Mountain driving isn’t difficult exactly. If you’re calm and willing to go slow, it’s reasonably safe. The problem for me is that while I’m going 25 mph down a 6 percent grade I have a lot of leisure to think about what could go wrong and then imagine ensuing repercussions. It comes down to what you’re used to. I know guys that will scoff at Vail Pass but turn into burbling babies at the thought of New York. My first day driving a tractor trailer had me over the Third Avenue Bridge into Manhattan and it hardly fazed me. Of course I was a very young idiot at the time. I still drive into Manhattan, and I’m always respectful, but it doesn’t freeze me like it would some driver from Wyoming who’ll do a 10-mile 6 percent while singing Willie Nelson on his CB, talking to his girlfriend on his hands-free, and heating up a burrito in his microwave.
I got a General Electric exec back to Fairfield, Connecticut. The pace was calmer than the North American days, or maybe I was more relaxed. I kept my logbook strictly legal, hired lots of help for my shipments, and stayed in motels almost every night. All I was doing was VIP pack and loads, and the emphasis was totally on customer service and not quick turns. That suited me just fine. The money was amazing, and my account at Joyce Van Lines swelled nicely in spite of the expenses. It costs me about $25,000 a month to operate full-time out on the road. The lion’s share of that is labor and fuel.
I picked up an ex-investment banker with his $3 million worth of loot going to Aspen. My regulars, Julio and Carlos, and another helper I use regularly, named Eduardo, drove out from Denver, so I had my A-team crew. My shipper, after helping topple his bank in 2008, caught another plum job with another troubled public company that was paying for this move. Without getting all Eugene Debs about it, it seems to me that while many bad movers end up in orange vests picking up trash on roadsides, many bad executives get new million-dollar jobs running other companies into the courtroom.
I rolled into Aspen and parked at the Bavarian Motel. I had called previously to ask if they could accommodate my truck, and the desk clerk said he’d arrange it. He also told me the trucker rate was $149 a night, a huge bargain for Aspen. I booked one room for me and one for the lumpers. When I pulled up next to the motel I saw a hundred-foot row of orange road cones the desk clerk had put out to save the spaces for me. I was snug on South Mill Street in downtown Aspen with a tractor-trailer right across the street from the Grand Hyatt. Unbelievable.
The boys met me in the lobby about 8 p.m., and we ordered a pizza. They asked to talk to the delivery guy in person, saying that they had to give him directions. They negotiated a pickup of a twelve-pack of Coronas with him and sat by the pool smoking cigarettes until he arrived. I grabbed a slice and a Corona and went to my room to fill out my logbook and go to sleep.
At 7 a.m. we headed out to the residence. We got through the security gate, found the shipper’s house, and prepared to unload. I knocked on the door, which was answered by a middle-aged Latina. She let me in and led me through the entryway into one of the living rooms, across the art gallery, and into the chef’s kitchen with the stainless Sub-Zero and the granite island (each stone no doubt manually shaped by Lake Como virgins using nail files). Fifty grand worth of copper pots that could have served lunch for the Army of the Potomac hung on hooks above the island. I won’t go into any further detail about what amenities a $25 million starter castle in Aspen has, except to mention the eight bedrooms, the eleven bathrooms, and the Olympic-size pool in the basement. It was an older house, maybe almost a decade old, so it was regrettably missing some key necessities for a twenty-first-century 1-percenter, i.e., the home theater, the wine cellar, and the Sonos Bluetooth sound system. I stood there at the kitchen entrance for a few moments and watched my shipper in a deep huddle with a woman and another man. The shipper was a short man with graying auburn hair, about forty-five years old. The woman, his new wife, was a statuesque blonde about thirty, and the other guy, the builder, was a tall slim man wearing a starched shirt with French cuffs. They were talking wine cellars. I stood there a while longer and then emitted a delicate Jeeves-like cough to announce my presence. The shipper, let’s call him Mr. Big, looked over at me and said to the builder guy, “I’ll be right back. I need to deal with this.”
Mr. Big ambled over. I introduced myself, gave him my radiant road-driver smile, handed him my card, put out my hand to shake, and said we were here to move his stuff in.
“OK,” he said, ignoring my hand. “I’m kind of busy. Consuelo can tell you where everything goes. Do you need anything from me?”
“No sir. It will take us a bit of time to prep the house. We’ll cover the white carpets and pad the walls. Is there anything you need from me?”
“I don’t think so. How long do you think you’ll be here?”
“Well sir, there’s quite a bit of stuff and a lot of uncrating. We’ll be here until five or so.”
“That long? Can’t you move faster?”
“I’ve got my best crew in from Denver, sir. We won’t waste time, but we do like to do things properly, and properly will take us to five o’clock.”
“Fine. Deal with Consuelo. By the way, if you’ll be here all day, will your guys need to use a bathroom?”
“Probably, sir. The normal procedure is to designate a guest or staff bathroom for the crew. We have our own cleaning supplies, and we’ll make sure it’s shipshape before we leave.”
“Well, that’s not going to work. You see, my wife—”
“Sir, I have three handpicked men and myself. We do VIP corporate moves all the time. We’ll be respectful, but we are required to answer the call of nature.”
“Can’t you go down to the security shed?”
“Well, I suppose we could, but that would mean moving the truck two miles each time. That will take the job into tomorrow.”
“Tell you what. Across the street they’re putting in my tennis court. They have a portapotty there. Use that.”
“Yes sir, we’ll use that.”
“OK then. We’re done here.” He turned away to talk wine cellars, tennis courts, and home theater.
We prepped the house and started unloading. In addition to a bunch of cartons and some rolled rugs, there were twenty-five crates holding eight 600-pound pieces of granite and seventeen art canvases. For VIP moves like this, we’re authorized to uncrate everything and set it where it’s supposed to go. We’ll do everything except hang pictures on the wall.
We finished unloading around noon. We worked fine with Consuelo; she spoke no English, but both Julio and Eduardo speak Spanish. Eduardo grew up in Longmont, Colorado, but spent five years as a pimp in Juarez.
At noontime, the shipper’s threesome disappeared. They returned an hour later with a bunch of bags from the deli downtown and proceeded to set up luncheon at the granite island. I eased into the kitchen to tell Mr. Big we’d completed unloading and would take a short break before commencing the uncrating. He took a long bite out of his hoagie and said, “Fine.” I looked at all the food bags, sort of waiting. We don’t expect to be fed by our shippers, but when the nearest deli is thirty minutes downvalley and I had spent twenty minutes backing my rig down the winding driveway, it would have been thoughtful to ask the movers if they wanted anything from town. Not Mr. Big. There would be no luncheon provided for the proles. I went back to the truck and told the boys we’d be skipping lunch. Eduardo looked at me and said, “Maybe it’s time to throw your white around.”
“Throw my weight around?”
“Throw your white around. You never heard that term before?”