Wednesday, January 18th, 2012
Now I've done it. You step a little out of line and then the whole pattern gets out of whack. Delivering that load at 0100 has totally messed with my sleep cycles, which makes for an interesting workplace experience. Tomorrow, however, I will attempt to resume my normal sleep cycle. Today, it gets a bit funny since I am writing this blog and it is technically 4 hours into tomorrow already. I'm going to focus on stuff that actually happened today, partly because the last 4 hours have been night driving (read: uneventful).
Much to my surprise and pleasure, I was given a load out of Southern California. I'm even leaving the state for Sparks, Nevada. For those who have not heard of Sparks, it is Reno's ugly step-sister that is somewhat nastier than Reno itself. Okay, Reno isn't that bad. Sparks is just way more industrial and way less fun. I'm not sure why Reno is fun per se, unless you care to gamble. Maybe it has something to do with some legend of past fun times. Who can say? Back to the load, I was directed to pick up any time before midnight, but after 16:36. Why so precise, I don;t know, but I decided to wait until after rush hour. Just makes more sense.
After fueling, I motor down the freeways. When I hear the word “Freeway,” all that comes to mind is “Who Framed Roger Rabbit;” and Eddie Valiant's line,“What the hell is a freeway?” The freeway system of SoCal is an amazing feat of engineering in that you can go 5 different ways to get to the same place, many in a comparable amount of time. They are especially nice after or before rush hour. After an hour's drive and 5 different freeways, I get to the shipper. Before I get to that however, I would like to note that on one particular section of highway (CA-60 and CA-57 junction) I counted nine lanes going the same direction. Heck, even on the 605, there were 6 (which quickly and bafflingly dwindled to 3). On to the shipper.
California Cartage Company is a neat sounding alliteration. It was also the shipper at which I would pick up my load going to K-Mart. They are located very close to Long Beach, CA, in a little section of Los Angeles proper fittingly called, “the port of L.A.” Checking in at the gate, all one can see in the fuzzy yellow light of mercury halide lamps is a tangled mess of shipping container on trailer chassis. My instructions were vague, and it was dark. “Go straight but keep right.” Seriously. No where in that statement was a left turn mentioned. “You'll see the guard shack,” translated into, there's a little hut buried back there that you won;t see unless you turn right again after that left turn which goes past a ½ mile of containers and a warehouse. In the meantime, bob-tail trailers are buzzing about everywhere, people obviously knowing what is going on.
Cutting to the chase, I find the guard shack and check my empty in. The guard was super friendly. SO friendly in fact that he started to get a bit too curious about where I was going and when I planned to stop. That kind of stuff tends to make me a bit suspicious. It is dark and spooky down there after all. He directs me to drop my empty along these 4 rows, 3 of which are going the opposite direction I am facing, and the fourth row already being full, probably for the simple reason that everyone comes in the same way. SO I look for a place to turn around. It is so narrow in there that I end up driving almost all of the way back to the gate to find a circle to drive around. Normally, I would just swing around in an aisle, but nothing doing.
I drop my empty and head over to warehouse 13, where I am to get my paperwork and be instructed where to find the trailer in this jumble of trailers. I half expected to find a minotaur waiting for me somewhere. I find the building, being grateful for being bob-tail, because driving errors are easier to correct without a 53' trailer following you around. I manage to guess the right place to enter, since it is dark, a touch foggy, and lots of frenetic activity. People in a rush to be someplace. Walking in, there is a small group of gentlemen talking animatedly at a time clock in the hall way. They are at window five. There are twelve windows, and I have come in at window twelve and need to go to window one. As I enter the long, poorly lit, mostly empty hallway, the three guys look up, and all chatter ceases. I feel like I've walked in on some conspiracy or smuggling operation. I nod as I walk past and they resume their conversation in Spanish, as before.
The guy at the window is not at the window. The window next to me has a sign that states, “window 2 is now window 9.” It still has a 2 above the window, so I'm guessing it is some secret code for people who are on the inside. The guy at window one is sitting at his desk talking on the phone. I got the impression that it was a personal call. Maybe I came in during break time. I got my papers all checked out, received my bills, then went back out to my truck.
It was indeed break time. Hordes of people were milling about the edges of the building. I presume that they were either smoking or waiting for the roach coach to deliver their next meal. I can safely say that because I saw a food truck come in just as I was going to get my trailer. I hook to my trailer and I'm ready to go. Not so fast. In the distance, I see a sign marked “EXIT.” So I drive thataway all sorts of happy to leave here. I'm already sketched out as it is. Turns out that the exit sign is for pedestrians, and I had just missed the truck exit by about 50 yards. I could back up, but foolishly I try to turn around. Seeing that a 180 would result in a crushed faring, I decide to drive around the building. What's another ½ mile? Going around the back of the building was an experience. Some dude stands up off the ground where he was huddled smoking (presumably) a cigarette and chatting on the phone. I'm driving slowly since it is dark and the speed bumps are hard to see. Ahead a bit further, the trailers open up a bit and I look to my right, where I see a veritable army of dock workers taking a break. Not only that, I see them seeing me, like 80% of them.
If ever there was a time that I felt like I was someplace else, this was it. I felt like I was in an old port. I could feel the pirate-ness of the whole moment. Longshoremen standing around, waiting to extort the next ship. Some of them even looked like pirates. One guy in particular had a black and white broad stripped shirt which for some reason makes me think “Pirate.” If he had a tri-corn hat then it would have been complete. I did not want to be anywhere near that kind of scene. So I drove a bit faster and found myself roughly back where I had started. Then I went down a blind alley. With no place to turn around, I backed the truck up for ¼ mile, blocked traffic for a bit, then left as fast as the truck would go.
In retrospect, the whole trip was worth it, just to feel like I stepped into another era for a moment. An era of lawlessness and brigandry. All too well, I could see the cutlasses, sabres and pistols. Talk of money and women, and perhaps illicit trade. A Pirate's life is not for me, parrots or not.
Polly wanna hug :) xo
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