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As he continued, the dog walked two steps behind
him until they were about thirty feet from the concrete building
with its doors to Men’s and Ladies’ rooms blocked open. Mercy raced
ahead, went into the Men’s room, came back out, sat down by the door
and waited for Red.
Again, as he approached, she looked him in the
eyes and barked twice as if to say it was safe. She continued
sitting there until he came out, barked once, rose to her feet and
followed Red back to his van. Taking advantage of the stop to check
the padlock, the mud flaps and the tires, Red was ready to mount the
cab when the dog began barking franticly.
“I’m not taking you with me, dog!” Red told her.
The yellow, longhaired who-knows-what-dog seemed
to understand what he said. She stopped barking, ran over between
the tractor and trailer, sat down and resumed barking.
“What is it, a squirrel or something I need to
see?”
Two barks.
“Okay, I’ll take a look.”
Red walked back to discover a large nut had
fallen off his coupler to the trailer when he’d come to a stop. The
dog had noticed it. Red knew that a potential disaster had been
averted. Had his trailer come lose, on the Interstate, he couldn’t
have done anything. This dog had saved him, and who knows how many
other motorists. Red selected a wrench from behind a seat, replaced
the nut and prepared to leave the rest stop.
“Thanks, dog!” I’ve really got to go, now.”
The dog whined. Red bent down. She was using
those big brown eyes of hers to her best advantage.
“You got a collar on? Dog tag? Maybe, we can find
out who you belong to!”
There was no tag, only an inch-wide turquoise
nylon collar on which someone had taken time to hand embroidery a
word in red, MERCY.
“Mercy! Is that your name?”
Two barks.
“You look like you might be hungry, Mercy! You
hungry?”
Two more barks.
“Let me see if I’ve some hamburgers in the cab.
Are World Burgers all right with you?”
Mercy sat up before he even opened the door. Red
located a bag with three World-Burgers.
"They’re kind of cold, Mercy. You don’t mind, do
you?”
Mercy dropped down and whined, again.
“What? You want me to put them into the microwave
for thirty seconds before you get one?”
“Woof! Woof!”
“Okay Mercy. One hot World-Burger coming right
up. But, I get two of them. Understand?”
Immediately, Mercy’s right paw shot forward.
“Woof! Woof!” She agreed.
Red never planned getting a dog. A few
long-haulers keep animals for company because it’s illegal to
transport human passengers. Section 392.60 of the Federal Motor
Carrier Safety Regulations clearly reads: Unauthorized persons not
to be transported. Dogs, cats, even parrots or boa constrictors are
not forbidden. For Red Haring, the childhood memory of a car running
over his dog had never been healed. He’d sworn never to become
attached to another animal.
“You must belong to a trucker, Mercy. Okay! Hop
in! You can ride with me a little ways. We’ll get on the CB and find
out where your owner is.”
Red tried to find Mercy’s owner. Three different
truckers remembered a driver that used to travel with a yellow dog.
Had a turquoise collar. He’d died on the highway, they’d heard. The
year before! No mention of what became of his dog. The word would
get passed along by CB radio for several days. Meanwhile, Red agreed
he’d take good care of the animal. Within a week, Mercy would be
inspecting Red’s truck and supervising his road-hire employees. Red
was glad that Mercy had persuaded him to break his
never-get-attached-to-another-animal vow. On his long hauls, Mercy
was a must.
The small 5,500-pound load he’d taken on in Baker
City, Red had unloaded alone in Boise. It had been mostly boxes,
some small end tables, lamps, two bed frames, no mattresses or
couches requiring two movers.
The man he’d hired in Baker City to help unload
the truck was a good worker. Mercy had approved him. Wearing the
clean BIG shirt Red provided, he’d looked presentable. Red used him
to load the small move to Boise, before returning the worker to the
truck stop where they’d met.
Red had offered him $15.00 an hour cash for five
hours work. It had only taken 4 hours but Red had paid him $75.00
anyway. The worker signed a receipt for Red’s contract labor
(independent contractor) that would be used for calculating expenses
and taxes, collecting a phone number from the laborer so he could
call ahead next haul to Baker City. Good, careful, workers are a
moving van driver’s dream.
Red now had two Boise households loaded in the
fifty-three foot long by eight and a half foot wide trailer ready
for his transport to the Seattle area. The Larry and Moe team he’d
hired at Boise BIG, the national affiliate, had insisted on taking
rest breaks every forty-five minutes. He’d had to tell the Moe to
wait until his break to smoke. At the second house, the lethargic
loaders had taken a walk. Red had a good idea what they had been
smoking.
Now, before they headed back to Washington State,
Red and Mercy needed something to eat.
Idaho night was approaching as Red Haring located
a safe place to park his consignment. He swung easily from the cab
to the nearly full parking lot of the Chicken Out Restaurant and
Lounge. Mercy yawned in the passenger seat sensing that chicken and
dumplings were on their way. Dogs are not supposed to eat chicken
bones, but neither she nor Red seemed to know that. Except when here
in Idaho, Mercy preferred World Burgers. Sometimes, she sat cocking
her head, holding her nose just so, barking twice to alert her
master that a Burger World was nearby.
After a quick check of the trailer padlock, Red
straightened his Big company tie before going in to claim the best
chicken and dumplings in the Northwest United States.
All the tables and booths were occupied. He could
see several hungry natives waiting. Red spotted an empty stool at
the counter. It would do fine. Faster anyway.
The flawlessly toothy waitress greeted him with a
jam-packed smile.
“It’s been a while, Red. Are you staying over?”
“If I’d known you’d invite me, I’d have planned
better!”
“I’ll forgive you this time. My new boyfriend
wouldn’t understand anyway.”
“Ah, he’s territorial! I can’t really blame him,
Ruby.”
“When did you get in?”
“This morning, why?”
“Curious. You write my song yet?”
“Not yet. But, I will.”
“You owe me one, Red.”
“Do you know what I would like to do with you,
Ruby?”
“Yeah, take delivery of chicken and dumplings and
drive off into the night.”
Red Haring flashed her some teeth of his own.
Ruby slammed down a cup of black coffee before she disappeared into
the kitchen to pick up an order. The guy on Red’s right in a suit
shook his head and said “Ouch.”
Maybe, it was his strong jaw line, or his cleft
chin, or both. Women found Red tempting. He was a physical specimen,
six three with rock-solid muscle of a kind not developed in a
gymnasium. No combination of bench presses, tread mills, or
twenty-five rep weight series could have sculptured Red’s lean body
as had his twelve years in the moving business. Totally functional.
The man on the next stool was observant. He spoke
to Red, again.
“X-wife?”
“An old friend.”
“Doesn’t seem very happy,” the salesman observed.
“I hope she is. She’s a nice lady. Deserves a
heaping mound of happy.”
“A happy alamode!”
“I wish I could order her one,” Red admitted .”
“Me, too. I’ll bet she could make me happy! She
looks like she likes your flavor better. Where you from?”
“Seattle area. You?”
“Chicago. Sell medical equipment.”
“You married?”
“Not if a woman asks,” the salesman said slyly.
My wife thinks I work late. Spend lots of nights in places like
this. I can usually find a warm lonely to share a bed with me when
I’m away on business.”
“If I was married, I’d try to work closer to
home. You might want to consider it,” said Red confrontationally. “I
think that women have enough problems without getting messed around
with by married men. Ruby sure as hell don’t need messed with.”
“Well, I think I’ll examine the bar then. Have
some new lines I have to try out.”
Ruby had overheard the exchange. She was more
composed when she returned with a huge plate of chicken & dumplings.
“Thank you, Red. I get so tired of guys like
that. You look good tonight, Red.”
“You always look good, Ruby.”
“Are you heading back tonight?
“I’ve got to deliver two households tomorrow. One
in Seattle. One in Tacoma.”
“I don’t get off until two in the morning,
anyway. How about next time you’re in town? You’ve got my number.”
“I’d like that, Ruby.” Savoring the poultry, Red
enjoyed watching Ruby. As he finished his last bite, she returned.
“You want some coffee to take along with you?”
“That would be great, Ruby. Large, Styrofoam.”
“You won’t throw it out the window and kill my
birds, will you?”
“I don’t believe in throwing things out the
window.”
“You’d better not, Red,” Ruby warned. She sat
down a large steaming stay awake, picked up the twenty, and showed
him her teeth. “Oh, here you are, a ‘To-Go’ for Mercy. Drive
careful, darlin.”
Chicken and dumplings to-go order in hand, Red
returned to his truck, opened the driver’s door and tossed the
container over to the passenger floor mat where it was well received
by his patient pooch who opened the lid herself.
Styrofoam cup in one hand, chrome bar in the
other, Red swung effortlessly up into his commanding cab. Securing
the shoulder restraint, he skillfully maneuvered the truck-trailer
rig between the utility pole and cars that only appeared to have
boxed him in.
Soon, he was headed west on Interstate 84. As if
it knew its way home, the 400-horse Cat diesel roared approvingly as
it glided past other, less committed vehicles. The tractor had 90
gallons of diesel left in its 170-gallon tank, Red and Mercy had
full stomachs. All three were content.
Red thought about Ruby and their conversation in
the diner. He’d met her on another move. His truck had blown its
transmission. It had taken seven days to locate the right parts
necessary to complete repairs. The mechanic had said he’d have him
back on the road in three. It was on the third night, after the guy
told him it would be a few more days, Red had walked to the diner
the mechanic said had great chicken and dumplings.
Discouraged, low on cash, he’d drank coffee at
that same counter. Ruby had come on at 6:00 PM to find him not sure
of what he’d do.
“Cheer up, Red,” she encouraged. “You don’t mind
that I call you Red?”
“That’s my name. You can call me anytime.”
“Can’t be that bad, Red! What’s hurting you
tonight, Darlin?”
“It isn’t your smile,” he’d answered.
“You got a good smile yourself, Red. You want the
special?”
“If you’re it!” He volunteered half-hopingly.
“Chicken and dumplings, for now, Darlin. I don’t
even get off until 2:00 AM.”
“The special is what I want, for now.”
For the next eight hours, Red had sipped
countless coffees while Ruby had served the variety of patrons.
While she waited on them, he waited on her. She brought him refills
with just enough encouragement. Finally, the payoff.
“Here’s some fresh strawberry pie. It’s on me.”
“With whip cream, too?”
“You’ll see. You might like it.”
I really did, Red remembered. Then, as now, it
had been a cold, November night. When her shift was over, Ruby had
invited him to share her warm waterbed. Red wished he had more time
tonight.
Tires against the highway, wind, and the pulse of
a healthy engine combine to create a unique music that a trucker
could feel. Each song exclusive, tailored to the man who holds the
big wheel. Red switched off the CB radio to hear it more clearly.
His now hungry hand moved as expected, to locate the yellow pad.
Inspired by the highway harmony, Red shifted into high gear and
right brain. He would make good his pledge to a willing waitress.
She’d not be disappointed next time he delivered to Boise. As the
words came to him, he composed her promised song.
Diner Doll
She’s a lady of the light,
She serves coffee in the night
To the many men who spend their nights alone...
So, she warms them with her smile
For, she knows that in a while,
They must face the cold that haunts an empty home...
She’s the lady of the late,
When a man can’t find a date,
He wanders in, and now and then, gets rude...
But, she takes it in her stride
As she helps him find his pride,
She restores him with her super attitude...
She’s a lady all the time,
When a mans had too much wine,
When he plans to put his hands where he should not;
She can quickly move away
Then, if he still wants to play
She can, even quicker, put him in his spot...
She’s a lady every way,
Even knows just what to say
To every guy who has to try his line...
Yet, on the nights she’s off,
She can be so very soft;
When, best of all, this “Diner Doll” is mine...
The exit to a Pendleton, Oregon truck stop ahead,
Red downshifted to left brain and fourth gear. In 222 miles, 3 hours
54 minutes of hard labor, he had given birth to a new song. He had
to spank the baby. 12-string in his hand, he leaped down from his
leather throne.
No one but Mercy was there to hear the review of
‘Diner Doll’ when Red put the cords to the beat he’d heard on the
highway. His yellow pad bore evidence of the many word combinations,
phrases that didn’t fit. By the seventh page, he had the final
draft. He hardly glanced at the pad as his nimble fingers set up the
correct strings to complement his moving voice.
“Not too many cowboys lean against a truck to
play guitars here at midnight,” the cash attendant commented.
“Most cowboys are truckers, but not all truckers
are cowboys,” Red replied.
Mercy barked twice.
By fifteen after midnight, fresh coffee in hand,
Red was back on the road. He switched on the CB in hopes that a
caravan would be coming up behind him. He was in luck.
“Breaker, breaker. This is the Red Haring
swimming west on 84—out of Pendleton—a little fish can get lonely
out here. Over!”
“Swim easy there, big Red. Lot of nets out,
tonight. We’ve got a school of eleven, swimming your way. Over!”
“Roger… I’ll just tread water until you show up.
The Red Herring – over and out!”
Caravanning has been the driver’s defense since
before there was radar. With higher cab elevation, good eyesight,
and constant use of the CB radios, no smoky bear patrolman could set
up a speed trap undetected.
Red cruised along at the speed limit until eleven
assorted trucks caught up to him. He settled in and switched off the
CB. It might take only moments for Red to begin to discern the loyal
harmony.
It didn’t happen right away. He’d have nearly
three hundred miles to make another musical baby.
He thought about the medical salesman he’d talked
to at the Chicken Out diner. On the road, at these hours, there
aren’t usually many people, other than truckers, who share the
camaraderie.
Red’s mind slipped into his trucker’s world.
Thoughts, conversations with other drivers, problems and pet peeves
common to those who move American goods via the nation’s highways:
We pay thousands of dollars in road use taxes,
spend millions of dollars for gas and diesel, and endure the scorn
of most motorists who wish we’d stay off the road.
When we quit rolling, he mused, this country
stops. Supermarket shelves soon empty, as do all of the other
stores. Those motorists, who curse us on the highways, can’t even
buy gas for their cars.
News crews are quick to cover the trucks that
leave the roadways, spill loads, or catch on fire. Why don’t they
ever report that the trucker involved had averted a disaster by
choosing self-destruction rather than to crush the car that was
responsible? Newspapers always put out a headline like: 3 Dead in
Car when hit by truck head on.
What they don’t say until way down in the story,
if at all, is that the so called truck was really a Ford F150 pickup
driven by a teenager who was high on drugs. The people read the
truck headline, but not the story. Press people aren’t on hand to
film the rescues when, hundreds of times each year, a real trucker
sees an accident in progress on the opposite side of the turnpike,
pulls over, dodges cars, drags the mother and children from a
flaming car, and then leaves the scene to continue his time
sensitive delivery. At least, the firefighters and police are
finally getting some of the respect, appreciation they deserve.
Someone should present our stories in a different forum.
Red was snapped out of his hypnotic trucker’s
world by a flash of bright headlights in his mirrors. Lights blinked
bright, then dimmed. An automobile driver had signaled that he was
about to pass the truck on this beautiful stretch of wide open road.
Flashing his trailer lights, as the signal to come ahead, Red
watched in his door mirror as a burgundy Cadillac pulled alongside
before moving on by.
The driver was wearing a gray suit, white shirt,
and a broad striped tie with its knot loosened half way down his
chest. Truckers see a lot more than most people think. Another
salesman, change of clothes on the hangers in his rear seat,
probably had to make an early appointment in some town up ahead. He
was using the wee hours for his commute.
If the caravan had overtaken him, the Caddy might
have ‘hitchhiked’, settled in between a couple of us feeling safe.
Salesmen aren’t limited by the no more than ten hours following
eight consecutive hours off duty Rule— or only logging fifteen hours
in any twenty-four hour period— like we truckers are. Red felt his
brain shift. The Cat Diesel started throbbing music again. So did
Red. The seven-line chorus came first:
Truck Drivers and Salesmen
[Chorus]
Truck drivers and salesmen are men of the road;
One ‘Loads his holler’,
While one ‘Hauls his load’...
Before you fall for one
It’s best that you knew:
Truck drivers and salesmen
Are just ‘Passing through’...
Verse 1:
It’s true that they do seem different, sometimes,
The way they may dress,
And, oh yes, different ‘Lines’...
But, they share the ‘Feel’ of the ‘Flight of the free’,
And, theirs is the ‘World’
That awaits them to ‘See’...
[Chorus]
Verse 2:
Sometimes, they get lonely;
Sometimes, they get down...
They know that they’ve only
A short time in town...
Then, when they meet ‘Someone’,
As, sometimes, they do:
Truck drivers and salesmen
Are just ‘Passing through’...
[Chorus]
Verse 3:
Yes, they must atone for the life that they’ve led,
They could have stayed home
With a ‘Sweet wife’, instead...
But, they’ve chosen ‘The road’,
Chose to ‘Follow a star’:
I suppose, that’s what makes them
The men that they are...
[Chorus]
In his own altered state, Red Haring had become
part of a caravan, traveled past The Dalles, through Portland,
turned onto Interstate 5, missed two of his favorite truck stops,
and was approaching Centralia, Washington before he realized that
his lyrics were complete. I’ll try it out at Trolley’s.
The watch on his wrist said it was just after
four in the morning. Making the left brain shift, Red recognized
he’d had a great time. Even better than sex, he told himself. Lasted
longer, too. I wonder if the ‘Lady McBest’ Realtor is back; if she
liked the roses I sent her? The poem I knocked out for her wasn’t
much. I know I’ll have to do better.
[Much of Chapter IV was cut to meet posting
guidelines. Read complete Chapter in published "FSBO." ]
Russ Miles is author of the novel, For Sale By
Owners:FSBO. A “Seasoned Real Estate NAR® Broker,” disabled by
Multiple Sclerosis, Russ writes books & articles on varied subjects.
FOR SALE BY OWNERS:FSBO ISBN 0-595-28703-4, in
trade paperback, is available by phone or Internet:1-800-Authors to
order direct! Adobe e-book & hard cover editions also available at
Amazon.com at Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers.
Comments:
MilesRuss@Gmail.com.
Please visit Russ Miles's website
MilesBooks.com for other
informative features and information of interest. |
FSBO:
For Sale By Owners Chapter IV [part 1]