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40 miles south of Coos Bay, Oregon on Hwy 101. Siren with red & blue lights.
"Crap...fuck!" I pull it over. "Fuck," I tell myself again. An State Patrol officer approaches the cab:
HPatrolman: "Good evening sir: licence, registration, road-log and load papers, please."
Me: "Yessir."
I pretend to be professional and efficient and not angry while I collect his required items.
Me: "My load is pretty light, so I know you didn't pull me over for..."
HP: (interupts) "Ok sir...gimme a few minutes, I'll be right back."
The officer heads back to patrolcar. "Christ," I mutter to myself with a sigh. The World Series on my Satellite-Radio suddenly seems louder without the road-noise. The game is tied 9-9, so I sit and listen while staring in my side-view mirrors at the officer getting into his car:
Satellite radio: "The Red Sox allowed opposing hitters a .255 batting average, while the Cardinals' opponents were at .251...fouled down the right field line, one and one. (5 seconds of stadium noise) So, only four points of batting average is all that separated these two teams, yet the Cardinals gave up a startling 112 fewer runs...a fastball outside ball two."
"Jesus Christ", I mutter to myself again, lookin' at the cop doing his thing inside his patrolcar.
Satellite radio: Mark Bellhorn on deck...tomorrow, game two from Fenway: Cardinals will have Matt Morris on the mound facing Curt Schilling...
The game quickly turns into an audio-blur as I begin spacing-out on oncoming traffic headlights. I'm starin' and thinkin' about my money troubles and all the craziness it seems to dish out on a daily basis. I can not afford a ticket. I instantly snap out of it with the patrol-cardoor shutting and I notice the officer headin' back. I instinctively turn the game down.
HP: "All right, everything looks good."
He starts handing my pile of stuff back at me while beamin' his flashlight in my face like I was some kind of a labrat undergoin' a cruel science experiment.
Me: "So, what's the deal here?"
HP: "Yeah...I'm just checking tonight for criteria under 49 CFR Part 391.41
Me: "Huh?"
HP: (chuckles) "I'm checking tonight for evaluation under 49 CFR Part 391.41, which is for mental, nervous, or functional disorders likely to interfere with a driver's ability to operate a commercial motor vehicle safely.
Me: (I chuckle) "391 dot...what?"
HP: "Well, it's a serious problem we have on this stretch of Highway 101: Emotional or adjustment problems contribute directly to a driver's level of memory, reasoning, attention, and judgment and these problems often can cause drowsiness, dizziness, confusion, weakness, or paralysis that may lead to incoordination, inattention, loss of functional control and susceptibility to crashes while driving..."
- I must have been starin' like an idiot at him, which would give him even more reason to grab my licence and papers again and throw me in jail. -
HP: "...physical fatigue, headache, impaired coordination, recurring physical ailments like chronic "nagging" pains that could be present to such a degree that commercial driving isn't inadvisable."
Me: "Jeez officer, isn't that about every damn driver on the road?"
HP: (chuckling again) "Not necessarily..."
- And off he went again on another speech. I just pretended that I was payin' attention til he was obviously done.
HP: "You seem to be alert and I don't want to keep you any longer."
Me: "Ok officer...thanks I guess."
HP: "You bet! And be careful on the roads tonight, good evening sir."
I felt like sittin' there and listenin' to the game a little longer, but I couldn't wait; I might have ended up in jail. Anyhow, I was lookin' forward to sittin' in the Dockside with a big steak and glass of beer in front of me.
-Tom
Don't know if it was the rain, the election politics, the leaves turnin’, it being Monday, or what. I just had a really hard time staying on an even keel today. In the beginning, I was glad to be headed out only because I need the income, but I soon had a headache that coffee didn’t cure and I just wanted to be back at home with Lorraine. In Longview, the loadin’ dock foreman was even more bitter and callous than usual and once he figured out that I had no patience for any of his crap, he just stood there grinnin’ at me with that twisted smile of his. “What? None of your smart-ass comebacks today T******n?” (He always calls me by my last name.) So this particular day, I said nothin’ and just stared back at him in his drippin’-wet ball-cap that seemed slightly tilted at an almost cocky angle. I signed his stupid release-papers, turned around without sayin’ a word and headed into a green/grey, wet wind towards my truck. I heard him laugh behind me and I instinctively started whistlin’, passive-aggressively, just in hope of pissin’ him off. The drive to St Helens was like going through a carwash, hard to see the whole way. The political rhetoric on my satellite radio—which usually perks me up—just drove me nuts. I turned it off with a groan. In the road-noise of my truck-cab, I suddenly realized that I'm way overdue for a long, nighttime run. I’ve always liked doing long-hauls during the winter months; somethin’ about it calms me down. I’m also lookin’ forward to Christmas lights showin’ up soon. Cold crisp air and twinkling lights do wonders for me. Cue those lights. There's this one particular neighborhood in my town that I visit every Christmas - the sheer volume of these new tract-houses with massive light-decorations makes it almost like an amusement park ride. I’ll go back two or three times before New Years hits, always takin’ Lorraine with me. She's usually bundled-up, mesmerized, reflective and quiet. But that’s months away. It seemed really dark in St Helens for 4:30pm to me. A massive line of traffic-headlights was headed the opposite way. I swung into the Community Federal Credit Union for some cash and decided to get it inside, instead of at the ATM, so I could grab another free cup of coffee. The teller-lady there was havin’ a bad day too, mostly because of their new computer system that had only been in place for a week or two. “When it works, it’s really great,” she sighed. “But when the system goes down, it makes for an awfully long day for us.” I couldn’t help but see frustration and sadness in her face. “I get it,” I told her. “20, 40, 60, 70, and 5,” she said and suddenly looked up at me with a beautiful and unexpected smile. “If your out on the roads today Tom, you be sure and be careful,” she advised still smiling. “It’s always nice to see you, and just where is that smile of yours that I always see you come in with?” And with that, a smile flashed across my face before I even knew it. “Aw…I dunno…thanks sweetheart,” was all I could muster in return. “Ok then, be careful Tom; we’ll see ya next-time,” she said and quickly called out “next” to the person at the head of the line. I’d like to tell y’all that it fixed my day, but I’d be lyin’. I jumped in my truck, turned on the Red Sox/Yankee game and headed towards Cornelius Pass. I’m not lyin’ though when I tell y’all that there sure are some real nice people livin' in this town here.
Tom
I had made a mental-note to myself that the next time I was passin' through town, I would investigate Weird Harold's for my wife's birthday present. I figured I might find a beautiful cast-iron piece for her to implant into our backyard. Lorraine is really good at this backyard-landscaping stuff - she's very creative and awfully serious about it. Our friends and neighbors always appreciate her "wonderful-eye for it" and usually complement her for this whenever we're Bar-B-Qin' out back or havin' one of our get-togethers. So on my way out of Harold's, I made my way to this Hot Dog Truck in the parkin'-lot to sample one of the 'authentic Chicago Red-Hots' being advertised. I'll admit that I was skeptical because of the fact that I did a lot of livestock-haulin' in Chicago (back in my "early days") and I know first-hand what the real deal is. Welp, I gotta tell y'all that this Wayne's Red-Hots is the real deal. After the "test-dog", I was soon wolfin' a bunch of 'em down like there was no tomorrow, happy as could be. These hotdogs really take me back. And a few other people there had figured this fact out as well: they were grabbin' hotdogs like seasoned Chicagoans, pullin' up to the cartside table and talkin' about the Amphitheater troubles down by the river. Even though they were happily eatin' great hotdogs, they seemed pissed. "The city wants to throw something up quick and dirty down there rather than make something beautiful and lasting," one fella said. "They also want to keep as much money as possible for themselves," another man interupted, "Hell, I heard that Betsy Johnson just gave them five-grand and Walmart gave them a thousand-bucks too!" Another lady added that, "The city will probably take their cut off the top and then dole out the rest of the money to friends of theirs like they usually do." While Sanders the hot-dogman was makin' me one more redhot (dragged through the garden) he reminded me that the park's initial layout-plan, (designed by Larry Buzbee) had already been approved by some sort-of steering-committee, the Merchants Association, and the Park Commission. Most of the people around the cart seemed to think that the original plan and design might not materialize at all, something I couldn't possibly imagine my wife puttin' up with. "The city now is sayin' that it all must be reviewed by an Art Commission," one fella said while finishing off a Polish-Sausage. "Art Commission?!? Hell, it doesn't even exist. What's wrong with them?!" My own translation from all of this talk was that the boys at City-Hall were sayin' to hell with Buzbee's vision and that they will finish off the Amphitheater cheap and fast by a bunch of "hacks" (as Lorraine would call them.) I wondered why they were so damn callous to what people want to have in this park down in OldTown. It seems to me that the boys downtown have adopted a "who cares what people in St Helens want" attitude. Yeah sure, they'll appoint some boards and commissions...and then, they'll probably ignore any of their recommendations. I said goodbye to everyone and on my way back to the truck, I got to thinkin' about my nextdoor neighbor Russ who also was originally from Chicago. He's always tellin' me to "keep an eye on all of these City-Hall boys, cause they're always playin' around with YOUR money." He'd seen it for years and years back in Chicago. "Hell, it's an institution back in Chicago!" he always says. I decided right then and there to turn back-around and order-up a nice, big Italian-Beef sandwich to bring home for him. It might just take him back too.
Be sure and keep an eye on the city hall boys in this nice little town y'all got here.
-Tom
Just back from pickin' up my paycheck from Longview where I felt lucky that I didn't run into the loadin'-dock foreman. He's always tryin' to ruin my day in a hurry. I was thinkin' on the way back home that if I didn't have a calandar or know what month it was, I'd somehow still know that it must be damn-close to election time just by all of the other timber-drivers bitchin' around the loadin' yard. Lots of "this or else". Lots of talk in Oregon yards about Measure 34 and how "it'll put us all out of work" or how it'll "give us lots of work". Lots of arguing about Bush "saving us from terrorists" or Bush "making things worse." Elections are fun...Right? You know what’s fun? Trying to get a loan. That’s a lot of fun. See, what you do is, you call up a bank, and say, “Hey, I’m a truck driver, I’ve got steady work, and I want to borrow a bit of money from you for a new rig.” They say, “Ok then, give us all your information, and we’ll see what we can do.” You say, “Ok, here: name, SSN, monthly-income, credit info.” Then they say, “Ok, we’ll let you know Tom,” and shake your hand. So then, you wait around for a few days, and finally, when you're just about "officially pissed and crazy", you call them back. That's when they say, “NO LOAN FOR JU!", like the soup-nazi on Seinfeld. Then your wife goes to bed crying, because this is the 4th or 5th time this has happened. Now THAT'S a lot of fun. And don't get me started about my insurance costs. Look, I may not know much about politics, but I DO know how hard I'm workin' and how little I have to show for it. I also know the same is true for ol' W. Bush. Lots of hard work and nothin' to show for it. So little to show, that he has to get up behind a podium and talk about what kinds of bad things Kerry might do, instead of tellin' me what he has done himself. Cause he ain't done shit. Like we voted against his daddy, Lorraine and I will vote against Junior based on our wallets. And our crappy health-care plan. And kids dyin' for an unjustified war. And a lot of other things. Basically, junior Bush keeps tryin' to convince me and Lorraine that his economic plan is "working" and ya know, I don't know where he's livin', but it sure as hell ain't anywhere around here.
-Tom
As I was passin' through Deer Island, I noticed there was trouble up ahead alongside the road. An SUV with it's emergencies flashing away looked stalled and stuck. The driver appeared frustrated and helpless, her arms flailin' away upwards to a brite blue sky. Since the hood was up, I decided to pull over to see if I could offer any help. With my haul being pretty heavy and extended, I managed to finally get stopped a few hundred yards past and as I eased outta my cab to make a long walk towards the scene, I noticed a white Camaro suddenly pull in front of the disabled-SUV and another samaritan instictively hop out to investigate as well. Squinting, I could make out an orangish racing-stripe down the center of the Camaro dancing in a mirage of heat-vapors. It was then I noticed that it was indeed an unseasonably hot autumn day as I continued the long walk, glancin' to check my watch to see if I really had any spare-time due to my tight run-schedule. As I approached shouting-distance, I noticed that the samaritan was a sturdy, balding man who seemed focussed and very intent on what he was doing. "Sometimes you have to just keep at it, ya know?" I heard him advise the discouraged driver. "There...try it again," the man said, grimacing as he continued holdin' something inside the hood. "Nothin," was the reply from the SUV. "Hey, can I help?" I wondered, greeting the samaritan. "Uhm," he replied while intently peering into the problem at hand, "I'm not...quite sure...yet," he said slowly, and turning to smile at me between attempts at tackling the engine-problem before him. I gave my own cursory look inside the hood, as if I could somehow quickly figure out what was wrong and help. The man was unfazed, "Sometimes it can be a little thing here, or a little bit of tinkerin' there...Try it now," he shouted around the hood. "Nothin," again was the reply. The man was getting oily and dirty before my eyes. Small beads of sweat appeared on his bald head. I made a comment about an old alternator problem I had with my car a while back, but was interupted by another of his requests to "try it again," followed by a sudden roar of the engine in question. "Whaah-hoo!" was the verdict from inside the SUV. "Thank you! Thank you," she said emphatically while scrambling out to give the stranger a well-deserved and appreciative bear-hug. "You were so kind to stop what you were doing and help me!" In return she received a, "It was nothin', really, and be sure to take your car to a real-mechanic, ok?" And with that, the lady climbed into her car and spit a little gravel as she motored back onto Highway 30. As the man fished a rag out of his trunk to wipe down his blackened arms, I marveled at his mechanical skill. "Nah," he replied, "I'm not a mechanic, I just like helpin' out when I can." He sure could have fooled me I told him, and he smiled at me while pattin' me on the back. "Be safe on the road," was his parting advice. Making the walk back to my rig, I wondered if the volcano would blow again. The white camaro sped past with a friendly and oily arm wavin' towards me. Y'all got some real nice people keepin' an eye on things in this nice little town y'all got.
Tom
