The super rummaged through some pigeonholes in his rolltop desk. Clearly this relic was moved from up north and donated to the super by a tycoon’s decorator. And for a tax write-off, no doubt.
“Yeah, Mr. Warren. He’s away. His note says to let you in today and sign for the delivery. There’s a cashier’s check here.”
“The United guy’s got the freight elevator. Can I put pads up on one of the other elevators? There’s not much stuff—a few cartons, odds and ends.”
“No way. The passenger elevators are off-limits, especially on weekends.”
“But United says he won’t be done until six o’clock.”
“So come back Monday.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Absofuckinglutely not. Never on Sundays. It’s etched into the walls around here.”
“But Mr. Warren’s note says to let me in today.”
“So . . .?”
“You know who Mr. Warren is, don’t you?
“I’ve seen him around. He’s not just moving in; this must be some stuff he bought up north.”
“That’s right. Mr. Warren is the president of the condominium board for this building.”
“Rules are rules.”
“Sometimes they are. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to piss off Mr. Warren. His note says he’s expecting this stuff today.”
“Can’t do it. The tenants’ll cut my nuts off, then have me fired, then have me shot, then dumped in the ocean. I’ll be shark bait. I’ve got a wife . . .”
I slid out Mr. Taylor’s fifty-dollar bill and laid it gently on the desk.
“Tell you what . . . you let me unload after United over there gets done and Mr. Warren will be happy, and you and your wife and General Grant here will have a nice romantic little threesome at a beach bistro tonight. Your only downside is a couple people bitching about the elevator, but they’ll do that regardless of whether Mr. Warren gets his stuff or whether General Grant goes to his final resting place in your Dickies. Whaddyasay?”
“I say I’ve met the first goddam mover who knows how to motivate people.”
“Thanks. I’ve got to run down to Miami and drop this other little shipment. I’ll be back around five.”
“I’ll be here.” I left him rooting through the phone book’s restaurant section. I picked up the fifty on my way out. This ain’t my first rodeo. An advance payment would have guaranteed me returning to find the whole place locked up with Shark Bait already on the beach slurping his second daiquiri.
We got in the truck and headed south. This delivery was in Kendall southwest of Miami. It was killing me having to drive fifty miles south to Kendall and then fifty miles back to Galt Ocean Drive when I had to drive right past Kendall to get to Key West. But at least my immediate problem of getting empty was solved.
We got back to the Galt Ocean Mile at four thirty, and I went over to check with the United driver.
“How’s it going, bedbugger?” I asked him.
“Oh, North American. I didn’t expect to see you again. What’s up?”
“We thought we’d give you a hand. You know, cooperate. Speed things up a bit.”
“You’re not unloading here tonight, driver, whatever you do. You’re wasting your time.”
I was going to enjoy this. “I believe the fix is in for delivery tonight. You have a contrary opinion. It is of no importance. Notwithstanding, Tommy and I are simply waiting around, so I humbly repeat my offer of assistance. We may as well be useful, what? How about I send Tommy upstairs and he can start assembling beds. I’ll stay down here and fold some pads.”
“Well, I suppose that’d be OK. Thanks. Where you from anyway, England?”
“Indeed not, my friend. I hail from southern Connecticut. Fairfield County, in fact. The Gold Coast it’s called, according to some. Others call it Wall Street’s bedroom. I call it my heretofore domicile, as my home of late is the humble GMC tractor yonder . . . Enough of this playful banter, sir. So, how do you like your pads folded? Every driver’s got a different method . . .”
True to his estimate, United finished at five thirty, and Tommy and I started in on our load. Tommy was wheeling the first batch of cartons into the elevator when the United guy showed up with his four guys. “One good turn deserves another,” he said. “C’mon fellas, we can get this done in three trips.” We finished Mr. Warren at six thirty.
The next morning, Sunday, I missed the eight o’clock breakfast call with Tommy. He came into my motel room at nine thirty looking for me. His bed was still made. We headed south for Key West. I-95 ends in Coral Gables; then it’s US 1 from there to the end of the road, literally. Route 1 ends at the Key West Naval Air Station, where we’d be loading. For once, I could not possibly get lost.
The first time I was in Key West I got bad directions and ended up driving my massive rig down the main drag, Duval Street, just before sunset. I had no idea where I was going and was driving slowly and tentatively. There were a bunch of streamers over the road advertising FANTASY FESTIVAL, and I thought I was going to rip them all down with my trailer. A group of young men were sitting on the rail of a streetside bar saw my plight, and one of them shouted to me, “Hey, driver, do you know where the fuck you’re going?”
“No, no idea at all,” I replied.
The guy and his friends vaulted the rail and before I knew it six or seven fabulously handsome men in body paint had grabbed the handholds and were standing on my fuel tanks as they rode me through downtown Key West hooting and hollering like they’d commandeered the vessel. Gays, like bikers, have a kinship with truckers. It’s probably due to all of us being outside the mainstream. At the turnaround at the bottom of Duval Street the guys told me where to stay, where to eat, and where to go if I wanted company, male or female. It was one of those rarities in my world: an accurate set of directions given by people who actually just wanted to help me out.
Tommy and I got to Key West Sunday evening after cleaning up the trailer at a rest area in Islamorada overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. We parked the truck at the navy base and headed over to the Half Shell Raw Bar for fish sandwiches. We arrived at Helmut’s warehouse Monday morning a little before 8. There was an Allied truck there too. I knew Helmut from previous jobs, and there he was in the office, bleary-eyed from the weekend, staring into the distance.
“Hi, Helmut. I’m Driver Murphy from North American. I’m here to load Admiral Clark.”
“North American? Clark? That’s Allied’s shipper.”
“Can’t be, Helmut. They gave it to me Friday afternoon. Call Fort Wayne.”
“I never heard back from Fort Wayne, so when I saw this Allied guy, I gave it to him.”
“Where’s the phone, Helmut. You’re fucking me over here.”
I called Gary in Indiana. “Gary? Finn. Helmut here says the job went to Allied, that nobody confirmed my assignment from Friday and he had to reassign it to save his ass.”
“Lemme check this, Finn. I’ll call you right back.”
In the meantime the Allied guy was at the dock loading his trailer with packing material and cartons. My goddam shipment.