Friday, July, 20th, 2010
(This is not the intro). So I see that I've missed a
day. I figure I'll let myself slide a bit. I was rather tired
yesterday and couldn't be bothered with writing twice. That said,
yesterday was not an uninteresting day, nor was today.
Waking up at 10:00 a.m. I found a note stuck to my
window. Since I was at a terminal, there was little likelihood of it
being a wish for me to convert to a particular religion, a note
requesting my presence at a religious service, or a solicitation for
a donation. It was, in fact, a work request. I brought in to the
service desk and asked them what the letters “RF MM” mean. I
gathered that it referred to the right front trailer tandems, as it
said trailer on the work order and was told that the “MM” means
“mismatched.” In tire jargon, I was running to low pro 22.5
tires (low profile tires are 275-295/75R22.5. Same tires in my eyes.
One was a 295 and the other was a 275. Some technical stuff or
something. So I had that fixed. The rest of the day was uneventful
until Knoxville.
Coming into Knoxville, I felt like listening to some
radio, particularly after I heard “The Hill Billy Hour”
advertised as I was channel surfing. Ah, local culture. Happy to
have missed the rush hour, I got to enjoy the music. To my surprise,
the entire first hour was dedicated to truck driving songs. Hits
like “Life through a Windshield,” and “Phantom 309.” Of
course I'd never heard any of these songs before. They were written
way before my time and could be conside3red old timey country
western. There was a theme to the songs, one being about how
truckers are always on the move, and this one had 9 wives in 9
states. Technically, the song was inaccurate, since the guy was
driving from Carolina to California, and unless he was driving from
South Carolina, there are only 8 states along that route. More
satisfying however, was the story of Phantom 309. Not unlike “Large
Marge” from Pee Wee's big adventure, the story is about some dude
getting picked up by a trucker's ghost. It turns out that the truck
driver died swerving to avoid killing a bus load of children, which
brings up the second common theme, “one life or ten?” Simply
stated it implies that a real trucker would sacrifice himself instead
of killing others. Obviously not big Ayn Rand fans.
Moving
on to Friday, I woke a bit groggy, and for some reason decided that
having a CB would be a good idea. I'll admit, it may not be the
wisest decision I've ever made, but in case the zombie apocalypse
comes, having a radio will be wicked useful. I may even try to set
it up in the car I buy. How much fun is that? I walk into the CB
shop at the truck stop and ask if they have a refurbished CB they
want to sell for a reasonable price. Of course they do. Repairing
CB radios is what they do all day. They showed me a few, and I opted
for the least expensive one, saying I don't need it for very long.
I'm sure I could sell it for a reasonable amount if needs be. The
dude asks, “you don't need a ticket for that right?” Apparently,
'ticket' in Southern translates as “receipt” in English. So I
decide, why the heck not? I'll support the black market. Even if
only a little bit. I bought the power cord to go along with it and
set it up in the truck. Long story short, I ended up buy a whole set
up, from an external speaker (thrown in for free), to the co-axial
cable (the one in the truck was a p.o.s. (not point
of
sale),
and of course the CB itself, mike included. Some small amount of
cash later, no receipts exchanged I was on my way, happy with the
service and would come back again. Honestly, having a “ticket”
would have helped me to a degree, as a tax write off, but I've not
kept any for this year to date, and if I choose to itemize, I will
take the standard $55 a day deduction for truckers. ($55 for every
day not spent at home, which for me would be like every day except 2,
since I 'live' in Sedro Woolley, but never go back.) Only one more
black market to attend.
So now I'm parked in Hattiesburg, MS. AS much as I
love the idea of driving in the South, I do not care for the South
itself. The scenery can be majestic and beautiful, it is nice in the
winter, and food is cheap, but the energy here just does not suit me
overall. I will, however, go outside and play some banjo in Dixie,
because it is something I want to do. Nashville is not Dixie.
Memphis, maybe at a strecth, but not Nashville. So I'm here at the
Kangaroo truck stop off I-59, exit 67A. Walking from the bathroom to
my truck, I see a woman walking across the row of trucks. Probably a
female driver. I've seen quite a lot of them these days. I climb in
my truck and sit for a spell, waiting for the timer to count down so
I can idle. Suddenly the lady is at my window. I ask what she
needs, as if money was not the obvious answer. “Money! I gotta
get a roof over my head before it rains again. Can you help me out?
I can help you out *wink wink*.” I totally feel the innuendo hit
the bottom of my gut, slightly repulsed. I pull some money out,
offering to help (WWJD? .. he totally helped prostitutes. didn't he
end up dating one too?) I pull out a few bills and hand her a fiver.
She asks, “Wanna give me that other five?” and snatches at it.
I smile and politely refuse, and she's on her way. But before she
goes, she grab at the crotch of my jeans and smiles knowingly at me,
off to the truck next to mine.
So yeah. The black market is not an entirely bad
thing, although it may impoverish society at large by tax dodging,
but that is another matter altogether. There are some lines that
need never be crossed, and anything involving potential for disease
is one of them *ick*
