“We passed it already. It was Oriole.”
“We passed it! You slack fucker. Where am I gonna turn this thing around in this fuckin’ rat’s nest?”
“You’re the guy who calls himself U-Turn. You’re the guy who says he can turn a tractor-trailer around inside a car wash. Let’s see you do your stuff.”
“Tommy, why are you fucking with me right now?”
“Don’t worry about it. This road goes all the way around. Oriole’s just up on the right. The guy’s house is on the left, we’re unloading from the left. We’re perfect. I’ve been in this stupid place before. It’s hard to keep them separated. I didn’t remember until I saw all the birds’ names.”
“You’re fucked up. Are you in shape to work?”
“I ain’t fucked up, just a little buzzed. You’re the one who’s fucked up.”
“That’s it. No booze until the working day is done, you got that?”
“Yes, massa, I got that. Here’s Oriole. Turn right.”
Mr. Gross was an obese man of about sixty. He was standing in front of the house waiting for us. Tommy jumped out. I put on the air brakes, shut off the engine, and hopped down.
“Mr. Gross, I presume? Hi. My name is Finn Murphy. How’s it going?”
“Hi, Ken,” he said. “Everything’s going into the garage. Can’t think why I shipped it. I got all new stuff when I moved down here.”
“Yes. Everybody does that. We have to do a little paperwork before we unload.”
“You mean you want the check.”
“Yes, sir. A certified check for eighteen hundred dollars.”
“That stuff isn’t worth eighteen hundred dollars. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. How ’bout you keep it and I keep the dough? What am I going to do with an Ethan Allen living room set in Sarasota?”
“I dunno, Mr. Gross. Can we go inside and do the paperwork?”
“Sure.”
Tommy started wheeling boxes into the garage while we went inside. Mr. Gross waddled over to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch.
“Want a drink, Ken?”
“No thanks, Mr. Gross. About that check . . .”
“I don’t know what I’m doing down here, Ken.” Mr. Gross topped off his drink with some water, “I had the largest commercial window-washing business in New England three months ago. We did all the big buildings in Portland, Burlington, Manchester, hospitals, schools—we had ‘em all. Then one day this guy offered me a fortune to sell up if we did the deal fast. All cash. Before I could shake myself awake it was over. I was up there in Vermont freezing my ass off with nothing to do, so hell, buy a place in Florida, right?”
“Congratulations, sir. About that check . . .”
“Oh yeah, here.” He handed me the certified check.
“Thanks. Say, Mr. Gross, could I use your phone?
“Sure, Ken.”
This was the key call I’d been anticipating all week. I had waited to give Gary the most time to try to scrounge something out of Florida for Monday. To a dispatcher, success is defined by clearing freight off his board and doing it on schedule. He’s not overly concerned with driver revenue. I’m not required to take loads dispatched to me, but if I get a reputation for refusing loads they’ll all dry up, so everything revolves around a balance between Gary and me. He’ll give me as much garbage as he thinks I’ll haul, but he has to make it up sometimes and give me some gold. Gary’s had some rotten shit I’ve hauled for him—overflows, cut-rate military, and short hauls nobody wanted. In my view, he was way overdue for a big payload. I called him at four forty-five Indiana time.
“Hey, Gary, it’s Finn.”
“Finn Murphy. Driver number 6-5-1-8. You know, I was thinking about cutting out early, and then I thought nope, 6518’s going to be calling looking for a load out of Florida, and since I live for 6518, I’m going to stay here until it calls.”
“TGIF, Gary. You’re pretty jolly today. Is that because it’s fifteen minutes to the weekend or is it the sound of my voice?”
“You do have a distinctive voice for a truck driver. You don’t have a southern accent, and you speak in full sentences. Why is it that all truckers talk with a southern accent? I’m dispatching a couple guys from fucking Saskatchewan and they talk like the Dukes of Hazzard. What is that?”
“They’re perpetuating a myth, Gary. A myth is a way of looking at life that doesn’t exist, never did exist, but gives people a worldview they can understand and accept.”
“My question was rhetorical, Finn. You missed the irony. You always do.”
“Rhetorical? Irony? Those are pretty big words for a dispatcher. With all this chitchat, you’ve got really good news or really bad news. Which is it?”
“Lemme tell you a little story, 6518. Can I call you 65, to keep things on a first-name basis? 6518 sounds so formal. Just kidding, Finn, sort of. Do you have any idea of how many drivers I talk to every day? No, you don’t. Sorry . . . It’s quitting time and I’m getting punchy. You know how some of our agents are really small, like that Woodway place in Vermont? He’s tiny, but he’s exclusive to us. Other places have so little activity that one little moving company might be the agent for more than one van line. We don’t like that, but in small markets it works for us.”
“This is fascinating, Gary. Right now I’m looking for a load.”
“Patience, youngster, patience. You’re a young man in a hurry and that’s not always a good thing to be. Anyway, one of these renegade agents is in Key West. He’s the agent for Allied, United, Mayflower, us, everybody. The guy’s name is Helmut. He’s an island guy, more into fishing and boozing than working, but he’s got a big warehouse, and there’s not enough action for any competition, so he’s got Key West locked up tight. Last week Helmut got called out to the Naval Air Station. There’s an admiral with a couple days to retirement. The admiral is from Connecticut, his grown kids live in Connecticut, and he’s going to live in Connecticut after he retires. Naturally, he doesn’t want to pay to move his stuff from Key West, so—because he can—he transfers himself to Groton Navy Base outside New London. It’s his last official posting, and even if he’s only going to be posted there for five minutes, Uncle Sam will pick up the tab for the move. These military guys are no dummies. Got it so far, Finn?”
“Got it, Gary, great story. Does it have an ending?”
“Indeed it does, and you’re going to like the ending, trust me. Helmut went out to the admiral’s res and did the estimate. He couldn’t decide whether to give the load to us, Allied, or United. Not being a guy to stress out about these things, he put off his decision. Come Monday, Helmut got busy and the admiral slipped his mind. The admiral continued to slip his mind until exactly eighteen minutes ago when the transportation officer on base called Helmut to check that everything was in order for the admiral on Monday. Helmut lied to the TO and said, ‘Of course we’re all ready for the admiral . . . Yessirree!’ Helmut then started working the phones. I don’t know who he called first, but we got it. Ya ready?”