eyes wide open

it's all about the people you meet on your journey.

for most of my childhood days in owosso we had a neighbor that owned a trucking company. his name was larry, and larry happened to have an arsenal of other incredibly cool shit-- motorcycles, fast cars and even nudie pictures of women from nascar calendars that were pinned inside the garage---

i still remember the day i discovered those calendars pinned up. i had built some sort of concoction of a fort behind larry's and our garage. mom yelled to me one night that dinner was ready and of course i hit the ground running like a bat out of hell. i ran fast and furious because i was husky and dinner was my second favorite part of the day. one night running in i hit my head on a mysterious object that was hanging off of larry' garage window. as i was clutching my head furiously i tried to figure out what the fuck had just jumped out and cracked my skull. as i looked through the window i discovered something bearing flesh at the opposite side of the garage. it was not clear at this point that i was looking at pornography but my curiousity was undoubtedly perked. days later i would be playing basketball with neighbor friend robert on larry's hoop in front of his garage and demanded i get a second opinion from him. we determined there was in fact a naked woman on the wall, perhaps two. it became habit at that point that we would mysteriously "lose the basketball" about 43 times a day in larry's garage.

so lets get back on track here. larry was the purveyor of all these interesting things-- namely naked women-- so naturally i paid a little more attention to everything the man did. so when i tell you that i became mildly obsessed with oversized vehicular transport at a young age it should now make complete sense that larry had a lot to do with this.

fast forward 15 years.

i drive a truck now.

going to weigh stations, trucker talk, CB radios, enormous sunglasses, a farmers tan from my arm hanging out the window, filling out my DOT drivers log book, checking engine belts and maneuvering a big rig-- bring it on. you would be proud, larry. well you might make fun of the fact that my "truck" is nowehere near an 18-wheeler, but i am getting there.

the rig clocks in at about 25 feet in length, weighs something like 15,000 pounds and when you sit in the thing you feel like you are on top of the universe. the steering wheel is roughly the size of alaska. and the entirety of the exterior is branded with crocs artwork and surprisingly this includes a portrait of don king holding multiple pairs of crocs. yes, don king. mike tyson/don king. big hair don king.

awesome.

and driving the old don king mobile around is a damn good time. i have traversed through some five states already and the adventures are abundant.

the scene was arizona. right at the border of california. sunny day, 85 degrees. it is pretty standard to roll through the port of entry weigh station for trucks when crossing any state border. as we rumbled over the scale at a measly 7 mph i gave the standard tip of the cap to the attendant in the window. there is a traffic light situated on the upper left as you pass through the scale, and if your weight is accepted you get the green light. if not, it will flash red.

the lady flashed us the red.

awesome.

apparently i was going a little too fast over the scale because she was screaming through the PA at decibels rivaling a small dynamite explosion. “BACK UP!” she yelled. i backed up the rig. “DID YOU NOT SEE THE RED LIGHT!?” i told her i was too busy waving at her to see the light. she wasn’t taking kindly to my jovial gesture. “GATHER YOUR REGISTRATION PAPERS AND LOG BOOKS AND STEP IN THE OFFICE!” feeling her atomic explosion of a voice crush my ear drums i gathered my shit and got out of the truck.

katie— my driving partner— and i approached the office and entered through the mid-70’s looking building. the door said “pull” but you actually had to push it. i entered the room greeted by a chilling aroma. it smelled of moist armpits that hadn’t been cleansed in a couple weeks. i cringed. katie’s face looked as though she was holding back vomit that was sitting in the back of her throat. we approached the desk. the two women sitting behind the counter combined for about 700 pounds and could have easily walked on to the detroit lions offensive line. these girls were large.

a. bonnet, or so her nametag read, approached me. her acrylic nails were about as long as my pinky finger. her desk was littered with photos of she and what i assumed was her significant other. her west coast choppers branded sunglasses were tucked within the confines of her blond highlighted hair. this woman was angry. and despite not having the PA microphone wedged under her chin, she was still fucking screaming.

i got a scolding immediately for going 7 mph through the scale instead of 5. i was ridiculed for having missed the red light. i nodded and said “m hm” about 15 times and happily took to asking her to repeat nearly everything.

“I WILL NEED YOUR TRUCK REGISTRATION, INSURANCE CARDS, LOG BOOKS AND MEDICAL CARD.”

i happily surrendered the documents to her outstretched paw that was about 8 inches wide.

“I DON’T SEE YOUR DOT MEDICAL CARD IN HERE.”

fuck. i forgot that in the car and explained. i told her i would go get it and be right back. i got to the truck and was rifling through my papers at record speed only to realize that my employer still had my card on file at their office.

awesome.

realizing that i was probably going to be subjected to a firing quad without my medical card, i wearily walked through the messed up door back in to the office almost vomiting again from the stench. she smiled as i informed her of my inability to produce the medical card.

awesome.

she was rifling through katie’s and my log book at speeds that suggested she wasn’t even reading so much as a single letter or digit. i was incorrect in my assessment unfortunately. “YOU CAN FACE UP TO $600 IN FINES FOR THESE FAULTY LOG BOOKS.” i rattled off another “m hm.” her quasi-southern accent coupled with her penchant for screaming made it hard to understand the woman.

she looked over the papers and then demanded entrance to our truck for an inspection. she went through her checklist, of which i was able to produce the majority of the items sans the warning triangles we are supposed to have on board. we had cones instead of triangles but this wasn’t going to do it for a. bonnett.

“I WON’T CITE YOU FOR FAILURE TO PASS INSPECTION” she shouted, “BUT I AM GOING TO GET YOU FOR NOT HAVING YOUR MEDICAL CARD.”

i gave her back a bland “m hm” as i tried not to awkwardly stare at her acrylic nails that reminded me of edward scissorhands. she wrote slowly for about 45 minutes filling out my ticket. she handed it to me upon completion. i about shit my pants when i read that the ticket is going to cost $305.

“NOW YOU HAVE A NICE DAY YOU TWO.” she said it with the sort of sting that suggested she was so proud of herself. she had probably just met her monthly citation quota. maybe her boss was going to take her to the local fish fry as a reward. i would be lying if i said i didn’t think about these things.

hopefully after my little run-in with the united states department of transportation i can officially nominate myself in to the trucker subculture. there’s a bit of camaraderie to be had traveling the lonesome highways for 14 hour stretches at a time.

frances was the attendant at the truck stop in sierra blanca, texas. she was manning the counter at the only diesel stop within about 50 miles in each direction on I-10. the rig was cruising on fumes so we had to fill up the 30 gallon tank. i take every opportunity to have a good chat at the truck stops because 9 times out of 10 the good folks have a story to tell. every trucker wants to tell you something— how to avoid the bitch at the weigh station 40 miles ahead, the inevitable conversation about illicit use of the CB radio or something else involving women and a lack of clothing.

anyway, sierra blanca is situated about 40 minutes north of the mexicale border, and frances spared no time in telling me that the area was an absolute hotbed for drug and human trafficking. that explained the border check 10 miles earlier off I-10 complete with sniffing dogs, a bomb squad and mysterious equipment that apparently could tell the federales if i had a truck full of illegal mexicans. turns out the conversation got me a free coca cola and frances sent me off with a handwritten map to austin. nevermind that the GPS would get us there just fine, the gesture was well received.

a few hundred miles later, max monroe was the fiery counter attendant at the truck wash in segovia, texas. my american express card wasn’t going through when i paid for my diesel and the man wanted nothing to do with the hassle. after two unsuccessful swipes of my card he got right on the phone and called american express. at that hour we were of course routed to an overseas answering service and this lit a fire under max monroe’s fruit of the looms. i could tell the line picked up with a recording and max took to yelling “operator, operator, operator” at least a dozen times. similar to a. bonnet over there in arizona he was screaming loud enough for people to hear in the next town over.

“am i talking to india? my name is max monroe and i operate a truck stop here in segovia, texas. i got a philip j lauri ii here trying to fill up his rig with some diesel fuel and your people are telling me i need an authorization code.” his belly vibrated with every passing syllable.

“uhh, max. i can probably take care of this.”

“oh you just sit tight, i’ll get this squared away with india.”

then right as i thought someone picked up the phone max put his headset down and started an entirely different conversation with me about where i was headed. i told him i was going to austin, texas and we exchanged comments about our favorite bars on sixth street—the popular stop amongst locals and tourists for live music, food and plenty of booze. midway through talking to me max picks up the phone to what is now presumably a frustrated attendant in india who just heard our conversation about drinking beer and looking at women.

“yes, is this india? can you understand me? my name is max monroe and i own a truck stop in segovia, texas. i have a customer here named philip j lauri ii who is tryi-----“

he was presumably cut off and he started yelling again. not at me, not at india but this time it appeared as though he was just yelling at the wall. jesus. finally, max handed the phone to me and after some trials and tribulations with what was now a manager on the other line, i managed to get the approval code and my diesel paid for,

“crazy times we live in, phil.” it looked like max was recovering from a near heart attack. sweat was pouring down his forehead and collecting on his furrow brow. “and that girl didn’t understand what was going on. good thing you got a manager on the phone.” i nodded back at max as if to assure him that everything he just shouted in to the receiver was gospel.

mildly dumbfounded with my diesel paid for, i gave max a tip of the cap and headed back to the rig. as i passed through the glass door he shot off a “keep your eyes wide open on the road” and i pulled off in to the darkness. he had it right though—it is all about keeping your eyes wide open on the journey. there is plenty to take in, absorb and bounce around in your head. scenes dart in and out of your periphery, people pass you by, thoughts linger, dreams remain and images permanently embed themselves in your memory block. it all marinates somewhere in my right brain and propels me forward.

so i pressed on like i always do. the lone star horizon was long gone and the calm of the engine rumble and a cracked open window had me basking in the glory of max’s parting words.