“Ten percent. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause I just booked twenty-two thousand pounds from Farmington, New Mexico, to Waterbury, Connecticut, for you.”
“Really? Who? When?”
“Shipper McMahon. It leaves tomorrow. I’m hauling it too. Send the Santa Barbara all the way on the haulaway truck. You can have Phil unload it from Redlands.”
“No way, Finn. Santa Barbara is your shipper. I’ll put McMahon on a haulaway and bring it back here.”
“No, Will, I’m bringing it back. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Nobody talks to me about non-negotiable. What’d you do, get religion out there?”
“Yeah, Will, I got religion.”
“I’m not sure I like this. I could get pissed off. Don’t you work for me?”
“Willie, I don’t work for anyone. Not for a long time now. I’m bringing your truck back with McMahon’s stuff. You can decide whether to like it or not.”
“What if I decide I don’t like it?”
“Then I’ll fly home to Colorado. The Indians will hide the truck, and I can guarantee you won’t find it for a thousand years.”
“Indians? What Indians? What are you talking about?”
“Do I get the commission or not?”
“Commission? That’s another issue. You’re supposed to deliver Santa Barbara. Besides, you didn’t earn a commission. This fell into your lap. What happened out there?”
“She died, Willie.”
“Who died?”
“Mrs. McMahon.”
“Oh.”
“Oh is right. Do I get the commission?”
“She died on you? You kill a shipper and you’re talking about a commission? That’s cold-blooded.”
“I was trained by you, Willie. Sometimes in the wild, babies eat their parents. Yes or no?”
“. . . Yes, I suppose.”
“Good boy, Willie. I’ll see you on Friday. I’m going to take my time.”
“Goodnight, laddie. Drive safe. I want you to know, I don’t like this.”
“Rubber side down all the way. Good night, Willie.”
I hung up, cracked another beer and lit a smoke I’d bummed from one of the Indians. I watched the red sky turn to black. It happens real fast out here in the desert. So fast you wouldn’t believe it if you weren’t there.
I switched on the ignition, started the truck, and turned the air conditioner to high. Once the cab cooled down, the New Mexico night air would keep me comfortable until morning. I undressed, pulled back the filthy sheets, and crawled into the sleeper thinking over the past week. I was dog tired, had a satisfied customer, and just beat Willie Joyce out of twenty-five hundred bucks. That’s a pretty good week in my world.
I lay quietly, snug in my cocoon, wondering why people think it’s odd that a guy like me is a long-haul mover. I just helped another family navigate a major transition. What else could possibly matter? This is why we’re all here: to help each other navigate.
My last thoughts before drifting off were about navigation. A mover’s job is to shift people from where they are to where they’re supposed to be. Lucky for me, every once in a while I find the place where I’m supposed to be too. It’s a priceless gift that I only get when I’m out on the road.
It’s the best job in the whole world.
EPILOGUE
Truckers aren’t generally travelers on their off-time. The mundane domestic things that often annoy regular people are cherished by people like me. I love cleaning my little house, even the bathroom. Straightening out my garage or sorting odd socks will have me whistling with pleasure. We also do this with our trucks. It’s a rare long-haul mover who doesn’t keep his cab and trailer pristine and completely organized. I suppose it’s a psychological reaction to the mess most of us have in our lives outside the truck.
One day not long ago, Willie had me run empty to Denver after a particularly lucrative quick turn to British Columbia. I got that one because I was the only driver in the fleet with a valid passport. I was annoyed to be deadheading fifteen hundred miles. Vancouver to Denver is the same mileage as Boston to Miami, but Boston to Miami is flat all the way. From Vancouver I get to experience the full catastrophe of American mountain driving. First is Snoqualmie Pass out of Seattle, and then there’s the great granddaddy of all hills, called Cabbage, heading east out of Pendleton, Oregon. After that there are various bumps all the way to Fort Collins, Colorado, any of which would have an East Coast driver reaching for his Valium.
After I arrived at the Joyce terminal in Erie, outside Denver, I knew why they’d sent me. Terminal is not quite the word for the Joyce facility there. It’s actually a two-acre parking lot. There’s no office or staff. It’s there to spot or drop trailers and to arrange origin or destination services for drivers coming through. When there’s action in the Denver metro area, they call me to arrange help and keep the place in order. That’s fine when I’m there, but when I’m out on the road I have to do it remotely. It’s not a problem, because I have good help in Denver. But the helpers can’t drive trailers.