Said To Contain
Brandon Messerschmidt
Published By Valhalla Earthrise at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Brandon Messerschmidt
Find other titles by Brandon Messerschmidt at Smashwords.com
Chapter 1
The incessant tick-tock of General Tomlinson's treasured nineteenth century cuckoo-clock was deafening amidst the otherwise suffocating silence of his office. He found himself once again subconsciously tapping the weighted end of his sterling silver pen against the mahogany surface of the desk from which he had served his country for the better part of four decades. It was a nervous habit that had followed him through much of his military career, likely a byproduct of the explosive energy that had set him apart in his younger days; when he was a bright-eyed foot soldier hell-bent for the will of Uncle Sam.
The General had been a lot of places and seen a lot of things since his teenage feet sank into the sand at Normandy on D+1, but nothing had caused the butterflies to flutter in his stomach quite like the urgent communiqué he had received early this particular morning. His rank, tenure and prestige amongst America's military brass allowed him the privilege of being aware of what was happening, but the knowledge that conspiracy theorists would salivate to get their hands on seemed more like a cross upon his back than anything else at this point in time. Of all the places on Earth -- of all the ages gone by -- why did it have to land in his backyard, on his watch?
None of that really mattered, of course... it was a situation to be dealt with, just like the countless others that had passed across his desk in all his years. Each had been handled with a degree of diligence and zeal that earned him more medals and merit than any man should receive in one lifetime. There were younger men available for the job, some even working out of Tomlinson's field office, in fact... but the big wigs apparently felt that there was only one person worthy of the assignment at hand. So, there it was -- sitting squarely in his lap.
The tapping of his pen continued, causing an annoying racket which chipped away at his patience in its frenzied cadence, making him uneasy. He counted his pace at five taps per second, every one of them reminding him that precious time was ticking away with the droning movement of his cuckoo's long arm.
"It's not a sprint, Richard." He reminded himself, fighting his nerves in a futile struggle to lock his anxious hand in place. "Slow and steady wins the race.."
Finally, his office door swung open. His old friend Conrad Butler burst in from beyond. The portly man hurried in as though there had been a last call on desserts, firmly closing and locking the door behind him.
"I came as fast as I could, Rich." He explained as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. Stepping in front of Tomlinson's desk, he didn't bother pulling up the chair stationed before it, expecting a quick dressing down and dismissal . "Are you sure that this report is accurate?"
"Oh, I'm sure." The General replied, unceremoniously flopping his Cross Pen down to avoid further distraction through its manipulation. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life, Conrad."
"And you have it on good account that it is the Polyphemus Project?"
"On good account? No..." He paused. "On my own account, I saw the goddamned thing!"
"Well what the hell is it doing here?"
"How the hell should I know? I woke you up because I thought you might be able to tell me! How much do you know about this big-bad top-secret project that everybody speaks of in whispers?"
"As much as was deemed enough." The visitor answered. "Probably no more than you."
"Yeah? Well try me -- but sit down first, you're making me nervous!"
Butler obliged, though his discomfort was obvious. His anxiety over the situation was evident in his demeanor, leading the keen eye of General Tomlinson to believe that he knew more than he was letting on.
"I know that it's been in the works for quite some time." Butler started. "That it was deployed several months ago. I didn't think it was supposed to come anywhere near us, though."
"It wasn't." Tomlinson barked as he bit the end off of a rather thick cigar. He was violating every rule in the twenty-first century playbook when he lit it up right at his desk, but at eighty-five years old he was set in his ways and not likely to change for anyone. "I'd sure as hell like to know how it got here, -- Somebody fall asleep with their dick in their hand out there, Ambassador?"
"I guess the lines must've gotten crossed somewhere -- a simple miscalculation or miscommunication between departments... these things happen, sir." Butler replied carefully as the harsh smoke wafted into his face. "After all, the best laid plans of mice and men oft-"
"Don't start!" The General interrupted, pointing the glowing stogie aggressively at his guest. "Don't even start with that! I knew it would end up like this! Now it's our problem, just like always!"
"Well -- I apologize, sir, for what it's worth."
"It isn't worth much, Ambassador! Christ, it seems like I'm on babysitting detail around here anymore! Clean this here up, Tomlinson -- clean that over there up, sir! Help us wipe our ass, General! Shit! I should've retired when I had the chance, Butler -- I wish to God that I had!"
The visitor smiled deviously at the suggestion, knowing full well that the General loved every minute of the chaos that this particular post brought to his plate.
"You can step down at any time, sir." He poked. "Just say the word, and it's done."
"What?" The General snapped back. "And sit around waiting to die? You'd like to be rid of me, wouldn't you Ambassador? You'd be much happier if you got to waltz your behind in here every time your people dropped the ball and stare down some baby-faced cadet who can barely tell his ass from a missile silo, wouldn't you? Now that they've struck down don't ask, don't tell -- you'd probably be thrilled to see a strapping young lad sitting in my big chair instead of this dried up war-torn hard-ass you've got to deal with now! Well no chance! I'm here for the duration, pal! So long as you guys keep dropping the rock, I'll be the nasty S.O.B. standing by to pick it back up and smack you in the ass for the trouble! No pretty momma's boy for you, not while I'm still kickin'!"
"I'd miss your charming personality anyway, sir." Butler chuckled.
"I know your type, Ambassador! Shit nibblers we used to call you -- back when men were men. You hide it with your wife and daughter, but I know the real deal! You only got married so that you could wear her skirts when she wasn't around! Only women and Scotsman wore skirts in my time, Butler! And that's the way things ought to be!"
"Was the Polyphemus wearing a kilt, sir?" Butler quipped, still smiling despite the clearly genuine anger exuding from Tomlinson between hits at his Cohiba.
"Your people designed it, if they had one big enough I'm sure it would've been!" The General returned, a heavy nicotine buzz setting in to lighten his mood just a bit. "Anyhow... you should've seen the thing come down, Butler, it was incredible."
"Did you see it in person?"
"No... it came in a little after midnight about a hundred miles off the Pacific coast. Some tourist caught it on their little camcorder -- I didn't know people went out trying to catch a glimpse at whales so late at night, but most of these people are lunatics after all. Damn near capsized their yacht... it took a hell of a lot of storytelling to talk our way out of that one, but we managed. Thankfully, we had a destroyer on patrol nearby. As soon as I got word about what happened we sent them after it. They were able to tow it in before sunrise, thank God, and they brought it here."
"Do we think our friends know where it is?"
"They might not know exactly where it is -- but if they were looking in anything that resembles this direction, they have a pretty damn good idea. It put on a hell of a light show, I'll tell ya' that much. Would've been hard to miss."
"So --" The visitor continued. "What's the plan? Return to sender?"
Tomlinson was the one to laugh this time, cackling through a cough at the behest of his blackened lungs.
"You think it's just that easy, don't you?" He grinned. "Just put a stamp on the son of a bitch, pitch it in a little blue box on the corner and let the postman do the rest?"
"No sir, I'm not quite that naive. That is the goal, though, right? To send it back?"
"Of course it is, the goddamned thing certainly can't stay here!"
"So what do we do? Can we send it up from here?"
"Hell no, Ambassador! We haven't got the logistics behind us to pull that off, let alone a cover story good enough to pacify the sooth-sayers out there! It's not gonna be easy, but we're gonna have to get it to The Cape... there's no other option."
"The Cape?" Butler returned, seeming dumbfounded at the very notion. "That's three thousand miles away, sir! If our friends know that it's here, how can you expect to move it across the country without them picking it off?"
"Very carefully."
"I should say so -- I'm not sure how well you know our friends, but I like to think I'm pretty well versed in their ways. With that said, I wouldn't want to be caught dead in possession of that thing if they figure out what's going on."
"If they figure out what's going on, we'll likely wish they'd caught us dead. That's why I wonder why we ever got involved in this mess to begin with. It's your problem."
"You would've been involved one way or another; you should be thankful that we taught you the rules before you were simply thrust into the game."
"Thankful isn't nearly the right emotion, Ambassador. But it is what it is... we'll do what we have to do and get this mess put behind us, where it belongs."
"Certainly The Council told you that there's no way you'll get it moved without, um -- capturing the attention of our friends?"
"They said it was highly unlikely that our efforts would go undetected. With that being said, I think our goal should be to confuse the hell out of them -- make them work for it..."
"You've already got a plan in place?"
"Who do you think you're talking to, Ambassador? Not only is there a plan, the wheels are already in motion! You know as well as I do, there's no time to waste!"
"Don't rush it though, sir... I imagine every craft in the sky large enough to move it will be vaporized on sight. We can't afford to lose Polyphemus, General Tomlinson... it's out last hope."
"We will not lose it, Ambassador... you can mark my words on that. Besides, I didn't say anything about the wings of my plan being in motion, did I? No -- I said the wheels."
Chapter 2
The trusty Cummins engine of my haggard 1989 Kenworth W900 tractor put down its throaty bass line as I rocked and rolled my way towards Mira Loma, California. I had the stereo cranked up all the way so I could hear the jams over the roar of the old motor, my favorite Lynyrd Skynyrd track pushing me along as the sun peaked over the horizon.
"Well I'm travelin' down the road, got my suit-case by my si-de." I sang along with the late great Ronnie Van Zandt as he told the story of my life in lyric. "Blue skies hang-in over my head, I got five-hundred miles to ri-de."
Blues skies were present now, but the night that carried me over to this morning had been rough; lots of fog and rain in the mountains to keep my attention as I held on to the big wheel with white-knuckles. In my early truckin' days I probably would've stopped and hid, but I've seen just about everything Mother Nature has to offer out here. I don't often bend to her will any more.
I was running late, after all, since I'd cut two drive tires back in Ohio. My rig was loaded to the brim with forty-thousand pounds of chocolate candy, so it wasn't too keen on moving over quickly when I spotted debris in my lane on the freeway. Shit happens, as they say... there wasn't much I could do but hold on tight and wrestle her over to the shoulder, then wait for the wrecker. That's another thousand bucks down the drain in rubber -- big truck driving can be a hell of a way to try and make a living.
Outside of the weather and tire troubles, this run had been pretty straightforward. I managed to sneak into the MGM when I passed through Vegas, which is always fun. No help recouping my expenses at the craps table, though... should've known lady luck wasn't on my side before I ever sat down. I can't resist a good game of dice -- don't ask me why. I work hard for my money, you'd think I'd be a little more conservative when it comes to laying it out on the line (or the horn as it is in my case -- high-yo!).
"Well I'm a Whiskey -- Rock-a-Rolla! That's what I am." I sung on. "Women, whiskey and mi-les of travelin' -- that's all I under-sta-a-and!"
I pulled my attention from the road ahead and looked down at my gauges when I crossed the line into California, realizing I'd need to stop for one last shot of diesel before I continued on to make my drop. There wouldn't be time for a shower on this particular detour, but I'd at least have a little time to check out the load boards and figure out how I was gonna make my way back towards home. My son Sammy's mid-winter break was just a week away... I refused to miss another chance to catch up with him.
A Pilot Travel Center in the distance was calling my name, so I flipped on my turn signal and merged right to catch the exit. The corrugated stainless steel sides of my trailer caught the sun as I stopped at the traffic light at the end of the ramp, a bright glare blinding people in the little cars next to me.
My rig was old, but it was clean and well maintained. I've always been proud of it; even now with nearly two-million miles under my belt with her. I enjoy polishing and primping her every chance I get.
The tractor seems powerful with its big, boxy lines and shining Metallic Black Cherry finish. There's no rust on my ride, baby -- not a spot from front to back. No dents, creases or folds in the metal... not even scrapes on the sides that most trucks get from brushing against untrimmed tree branches. I treat her like the queen that she is, and she always take good care of me in return.
After making a hard right then jogging left into the entrance marked Trucks, I pulled up to the fuel island. My jaw dropped a bit when I saw that a gallon was gonna cost me nearly four dollars -- they're Nazi's out here on the west coast. I needed the juice, so I slid my Comcheck fuel card and watched the cents chug away.
I topped off the tanks on both sides, taking a minute to open my side box and retrieve my trusty bottle of Windex. I loved working to shine Big Red up by scrubbing the bug carcasses off the front end. I gave her an affectionate pat on the grill as she rattled on, thanking her for keeping me company on another safe journey across the nation.
The refrigeration device on the trailer was making a knocking noise, so I climbed up on the catwalk of the tractor and opened up the engine doors to see what could be wrong. My experienced ear could tell right away that it was the compressor getting ready to give up the ghost again... it was worn down pretty bad and the belt had loosened up, so the noise was it beating against the plastic guards.
The innards of the machine weren't in good shape anymore; I had pushed the unit pretty hard for quite some time, and I was worried that it was gonna die on me any day.
"Hold on there a little longer, Betsy." I begged the inanimate object. "I've got some money saved up, I'll get you changed out as soon as we roll back into Tampa."
Closing the doors again, I checked the operator display at the side. The temperature in the trailer was still holding firm at fifty-five degrees; more than cool enough to keep all the Hershey bars I was loaded with from melting in the California heat. I hoped that I'd be lucky enough to book a return load that didn't need to run terribly cold. I could handle some produce or fresh meat, but I wasn't sure I wanted to test my reefer with anything that needed to be kept frozen.
My finances were tight in the troubled economy, the last thing I needed was a big cargo claim. I carry good insurance, of course, but my reefer breakdown deductible is three-thousand big ones. Doesn't sound like much, but it would probably bankrupt me if I had to pay it out all at once on top of fixing my unit.
The fuel pumps had stopping clicking at this point, so I snatched them out of my tanks. I had apparently run their supply pretty dry, as each of them took a hundred and forty-five gallons. You regular folks out there think you feel sick when you put fifty bucks in your SUV -- trying looking at the gauge and seeing over eleven-hundred on the display. Thank god for credit and reasonable interest rates is all I can say...
I took my receipt and filed it away with all the others for my book keeper, Janet, to review when I got back home. That woman is a life saver, let me tell you. It's hard enough to muster the energy to keep these eighteen wheels turning without worrying about all the finances and taxes that come along with the territory.
Janet had been my accountant, and dear friend, for ten long years. I don't know what I would do without her to sort through the nonsense for me. She helped keep me grounded, too... such a sweet voice and pleasant demeanor. That's probably why I call her everyday -- it's nice to have a solid friend to lean on, even when things seem to be going just right.
Keeping with tradition, I dialed her number as I pulled my rig off towards the parking area of this stop off.
"Good morning, Randy!" She said with her sweet southern drawl. She was an older woman, and her increasing age was evident in her voice. Years of smoking made it a little raspy, but I liked it that way. Reminded me of my mamma, God rest her soul, and it made me comfortable when I was so far from my home. "How's it going out there in the sunshine?"
"It's going just fine, Misses Jan." I returned through a smile, adjusting my leather cowboy hat a bit. "Had a long night, though -- got a little hairy through the pass, but that's to be expected I guess."
"You be careful out there, Randy!" She insisted. "I want you to come home with every one of your precious golden locks right where it was when you left, you hear me?"
"Of course, Misses Jan!" I chuckled.
That woman sure loved my hair... never quite understood why. It's a little greasy, for my taste. I had kept it shoulder length for most of my adult life, despite my own objections when it comes to comfort in the summer. I was often tempted to shave it down to a crew-cut, but I've got an image to maintain out here. My thick sideburns and goatee would look out of place if I cut it, and since it was so popular with the ladies I figured I might as well hold on to it a little longer.
"Listen," I continued. "I don't know if my reefer is gonna hold on for the rest of the trip... do I have enough cash tucked away to call up the Thermo King shop when I get back home and have a whole new refurbished unit put on?"
"Oh my -- you're really looking to break the bank, aren't ya'?"
"I know, I know -- but RJ's Cool Moves Transport can't be RJ's Cool Moves Transport if I don't have a good solid reefer on this box."
"No, I suppose it can't." She replied. "What kind of backhaul do you have lined up?"
"Well, I don't have one -- yet." I explained.
"I reckon you'd better find one quick - there definitely won't be enough cash to cover something like that if you come all the way home empty!"
"I'm fixin' to check the board in a minute, but I didn't see anything too fantastic when I looked last night. Remember - I have to pull something back towards Florida on this trip, because I've got time with Sammy coming up."
"That's right! Mid-winter break, isn't it? I still don't know how you got his mother to agree to let you have him after you bailed out last time."
"Now you know I didn't bail out, Misses Jan, I got held up by the law! That trooper shut me down for ten hours on account of my log book being behind, so I missed my delivery appointment and had to lay over for the whole weekend. Wasn't like I did it on purpose."
"Where you gonna take him?"
"We were talking about going to Universal Studios -- he's big enough to ride all the rides now, and I think he'd have a real good time."
"He's the perfect age -- eight is a great time to build memories?"
"Time sure has flown by..." I returned, remembering the day I took my ex-wife to the hospital like it was yesterday. We were so happy when little Sammy was born.
I never would've thought time could do so much damage to a relationship as it had done to her and I. Life with a baby was just too hard on us, considering I was on the road more than I was home. She was there, alone, taking care of our son while I was out racking up the miles, trying to keep us at least in the race with The Joneses. I'd stay out a month, two months at a time -- so when I finally did make it back to town, all she wanted was a break.
I didn't much enjoy having her just toss him at me when I walked through the door as she walked out in the opposite direction... I mean, I was tired too -- all I do out here when I'm not driving is eat, sleep or crap. Eventually, she found what she was looking for on one of her little excursions while I was playing babysitter; a man who would come home every night with his paycheck in hand.
It hurt like hell when she served me with divorce papers. I guess I can't blame her, though -- what kind of life was I asking her to live? She was essentially a single mother right from the start, even though I wasn't dead or off having a little party of my own. I was working; doing what I thought I was supposed to. Of course, as I understand now, I was neglecting my family in the process. What was I supposed to do, though? Trucking is all I'm qualified to do.
"It works out well for her, too." I explained. "Her and new hubby are gonna take a trip to Puerto Rico while they have the chance. If not for their having that planned, I'm sure I would've gotten a different answer when I asked to have him."
"You ever think about fighting for a better arrangement?" Janet asked, just as she always does when we talk about Sammy. "There's no reason you shouldn't have joint-custody. It's not like your an addict or an alcoholic -- she shouldn't be able to keep him away from you."
"Like I can take time off to be dragged through court... I don't think that's in the cards, girl -- just have to play by her rules for a while, until I can get enough money saved up to open my garage. Then I can be a real father to my boy."
"You know," She continued with a dire tone. "I've always been up front and honest with you, Randy. I don't want to burst your bubble, but I just don't see how you're gonna make this grand idea about opening a garage happen with the way you've been bleeding red ink lately."
"Where there's a will there's a way, Misses Jan. I'll stay out here 24/7/365 if I have to."
"For all intents and purposes, you're doing that now. Your just spending too much money keeping that old rig on the road, and these shippers are just too cheap lately! I think it's time you consider an equipment upgrade... might cost more in the short term, but freeing yourself of these repair bills will pay off in the long run."
"That's not gonna happen... I'd have to sign another lease, even if I could get the financing in order. I don't want to commit to being stuck out here a day more than I have to -- as soon as I'm able to park this beast and open up shop, I'm done."
"I hope it works out for you, R.J... I really do. I'll do everything that I can to help." She paused and let go of a spirited sigh, revealing her lack of faith in my plans for the future. "I'll look over the books on this end, you go ahead and find yourself a means to pay for your return trip while I do. I should have an answer for you on the unit shortly -- hopefully it will be good news."
"Thanks, Misses Jan." I said. "I'll talk to you again tomorrow."
"Take care, sweetheart." She replied as I pressed the red button and tucked my cell phone back into the dash.
My body put out a sigh of its own, the pressures of my life working as hard on me as they were on my dear friend. Obsessing over struggles never got anyone a step further ahead in this world, so I wasn't about to start walking that path. I cut off the engine to let it rest a while, bringing the vibrations in the cab to a halt.
There was a strange peace about my little chrome and leather world when the machine was shut off... it almost seemed like a place I'd like to live. There was no time to enjoy it, however. I needed some food -- and I still had a delivery to make.
Chapter 3
The Pilot was jumpin' with truckers -- guess a state the nature of California needs a constant infusion of freight, regardless of how sick the national economy is. That spelled trouble for me, though, because where there are a lot of trucks there aren't a lot of opportunities to make good money.
Trucking as an industry is among the truest examples of the supply and demand principle that rules our capitalistic society. Let's say there are ten trucks in town that want to go to Texas, but there are twenty loads that need to get there. Suddenly it gets real expensive to move freight down to Texas. He who has the deepest pockets is the one to get his load hauled, and the truckers win the day by demanding three or four bucks a mile. Flip the script, though -- and say there are twenty trucks looking to haul loads, but now there are just ten to be had. Now the power is in the shipper's hands. They play the trucks against each other, forcing them to undercut one another or risk hitting the road with no paying load at all. Before you know it, guys are quoting prices that have them running at a loss -- but it's better than rolling empty and earning nothing. My rig gets about six miles per gallon; that hurts when nobody else is helping foot the bill.
There's a popular movement amongst independent truckers lately that hopes to change that principal. Their tagline is Say no to cheap freight. The idea is that if none of us is willing to cave in and give away the farm on a rate, the shippers will have no choice but to pay decently.
Perfect idea on paper, but it could never work in the real world. There's always gonna be that guy fresh off the boat from El Shithole abroad that will drive a deathtrap of a truck for next to nothing. This reject pockets every penny instead of putting some back into his business. Eventually, his rig will break down or fall to pieces, quite possibly killing somebody in the process; but that doesn't matter to this asshole. To him, the American Dream means eating steak for dinner instead of rice and bread -- even if it means he's putting the lives of everyone else in jeopardy while he earns that meal. If he survives the death of his truck, he buys another hunk of scrap and starts all over again. Maybe, one day, we'll find a way to make people understand... but I doubt it.
The drive to hoard every cent is a major component of the problem with this country... we all want to earn as much money as we possibly can, but then we turn around and try to spend as little as possible for the things we need to get by. That's awfully short-sighted -- like that drawing of the snake that's eating its own tail.
See, let's say Jane Doe needs a bar of soap but she refuses to pay more than a dollar for a two pack. Now Joe Blow runs a soap company. He sits down and figures out that his factory can produce, for the sake of example, a hundred and twenty bars an hour -- so a two pack every minute. Let's say the ingredients to make that two pack cost ten cents... then there's the wrapper, that costs another ten. The overhead to operate the factory (the electricity, the water, the rent, the taxes - and so on) boils down to another dime. Now he's at thirty-cents total cost.
If the grocery store is gonna sell his two-pack for a dollar, he has to be able to sell it to them for half of that. He wants to earn a living, so he adds ten more cents to each pack to pay himself. So far his total cost is forty cents, so that leaves just a dime to pay for labor. Problem is, making just sixty packs per hour means a dime each is just six bucks.
His plant is in America... everybody thinks they're above working the line for six bucks an hour -- which is what he would have to pay if he was gonna meet his half-dollar target. He ends up having to pay twelve bucks an hour, so now his cost is sixty cents per two pack. If he sells it to the retailer at that price, they aren't gonna take the hit and still sell it for a buck, so they just change the cost of the soap to $1.20 to compensate.
Jane Doe demands a good wage too, so she should be able to afford to pay that price -- but she refuses. What happens? She buys some garbage soap from China, where the workers are essentially slave-labor and do the job for just a dollar a day.
Of course, Jane bitches and complains because her husband is unemployed and can't find a job. What about Joe Blow, you ask? Poor bastard went out of business because nobody bought his overpriced soap. The people who used to work for him are out on the welfare line, right behind naughty old Jane, who essentially caused the whole f'ing problem. If she had any sense at all, she would realize that it's all because she wouldn't come off that extra twenty cents. Her husband could've worked at the soap factory for that twelve bucks an hour had she helped keep Joe Blow in business. Now, all the jobs have moved away to places where people aren't so damned greedy.
Anyway -- let me get off of my soap box (I guess that's a pun) and back to the story...
Nearly starving to death, I had gone to the little sub shop inside the truck stop. I had one eye on the big LCD TV's on the wall serving as real-time load boards while the other watched the minimum wage lackey making my sandwich. Catching a good load was important, but I don't trust these sandwich artisans as far as I can throw them, and most are pretty portly nowadays. She scooped a nice portion of tuna on to my sub, so I gave her enough credit to only half watch her. I'm glad I did, because I caught a glimpse of what might've been my temporary salvation.
"Oceanside, California to Cape Canaveral, Florida." I read the board aloud. "One pick, one drop - no touch. Fifty-three foot reefers, late model equipment. Easy run, good pay."
Yes! There must be a God after all! If this load was real and I could get myself signed on, I'd be in perfect shape! The only potential hurdle was the whole late model thing -- Big Red and my trailer certainly aren't new, but what a freight broker can't see over the phone can't hurt him! I had to hurry to a phone before the whole truck stop beat me to the punch, so I broke the cardinal rule and turned my back on the Subway counter. I raced to a nearby payphone, slid my credit card and dialed the 800 number listed on the screen.
"Good morning, Sunspot Logistics." A cheerful female voice answered. "Are you calling about the Oceanside load?"
"Um, yes!" I replied hurriedly, hoping beyond hope that I hadn't seen the opportunity too late. "Do you still have a run available?"
"I do!" She replied to my delight. "It picks up in Oceanside tomorrow morning, but you have to check in at the gate by midnight tonight. It has just one stop in Cape Canaveral. Are you a solo driver or a team?"
"When do they want delivery?" I asked without revealing my hand. If they were looking for a team to run constantly and bang the load out in just a few days, I could pop a couple of No-Doze and pull it off by myself. Log books are made to be manipulated, but brokers don't like to hear that.
"Solo or team?" She asked snidely again, apparently wise to the game.
"It's just me out here." I replied, defeated.
"That's fine." Came the answer, to my surprise. "They'll take delivery on Friday, that gives you six full days to make the trip. No pallet exchange needed, no unloading fees. We're looking at twenty-nine hundred and fifty miles -- what kind of rate do you need to get it done?"
Ah, my favorite part! Negotiating time! Nothing gets my juices flowing quite like a back-and-forth price haggling showdown! I don't know why, I've just always loved the little game of verbal chess that determines how much bread is gonna be baking in momma's oven at the end of the night. It can be a fine art against the right opponent, and can make or break a trucker if he's not really careful about how he handles himself.
Shoot high and you might price yourself right out of the game. Shoot low and you'll be hauling for pennies on the dollar. The trick is to start just a bit outside of the range they're looking to pay, then let them haggle you down to their absolute maximum. If you play the cards right they can actually feel good about overpaying -- like you cut them a deal or something. Most of the time, they have no idea that you just gouged their eyes out; that's the mark of a true trucking maverick!
"Well," I started in my squeaky let me help you tone. "Fuel is pretty pricey right now, so I'm gonna have to put a surcharge on top of my typical rate. Then there's the thin freight pool coming out of Florida at this time of year, so I have to take that into consideration as well. With the miles and the fuel, plus a good buffer of time built in for loading and unloading; I think we're looking about --" I paused, calculating that perfect number in my mind.
"I've got fifty-five hundred on it." She interrupted.
"Deal!" I answered, satisfied with my work -- though she didn't really let me have my fun. "You said you were Sunspot Logistics? I don't know that I've pulled for you before, I might need to sign your contract."
"You haven't." She replied quickly. "Where should I fax or e-mail the paperwork?"
I gave her all of my info and hung up, smiling ear to ear with the knowledge that I'd make it home in time to pick up Sammy from his mother's. It was a decent pay-day too, so I figured I'd be able to float the reefer replacement as well.
My glee was brought to an abrupt end, however, when I saw the sub woman holding my sandwich all wrapped up in that little clear plastic bag. I wonder what she could've done to it while I was distracted? Just to be safe in case it was inedible, I purchased a couple of cookies to go along with it and went on my way.
The woman at Sunspot said it would take about a half an hour to send the contract and rate confirmation over, so I decided to check out the little store area for a while. There wasn't much of use, of course. The typical tourist fare like the refrigerator magnets shaped like the state and such -- I don't need any of that crap, I already have the whole damn set stuck up on the fridge at my apartment.
I always liked looking over the lighting accessories and other cab goodies, even though I've given up on customizing my ride any further. I already had the skull gear shift knob, the wizard heads for the door lock pins, the leather steering wheel wrap, the illuminated neon ash tray, the chrome brake valve covers that say Live and Free on either one, the golden switch replacements, the mud flaps with the woman on them, enough marker lights to make my rig look like a Christmas tree, the purple utility lamp on the back end, the grill cover that makes it look like the truck has teeth -- oh, and the fuzzy dice that hang from my CB mic.
Back in the day, when Big Red was young, I used to enter her in those Pimp My Truck competitions. It was a lot of fun, but I never won enough prize money to cover even a small portion of the dough I put into it. It was my ex-wife who eventually forced me to stop -- I really owe her a thank you for that. I would've blinged my way right into the poorhouse if not for her objection.
While browsing their assorted wares, something unique caught my attention. It was a little transparent hunk of plastic with a 12-volt plug coming out the back of it, wrapped up a fancy blister-pack with a bold catch phrase across the top. Let Jesus light your path, it said.
I had to pick it up and look closer, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I did. This thing was a little plastic mold of Jesus Christ, draped in robes with his arms spread at his sides. It had an LED bulb in the middle, and apparently it glowed in one of four selectable colors when you plugged it into your cigarette lighter; red, blue, green or white. I had to have it! For the low-low price of $9.99, who wouldn't want it?
Once I'd looked over the audio books on offer and decided there was nothing of interest, I checked out and went to the communications center to check for my fax. There was a two-page packet marked to my attention from Sunspot Logistics -- nothing more. That seemed strange to me since, in my experience, most freight brokers make you initial and sign a twenty-page contract before they even consider telling you who their customer is. This set of paperwork was much more straightforward and simple than I was used to; but it was apparently all Sunspot wanted.
There was no legal mumbo-jumbo about trying to steal their customer or diluted requests for proof of insurance; just a sheet detailing the pickup and delivery locations, our agreed upon rate and a space for me to sign. I did so and faxed it back, then waited a couple of minutes before calling the broker again to confirm that she received it.
"Yes, Mister Johnston." She said. "I've got your paperwork together, and we're good to go. Check in at the gate when you arrive and the shipper will provide further instruction. I'll need you to call and check in every day once you're loaded and rolling."
"How quickly do you pay?" I asked anxiously, knowing it would be Janet’s first question.
"Seven days after receipt of the signed proof-of-delivery."
"Perfect." I replied. "Do you need a copy of my authority -- or cargo insurance? Anything at all?"
"No." She returned plainly. I wondered if she knew what the hell she was doing -- those things are standard requirements. "We're good to go -- just be sure you're checked in before midnight."
Noting the time, I realized I had to get rolling... I couldn't very well pick up my return load without getting the candy off my wagon first... time for me to fly!
Chapter 4
My drop in Mira Loma went off just as it should; no long delay at the dock, no problems with the product, not even an outlandish unloading fee to ruffle my feathers. I got in and out with time to spare, so I set course for Oceanside and went on my way.
Things were going well for me; perhaps because of my new co-pilot -- glowing Jesus on the dash. I found that I liked the blue setting best; kind of mellowed the cab out a bit with its cool aura.
I arrived at the designated pickup for my load home just after seven pm -- plenty early, just the way I like to do it. When I got there I was directed into a bullpen area where fifteen or twenty other trucks were already waiting.
The lot was huge, so finding a spot to park wasn't a problem for once. There was a narrow gravel path leading out of the bullpen towards a massive building in the distance, presumably where they did all the loading. It was tall, wide and long -- but I didn't see any docks on the side that was visible. It looked a bit like a giant aircraft hanger perched on the shore of the undulating ocean beyond... not like any shipping facility I'd ever seen.
The sky was growing dark and there were no lights in this area to be found. The grey was almost threatening, really -- thank God for my little blue messiah. A storm was brewing, that much was obvious. Clouds suffocated the twilight, reminding me of the opening scenes of a horror movie set in the deep dark woods near Crystal Lake. With any luck, I could stave off the appearance of Jason long enough to pick up my load and get on my way -- there were plenty of other truckers here to fulfill his appetite.
I searched for a sign that might clue me in to exactly what I was gonna be hauling, but there didn't seem to be one. I couldn't tell if this was a fish processing facility, a produce terminal or just some little mushroom shack with a new crop of fungus bound for market.
It's hard to believe that I'd forgotten to ask the woman at Sunspot what the commodity was -- with the ragged shape my reefer was in, that should've been my first question. I thought about getting out and asking some of the other truckers waiting, but I didn't want to risk looking stupid. I mean, who agrees to take a load without knowing what they're gonna be hauling?
I've pulled some strange stuff in my time. Most people don't realize how much of what they buy has to travel on refrigerated trucks. Stuff like milk, meat and frozen foods are obvious, but these things make up just a small portion of the cargo that I move around from day to day.
If you're a woman, you've probably got lipstick in your purse... ever see what happens to it when you leave it in a hot car for a couple of hours? It melts, right? That's exactly what it does in the back of a regular trailer in the summer heat, too.
How about flowers? Did you know that the roses you got last Valentine's day had spent some time in the back of a truck just like mine? Well, they did -- and they made a hell of a mess back there, too. Plants are miserable to haul. My trailer has a slotted floor to let liquid drain out if something is leaking, and that potting soil loves to get in there and clog things up.
The only thing I've found worse than pulling flowers is pulling pork bellies on slip sheets. A slip sheet, in case you aren't familiar with them, is essentially a piece of rigid plastic they line the floor of a trailer with when they're loading fresh meat. A lot of times they just plop the stuff right down on the sheets; no boxes, no bags, no wrappers -- nothing. It's all fine and dandy while it's cold, but after you unload the goods and turn the refrigeration unit off, it turns into the smelliest sauna you'd ever care to be in. I've spent hours trying to power wash the stench out of my box after loads of pork bellies... I don't know what it is about them, they just smell awful. That's where coffee comes in... a can of fresh grounds can drown out just about any stink.
The moral of the story is; if it melts in the heat or is damaged by freezing in the cold, it moves on a refrigerated truck. Be it makeup, milk or body parts from the scene of a terrible disaster. Don't laugh -- they called reefer trailers to Ground Zero on 9/11... thought they would need to keep all the broken bodies cool until they could sort them all out. Most were cancelled, though, when they realized there just wasn't much left of the poor people that had died inside those buildings. Such a terrible tragedy...
There was about an hour worth of paperwork that I'd allowed to pile up that I decided to finally do once I'd parked. My log book looked like the diagram of a football play, so I had to get that in order first of all. Truck drivers are required to document what they've done in fifteen minute increments. There are rules and regulations about how long you can drive and how much time you're supposed to spend resting as a result, and if a D.O.T. (Department Of Transportation) man catches you violating those rules, there is generally hell to pay (not to mention steep fines). There are, of course, ways to cheat the system, so to speak... it's kinda like working an algebra problem, though, so that's why it takes me so damned long to do.
Once that was out of the way, I was free. Leaning my seat back, I tilted the steering wheel up so I could stretch out a bit. As always, I used my boot brush to clean off my leather shit-kickers before putting them up on the dash and sliding my hat down over my eyes.
The guards at the gate had told me that someone from the building beyond would be checking in with me before long, so I didn't want to get in to the bunk and risk passing out cold. At this point I'd been going for nearly twenty-six hours (way longer than the law allows, by the way); I was definitely in need of some good beauty sleep.
There would be plenty of time for that when I was back on Floridian soil, I figured -- though seeing my son for the first time in nearly a year would likely make it difficult even then. I turned on the radio to keep me awake while I waited, but I tuned in just in time for a news brief instead of a pounding southern jam.
"In other news this hour," a newswoman started up in the typical matter-of-fact tone. "The National Aeronautics and Space Administration announced today that it's preparing to launch a series of prototypes of the new shuttlecraft from Kennedy Space Center early next week. These latest incarnations are the culmination of nearly a decade of research and redesign, touting many new safety features in the wake of the disaster that destroyed the Colombia in 2003. Several variations of the design will be tested over the course of several days, scientists carefully interpreting the data from each unmanned launch to gather as complete a picture as possible of how each unit performs. The capsule itself is several times larger than the original orbiter and was designed to allow the transportation of large components to the International Space Station. The first launch is slated to take place on Monday the third at ten am and is sure to be a thrilling spectacle. There will be ten runs in all over the course of four days, the experiment said to be costing the nation over twenty billion dollars."
I made a mental note of the date and time, figuring it would be a lot of fun to take Sammy to see it go up. Living in Florida allowed me to catch a glimpse of launches in the past, and I always enjoyed the hell out of it. I'm a country boy at heart, but for all my simple ways I'm still enamored at the sight of a huge hunk of steel rising from the Earth on the back of a blazing inferno. Had life gone differently for me I might've liked to take a ride on that magic school bus -- but as it is, I can barely stand setting foot on a commercial airplane. The place for Randy Johnston is right here -- on the road with only eighteen bags of air between me and the ground.
My cell phone rang while I was waiting, and to my delight I found that it was Sammy on the other end. He's a typical boy; doesn't much care for talking on the phone. I can count on one hand the number of times that it's been he who called me, so I was understandably excited. He sounded happy to talk to me this time too, which is even more rare.
There was a bit of an agenda to his call; he asked if I had a Playstation at home which, of course, I don't. When he started listing all of the reasons he wanted me to get one for him, it became clear that I didn't have much choice. I tried to explain that I had planned a fun trip to a theme park for us, but he seemed more interested in being sure he could knock out a few rounds of some fighting game he's hooked on.
The conversation was going well until I heard my ex-wife droning on in the background. In response to her prodding, he asked if I was sure that I would make it home in time to pick him up. I assured him he had nothing to worry about -- or should I say I assured his mother. Either way, the conversation didn't go much further than that. Making sure to remind me to pickup his system, he told me he loved me and hung up hastily to get back to whatever he was doing.
While I had the phone on my mind, I decided to call Janet. I told her about the backhaul so that she could cram all the numbers and make a determination about my ability to replace the unit on my trailer. She said she was really busy and couldn't talk much, so that was pretty much it.
Shortly after I got off the phone, I saw some action unfolding in the lot. A couple of black SUV's had driven up the gravel road from the building, and several men wearing dark-green jumpsuits and hardhats had sprung out and started knocking on the doors of some of the other trucks.
They had clipboards and were busy taking notes of one sort or another while they spoke with the drivers. Rolling down my window a little, I lit up a Marlboro and tried to hear what was going on. The rumbling of all the idling trucks made it just about impossible. Some of the drivers started getting out of their cabs and disconnecting the air lines to their trailers, as if they were getting ready to drop them. This was apparently the case, as one started cranking the landing gear down while the question man was walking around his rig recording the serial and license plate numbers.
It took about a half an hour for the crew to speak to all of the truckers that had arrived before me, but eventually my turn came up. A guy in the jumpsuit climbed up on my running boards, grabbing hold of my rearview mirror bracket and pulling it a bit more than I would've liked.
"Good evening." He said firmly but kindly. "Name and company, please?"
"Randy Johnston." I announced. "R.J.'s Cool Moves Transport." The man wrote everything down as I spoke, politely nodding to confirm that he'd heard me.
"That's a Thermo-King unit, right?" He asked, pointing to my worn-down reefer. "What year?"
"2008." I lied. He did a double take and leaned back to examine it closer, clearly realizing that I sliced a decade off of the machine's age. "New engine in it." I offered, though that was as tall a tale as my original claim.
"Okay." He returned hesitantly. "Any pallets, bulkheads or blankets inside?"
"Nope -- she's empty."
"Perfect. Please set it to negative ten, fire it up and drop the trailer for me."
"Negative ten?" I asked, a bit flabbergasted. Temperatures that low are usually reserved for ice cream, and I've never heard of anybody taking the risk of shipping ice cream clear across the country.
"Yes sir." He confirmed.
"What are y'all about to put on there?"
"Ice blocks." He answered quickly. "Once you've dropped it, move your truck over to the eastern side of the lot and settle in for the night."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute." I protested. "Drop it and settle in? You don't think I'm gonna let you move my trailer, do you?" I'm sure I sounded rather rude - but I'm not one for pointless pleasantries. Like many independent truckers, I love my equipment. This guy might as well have asked me to leave my little boy standing alone and go take a nap while they did whatever they would with him.
"Yes I do." He returned just as firmly as he had spoken throughout.
Putting on my tough-guy face, I did my best to come across as strong as I possibly could as I replied. "Well that's not gonna happen. This trailer doesn't move unless my truck is pulling it -- that's just the way it is."
"I'm sorry then, sir." He said without blinking "If that's the bottom line, I'm afraid we won't be loading you this evening. I appreciate your concern about the trailer, no hard feelings. Please leave the lot, we've got quite a few more trucks coming in."
Without another word, he jumped down off the truck and started walking away. You believe that? I've never seen anything like it in my life. Shippers play hardball every so often -- they're paying the bill, after all -- but I've never had one just tell me to get up off the property simply because I didn't want them fiddling with my trailer.
"Whoa, whoa!" I called to him, trying to talk my fifty-five hundred bucks out of simply strolling away. Thankfully he stopped and turned back, but he didn't go so far as to return to my truck until I gave him a bit more. "Let's talk about this for a minute." I pled. "I apologize if I came across badly there, I just don't like the idea of handing my baby off to some part-time switcher."
"We have a professional switcher on site, sir." He explained. "We're also fully insured. All we need to do is hook it up, pull it to the facility for loading, then pull we'll it right back."
"Why can't I just pull it to the building for you?"
"This is a restricted access site -- this is as close as I can let a civilian get to the facility."
I looked back at the building on the horizon; just sitting there at the end of the gravel road. There were no fences, no guards, no barbed wire... nothing. This guy was telling me that he couldn't let me get any closer to the facility, yet for all intents and purposes, it looked like I could simply make a run for it and be there before anyone knew what happened.
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