The simple truth is, your latter-day Hispanic laborer, wallowing in the refuse-laden cesspit that constitutes the dregs of the American Dream is more dependable, works harder, and is more trustworthy than many native-born Anglos. The Hispanics actually want out of the cesspit and will work to get themselves out just like the Callahans did a generation or two ago. On the other hand, your typical head-banging, tatted-out, meth freak Anglo doesn’t even know where he is. You’ve pretty much reached the muddy, filth-strewn, windblown end of the American cesspit when you can’t find a white guy who can amass the rudimentary requirements needed to be hired as a local mover.
I hear a lot about the immigration problem, but as a guy who works daily in the cesspool, I suspect American business already enjoys the solid immigration policy everyone says we’re lacking. American business needs workers to do shitty jobs like humping furniture, and people from poor countries are eager to do these jobs.
I was assigned to deliver the trailer Terry had dropped. Per standard procedure, when I got the paperwork, I looked up the address on Google Maps and compared it to my atlas map. Mr. Vaughan had bought a house on a Colorado mountainside. The residence delivery looked so dicey that I decided to drive up there in my car two days before to check it out. A site visit is not typical for movers in general, but I’m a careful guy who doesn’t like surprises, and besides, I like to perform top service for our corporate clients. The Vaughans’ house was certainly going to be what we call a shuttle, which is when I have to bring a smaller truck and transfer the goods into that because there’s no tractor-trailer access. The residence was two miles from any pavement, and his “street” was a 10-percent-grade gravel track with several twists and turns that on my best day I couldn’t negotiate with a trailer. Even if I could, it was a dead end at the top.
I’d scoped out a turnout about three miles down from the residence where I could park the trailer. I’d also transferred the first load onto a straight truck at our yard so we could start unloading into the house on Monday morning. Carlos and Julio had worked the day before, a Sunday, to get it all ready. I parked the big truck at the turnout and took over the straight truck from Carlos. Even in a straight truck this grade was gnarly, and it was drizzling rain, making the dirt road gooey. If the truck was going over the side, I didn’t want Carlos behind the wheel. I got stuck going up the first grade because I was hesitant at the hairpin turns and slowed down too much. I had to back down and start over. I had the guys go up ahead to block traffic so I could keep my momentum. I got the truck in low gear and was redlining the tachometer at 3,500 on the flattish first section. As I climbed, the tach slowly dropped to 2,500, then to 2,000, then to 1,500, and I was lugging the engine. It just didn’t have any more juice. I realized I shouldn’t have loaded the thing full. Just before the truck gave it up and stalled, I hit a flatter section. My guys ran up ahead to stop traffic at the next group of hairpins. I picked up my rpm to 3,000 and dealt with the next grade. We did this three times before I backed into the Vaughan driveway at 7:59 a.m. We were greeted by Mr. Vaughan and an iPhone on a tripod, filming us.
“You were supposed to be here yesterday,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Vaughan. I’m Finn Murphy from Joyce Van Lines. Here’s my card. I was assigned by the office to deliver today. I’m sorry if there was some confusion. This is Carlos and Julio. We’re here to make this move as smooth as possible.”
“That’s not the truck my stuff was loaded into. My stuff was loaded onto a trailer. I took down the number. It was trailer 248.”
“Yes it was. Trailer 248 is just down the road. We had to transfer your belongings into a smaller truck to make the hill. It’s called a shuttle.”
“Why wasn’t I informed there was going to be a shuttle? I don’t want my stuff to be double-handled. It makes for more damage. I was told it was going to stay on the trailer.”
“Mr. Vaughan, you’re an engineer, right?”
“I certainly am.”
“Well sir, as an engineer, can you tell me how we can get a tractor-trailer anywhere near this house?”
“You can’t. Still, I should have been informed.”
“Maybe so. If there’s any blame, it’s me. I drove up here on Saturday. I’ve been driving trucks since 1976. If there was ever a reason for a shuttle, this is it. We barely got the straight truck up here.”
“I was wondering about that too.”
“Well sir, we’re here. Ready to start. We’re going to prep the house and get things rolling.”
Our plan was to unload into the garage and then move items into the house. Mrs. Vaughan was sitting on a lawn chair attending to the tripod, taking video of the unload with a notebook and pencil on her lap. The first item off the truck was a pushbroom. I asked her where she wanted it to go.
“That broom is dirty. Somebody used it. It was new back in Pennsylvania.”
This was probably true. As I’ve mentioned before, movers do not covet other people’s stuff, with one exception—a pushbroom. All moving vans need a pushbroom because the hardwood trailer floor gets filthy with the residue of people’s faulty housekeeping. You move out a refrigerator or a barbecue grill and all of a sudden there’s a dusty, filthy mess on the trailer floor. It’s dangerous and ugly, and I like a clean trailer. John Callahan told me forty years ago that a “clean truck is a happy truck,” and he was right. I’m a stickler on the point. The problem with brooms is that the truck’s broom often gets delivered to the residence by mistake. (Nobody ever files claims on items delivered that don’t belong to them, which are most often brooms and extension ladders.) This pretty much always leaves a driver looking for a broom. I don’t deliberately steal brooms, but I often end up with one that’s not mine. In this case, the origin driver most likely used Mrs. Vaughan’s broom to sweep out the dust, trash, ashes, coins, dust bunnies, mouse turds, and bits of food left behind from her own house.
“Yes, Mrs. Vaughan, this broom has certainly been used.”
“I’m going to write it up as damaged.”
“You’re certainly entitled to do that.” She started writing in her notebook. This was not going to be a smooth couple of days. One of the advantages of moving work is that I have very limited time with problem people. I’ll be with a shipper three days a week at most. I pity, up to a point, the postal worker who is consigned to a hostile work environment for two or three decades. It must be hell.