The phone rang. Helmut picked it up. I could hear one side of the conversation.
“Aw, c’mon, Gary, you know me. I’d never, ever do that. North American are my number one guys out here. Nobody called me back . . . Yes, I was here . . . No, I didn’t leave early . . . The guy’s a fucking admiral, he’d have sent a SEAL team to kill me . . . I’m sorry, but I had to do what I had to do . . . OK. You want to talk to your driver?” Helmut handed me the phone.
“Finn. It’s Gary. We’re fucked. Charlie booked this verbally with Helmut Friday afternoon. Charlie’s the boss, and I know he’s not lying, but he’s out today and we can’t confirm it. It doesn’t matter anyway. Helmut’s really the boss, and he gave it to Allied. The truth is he probably booked it with both of us just to make sure he had a driver. We’re on the losing end.”
“We’re on the losing end, Gary? It looks like I’m on the losing end. What are you going to do? First thing I’d say is to delist this fucker from our agency roster.”
“That’s not going to happen, Finn. He’s the only game in town.”
“What about me? I just drove two hundred miles to Key West to load a phantom shipment.”
“I talked to the planners about that already. We feel really bad about this. I’ve got seven thousand pounds loading out of Tampa tomorrow for Caribou, Maine, on a GBL paying three grand. There’s nothing else on the board, but you’re priority one.”
“Tampa is four hundred fucking miles from here. Three thousand pays me thirteen hundred to the fucking North Pole. That’s a money-losing job.”
“That’s what I’ve got. Something else might come in.”
My head started pounding and my vision got all blurry. I was thinking about the past eight minutes, eight days, eight months, eight years; the injustice, the slights, the effect on my psyche. I thought about what was happening to me. I thought about the vitriol and cynicism and the bad thoughts coming out of me like bile just on this one trip. I thought again about Lone Ranger up in Kittery. What would he do? What was I going to do? Deadhead up north again to load another snowbird fulfilling his American Dream? What about my American Dream? I had a couple hundred grand in the bank.
Every fiber of my being told me it was time to cash in and work on what Lone Ranger already knew. Maybe he had been born that way, or maybe he had gone down his own grueling road of disappointment and failure and figured his way out. The shower at Hal’s didn’t last long enough for me to uncover the truth. We might have gotten there if I’d put more quarters into my soap. Stephen King once wrote, “Life can change on a dime.” In my case, it was a quarter.
“Gary, we’ve been together for eight years. I want to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“How do you look at yourself in the morning? How do you teach your kids ethics? How can you watch me get screwed and spout the company line when you know it’s wrong?”
“Between you and me Finn, it’s not easy. I’ve got a mortgage, I’ve got a family, I’ve got a job. They’ve got me by the short hairs. You’re a good driver, an upstanding man, but I’ve no choice except to stand by and watch you get screwed.”
“I pity you, Gary. You know what I just figured out about truck drivers? For all their pitiful myths, most of them do this stupid job for one reason: They can look themselves in the eye and honestly say they’ve held to their own standards without caving in to pressure by society or somebody else’s expectations. They might fuck up, and they do, but they own their fuckups and keep to those standards regardless of the personal cost. I’m a truck driver too.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying fuck you, Gary. Keep your split-level in Fort Wayne. Raise your kids to become cogs in the machine. I live by a different standard that I just figured out. All these cowboys I’ve looked down upon—they’re better than you, for all their faults.”
“Nice speech. Do you want the Tampa load or not?”
“You’re not listening, Gary, but I suppose you can’t. No. I’m not going to Tampa. I’d leave this fucking rig right here, but I need to do right by Mr. Callahan, so I’ll throw away a thousand dollars and park this rig in his yard and hand him the keys.”
“You’re quitting?”
“I’m just done with this.”
“OK then. I’ve got to reassign this Tampa load.”
“Gary, did I ever tell you about the summer I washed dishes at the Howard Johnson’s on I-95? The dishes were never done. There was always another rack to load no matter how fast I worked. I was a hamster on a treadmill. Never again.”
“Finn, we’ve had a nice run. I wish you the best, but I’ve got stuff on my board and my phone is redlining.”
“I thought your board was empty, Gary.”
“Good-bye, Finn. You were the smartest guy I ever dispatched, but you’re not the smartest truck driver. You still don’t understand the system. You’re not the only guy in the world, you know.”
“Oh, I understand the system, Gary, I really do. That’s why I’m leaving. I’m the only guy in my world.”
“Good luck.”
“You too, Gary. You’re going to need it more than me.”
So that was that. I deadheaded up to Connecticut, dropped the truck in Callahan’s yard, and walked away. I had no idea what I was going to do next.
No idea at all.
I quit driving for a long time.
PART III
THE BIG SLAB
Chapter 7
BACK ON THE ROAD
I have a card in my wallet that says I’m qualified to drive any vehicle of any size. It’s called a Class A commercial driver’s license. Having a Class A CDL is a quasi-mystical benediction, sort of like being a Tolkien Ring-bearer. Like a Ring of Power, it can open up a world of possibility closed to others. It can also bring good or ill upon you depending upon your motivation and luck. A CDL is a lot harder to get nowadays, but once you have one, unless you lose it through some piece of errant stupidity, you get to keep it. Forever.