Support your local black Market

Friday, July, 20^th, 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*

Still in Purgatory it Seems

Sunday, March 18^th, 2012

      Some few days later, I still find myself in the Southeast. Nashville is hot today, but the breeze is gentle and welcoming. It's too hot in the truck to meditate or play the banjo, so I'm inside the truck stop relaxing. These last few days have been curious to say the least. Honestly, I'm not even sure where to begin, or what to mention, so I'll start with what is the most obvious to me.

       It is fairly apparent that if I want any kind of life, I can no longer drive trucks over the road. Technically, I can have a life of sorts, but it is similar to being a nun. Obviously, I'm not a woman married to Jesus (he's totally pimpin' with all those wives!) rather a guy married to the road. For the record, I will say two things: 1) the road doesn't put out and 2) I imagine it would either a) burn like hell, or b) rub your junk off. Consequently, the road allows for other companions, but not for any length of time to be considered enjoyable.  Not only that, the road does not offer companionship beyond your own thoughts, or the opportunity to do anything but drive.  Five days a month is not enough time to live a good, balanced life.

      In light of this seeming engagement, I am opting for a divorce of sorts. I am considering other career paths. During the last few days, I have spent time meditating on this, reflecting kind of passively and actively weighing the ups and down of various enterprises. The honest truth of it is that I'd just as soon hang out and play banjo all day, but that is far from realistic at this point. I'm not even to a level where I can consistently play the same few songs I know without the occasional flub.

      Practically speaking, I will need a job that pays actual income if I want to purchase some land to steward. There are options that are way out there, from sustainable building to intuitive healing, all of which I feel would require extra training and more time devoted. More time than I can find between loads and the minutia of this job. There are so many experiences that I would like to have between now and whatever comes next, and they all require money. So, practical concerns win out for the meantime.

      Between now and then is a tricky amount of time to commit to a particular field. Perhaps five years, maybe more. As I was contemplating my options, it came to me. I can do anything honestly. If I can put up with the alternatingly frenetic and languid pace that is trucking (never mind the intermittent showers and frustration of things breaking down), then I am sure I can put up with any other job. Yeah, people can be tiresome. I see it everyday on the roads. It becomes easier to deal with when you start seeing the idiot that cut you off while driving and talking in his cell phone, is just another person, with their own experiences and subjective morality.

      Not only can I probably survive anything, chances are that whatever I do doesn't matter in the end. During a meditation, I came to realize that succeeding on a physical level holds little interest for me other than maintaining my somewhat modest american life. I'm sure I could pare down even more. Perhaps what is lacking is the connection in my own mind between the mundane and the sacred. Inevitably they are both cut from the same cloth, one a reflection of the other. The thing is, I can fly, teleport and dive into the sun in other realms. Here I can appreciate what has been created, and work to make things better. Which is cool and all, but teleportation... kinda hard to beat that one. Wait until i get better at energy manipulation!

      Long story short, the most pragmatic options honestly bore me. I'm not inspired by mundane work as I conceive of it. I'm not sure if I can find inspiration in going to a job for the next 10 years or so. Therein lies the challenge.

We're on a Mission from God

Wednesday, March 14^th, 2012

      Ah Dixie, you are indeed beautiful and nice this time of year. Your trees covered in purple flowers are a sight for sore eyes to be sure. Where else can you get a lush emerald green and 80 degree daytime temperatures? On top of that, where else will you get honest-to-goodness hushpuppies? I'm starting to wonder if the Universe is trying to convince me to stay in this corner of the country. There has to be some kind of progressive thinking people down here someplace... it can't be all 'red'. Which reminds me, wasn't being “red” a bad thing once? Like communist, or socialist? I digress.

      Today has been a bit of an adventure for me, and not many miles traveled. Starting sometime before sunrise, as is usual, things kinda went wrong on the truck fairly quickly. I had finished my pre-trip inspection, knowing full well that the light cord from truck to trailer was a bit wonky. Seems that it was out sometime last night before hitting the truck stop. I manage to get the lights working, but the mere act of turning the engine over was enough to loosen the plug from it's socket. I stopped to readjust it again, and was set to go. Pulling out onto the access road, the lights went out again. This time, I reversed the plug and swapped the ends for a much better fit. Down the road I go.

      I get to the shipper a bit early and enjoy some time playing my banjo. I'm done well before I expect to be. Right on! The thing is, I had to drop the trailer and let the yard jockey put it into the door. He pulls it out of the door and drops it in an easy to get to place (dude was way cool!) and I'm backing under the trailer, ready to roll. This time, it seems my mud flaps are dragging on the ground. That's odd. I pull away, and the truck won't build air pressure for anything. After a few bumpy blocks, I am at a Pilot truck stop under my truck looking at the leveler valve. (I know right? What the hell is a leveler valve?) Despite the fact that I had never heard of it before, it was certainly broken and leaking air.

      Three hours later, after a suggested 2 hour wait time, the repair guys come to fix my truck. Long story shorter, I unhook and drive 3 miles to their shop so they don;t have to work in the rain. The boss man starts to work on the truck, only to find out he has the wrong part, which is not uncommon since truck parts change so quickly. That's the thing with being a mechanic or technician. you make good money, but a lot of it can get eaten up with buying the ever changing tools.

      Dude goes out for a while to get the part. I'm in the shop with the younger guy, who's name is Cedric. Pretty cool guy. He was telling em how amazing it is to be down here. What with fishing and all. He enjoys being a diesel mechanic, despite the fact that his boss talks down to him a lot. It was straight out of a southern stereotype, which really surprised me. “Now Cedric, don't ratchet wild now. Faster Cedric. No, you ain't listenin'” Imagine all of that with a southern accent and a hint of acid in the voice. Cedric took it like a champ, and was all “yes sir.” During our chat, Cedric was seemingly trying to convince me to live down here in Birmingham.

      Some time later, the truck is repaired and I'm on my way. I extend my best wishes to Cedric and roll down the road once more, hooking up to the trailer I left in the Pilot parking lot. Probably shoudl have locked it, but who's going to steal a truck load of Chep pallets? Out of Alabama and into Mississippi. I'm wondering where to stop for the night. I'm thinking that I can make it to the town I'm set to deliver these pallets in, but not to the final, drop this trailer pick up another and park for the night. I don't have that kind of time. Just north of Tupelo, I hear a loud boom. Checking my mirrors, I see a piece of ejecta fly across the lane in my left mirror. That was a tire. Or a bit of one. Limping to the next truck stop, 5 miles away, I settle in for the night and call the breakdown hotline again.

      By this point, I am really starting to wonder what the hell I need to be learning from this situation. Both times, I had a load going west; the first load was to Amarillo, the second to Aurora. Now my next load picks up in Missouri, then back to Eastern Tennessee. We'll see if something else malfunctions before then.

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How long has it been?

Monday, March 12, 2012

      Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I seem to have entered purgatory. To be fair, it is greener than I had expected, but the drivers lack courtesy and cognition, failing to see that there is a very large truck on the highway, and he's not moving over for you to get on. Hang up and drive for Christ's sake. At least the weather is warm, for now. It still seems in flux, cooling then warming, much like I expected in purgatory. Enough to be kind of alright, but not steady enough to be comfortable. Neither heaven nor hell. It is Georgia.

      I don't know why, but the sign of “NEWT 2012” roadside campaign signs fills me with dread. Now, I'm not entirely political, or at least much less so than I used to be, but this man is clearly pandering for votes. $2.50 gasoline? Sure, and I'll wave my magic wand and give the bottom 99% a raise. What an odd place.

      On the plus side, spring is arriving here. It is quite comforting to see the fresh yellow-green of new growth. Maybe not so much “new” growth, more like an expanding regeneration of existing life. I've seen butterflies, daffodils, and myriad other flowers already. By far the most captivating for me has been the wild grapes. A soft, delicate purple flower, hanging in clusters against a medium green background. Would that I could pull over and smell the flowers.

      Oh yeah, purgatory. It looks like I'll be running back and forth in the southeast until they see fit to discharge me for my sins, whatever they may be. Generally speaking, I don;t much care for driving down here. I enjoy exploring the different climate, and seeing landscapes I would not normally enjoy. If nothing else, I'm certainly busy now that the weekend has passed. My next load has me going almost all the way down I-75 to the Florida border. What could it possibly be? My guess is dry groceries, but time will tell.

It is the Only Conastant

Saturday, March 10^th, 2012

      What would life be like if your sleep cycle was always in flux? I wonder that sometimes, then I get to live it on occasion. Now that I am, more or less, back to my normal schedule, I get the leisure to take the day off. Maybe “take the day off,” is a bit incorrect. Rather I should say, “there's no freight so I get to sit for the day.” Sounds less exciting, and certainly beyond my control, which is a more accurate assessment.

      Yesterday, I delivered about an hour ahead of schedule. That worked out really nice. Normally at distribution centers like the one I was at yesterday, live unloads are simple affairs. Back into a dock, and the forklift guy comes and takes the pallets out. Right on. Then the pallets get broken down and sorted onto a massive conveyor belt running through the entire building. This is no small feat. If I had to guess, I would estimate this particular center to have a footprint of around 5 acres. Huge.

      I was a special case. I'm sure lots of people said that about me from time to time, but the flat screen televisions are known as NC, or non-conveyable. I was informed at the window that it would take the better part of three hours to unload a trailer that was approximately 1/3 full. I could either park then return to the driver's lounge and take a long nap, park, drop the trailer then head over to the truck stop and wait for a call, and sleep in my cab, or I could help unload.

      Seeing as I had been awake and working for the last 9 hours, a nap sounded good, but potentially losing the trailer did not. I chose to help. We unloaded all the pallets, then broke them down. There were huge rubber bands employed to keep full pallets together, 2 to a layer. On double stacks, the were four sets of 2 bands; one for each layer and 2 going diagonally. In the end it took us just over 2 hours to unload and break down the trailer. Not bad, and I got to see the inside of a distribution center.

      Today, I've been simply relaxing and doing my best to enjoy myself. Well, that and consider where I am going in life. I think my current headache is a result of the latter. Trucking is a dangerous profession for many reasons, including the constant travel. Not because of the other people on the road. It is far more insidious than that. Most people spend their lives in one place, maybe doing a bunch of different things. Now and then, people get out and take vacations. Or maybe even move to someplace else. By and large however, the bulk of time is spent in one area doing one thing. It gives you a sense of doing-ness, or maybe a sense of stability, even if the situation is less than ideal. Such situations allow you to develop a perspective on things. Going places helps to alter that perspective. If you are impressionable the same way I am, you pick up the energy of these places. See where I'm going with this?

      Bouncing all over the country gives me all sorts of perspectives. Constantly changing views. New information all of the time. I am beginning to feel a bit overloaded by all of this information, as well as pressure from outside forces to choose a path. Having a sense of place and purpose can be difficult when you live out of a truck. I'm not sure how to properly convey this notion. When the world around you is always different, it is hard to form a concrete idea in your head. Even while the truck will always remain the same, it is always someplace else.

      For now, I'm taking the day and stepping back from my normal routines, like meditating and doing things that are simply enjoyable. I promised myself that I would have a plan of action by next week, and I will, despite the constant change. I will.