“Ready.”
9/26AM OA A1 Key West Shipper Clark GBL 21,000 lbs Pack and load Line haul $16,750 DA Whaling City Movers New London CT Delivery date 9/30.
“Wow, Gary, twenty-one thousand pounds. A full load, and packing. Nice work.” I was automatically doing the sums in my head but couldn’t get to a number. I was going to need a calculator. A true blue pot of gold. This never happens.
“Yeah. Normally we’d be fighting like cats over this in dispatch. There are at least twenty drivers empty in Florida, and some of ’em have been waiting more than two weeks. The thing is, the planners knew they had to get this thing assigned today and all the other drivers have checked in. I told the head planner you were in Miami and empty and would be calling in just before five. You are in Miami and empty, right?”
“Absolutely empty, Gary. I’m down here in Kendall just folding pads and cleaning up the truck.” Actually I was in Sarasota with three shipments to deliver the next day.
“Good. So Charlie, the planner, looks around the dispatch room and says to me, ‘If 6518 calls in before five, give it to him. We can’t take any chances. The guy’s a fucking admiral. If nobody shows up Monday he’ll probably drop an artillery shell on Helmut’s warehouse.’”
“Good story, Gary. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a bunch. Guess what else? The reason you’re unloading the 30th is not only because the admiral retires that day, but also because your agent up there, Callahan Bros., booked an exclusive use from Westport, Connecticut, to Vero Beach loading on the first. Your name is on the ticket. So you’re full going up and full going down. I won’t have to talk to you for weeks.”
“You’ll miss my melodious unsouthern voice, you’ll see.”
“Not likely. Go take care of the admiral. I’ll talk to you in October sometime.”
“OK, Gary. Thanks again. Bye.”
I couldn’t believe my amazing luck. I had 21,000 pounds for Connecticut to pack and load starting Monday and an exclusive-use backup load after that going back down. This was going to be a net $25,000 month, my best turn ever. Freighthaulers who elbow me aside at truckstops and make fun of my chrome-free little Astro can eat my fumes. Fuckin’ sharecroppers.
A pack and load was a rarity for me. It meant that I did the entire move from beginning to end. I didn’t often get these super gravy loads because dispatchers saved them for their pet drivers. I do my job, but I’m no corporate ass-kisser swinging by Fort Wayne laying cases of Coors, Maine lobsters, or Virginia hams at the feet of those who control my fate.
I went outside. Tommy was wheeling in the last two end tables of the Ethan Allen set. It was nice stuff, but Mr. Gross was right. It had no business being down here. We went inside to say good-bye. Tommy followed me, not to say good-bye but to be on the spot in case we got a tip.
“I’ve got the inventory sheet, Mr. Gross. Do you want to check it off and make sure it’s all here?”
“Nah. I’m sure it’s all here.”
“I’m sure it is too. Want to sign right here, then?”
“OK.”
“That’s it, Mr. Gross, we’re all set. Anything else we can do?”
“You sure you boys won’t have a drink?”
“No thanks,” I said quickly. Tommy, I was well aware, would certainly have a drink. “We’ve got to drop another load tonight in Naples.”
“Tonight? Naples? You’re working hard. I used to work hard. Enjoy it, boys. You never know, you might miss it when it’s over.” He reached into his wallet and handed Tommy a ten and me a twenty.
“So long, Mr. Gross. And thanks.”
The paperwork was done, I had the check, and there would be no claim. Mission accomplished. As I made the left on Blue Heron Way back to I-75, I caught a final glimpse of Mr. Gross standing at the end of his driveway with his right hand in the air and the left clutching his scotch.
We were not actually delivering in Naples that night but the next morning. I had an easy two-hour run south on the beautiful, spanking-flat I-75. I was cruising along at an easy 65 when I was passed by a motorcycle. I didn’t see him in my mirrors and didn’t know he was there until he passed me. I would never ride a motorcycle on an interstate. I can barely see motorcycles, ever. Truckers call them murdercycles, and riders are called organ donors. One time on I-90 in eastern Washington I was in the left lane passing another truck and a motorcycle came right between the two of us doing about 90. He had maybe a foot of clearance on either side of two semis both doing over 70.
I took out Mr. Gross’s twenty and handed it to Tommy. “Here you go. You know I always give my tips to the lumper.” I’ve got this weird prejudice that a driver shouldn’t accept tips.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached for his thermos of Cape Codders.
We got to Naples a little after eight. There was a strip center outside of town where I always parked. There’s nothing resembling a truckstop in pretty little Naples. The shopping center had a Laundromat, a liquor store, an IHOP, a Kmart, and, best of all, a Chinese restaurant. There was a North American truck there already, plus an Allied and a Mayflower. I pulled up next to them. It was starting to look like a truckstop in pretty little Naples now. Normally I’d go over and talk to the drivers, but since I had a full load out of Key West for Monday, I didn’t. The North American guy might be one of those drivers who’s been waiting two weeks to load, and if he heard about my 21,000 things might get ugly. Tommy and I ate Chinese and drank a couple of beers. Around nine fifteen we left the restaurant, and I opened the trailer doors. Tommy grabbed a pile of pads and made himself a cozy little bed. I went up front and climbed into my sleeper. I slept like a newborn babe.
I woke up at seven ready for breakfast and found Tommy sitting on the edge of the trailer reading the sports section of the Naples Daily News. His bed was untouched.
Only God and the Devil know what Tommy does at night.