the TA Truckstop right next to LP Field across the river from downtown. I filled up so I could get a free shower and clean up. Yellow Cab sent a hack in around front by the resturant.

The Cab Driver was of western Middle Eastern extract. Armenian or Lebanese; maybe. We talked shop; I asked him how business was and told him that I drove for Yellow Cab in Florida fifteen or so years ago. He asks me whether I like driving a truck better than driving a cab. I explain that I've worked several different jobs since then. It is nice to be in the same city all the time and be home at night, I tell him. He agrees.

We wind through Nashville after crossing the bridge. There is a Double Tree Hotel and the funky looking AT&T building with double spires. We go by Khan's Mongolian Grill and a Greek place. Greek sounds good. Anything sounds good, I've been starving myself in anticipation of a Honky Tonk Cheeseburger. Nashville is on a knoll. We go up toward the rise and then turn left and head downhill. There's the Ryman! And we've arrived at Lower Broadway. It is about 4:30 in the afternoon so all the neon is lost on me.

Stepping out of the cab, I am assaulted by music from three directions. Not super loud, like South Beach or Daytona, but definitely right at me. I walk into Robert's Western World. On Lower Broadway, the band or singer/songwriter, is always out front with their back to the windows. Robert's is basically just a storefront bar. The band is on the left just inside the door. On the right, the wall is full of framed photos of Nashville's finest musical craftsmen. On the left, shelves full of boots. There are benches on the side and a few round tables up near the band. The benches aren't really boothes but look almost like couches, but more like school bus seats. The bar is on the right with utilitarian but comfortable stools. There are more benches back toward the back. At the back, the restrooms are on the left and stairs to the right go to an upper bar that isn't open on a Holiday Friday Night. I sit down and order a PBR and a menu.

The waitress is a heavy set goth; I think named Rayna, but I didn't really catch her name over the band. She is very sweet. She has a Topless Mermaid tattooed on her left shoulder and a Sailor-Jerry-esque Cowboy Girl on the right. There is an Irish Claddagh on her chest and something on her lower back but I don't want to stare. I ask her for a cheeseburger with onion rings and another PBR. "My two beers for the month," I tell her. It's hard to be a drinker AND a truck driver, I explain.

The cook is named Spider. He has 70's short hair; like the blond Duke boy. Is that Bo or Luke? I couldn't keep track of them and I loved that show. I would just have them straight and Daisy would come on screen and I would forget what I needed to know about the boys. Spider has a grey goatee and a tattoo on his neck. It might be a spider. His neck tattoo is old. I didn't think they were that popular until recently. Spider makes a mean cheeseburger!

I ask Rayna and Spider if Gruhn Guitars is a guitar shop. They tell me it is and think the store is open until about 6:00. Spider tells me there are better places to go that are cheaper. Gruhn's is on the strip and a bit touristy. When I tell him I just need a new capo and I came to town in a Semi; to Lower Broadway in a cab, he thinks Gruhn's will work just fine.

Robert's Western World has music 6 days a week from 11:00 am to 3:00 am; yeah 16 hours a day. I had checked out the band schedule on the web Thursday night. However, with the holidays nearby, I really lucked out. Heath Haynes has the afternoon gig at Roberts. Most of his band, Heath Haynes and the Cryin' Shames, wanted to be home for the holidays, so Heath recruited some friends who have their own bands for today. Heath played the acoustic guitar and sang. He had a great stand up slappin' bass player whose name was so normal I don't recall it. The electric guitar player was Chris Cerrillo(sp?). And halfway through they were joined by a drummer. Heath introduced him as a lifetime friend. While I was trying to figure out if that meant "life partner" or anthing, I missed his name too.

Heath Haynes is great. He can sing anything with the help of an enormous vocal range. He sang as Elvis and Johnny Cash and then sang Buck Owens and some high and lonesome bluegrassy stuff without missing a beat. His guitar chops are very strong as well. While he looks like Michael Moore just out of bed, he was rockin'.

Chris Cerillo is just a fantastic country lead and fill guitar player. He looked for all the world like Paul Simon in a pompadour and a western shirt. His cheeks pulled in and lips pursed when he concentrated exactly like Simon's; especially in the "If You'll Be My Bodyguard" video when Paul was trying not to laugh at Chevy Chase. Cerillo played lightning fast leads and subtle fills. He had a vintage yellow Telecaster with the black sparkle pickguard and faceplate. At one point, I thought he had kicked on a synthesizer. He was playing notes with no attack. They just kind of bled into the melody like a Moog. Looking closer, I realize that the pinky of his pick hand was working the volume knogb on his guitar. He was creating the sound all himself. This is more amazing than you non-guitarists think. He was having to strike a note early for the delay in working the volume knob from zero back up. So as he was playing a melody, with the rest of the band going, he was picking on one beat and the melody was on another. I was freaked out. There were all kinds of Nashville Cat telecaster tricks; little chimy picks with his fingernails; bowing the whole guitar rather than the strings. He had a huge vocabulary.

Close to 6:00, I tipped the band and headed down the block to Gruhn's. Of course, I didn't just get out of there with a new capo. I bought a new tuner as well [thanks, GG and Grandad]. I've been wanting one for a long time. It tells me when my strings are in tune by the frequency of the vibration rather than the sound. It clips to the neck and "feels" the strings. The capo is one of the low profile spring jobs. I've needed one of those for a long time. I've still been using an elastic one that must be 25 years old. It was all stretched out.

On the way to Gruhn's, on the sidewalk on Broadway, there was a homeless looking guy with a nearly new Gibson Acoustic. He was playing some raw blues. His dog wore a leather jacket. Not like a dog wears a dog jacket. This dog, a Weirmaraner or so, was sitting perfectly still with a leather jacket around it shoulders and it's front legs in the sleeves. Further down the block, two guys who looked like they just left an office were each playing and sang together. I walked down past the Cotton Eyed Joe tshirt and souvenir store; crossed the street and went by an abandoned looking irish pub and along past Ernest Tubbs Record Shop. I crossed over to Legends Corner. There is a great big guitar out on the street with Willie, Patsy, Buck, Johnny, George, Waylan and a host of other Golden Era Country Stars painted on it.

I walked around a little and then went right back into Robert's Western World. After a couple more beers, I called Yellow Cab from the hall by the bathrooms where it was a little quiet. They never answered! I went out on the street and walked in the direction of the Truckstop, assuming I would find a cab along the way. I walked up and over the hill through downtown. I saw one Taxi; occupied. I was only wearing a polo shirt and jeans because the afternoon was warmish. Now after dark, with short sleeves and bald head, it was cold! I ended up walking all the way back. It was a mile and a half or two miles. The last bit was over the river and down into the neighborhood where the truckstop is. That last quarter mile was probably not the best place to be alone after dark. I have found, however, if you walk briskly [it was cold too, remember] like you know where you are headed, most people won't bother you. I went down a staircase off the bridge into an empty lot, under an overpass and across a couple parking lots to the truck. It hadn't been running so I had to warm it up. I turned both heaters to BROIL and sat there with my jacket on for a while. What a great afternoon!

It's Not My Holiday. . . .

It's not my holiday

The Holiday Season, and all the various things it means to different people, approaches with a vengence. I am stuck at a truckstop for almost 48 hours. I've been here since yesterday afternoon, and they have yet to change the Holiday CD on the intercom. Over and Over, the syrupy sweet over-sung R&B holiday sounds are about to make me vomit. I think it's Usher, but it could be El DeBarge for all I know. If I hear "our cheeks are rosy and comfy cozy are we" with a jazzy break two more times before I die, I'm going to L.A. and burn someone's house down.

I am really torn about going home. I miss my family and friends there, but I am way behind on my goals for saving money this year. These "training companies" get you started on a driving career, but part of the deal is you work for slave wages for a year. Most guys plan to just survive this first year. Not me! I am trying to save enough money to quit after a year and get back to the boat. :oP

Plan B may be to find a driving job close to Bay City in the spring or summer and work through one more winter before leaving. It all depends on how many miles I can drive between now and then. It seems when I ask for time off, they spiral me into home with short concentric trips. Then I'm home. Then I get spiralled back out into the freight lanes. The end result is I don't make any money the week before I'm home, the week I'm home or the week after. I don't know what guys with families do.

Given these realities, I am going to stay out here and just drive. It is not a decision that was easy or fun. I have chosen the Vagabond's Life. It works better to just live it; full on. Even once I get off the road, after a period of repair and refit, I'll be living this life again, albeit in another mode.

So, amusingly, I have felt some of the typical pressures of a holiday that is not my own. It was more the pressure of having to decide; facing a decision I knew would disappoint some of the people I love. It is, however, what it is and, ultimately, how it should be.

This time of year, I prefer to look ahead to the New Year. I don't do resolutions because they are typically a ridiculous fallacy. If you don't have Daily Discipline, how in the world are you going to succeed with Annual Discipline. It is, however, a natural time of year to reflect on life and where you are headed. Hopefully, those with their heads down pumping their legs in "the race" or "the hamster wheel" can take the time for a little reflection.

Reflection is a rare commodity in the world today. All of us could benefit from a daily reflection. Not basking in vacuous platitudes, but some deep thinking, introspection and evaluation.

When I knew I was unhappy, but didn't know why, it was because I had no idea what I wanted or what would make me happy. I was being carried along by the ever present current of expectations, by what other people thought was normal or proper. I simply hadn't thought about it; the "thinking through" that is hard work.

I turned my eyes and ears inward. The cacophony of the world was shut out. Of course, I had help doing this. Coach Kathy was instrumental in helping me discover the tools. As I shed all the weights and the accumulation, I began to hear my own voice again.

Your path may not be as far off the road as mine seems to be, but how do you know you're on the right street when it's been so long since you've looked at the Atlas?

You think you're having a bad day . . .

I thought that I was having a bad day. There I was in the mountains of Eastern Pennsylvania, Wilkes-Barre. Dispatch sent me to Elizabeth, NJ to drop a trailer. This is more complicated than usual. I had enough hours to get down there, drop the trailer, find out what's next and the get out of Dodge - I mean New Jersey. Elizabeth is right down near the Port of Newark and the Airport. This is not an especially nice neighborhood.

There is a lot that goes on in New Jersey down by the Port. Legitimate business and otherwise. It is a land of freeway overpasses and blind alleys, buses and taxis. There is triumphant steel and glass architecture and grubby old cinderblock buildings. There are handbills on every light pole; loose paper and plastic bags flying in the wind. You can find any kind of food you want, but you have to see it; you can't smell anything. I can't tell if there are no smells or if everything just blends into one big smell. People are everywhere; businesspeople, hustlers, pedestrians, grandmas, babies and the lost.

By the time, I get down by the Port it is dark. I'm on the tail end of rush hour, but everyone is going out and I'm going in. The directions take me onto an unfamiliar ramp, but as I come down off the Turnpike, under an overpass and around a corner, I realize I've been here before from another angle. Around a curve and under another overpass, I come to a light. The street goes through a short block and deadends into one on a weird angle. My directions tell me to turn left and go through the first light. There is a small triangle block with a little diner on it formed by the street I'm turning on and the angled street. Three cars could almost park at the diner, but it is doing a bustling business. It is so different here in the urban sprawl. There must be people all around that have never needed to own a car. A successful looking diner with no parking; an intriguing concept to this Midwesterner.

I notice a guy hanging around the intersection. He has an air about him that kicks up my 'spidey-sense.' I casually lock the door with my elbow. He is busy watching traffic and doesn't notice. Stepping off the curb, he is coming over. He steps up on the running board of my tractor, grabbing the mirror to hang on. "We're not lumping today, you'll have to go straight," he says doing his best to sound official. I am letting him talk through the glass; no chinks in the armor.

"My directions tell me to go left."

"Yeah, but we're full up. You gotta go straight."

Looking at him, he is not obviously a vagrant. He is a hustler who may have had some success. His beard seems trimmed, his clothes are typical of someone with a regular job, but his hair is a little wild; not quite kept.

"When that light turns green, I'm going left," I tell him in a bellow that covers the small doubt I ignore. He gives me this classic look; Emmy-worthy. It is the perfect hustler's last stand. The look says "OK, man, if you want to screw up you life, go ahead. Turn left, I don't care."

"Another man might have been angry, another man might . . ." Sorry, that's Harry Chapin as a Taxi Driver. The light turned green. I stepped on the accelerator. The big diesel always pauses as it pulls 70 feet of truck out of its inertia. The guy frowns and jumps off just as I roll to the left. Through the light to the next right, I find my street.

Around the corner, I'm in another small NE industrial neighborhood. There are trucks all over. One business has car haulers in line; another has piggybacked sea containers. I'm on a surface street surrounded by businesses. People headed home fill the opposite lane. The directions say third building on the right. I call them. The guy on the line says just a minute and looks out on the street. "Pull on out. That second container is right before our drive. Just don't go past my building," he says ominously.

Swinging out into the homebound traffic, I pull around the trucks on the curb. It is a tight turn into the drive, I creep along and in. I jump out to check in with the guard. It is cold! He tells me to go around back and talk to the shipping office. Around back is small! The office tells me to drop my trailer back by the fence. I do. Checking in with dispatch, they send me to Lakewood, NJ; down to the south past Asbury Park. I'm bobtailing; driving with no trailer.

I'm nearly out of hours, so I head down the turnpike and find a place to park. My pickup in Lakewood is for the morning.

Quick recap: I was in Pennsylvania; dispatch sent me into New Jersey to drop a trailer and then bobtail to a pickup.

Morning rolls around, I drive about forty more miles to my pickup. It is way around through residential areas, some downtown type neighborhoods, through a small Hasidic Jew enclave. Lots of men in black; those cool hats; beards and curls around the ears. And bagel shops. There is a bus loading in a hotel parking lot; going into to New York or somewhere. Everyone in black, curls etc. but doing all the quintessential family stuff. They scurry around parking cars, putting babies in car seats, tracking little ones running around next to a main street. Moms, Dads, Grandmas and Aunts; Uncles and Grandpas.

I go past a park that looks like it is close to the ocean; the map reveals otherwise. Often the directions have no mileage on them. So, turn left on Route 88 and then take a right on Eisenhower could be a block or, as in this case, about 20 miles! I turn off Eisenhower into the industrial park. Another mile almost, another left, around a curve, into a drive and around back. There are mountains of tires! A front end loader is piling them and moving them around.

I park and walk up to a couple guys who are milling around. "I'm here for a pickup." They just smile and shrug. I could use some Spanish, but I don't have any. A few yards further on is a guy in a dark coat and a yarmacle. "I'm here for a pickup," I repeat. He smiles and looks over my shoulder. "Where the hell's your trailer," he asks wrecking my morning.

I send a message in to dispatch. "I need a trailer here." They send me to Sayreville to get a trailer. Almost all the way back to Elizabeth where I dropped one last night!! Looking at the map, I head up NJ 9 rather than going all the way back out to the Turnpike and north. There are lots of stoplights and traffic, but I would have a lot of traffic on the Turnpike heading toward New York with all the commuters. It is about 30 miles up to Sayreville. The way wasn't bad.

I get to a distributor who has an extra trailer or two. There is a truck in the lot and another out on the street. I hit the "four ways" and sit behind him. The guy in the lot is having a hard time. The lot is small. We've all been there. He just can't hit the dock they assigned him. Back and forth. Crank the wheel. Back and forth. Jerk to a stop. Inch forward. Inch back. Roar forward. He is getting very frustrated. Finally, he decides to freelance and backs into an easy hole in front of the far dock. Just as he is about to bump up to the dock, the yard dog [the company's driver who moves trailers around the yard] pulls in from down the block. We're in New Jersey remember. The Yard Dog screeches to a halt on a funky angle in the middle of the lot. He steps out of his tractor in an overly casual way, walks over the frustrated driver and starts yelling at him. I can't hear from where I am, but the Yard Dog is gesticulating and waving his arms around. Apparently, he can't use that dock. The driver pulls out, pauses in the driveway and takes off down the street. The second driver assumes, like I do, that the guy is leaving; calling his dispatch to cuss about the small lot. The second driver pulls in to the lot and walks inside to the office. I pull up to the drive. Before I can pull in, the Yard Dog is coming out. The frustrated driver comes back and roars into the lot!

The frustrated driver pulls in to the small lot; now smaller because the other driver is in there. He makes a halfhearted effort to swing around. The Yard Dog is under another trailer and walks over to the man. He must have told him to just leave the trailer out on the street because that is what he does next. That trailer was his empty. Now he has to get another trailer with his load. He rolls back into the lot. The Yard Dog leaves again. I see an opening and sneak in to get my empty. All this action, and I simply need the empty back by the fence. The trailer is an oldie but a goodie; in decent shape. I hook up, check the lights, tug on it to make sure I'm connected. Looking out at the lot, I've got a little shimmy to get around the second truck. The frustrated one is under a trailer but still at the dock. He must be checking lights or cranking up the dolly. I hop back in the cab and start moving. Meanwhile, the Mr. Frustrated has climbed back in his cab. He sees me coming and floors it to get out before me . . . and rips one of the doors right off his trailer. But he doesn't know it yet.

The scene morphs into a bad movie. Depending on your generation, starring either Jerry Lewis, Steve Martin or Adam Sandler. The guy ambles down his side of the trailer, unchains the door, folds it around and locks it. He walks over to the passenger side of the back end of the trailer. He kind of jerks back but doesn't really understand what has happened. He reaches out and gently touches the trailer where the door should be. As his gloved hand falls back to his side, he looks up. I can just hear his internal voice. "Where the #$%^&* is my door?" Then recognition washes over him; the shoulders sag. He looks back to the dock and must see the door. I can't see around the other trailers, but I know it is there.

Suffice it to say, this poor guy is about to stroke out. He valiantly walks back to the truck. The dock workers have told him to put it back in the dock. Here we go again. Back and forth. In and Out. Steer tires cranked one way and then the other. I AM STILL TRAPPED IN THE LOT BY THIS FOOL!! I creep forward a little. He is so frustrated he is not thinking about what he is doing. He is trying to will the trailer back into the hole but it won't go. Back and forth. His tires are up over the curb and into the landscaping. He is very close to a gate out in the drive. I can see a couple times that he has it right, but he gives up to soon and oversteers again. The other driver is on my running board talking to me. We can't offer to help at this moment. He'll just bite our head off. If he asks, we'll get all over it. We are busting up inside, but outwardly trying not to even smile. I tell the second driver, as soon as I see an opening, I'm going to scramble out. Back and forth. All the way right. All the way left. Just then he is in just a little deeper, I tap my street horn and start barreling for the gate. He doesn't realize it but once he successfully gets into the dock. HE HAS FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE DOOR HE CLOSED! He will have to pull out and open the door. I'm not convinced he'll survive the day. I'm gone, it is no longer my problem. The poor other driver is from the same company [not mine] and is stuck there until the Stroked Out One gets out of the way.

Back down NJ9 I crawl through downtown Lakewood and through a length of residential street. I'm around to the customer again. There is a truck between me and the dock. I can't pull in and sit there 45 minutes. But you know what? That is OK. I'm not having the worst day in New Jersey!

It is sleeting a little when I leave. I have plenty of time to get to my delivery in South Carolina over the weekend. Suddenly, I am exhausted. I get right back to the same truckstop I slept at last night. It is only about 40 miles in the right directions, but I am done for the day. There is a buffet here. I splurge and go inside for some real food.

Lines on the mirror, lines on her face . .

Every where I go I'm waiting in line. I've had an air leak causing me trouble so last Friday I took advantage of some flexibility and went through our terminal in North Jackson, OH. The head mechanic made me no promises, but had me drop my tailer. "Just hang out there and I'll see what we can do when one of my guys is done with the cab they're working on." I sat all day and they couldn't fit me in.

I sent a message to our Parsippany, NJ shop that I was on my way in. My delivery was in New Jersey, so I was headed that way. It took most of the day Monday, but they got my leak fixed. Now I can sleep without the Low Air Alarm going off.

I got to my delivery Tuesday morning. There were already about 9 trucks waiting at the gate. Another line!! Nevertheless, I'd rather be lucky than good. Two security guards amble down the line with a checklist. "You're the one they're looking for this morning," they tell me. "Pull on in and go to the Receiving Office." Bonus!

Carlisle, PA is one of the worst truckstops I've been to. Coming in the driveway, you go past the exit of the fuel islands. You have to drive through the parking area and loop around to get into the fuel queue. When you're done fueling, you have to make a left turn through the entering traffic to get out. If anyone, especially a rookie, is trying to back in to a spot, the whole process shuts down. I don't even like to fuel in Carlisle, let alone sleep there, but I was out of hours.

In the morning, I fueled and hit the road! 14.4 miles down the road I was at a dead stop. The DOT was cutting apart a bridge. When the torches were cutting, they closed the road. Another line.

After pushing through that jam, I needed a pit stop. Pulling into the next truckstop, and stepping out of the truck, I see the last stragglers of a busload of Mennonites going in. Guess what, another line. They looked very Amish, but I heard the driver say he was driving for the Conservative Mennonite Church.

There I was, in Oklahoma City, standing in line at a truckstop. I've got a couple six packs of water and a package of Mango Con Chile. "Can I help you, Hon?" she asks. She was elegant for working the fuel desk at a truckstop. There was an air about her; prairie woman beauty. A ringer for Val from Dallas [Joan Van Ark]. White shirt and black pants, the uniform for fuel desk employees, but she carries hers better than the rest. "What are these like," she asks picking up the Mango Con Chile. "It's dried mango with cayenne pepper and sugar. Want to try it?"

She finished ringing me up and was fishing for a bag. "Want to try it?" I ask again. "OK, sure" I open the bag and let her fish a piece of mango out. Taking a bite, her eyes widen; cheeks purse [likely, both sets]. "That's wild," is all she chokes out. "Have a great day. Be safe out there" As I walk out, passing the length of the fuel desk, I hear her say to the next in line, "Hang on just a minute, Hon." She is racing me down the length of the desk. She's looking for a trash can to either spit in or puke in. I really wanted to tell her she should think twice before sticking something a truck driver offers into her mouth, but I want to be able to come back here some day too.

Looking at the Scale Ticket in my hand, I'm still illegal for the road. I have to adjust the fifth wheel and re-weigh. Back in at the Fuel Desk, she calls me over because the line at her register is gone. "You had to reweigh, baby?" "Yes," I tell her, "I had to adjust the fifth wheel. Usually I just have to move the tandems, but this load is heavy." I can see that her eyes are glazed. She doesn't really care about my weight problem, or my truck's. :o) She's probably sorry she asked such a specific question. An occupational hazard I suppose. That's alright. I'm not really interested in a woman who can't handle her Mango Con Chile.

The night before, I slept across the street at the TA. I had a shower about to expire on my Road King card. I left at 4:30 am, went across the street to fuel at the Pilot. As I left the Pilot on my way to Southard, OK, a fire engine goes by. Heading around to get back to the highway, I see a plume of smoke. Huh!?!? Passing the TA I see a truck, on the scale, almost fully engulfed in flames. I had slept about 40 feet from that very scale!! I never heard what happened, but that is scary.

Character Sketches from the Road.

I sat in Nashville for 28 hours before I got my next load; that sucks. While I was there I walked a half mile or so to an Outlet Mall. I bought several books to keep me occupied. I am schizophrenic in my reading. Along with a couple Linux Books [i just can't seem to stop], I also got the second installment of David Crosby's autobiography [i need the first now] and a book on Buddhism and Science by the Dalai Lama.

Moreover, I haven't done a crossword since I was married. It lead to haunting flashbacks. I've done 5 or 6 this week already. I enjoy them actually. It is especially fun to put one down, 2/3 full and I'm stumped, only to pick it up the next day and burn through it with a fresh mind.

My married crossword experience is hilarious and should have been in "The Honeymooners" or "Roseanne" or something. She always had the puzzle and the pen. I was reading something else. And it goes:

Her: "What's a ten letter word for rules of thumb?"
Me: "How many letters do you already have?"
[ At least 180 seconds go by ]
Me: "How many letter have you got?"
[ maybe 90 more seconds ]
Me: "Honey?"
Her: "Oh, I'm on the next one already."
Me: "Grrrrr" [in my head]



Pamphlet Guy
subtitle: can I get a witness?
So, I'm sitting there in Nashville. A guy is walking around the lot handing out pamphlets. I'm not sure what denomination. And his wife isn't with him, so I don't know if she is flat chested or not [See, he did it again]. He is harmlessly, almost painfully, wholesome looking. Flannel shirt, windbreaker, blue jeans, comfortable shoes. Those shoes that look like they're from KMart, but are actually $200 mail order orthopedic appliances. He is in his late 50's, maybe a youthful 60. His hair is grey and combed over. He could disappear into almost any crowd. Or he could be the BTK killer. As he approaches my door, I feign to not see him, but he knocks. "Here, its free," he says with a pause and thrusts a couple pamplets up to me. When my arm doesn't reach for the ephemera, he adds cheerfully, "Doesn't cost a thing." and flashes a $200 mail order smile.

"Oh, it costs more than you think," I respond wryly.

For a nanosecond, his features begin to change like he will chuckle. Some internal filter clicks on and his smile fades. He doesn't frown, his face doesn't goes that way. He just looks at me, like a webpage with "Loading . . ." hanging across the middle. For just a moment, he got my meaning, but the system rejected it; saving him. The wind pushes at his combover as he turns to go. He jerks away like a robot running Windows 95.

Two doors down, another driver sits in his cab. Familiar territory again. All gauges are returning to normal. Crisis averted. He darn near shared a chuckle with me.

>>>>Unrelated Aside<<<<
"And I'll have the pastrami," Tom Swifty adds wryly. [do you remember Tom Swifty?]
>>>>End Aside<<<<



Starbucks Chic
I stopped on the Penn Turnpike to use the facilities and maintain my sobriety. There's a Starbucks here! Woo Hoo! I haven't had green tea in weeks. At the counter is the cutest girl this year. My goodness! She is subtle gorgeous. Her features are not fine, but just slightly rounded in that Mixed Breed Middle American way. She has the rich wholesome beauty that the tortured starlet always begins with; fresh off the bus in L.A. Joy bubbles over in her work, her voice, her demeanor, and especially her eyes. She has my tea seeping in a flash. Her auburn hair is pulled back under a scarf. The voluptuous natural curves of her lips are like the shoulders of a black cherry. When she asks "Is that everything?" "That's a loaded question," I smile. Just a little flirt. Those eyes sparkle a bit more. I thought they would burst. She giggles with depth; hidden knowledge expressed in a smile. "Have a nice day, sir."

That last word. . . now I'm the herky jerky robot. I stagger back to the truck, wounded. I knew she was too young. I really wasn't on the make; just practicing. Honest. But, Sir!? How could she hurt me that way?!?!? SIR is an acronym for "you're such a nice old man."

I take heart in knowing she will always be happy. She will work hard, play hard and live well. She'll always have a smile for some old man. I have a friend, became a teacher, who could be her older sister. Starbucks Chic will go to college somewhere like Ball State.



Gypsies in the Palace
I pulled into a Love's Truckstop in Jeffersonville, OH. I'm two hours away from my delivery, four hours early. Love's is surrounded by farmland out in Southwest Ohio. There is a Crisp Fall Wind coming across the open fields like a Dentist Drill. I run inside and zip my jacket to the cold. Almost the same feeling as being called 'Sir.'

Heading back to the cab, there is a guy talking to the driver next to where I parked. As I approach, he breaks off and comes to me. "Did you hear about the flat bed and the tanker?" he asks, "D'ja have your ears on." I indicate I hadn't. "Come here, this is hilarious." We walk across the lot. I see a flatbed but no tanker. Hmmm.

The guy has a walrus mustache and perpetual stubble. Even clean shaven, the line of his chin would be indistinct. Jowls curve south, rounded by cheap beer and fried food. Flannel shirt over a tshirt and jeans; midwest trucker uniform.

As we approach the flatbed, three more guys converge. There is a lanky goofball waving a wad of cash. He has no front teeth. People with thin lips should floss. His upper lip sags across the gap except when he smiles. He wears the ill fitting clothes of garage sale chic. You don't buy for fit, you buy for utility. There is another midwest trucker; dressed a little better. Company jacket over a henley. His wife must work in an office. Her style, and expectations, stain him. There is another tall, thin, older farmer-looking guy. Toothless Jones keeps flashing his wad of cash. I begin to understand that he really wants me to know he is loaded. He is probably the long lost Uncle of a guy we used to call Gums and Roses. Another bystander walks up.

It is an elaborate scam. I'm sure of that much. I really think the whole thing was orchestrated by Toothless Jones, the farmer and the two Midwest truckers. The wad is probably $40 in ones with 5 or 6 twenties on top. It is Three Card Monte with a twist. Toothless is supposed to be an idiot who doesn't know the game. There's money to be had here, man. An Exquisite Grifter change up.

Farmer makes a bet and loses. On the second bet, he picks a card and holds it behind Toothless' head. Toothless makes dramatic twists like he is looking for the card. Meantime, farmer flips the card behind Toothless and turns up the other two cards and bends a corner of the Ace. Two Jacks and an Ace are at play. Farmer flips the Ace back over. He's lost again.

Now the fun begins. Supposedly, Toothless can't see that 3/8" of his Ace is bent up on a terrible angle. Farmer wins! Twice, even! Now, the better dressed trucker jumps in. He wins twice picking the marked Ace. Shocking! A new rule emerge. Toothless can't tell his Ace is marked but now you can only bet twice and then its someone else's turn. Midwest tries to hand me a twenty. "He won't let me bet again," he winks "you do it." I point to the other bystander "He should."

"It's easy money, man. Go ahead. Just bet for me." He taps me on the arm with the back of the hand holding the twenty.

"I'm don't want to join in. I'm not buying it," I finally say. Immediately, Toothless jumps up and walks off. "I'm tired of this," he says to the wind.

When I turn back to my truck, another driver approaches. He has an enormously, and perfectly round, beer belly with a leather jacket 2 sizes too small. His trucker hat stands straight up off his forehead. He strains to put as little weight as possible on his left leg. A trucker malady. 50 yards across the lot might as well be the Appalachian Trail. "What's going on?" he snorts between gimps.

"Three Card Monte," I say.

"What!?"

"The Shell Game with cards," I explain.

"Oh, $%^&* I thought you guys were talking about something juicy!" he smiles.

"I just got here, but I didn't fall off any truck," I say. "I didn't buy it; can't afford it anyway."

"I've been out here to long for that $%^&*()," he says and stumbles back with me.

Then I started to think: I've inadvertently gone into business with a drug dealer and got out; spent four hours on the side of the road with the Lee County Sheriff Narcotics Squad for his guilt not mine; went into business for myself two and a half times before I was 35; had two groups try to hoodwink me out of a business [one an SBA scam, the other a reverse acquisition worthless stock scam]; I broke into a building and stole a bunch of stuff, that a judge later ruled was actually mine, and used it to start the business over with 2 out of 3 original partners; was once sued for $600,000, settled out of court for $40,000; and once closed on a house the same day my checking account was fifty dollars in the hole. These guys were going to take me?!?!?! I have a finely tuned radar. I might have to tell some of those stories.

Vanity, Oh, Vanity . . .

I tried a new look. Hacked off all the grey in the goat.

If G. Gordon Liddy, Frank Zappa and the Family Guy had a baby . . .

OK, the grey wasn't so bad.

Life On The Road.

So I was going to tell you about the trials and tribulations of simply paying my phone bill, but I have a way better story than that now.

Jerry Jeff Walker first drove Jimmy Buffett to Key West.

Jerry Jeff has a song called "Life on the Road."

"Let me tell you 'bout the life I lead
It ain't all it's cracked up to be
Of what you been told, 'bout life on the road ."

Of course, Jerry is a traveling troubadour. If you ask a Truck Driver, life on the road is Sex, Drugs & Rock and Roll; just like you hear. That mostly goes on in the minds of truckers. Now real Rock and Rollers, they seem to enjoy the physical manifestations as well.


I was down to one stamp and I hadn't seen a mail box for more than a week anyway. I knew I was overdue to pay my phone bill. Driving through the mountains of West Virginia, I spotted a plaza with a Sprint Store sign. The next exit was only three miles, so I got off eastbound and back on westbound.

I pulled on to shoulder of the exit ramp. You just can't take a semi where only cars were meant to go. I've been in some tight spots and didn't want to push my luck on a plaza built into the side of a mountain. Besides, it had been a few days since I had a good walk. I popped the Four Ways on and locked up the truck.

The walk down the rest of the ramp wasn't bad. I could see that far. I turned up the road toward the plaza. It is really dry in West Virginia. As I crunch through the right of way, hundreds of crickets jump off in all directions. It is almost as if I'm wading through them. Like wading at the beach when you don't care how wet you are, your feet just kick up the splash.

At the entrance of the plaza, I realize this isn't some northern strip mall. The plaza is in four parts up the side of the hill. I really could have changed into some shorts before I started this trek.

The first tier is a rise of 10 or 15 feet above the road. I can see the backs of the stores on the next tier. They must be 40 feet above my head. Starbucks is the only store marked on the back. They even have a drivethrough, but I'm walking.

I cut from the road up an embankment to the first tier. There is a Wild Birds Store, a Quick Med Clinic, a couple empty storefronts and an O'Charley's Resturant. The stores all face the road; no Sprint.

I walk up the access road around the back of the Starbucks Tier. There is another embankment to climb. At the top, I can see that Sprint is not in the Starbucks Strip, but looming on the horizon is the main plaza anchored by a Target and an Office Max. There is Sprint! However, it is on the other side of a huge parking lot. It is real warm now.

As I walk across the steamy tarmac, I plan my next move. I've got a couple bucks in my pocket. I know my phone bill is more than that. I duck into Target in search of an ATM. I haven't seen a bank branches in any of the tiers. The cool air inside the Target washes over me as I enter. It bites on my lower back where I've sweated some moisture into my shirt. Almost too cold. I spot an ATM. Funny, someone has got Stickie Notes all over it. As I walk up to it I realize the Stickies say "Out . . . Of . . . Order." Dog!

The shy girl behind the Service Counter thinks that ATM is the only one in the Plaza. Well, I might as well try Sprint and my Debit Card. The Comdata card that we truckers use isn't a normal Mastercard or Visa Debit Card. Walmart and other stores can take it on their machines. I enter Sprint with my fingers crossed. No such luck. The dudes in football jerseys at Sprint echo the shy girl's ATM story.

Just to make sure, I walk across another steamy tarmac to check at the Home Depot. Also on the third tier but separated by another huge parking lot. Nothing.

The walk back to the truck is downhill and more enjoyable. At least I got some exercise. I resolve to find an ATM and pat that bill. Better than to leave and have to stop again. Back in the truck, I go under the highway to jump back on the eastbound freeway. I had seen some gas stations when I turned around before. I can see a bank south of the highway but it looks pretty cramped for truck space. I head for the highway.

At the next exit, one of the gas stations I thought I saw, is under construction, or perhaps disassembly. There are three or four contractor pickups parked in the lot which is more dirt than pavement. After that there is nothing else that isn't behind tight curbs or some other hazard. Life on the Road. There is just nowhere to go. I head back west on the highway. I'm going to take a closer look at that bank.

Back over on Exit 18, and under the highway again. The good news is the cross road is a WV state highway. It will be legal for me to drive on and big enough for the truck. I slow to look at the bank. It is a left turn onto a small road. I can't see very far. I'm pretty sure I can't drive through and there isn't room to turn around. As I consider my next move, cars begin to pile up behind me. I decide to bail. I drive down WV-60; this is the same road that comes out at the next exit where I've been turning around.

Further down this road is a credit union. Back in the day, to get a fresh 6 pack and some ice, truckers would pull into the left hand turn lane,. hit the Four Ways, jump out and run into the liquor store. I borrow the maneuver.

After my hike up the hill to the plaza, I know I can get the truck up there. It'll be slow; I'm carrying 38,000 lbs of springs. I jump back on the highway one more time westbound. Hit the exit, turn up the hill and then into the plaza. At the first tier, by O'Charley's, the access road is marked for deliveries. As I approach the corner, some high school couple pull into the left turn lane. I need to go over them. I creep forward right at them.

Junior gets paranoid about his little rice burner dolled up like a drift racer. He throws it in reverse to get out of my way; narrowly missing mom and half the soccer team in a minivan. The truck groans up the hill. I circle around in the empty edge of Target's lot and pick an escape route.

I trudge across the tarmac and pay the damn phone bill. I am hot and thirsty. Tucking into Target again, I feel the cool blast. At the snack bar, there is a huge line of Moms and kids. I'm not staying for that. High maintenance soccer moms. They order yogurt smoothies and soft pretzels with the same customization as a Latte. "For Marlee's pretzel, could you scrape off some of the salt? And she wants cheese, but I don't like her to have much dairy. Could you just dab a little on it? And Bobbie wants his with chocolate and coconut. And the baby can't have anything with wheat . . . ." If I was at a Walmart, it would go fast. Redneck mothers order in bulk. "7 corndogs, a bag of Cheese Popcorn - SHUT UP, BILLY - and a 64 oz. Pepsi with eight straws."

My only other choice is Starbucks. That Rasberry Green Tea Frappacino something or other sounds good, but I haven't been in a Starbucks in months. And I don't really want to spend four bucks on a cold drink. Time to leave West Virginia.

And that was the easy part.

I was headed to Newark, NJ. The directions were good, so I had no trouble getting there. You come in past Newark International and enter a zone that is one part ghetto and two parts Industrial Park. This plant has an infamous dock. To get to their dock, you have to turn up a side street that I thought was tight [just you wait, dear reader]. Down at the end of the street, you pull into their back lot, then back across the street into an alley to turn around. This would be routine but the alley is offset from the drive. So you kind of waggle through a serpentine turn into the alley. Also, everyone on the street is on lock down, so the drive has a gate and concrete barricades to protect the fence. Heading back out the street, you can now back into their dock on your sight side rather than your blind side. Another gate, more barricades and on the other side of the street a curb, four feet of sidewalk, a fence and a building.

I wiggled into the alley and got set up for their dock. I got so close to the neighbors building across the street that a couple manager types decided to discuss something right out on the sidewalk. I managed to back in almost square.

Looking around the neighborhood, I imagine places like Beirut or Gaza must be worse, but it is hard to imagine how. The plant I've delivered to is an old block building. The loading dock was an afterthought. The lift driver has to drive up a ramp on the inside to reach dock height. The dock juts out from the building; tacked on. There are four or five ancient transformers behind a board and batten fence. The crumbling corrugated metal roof reveals some very old looking insulators and wiring. I walk around the fence, but they don't seem to be connected anymore.

This lot has the traditional three strands of barbed wire angled with brackets on top of the fence. The uniform service across the street has razor wire across theirs. The street has a half dozen businesses; all like armed camps.

At the end of the street and across the main drag is a bus stop. Some of the people look like they're having trouble making their way. Others are having their way, making trouble. Some are on their way to work. Some just hanging around. Another is like a half crazy street preacher. He talks to almost everyone, but gesticulates the most when he wanders off by himself. Behind the bus stop is a large old building. It must have been a school or a hospital. There is a large chimney from the old boiler and some men bricking in the first floor windows.

I get unloaded and my next dispatch is into the city. Thee city. New York City. The borough of Long Island City. This will be fun. I call for help on directions. My dispatch shows that I should head north in Jersey to the George Washington Bridge and then head south into New York. That just doesn't make sense.

The person who answers the phone sounds vaguely Indian. He passes me to someone who works there but lives in Jersey and sounds like it.

"Nah, that's crazy," he reacts to my directions. "You want to go south on the Jersey Turnpike to Exit 13. Take that across Staten Island and then the Verrazano Bridge and get on the BQE." "HEY FRANK, doesn't he want the BQE?" he shouts away from the phone. "Yeah, take that to the Van Dam exit. Turn right on 47th Ave. We're right here at 32nd Place."

"32nd Place?"

"Yeah, 32nd," he says. His voice says "Everybody knows its 32nd Place. Whaddya talkin' about?"

"Alright?" he asks. Then click, he's gone.

OK, then. I scroll around on Google Local on my phone. I find Van Dam St. Comparing that to my Atlas, I see he didn't tell me I need to get on 495. There is I-495 the Long Island Expressway and what looks like NY-495 going west. I need NY-495. So I trek off toward Exit 13.

The Jersey Turnpike has this annoying habit of numbering exits the same number but adding A or B or even EX. I pause by 13A but flinch and go on in search of just 13. A guy behind me smokes his tires to avoid me. Yeah, well, he was way back there.

I-278 is the Staten Island Expressway. Crossing over the Gothals Bridge there are lots of ships and port activities. But crossing the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island to Brooklyn, my heart soars! I'm looking out over the Atlantic!! Mother Ocean! I'm high enough above the water, individual waves are indistinct. The ocean has a texture though. You can sense the gentle roll. And it just stretches out across the horizon. A flat line from north to south. You can't get that accept at sea. None of the rest of the day can take this joy. And I'm going to need it. Read On.

I-278 nicks the western edge of Brooklyn and runs up toward the bridges to southern Manhattan. Mostly residential scenes and then some industrial areas until I get north of the Prospect Parkway that head over to Prospect Park; the Central Park of Brooklyn.

Moving through northern Brooklyn toward Queens, the highway is at 2nd and 3rd floor level of the surrounding buildings. My eyes are assaulted by color and signs and neighborhoods. I just want to stop and walk around. There are resturants and bars, a myriad of languages, even a large Auto Shop plastered with Chinese. But the shop is a Registered New York State Emissions Inspection Station for both Cars and Big Trucks. The official New York State signs are the only English on the building. An awning and patio tops a building with an Italian Restaurant on the street. It looks as if they took an old awning from the restaurant to use over their patio. There is patio furniture and lots of plants. But for the noise of the highway, it must be quite an escape.

There are several buildings with two faces. One on the ground level to cater to the neighborhood and another on the third or fourth floor. This second one is angled toward the highway to sell to commuters. This creates some funny looking buildings. There was a huge futon store aimed at the highway.

I see the sign for I-495. I'm looking for NY-495, I think. A couple exits later, I realize that I must have missed something. Now I have to turn the truck around somewhere in the city. Moments later, I have no choice the highway takes me to cross the Triborough Bridge; so named because it connects Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx. Driving across the bridge and wrestling with the Atlas, the new plan is to take I-87 right after the bridge to I-95 east to I-895 and back to I-287 and the Triboro Bridge. No turning around in the city, just exploring a lot of its highways. It is getting late. I have to pick up before 4:00 pm.

Cutting across the western edge of the Bronx, the river and Manhattan are on my left. Yankee Stadium is on the right. I notice a lot of cars parked willy nilly around the stadium, but there is crazy parking all over the city. Back in Brooklyn or Queens, I had to leave the highway because of construction and cut through a neighborhood. Between construction barriers and cars parked by the retarded, I could barely get my truck through. A couple times I was only "pretty sure" the trailer would follow me safely. I just eased on through and tried not to watch in the mirror. If I was wrong, the sound would be bad enough. I didn't want to have to watch it happen too. The crazy parking around Yankee Stadium will come back to haunt me.

I made my first turn on the new plan. Right away on I-95, I see a sign that Wide Loads are not allowed further on The Bronx Expressway. Wide Loads must go south on I-87 with an arrow pointed up an exit ramp. I'm not a Wide Load [shut up] but South on I-87 would save me all the I-95 to I-895 to I-287 shuck and jive. That would take me right back how I came. Surely, I can make it through where they are directing Wide Loads.

It was a bitch. And quit calling me Shirley.

I climbed up into the city from I-95. There was a sign directing Wide Load traffic to the left. There is also several steel columns for the elevated train all over the road. There must also be a school because backpack toting pedestrians are everywhere. In front of me is a street; two traffic lanes and a left turn center lane. The steel columns are on either side of the center lane making it a tunnel. While the light is still red, I scan the scene calculating if I should angle through the center lane into the far right or if I should go all the way through the intersection and make the full turn.

Normally a left turn is much preferred to a right turn in a semi. Your trailer will 'off-track' as you pull it through the corner. This causes the trailer to turn further inside the corner than you and the cab do. A left turn gives you the whole road to work with. A right turn is tight. Trucks will take out stop signs, light poles and pedestrians if the driver is not careful. The steel columns in the middle of traffic pretty much make this left more like a right turn.

Times Up!! The light is green. On impulse, I take the full turn. I pushed my luck enough back in the construction zone. Halfway through the turn, I am way too close to one of the steel columns. I turn wider and ride the curb with my right hand steer tire. We just make it through. The next light is a right turn back to the highway. I am taking this turn very wide too. On the entrance ramp, there is one of those little triangular island curbs to ease the flow around the curve and separate the traffic coming straight across from the left. The backpack toting crowd all jostle to a halt as I go right up and over the island. My diesel tanks are just 8" above the ground. Luckily the curb is quite low. No sense in having a HazMat spill in the city. Whew, I am back on the highway and headed to my pickup. How the hell would a Wide Load get through there?

I get back to the the area around I-495 and realize the exit goes both east and west. I don't know why the Atlas uses different shields for the two roads. I quickly find Van Dam and exit again. Another tight street in the city. I have to turn right up Van Dam with a building right out into the corner. I see 48th Ave and soon come to 47th. Another right turn but a little easier. The first light on 47th is 32nd Place. Here I am! There is nowhere to go. Here is nowhere. I am at a stop light at 47th and 32nd Place in Long Island City. All the streets around me are narrow. The buildings all come right to the sidewalk; only occasionally interupted by an alley or the next street. There is an international vitamin distributor to my left. To the right is a building with a 'space for rent' sign. There is a Prius parked illegally across the street and to the right. In front of it is a dumpster along the far curb. There are several pallets of small boxes or maybe bricks behind the dumpster. They are lined up against the building on the sidewalk. Beyond these skids, a garage door is open and a delivery truck is parked. All the other parking spaces on the street are parked in. The next building down the street has a marble facade. Used to be someone's World Headquarters I imagine. Now its a t-shirt company.

I call my pickup again. I tell them I'm outside with nowhere to go. He gives me the idea those pallets are mine. He's going to send one of his guys out. I literally can't make a move. I'm sitting in the street at a stop light. I've sat here through 3 or 4 cycles of the light already. A few tentative honks have already sounded from the cars behind me. I hit the Four Ways and pull the air brakes. My leg is tired! Now the honking starts in earnest.

After several cars rush by me in the other lane; gesturing with a particular digit, my favorite moment sitting there is a the Chinese Delivery Van. This van pulled out from behind me and sped to make the light. Going by me, the Chinese guy in the passenger seat craned his head and shoulders all the way around to glare at me. He gave me the quintessential NYC WTF look. The kind of look you would expect from a guy named Vinnie or Victor. The International Language of New York City Traffic. The Pa Nang Noodle Company Van disappeared around the next corner.

10 minutes later, I'm still sitting there at the light; still listening to honks and smiling at people past their finger. Some guys start to mill around outside the open garage door moving about frantically. They scurry like ants do if you stomp on the ground right next to an ant hill. A young oriental kid in a "I Heart NY" t-shirt comes jogging over. He asks if I can park where the delivery truck is if they move it. My trailer is longer than that truck let alone my whole rig. "OK," he says, "we'll move it and then see what we can do."

While they are scurrying around and moving the truck, I see an opening on the side street and begin my turn. A short blast on the horn and some eye contact shoo away a Cuban woman and her young son. I'm making another right turn and chances are I need their sidewalk. I can just barely get around because of the illegally parked Prius right on the corner. As I pass it, I notice the Prius has "Official" license plates. Some fool bureaucrat parked there. Around the corner and parked next to the dumpster, I can see 4 or 5 empty parking spaces up the road. I should insist they let me park up there and drive the skids down the block.

Instead they ask if I can pull up on the sidewalk near where the delivery van was. I shouldn't but who else can say they parallel parked a semi on the sidewalk in Long Island City? I'm game! As you can see in my Whacky Photo Gallery [page 2], I didn't really _parallel_ park. I got the tractor and a lot of the trailer over the sidewalk with the tail hanging in the parking spot formerly held by the delivery truck. They just don't pay me enough.

It was an international crew. There were two elder statesmen characters; one Black and the other Indian. They both excelled at observing; supervising without committing themselves to any particular action plan. The young oriental guy seemed to be in charge but not everyone was behind him. There were several younger guys; an Italian, a Puerto Rican, another Indian, and a Black guy driving the lift. A Jewish looking younger guy came out a few times sporadically. He carried the air of the owner's son.

They put a pallet jack in my trailer. The older Indian guy took a position in the trailer at the door. He didn't move much other than to gingerly act as if he was helping the Puerto Rican get a skid moving each time one had been lifted in. The guy on the lift either wasn't very experienced or he had made everyone else nervous somehow. Every 8" the lift moved, someone would call out with a better angle he should take. The oriental supervisor was especially bad about this. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. It was going to take forever this way. Then, incredibly, someone walked up from the street with an urgent question for the lift driver. The whole operation ground to a halt while the driver listened, scrunched his face to ponder, answer and then furrow his brow and clarify.

Then it began again. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct. Lurch. Halt. Listen. Correct.

I could have loaded the truck faster by myself. Pallet jack a skid to the curb. Climb onto the lift and set the skid in the trailer. Climb into the trailer. Pallet jack the skid into the nose of the trailer. Climb down. Start over again.

I had pulled up onto the sidewalk and behind some parked cars. There was a minivan that I was practically over. See the Whacky Gallery again. During the load process, the van driver left. I was surprised I didn't hear about how close I had come, but then again this is New York. It was going to be easier to get out without the van there. As the afternoon wore on, a woman, who had come out of the Ad Agency across the street, complimented me on my fine parking job. I told her to wait until I had managed to back out again.

The Oriental kid and another watched for me as I backed out. I had scoped out the next intersection for turning radius. It was still tight, but I made it out. It was getting late. From New York City, the nearest place to park a semi for the night was on the border with New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I had a couple hours to go, at least.

Back on the BQE, traffic was snarled. Tomorrow the UN General Assembly opens. Bush is in town. Amadinejad is in town. So was everyone else. There were limos and shuttle vans all over. I got back across the Triboro; this time on purpose. Traffic came to a stop.

30 minutes later, I passed the snarl. A four wheeler (a car) must have made a quick lane change without a second look. He ended up wedged under a semi trailer. Traffic was moving again . . . and then it stopped. All those cars I half noticed around Yankee Stadium were now merging into my lane. The game just got over! For the next hour and a half, I never got higher than third gear. Sixth gear is only 30 mph. I sat and waited, then ambled forward several feet and then waited; ambled; waited; ambled; waited. In two and a half hours, I drove 45 miles. But now I was in Jersey again. We were moving along quite well. The sun had gotten low enough it was no longer frying my eyeballs. This was better. And then we stopped again.

I thought I had survived the Yankee fans and rush hour that started just as the game got out. I had made it far enough into Jersey to pickup the last remnants of those brave souls who commute from Pennsylvania and Western New Jersey. All through New Jersey on I-80, there just aren't many rest stops or truckstops. I was going to try and get 100 miiles or so into Pennsylvania before stopping for the night. Finally a place to stop came by. I took a much needed bathroom break and bought a pop.

The day was almost done. Another 100 miles, some sleep, and tomorrow will be a better day. I climbed into the cab, took a deep breath and opened my pop. It fizzed all over my hand, the steering wheel and on to the floor. Just a reminder it wasn't tomorrow yet. Life on the road.