“Are those your choices? Don’t you have any others?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. That part of this conversation is over. I want to thank you though. I knew there was something fantastic and strong and feminine and powerful inside me. I don’t think I’ll ever experience it again, but I’ll hold it close to me for the rest of my life. It’s locked in here and it belongs to me and nobody else.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Thanks again. Have a safe trip.”
I never saw her again.
Chapter 12
PARADISE
There are some places that regular people just shouldn’t go if they haven’t developed a taste for low company. This motel is one of them. I found the place by accident many years ago, having popped off an airport exit looking for a place to park. I was sitting at the light at the bottom of the ramp, and across the street I saw a line of bedbug trucks. Mayflower, Arpin, Wheaton, North American, Atlas, Allied, National, Bekins. It looked like a convention. I pulled in, parked, and went into the office. The sign there said to check in at the bar. Excellent info. Into the bar I went and sat down. The bartender looked at my van line shirt, nodded, and brought me a Coors from the tap.
“I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes, driver. You OK with that?”
“I am now,” I answered, looking at the beer. The décor was perfect—shirts pinned to the walls and ceiling, hundreds of them. Every shirt was from a moving company. I saw one for Pickfords (London and Nottingham), another for Leos/UmZug (Düsseldorf), and one for Froesch (Russia). Hot diggity dog, this was movers’ heaven. It’s the only place I know in the whole USA where movers rule the roost. Looking around I could tell by the tired eyes, the big arms, and the T-shirts that everyone in this bar was a mover. It was love at first sight. Ever since then I’ll stop there if I’m even close to it, close being within two hundred miles.
On this particular trip I had settled my rig in the capacious motel yard and headed straight to the bar to get a room. I’ve never once seen anyone at the reception desk. I hadn’t been here in a while, but the décor hadn’t changed. I sat down and looked around for a Callahan Bros. or Joyce Van Lines shirt, but it would’ve taken me a week to find one. Well, I was going to fix that.
I sat on an empty bar stool near the cash register and waited to check in. It was early evening, and the place was crowded but manageable. Within a minute or two the bartender dropped a draft beer in front of me and went away. A minute or two later a guy sat down next to me and started talking. This is a total trucker thing I never experience anywhere else: Whether it’s a bar, restaurant, truckstop, or repair shop, a trucker will just start talking to another trucker without introductions, names, or social niceties. It’s almost like he’s continuing a conversation that got interrupted. This driver was a white guy about my age. Maybe a little younger. All of them are younger.
“Joyce,” he said, reading my shirt. “That’s in Connecticut, right?”
“Yup.”
“I heard the guy that owns that place is a maniac.”
“Yup.”
“What would he say if he knew you were here?”
“He’d probably say he wants to fly out here and put his company shirt on the wall. Problem is he weighs four hundred pounds and his shirt would take up a doorway.”
“Been here before?”
“Nope,” I lied. I wanted to hear what this guy had to say. “It looks like I’ll be here again, though. What’s the deal?”
“Just what you see, bedbugger heaven. Need anything? That guy on the end there will sell you walkboards, dollies, pads . . . The guy next to him will sell you drugs. The guy at the four top in the corner has labor and packing material. His buddy sitting across from him has firearms and hookers. This is the Mall of America for movers. Discount prices too, since everything’s been jacked.”
“What are you? The sales rep?”
“Not at all. Just giving you the lay of the land. I come here all the time. Your truck is safe. The stuff doesn’t get jacked exactly. It’s more like a guy’s stuck down here and is in arrears back at the office and needs some cash. So he’ll sell off his fifteen-hundred-dollar walkboards for two hundred to the guy over there. He’ll sell them to you for four. He’s the middleman.”
“How’s a guy going to load without his walkboards?”
“Mostly it’s guys that are quitting. Before they drop the trailer and take off, they’ll sell off all the equipment. In the good old days there were guys that would buy the load too. That’s when people had TVs and stereo systems that were worth something. Nowadays a new flat screen at Best Buy will run you a couple hundred maybe, the sound systems are in their phones, and their furniture all comes from IKEA. The aftermarket’s gone in household goods. Nothing people move these days is worth shit.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Me too. The moves get more expensive, and the stuff they own is garbage. This is a great place, though. The only thing you can’t do is drop your trailer. A dropped trailer is considered abandoned, and it will be gone quicker than you can say ma?ana. I hear the hardwood floors from a Kentucky 53 are a household fashion statement south of Nogales.”
“You seem to know a lot.”
“I do. I’ve been running Up and Down since ’88.”
“I’ve been running the coasts since 1980, mostly the Top, though. I don’t run the Dime too much. We do corporate execs. All pack and loads. Mostly big ones.”
“I’m all snowbird CODs. Lots of little ones. Scottsdale, Sun City. Terrible places. Camp Verde’s still kind of funky.”
“I did that snowbird work with North American for a while. Eight shipments with nine deliveries in three days type of thing. Very wearing. Lots of digging shipments out of the nose.”
“There is that. On the other hand, I couldn’t spend all that time with a shipper. On a big pack and load you can be with the shipper for like a week, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever nail a hot shipper on one of those fancy corporates?”
“Only once, but it wasn’t a corporate, it was a military. Mr. Shipper was an army colonel. Mrs. Shipper was angry at him. I nailed her, not him. Actually, she nailed me.
“I’m happy for you. I’ve never even come close. Anyone who thinks driving’s going to get you laid has read the wrong memo.”