biscuits and gravy

The cross-country trek from Atlanta to Califonia had managed to dirty the truck considerably so it was time to find a truck wash. I winced at the thought of having to circumnavigate through Los Angeles to do so, but the only truck wash in town was near the fashion district. Go figure.

We rumbled up to the entrance where about 3 others were lined up to get their rigs cleansed. Truck washes are kind of interesting. Prior to actually going to one I figured there would be a few high powered jets pumping out water and spraying down the exterior, throw in a guy at the end to collect payment or something. Oh no. Its typically a dungeon’esque airplane hanger’ish sort of building that seems to be about a mile long. You drive through and what appears to be martians dressed in rubber suits surround the vehicle. The rubber suits the martians are donning seem like they would protect anyone/anything from a toxic chemical spill if need be. The little martians go scurry about the airplane hanger scrubbing, shining, hosing and cleaning the entire rig top to bottom.

If this all sounds kind of creepy and weird, it's because it totally is.

Turns out on that particular afternoon in LA the waiting line for the truck wash was one hour. No problem. I had about a million things I needed to do on the computer so I wasn’t sweating. I killed the engine and got to work with a window rolled down to keep me cool. About 30 minutes later the foreman shouted to me in what sounded like a combination of Japanese and Spanish that the martians were ready for me. Katie stuck the key in the ignition.

Now, It has to be unbelievable at this point, but the sweat started pouring down my forehead (well, that part is believable) when the goddamn truck WOULD NOT START.

Again.

I felt like someone hit me in the face with a baseball bat, and I had a blindfold on, but someone far in the distance yelled out "you might get hit with a baseball bat in the face in the next 15 seconds." So it's like I sort of knew it was coming, but really, the likelihood of someone swatting me with a bat seemed unlikely. Well, the bat hit hard. I was in shock over the fact that, well, despite a recent trip to the truck doctor, my beloved Sterling monstrosity was now giving me shit again.

With disbelief still etched all over my face, I was being told by one of the martians to enter in to the truck wash and of as I said before, the truck would not move. With every turn of the key, there was a dead silence to follow. Jesus. I jumped out of the car and looked for anything suspicious under the vehicle fully aware of the fact that I really had no fucking clue what to look for. I was already thinking about the black bottle. The martian approached faster yelling for me to move the truck forward as they were ready for the truck now. Unable to say “Well, no shit” in Spanish I just told him the truck would not start. I actually pulled the word descompuesto— 'broken' in Spanish— out of the memory banks in the process. That little miniature victory aside, I was still feeling the pressure of a healthy line of truckers behind me and the corresponding glare of what seemed like 300 hungry martians in rubber suits.

I continued to pace around the truck acting like I knew how to resolve this issue. I discovered the location of the truck battery and I am guessing it would take a couple of hand grenades to actually gain access to the thing. It was pretty well hidden behind one of the side panels on the truck and I could not get access to it under any circumstances. I tried to look at it to see if a connection had come loose. As I pulled away from the battery to report to Katie that we should just try to put the truck in neutral and roll it out of the waiting line, the engine fired up.

Completely baffled but feeling some sense of victory and potential Christ-like intervention, it was now time to drive the piece of shit down to Carlsbad—minus the whole truck wash and martians. I think everyone was kind of happy when we left. The martians probably did stupid cheers with their power washers.

Slightly weary with the whole situation given the cross-country drive from LA to Boston that was coming up, I opted to stop at a mechanics shop in San Clemente en route to Carlsbad to just have them look the shitbox over. A fellow by the name of Tim got to work and reported issues with the starter.

Awesome.

I described to him the urgency behind getting a repair—we needed to be in Boston by the following Thursday. As I was talking to him, it was Friday at 3pm and the shop was closing at 5. I would need a starter installed that day because we needed to be on the road by Sunday to make it to Boston-town in time. He asked me why the hell I was driving an import—an import that was very difficult to get parts for. God, not again.

All I could think about were the days spent in Australia road-tripping through the desert country. Bryan’s and my hot little 1986 Volvo import saw its demise while trying to cross the desert in to South Australia. All this happened because there wasn’t a $15 washer that could be found in the entire country that could fit the Volvo engine and thus prevent oil from spewing out. It seemed that my new import, although about 15 times larger and capable of hauling about 15,000 pounds, was doing the same thing.

Waiting in suspense for Tim to tell me that they could out a new starter in that day, I was told there was nothing available. The best they could do was to order one and have it installed by Monday. That was not going to do it. I had to be off on the road Sunday night. They told me I would have to get it serviced en route to the east coast but that really wasn’t an option either because we still needed to make our flights out of Boston on Thursday—there was really no slack time to stop at a repair shop for a day.

Right around the time all that news took shape and I was exploding sweat from every pore, a burly fella by the name of Teddy (I actually have no idea what his name was but he just looked like a Teddy) burst in to the room and had an answer. He was all brawn and appeared as though he had won a few bar fights in his day. Despite this fact, he still kind of looked like that red-headed guy from the Food Network that always cooks Italian food. He looked like he had spent plenty of days behind the wheel, so I naturally expected a crafty solution out of the guy.

Sure enough. Teddy took a deep breath through his nose and started shouting.

“If the lady won’t start again, you’re gonna wanna give her a light gingerly tap to the starter.” Right. I’ll just put on my boots and get out my hammer and “gingerly” tap the starter. No problem. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Uhh come again?” All I could think about was the fact that he actually used the word "gingerly."

“Ok, so you gotta take a metal object, prefereably something with some length to her and you are gonna wanna get under the vehicle and tap the starter while simultaneously turning the ignition.” Good lord. Was this quantum physics? Here I am thinking about my ass crawling under the truck and rat-tat-tapping away on the starter while Katie turns the ignition and something blows up. I was expecting something a little simpler and not demanding as courageous an activity as me crawling under the truck.

“Well, where in the hell’s the starter?” I jokingly shouted. I wanted to see Teddy laugh cause I felt like the whole room would shake if he did. He didn’t even smile though. He just breathed another deep breath through his nose.

“Ok now, you’re gonna wanna crawl around here and pop the top here on the rig there. Bring her on up Timmy, jack her up.” I was standing next to the man at the side of the truck peering down in to the innards of the vehicle and somehow I was going to be crawling under that mess and gingerly tapping a piece of machinery. He continued on, “Now, give that little silver box a tap once you get the right vantage point and she’ll fire right up.” Of course, the truck would start just fine in the shop so I couldn’t get an actual run through of this process. I would be left to my devices. Likely somewhere in the middle of nowhere. On a frigid night. And it would be raining. Surely.

“Uhhh, right.” I crouched below to try and get a better view and managed to see the piece they were actually talking about-- the starter that is. It would be a miracle, but I guess I could find it in the frigid cold... on a rainy night... in the middle of nowhere... if need be.

After the little mini-consultation and a few pleasantries, I was off to Carlsbad for the race that has been dubbed “the world’s fastest 5K.”

The event went well over the weekend and I actually ran in the race which was sort of fun and sort of really fucking painful. I got off to an ambitious start thinking that I was going to smoke this little small fry of a race as I was targeting sub-eight minute miles. Weeks prior in New Orleans I raced in the 10K and felt like a million bucks even wearing my Crocs. So what did this little Carlsbad 9,000,000 have? Well, apparently quite a bit. It made my body feel as if it was being told to do things that that it just plain and simply had no business doing. I was cramping up in about a dozen places from my waist up. Breathing was extremely difficult. The only thing I had to save me was the music playlist I had created on my iPod that was designed so that as the race went on the tunes would get continuously more upbeat. Honestly, that’s the only thing I did right that day. Entering the race, although it was sort of fun and ambitious, was an absolutely terrible idea. Or maybe it was drinking the night before that made it an awful idea. Probably both.

At least I finished. Almost 24 minutes exactly.

Leaving Carlsbad after the race and a full workday, my butt cheeks felt like they had been paddled with a 2x4 for an hour and it seemed as though I had a full set of broken ribs. It was now time to make the 4 day mother-trek from Carlsbad to Boston. From Boston I was flying home for the weekend to surprise my Mom for her birthday. My dad had booked a weekend cottage for us in Douglas, Michigan. Things were looking good.

I just had to get home first.

Day one of the big drive went by like the morning breeze—easy peasy. For the entire 8 hours on the road that night from Carlsbad to Flagstaff, Arizona my hunger was on over-drive. I think I killed three bags of Hot & Spicy chex-mix (and a corresponding three 20oz Coca Colas to tag along), most of Katie’s Charleston Chew, half a bag of Starburst Jelly Beans, a footlong Subway Club on Honey Oat and an ice cream bar. Nothing else happened that night as far as I can remember because my concentration was focused on satisfying the hunger that was coming from deep within.

The morning of day two started off in Flagstaff beautifully because the truck started and I didn’t have to crawl under the thing with an iron pole to “gingerly tap” the starter. And I had a fresh cup of coffee to get the morning going. I paid my dues in other ways, I guess. It’s very possible that riding along I-40 through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma has the power to numb the skull of any human being. And that pretty much explains day two. That night we called it quits in Oklahoma City.

Morning three got off to a fine start in the morning chill that Oklahoma was handing out. I had stuffed myself with roughly 10 pounds of biscuits and gravy that morning so the cold didn’t do so much as penetrate a bone in my body.

Well done.

I still remember being introduced to biscuits and gravy for the first time from my grandpa. It was at a Bob Evans somewhere in rural Wisconsin. I was on my “8-year old trip” with my mother’s parents—I call them Bobbie and Papa. It was a trip that they took all the grandkids on when we turned 8 years old. My trip was road-based and throughout the midwest. See, it's no wonder I can't get enough of this transient, road-based lifestyle. Anyway, life will probably never be the same after that little adventure with Bobbie and Papa. For two reasons, really.

One, as I alluded to before, I consumed for the first time the breakfast food I now call heaven: biscuits and gravy. I was at a Bob Evans in Wisconsin. Papa asked me if I wanted to try his breakfast. With his sweaty forehead and a few grunts of pure delight as he shoveled spoonfuls in to his mouth, I was shown by Papa precisely how to doctor the biscuits so as to fully enjoy the meal properly. But still, I had zero interest in trying the stuff. The porridge-like, mop water gravy looked dreadful at best. Despite my observations, I complied and was handed a spoonful to try. And really, I think when I gulped it down I saw delightful visions of topless women dancing around me while I was sitting in a lawn chair, on a balcony, on a sunny day, with the ocean somewhere in the distance, in Sydney. See, my imagination was very developed even at the age of 8. The biscuits and gravy hit my belly and I realized I had just experienced heaven in a spoonful. Life would never be the same. I swear with every bone in my body from that day forward, any morning I have biscuits and gravy the rest of the day ends up being delightful.

Anyway, reason two.

Part of the 8-year old trip had us stop in Chicago so that we could go to the Shedd Aquarium among other things. Yes, you could say my grandparents were pretty cool. We were staying at the McCormick Place just south of the city across from Soldier Field, right off of Lakeshore Drive. Guns ‘n Roses was actually playing a show at Soldier Field the night we were staying there. The only reason I remember this is because I could hear the thumping kick drum from our hotel room that evening while I was trying to sleep.

But Jesus Christ, that was not the only thing I was hearing.

Never before in the history of my entire life have I heard a louder snoring ensemble than what I did that night at the McCormick Place. Axl Rose wasn’t holding a candle to the goddamn dynamite explosions that were coming from the two sleeping mammals 10 feet away from me. It was as if with each breath that my grandparents took, the corresponding exhale resulted in sounds that rivaled a jack hammer blowing up pavement. The room vibrated with every 15 seconds. I was petrified. Was Godzilla in the room trying to eat me? I was jolted from my sleep as any normal human being would and tried to go back to bed proved. This was impossible with T-Rex and Stegosaurus howling next to me. I tried turning on my side and smothering myself with pillows. Four pillows. No success. I took all the bed sheets, pillows and comforter and put them over my head. Still hearing the explosions. Finally, I got up and walked around the room pacing for other materials I could cover myself with. I gingerly tapped my grandma on the shoulder to tell her she was fucking up my entire universe at that moment, but she didn’t even wake up. I went back to my rollaway bed and just started crying. I think at one point I yelled out loud to try and wake them up. My thought was that the tears would convey the sort of agony that I was experiencing. Meawhile, Axl and Slash were still hammering away across the street. I was reasonably sure that the 25 rooms around me were not getting any sleep either so I continued to cry. For them, for me, for humanity. I didn’t need to feel like I was sleeping in the congo with a pack of wild gorillas.

Finally my grandma woke up as if the city of Chicago was being attacked by a hurricane and I instructed her—with about six gallons of tears soaking my Transformers pajamas— of just exactly what the hell was going on. The ordeal got sorted after some intense 8-year old deliberation. And now, after that particular evening, I am reasonably sure that my acute fear of loud snoring was conceived that night.

And that changed my life.

ANYWAY, we left from Oklahoma City and I had a belly full of biscuits and gravy so the day had to go smoothly. And it did, given the circumstances of it all.

Right around mile 400 of day three on the road, with eyes set on Dayton Ohio that night, the truck decided to not start. We were at a truck stop. Katie was driving at that point and as I came back from paying for the last diesel fill-up I could hear that the engine was not cranking over. I acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, promptly climbed in to the truck, grabbed the behemoth steel pole that I had stolen, and got right to business. I went to the other side of the truck, popped the top open and stared for about the 65th time in bewilderment at the maze of belts, valves and steel that was before me. Now sweating and realizing that the stakes were high—we were in rural fucking Missouri after all, where there was likely nobody in God’s country that would work on a Sterling Japanese import engine— I crouched below the front wheel of the truck and began saying over in my head the steps that Teddy had laid out earlier in the week. All I could think about was the word gingerly and the red-headed Italian man on the Food Network.

I got under the truck and tapped the starter a few times with my steel javelin pole. It sparked a few times. Awesome. All I could think about was the minor explosion that was going to occur seeing as how with every rat-tat-tap I could smell something burning. Awesome. Jesus. So Katie continued to turn the key in the ignition. Again. Again. Again. Again. Nothing. Again. At that point, I was beating the starter with the sort of ferociousness that suggested the ensuing explosion may blow up the entire state of Missouri.

And then BANG! The engine turned, a cloud of smoke billowed off in to my face, there were sparks, minor explosions, grease fires, seared wires, weird sounds, etc etc etc.

The motherfucker started and I felt like a million and ten dollars. I was slightly worried about the atomic explosion that resulted in the vehicle starting but I wasn’t about to sweat over that. I had quick-fix numero dos under my belt and felt like I was resembling John Wayne after a victory on the American frontier.

I eventually called the red-headed Italian cook look alike at the shop in San Clemente and told him that he and his cohorts were legends for helping me out. I guess that was only part of the reason I called though. I was mostly questioning them on the safety of my life seeing as how I was reasonably sure that I just caused an atomic blast to get the car going. The smoke clouds coming from beneath the starter were OK according to Teddy. I could tell it was him because of the nose breathing.

So I moved onward.

For the rest of the day we didn’t turn the truck off, even at the truck stops when filling up the tank. The old boys in San Clemente told me that diesel fuel isn’t flammable, so the truck stayed on for the next 700 miles. The looks of horror received that day from fellow citizens as I was pumping fuel next to them was worth the amusement. There was no stopping the train that day, I was getting to Dayton goddamnit.

I had a birthday to get to.

jesus, etc

I was crammed in to about a 6oo square foot space breathing the recycled air of about 700 sweating people at Le Bon Temps Roule—one of New Orleans’ famed locales for underground jazz. The ‘House of Dues’ (a rip off of House of Blues) as it has been dubbed, is a pretty big scene for new musicians on the jazz circuit in the city. Upon entering the place with a friend from college, it seemed like a normal bar to me with some pool tables and cheap beers. No big deal. But crawling in to the sauna through the back was where you had to go to see the music. This room appeared as though it crawled with a small army of cockroaches and other militant spiders. Hordes of sweating bodies swayed to the brass sounds of a five piece that was crammed on to a stage roughly the size of a surfboard.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I felt like I was a part of something special. The music was good and it just felt genuine. Those guys were working hard on stage as the sweat exploded from their bodies. No, I wasn’t seeing Miles Davis or anyone famous for that matter, but in my mind it felt like I was. Either the music was that good or I was just hallucinating from the dehydration.

A bar fight got off to a roaring start as I was leaving the bar with my friend. It was nice to witness a bouncer that was actually effective in thwarting the mischief. The man was probably the size of Paul Bunyan and he threw the little band of rag-tag warriors to the side as he sifted through the mess to retrieve the poor fellow that was getting the snot beat out of him. Mission accomplished. On the way out I told him I was impressed with his tactics to which he outstretched his arms and clenched fist saying “at least I didn’t have to use these.” I am pretty sure I pee’d myself a little bit because the man’s fists were easily the size of my incredibly large head. I shook his outstretched bear paw and felt the crunch of my knuckles as pain shot up my wrists.

Jesus.

And speaking of Jesus, it was Easter two days later.

I think I happened upon the sweetest of Easter celebrations I have experienced thus far in my 25 years. Well, I take that back. This came in just short of the year when we did an Easter egg hunt visiting some friends in Naples, Florida. Practically the whole neighborhood came over. I was high and far the oldest one in the group clocking in at ten years old and immediately took advantage of this fact. I had scouted out the entire front and back yards earlier in the morning so as to understand the positions of all eggs. When the whistle blew to begin the contest, within minutes I held at least ten dozen more plastic eggs than any child within a 5 mile radius.

There were no Easter egg hunts this year, but I was invited to join the same college friend for an afternoon at his friend’s parent’s house. The home cooked meal tasted like euphoria—if euphoria even has a taste. The ham was…well… delicious. The salad reminded me of my Mom’s workings. I ate about 92 stalks of grilled asparagus and nearly fainted from the smell of my urine an hour later. The day was a much-needed break from the standard inconveniences of the open road complete with the comforts of a friendly home.

Days later, I was still getting light-headed as I stood in a truck stop still pissing day-old asparagus fumes at the urinal. I was headed back to Charlotte from New Orleans to pick up the Crocs truck that was still in the shop. Of course upon arriving back at the service counter at the Charlotte Truck Center to pick up the rig, James was still smoking a cigarette, still wanted free shoes and still didn’t have the truck fixed. “It’ll be anutha day, Phiiiil.”

Awesome.

When I was at the Langerado Music Festival a month or so back, a ton of people I met were from a town called Asheville, North Carolina. Completely baffled by the sheer frequency of hearing that city thrown out when asking people where they hailed from, I decided it was absolutely necessary that I thoroughly investigate the place for myself. So there you have it, I burst out of the Charlotte Truck Center and dialed in Asheville, North Carolina on the GPS.

Done.

What greeted me that afternoon as I rolled in to Asheville town felt like my cutoff jean shorts— dangerously comfortable and just a goddamn delight, really. I circumnavigated the streets, passing a bar called the Jack of the Wood where a friendly group of twenty-somethings tossed me a casual hello. One thumb up. Galleries, used book shops, happening clothing stores and a just a sexy artistic sensibility about the place told me this was more than just a sleepy little southern town. I didn’t get an electric feeling as I walked around, I just felt the gentle, calm, welcoming pulse of the place. It had a beat. There was something to it. Leafing through the Mountain Xpress (the free local weekly periodical ala Metro Times, Chicago Reader, etc) it became very clear to me that there was more than just a welcoming aesthetic. A little place called the Orange Peel books great live music and there are plenty of exciting events going on. I looked up from the paper at my patio stoop with a black coffee and the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance were like a nice bear hug of comfort that balanced the overall delivery of the place.

Two thumbs way the fuck up.

Sign me up, Asheville. I am a believer. You can count on me heading back to this little sweetheart of a town. Pulling out of the city wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do. Pulling out of the city headed back to the Charlotte Truck Center for what seemed like the 78th time made it even worse. At least the truck was ready when I got there. James’ cigarette still dangled playfully from his lips, but I didn’t want to hang around long enough to karate chop it from his face. And so we left immediately.

After a quick stop in Georgia for the Georgia Marathon, it was time to head back out west to California for a full-on, coast-to-coast journey… in less than 3 days. Given the restrictions on commercial drivers— you can drive no more than 10 hours individually or 14 hours between two drivers and you cant do more than 1,000 miles per day—making these drives becomes a strategic chess match of plotting out how you will make it point-to-point given the event deadlines.

In pursuit of our California goal, Katie had a case of the lead foot while we were driving past the Halls Ferry Road exit off of I-20 through the state of Mississippi. And then all of the sudden she slammed on the brakes so hard I thought I felt my pancreas flatten from the pressure of my seatbelt. Nearly devoid of my next breath, I realized there was a cop behind us and Katie didn’t want to get pulled over. But we did.

Of course we did.

Seeing the flash of another pulsating blue light from the side mirror and a red-headed officer get out of the car, I was reasonably sure that things were about to take a turn for the shitty. Katie looked as though she was going to burst in to flames and I realized there was one minor issue: Katie didn’t have a valid driver’s license on her that particular moment. She had lost it and the DMV in Oregon was in the process of sending her a new one.

Awesome.

Officer Billy approached the vehicle from the passenger side of the which meant I was no longer going to be able to act like I was sleeping. I rolled down my window. Officer Billy’s moustache was the same strawberry color as his hair and was just plain awkward. I couldn’t stop staring at it. He was either trying to grow it out, or he trims his whiskers to about one-quarter of an inch long. Every time he spoke, I was trying to fixate on something other than his pink hued moustache.

“You two having a conversation about something other than the speed limit?” Officer Billy was not playing games. Another butthead officer of the law. We were fucked.

Well, Katie was fucked.

I scrambled to get the registration out of the glove box.

“Uhhhh, probably,” replied Katie nervously to the officer

“See, when you slam on your brakes like that in this town, you are likely to have your shoes scattered all over the highway cause somebodies gonna hit you. I don’t know how people drive where you’re from, but drivers around here aint that good.”

Awkward chuckles. The kind that trail on for about 15 more seconds than they should.

Hmmmm.

Officer Billy continued to stare in to the vehicle for about another 15 seconds, not really moving his eyes at all and definitely not saying anything. His eyes weren’t really looking at anything. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, gave a three-tap with his knuckle on the side of the truck door and then walked away back to his patrol car. I was confused and totally unaware of what the hell was going on. He hadn’t asked for Katie’s license or the truck registration and didn’t even really say “drive safely” or anything to suggest that we were now done with the interrogation session. Unsure of what to do, we opted to get back on the highway. As Katie hit the accelerator, Officer Billy darted out in front of us, flipped on his blue flashers and gave a wave. Still confused, Katie continued driving. Officer Billy wasn’t the last of the oddities as we continued through Mississippi.

A few towns to the west of where we got pulled over, I discovered perhaps one of the more interesting names for a city I have ever seen: Chunky.

Yep.

Chunky, Mississippi.

I think it would have been interesting to sit in on the town hall meeting where they developed that lovely name. Chunky housed a truck stop that had a jerky section that was roughly the size of a modest home. I have never seen Pineapple flavored beef Jerky, but they had it in Chunky. There was another section of the shop devoted to hats that was awfully impressive. The majority of the glass display cases were devoted to two things: Nascar and the old Confederacy. There were a few random hats tossed in their with interesting sayings like “Thunder God” or “Don’t F*#! With Me.” I think I spent about 20 minutes in Chunky marveling at the pointless items that passers-by were apparently purchasing.

Texas beckoned and I can happily announce that Christianity is alive and well in that monstrosity of a state. Billboards talk about Jesus, GIANT crosses are erected in the middle of barren fields, bumper stickers tell you that its God’s way or the highway, truckers have spritual sayings painted across their cabs, strangers in small towns shout about divine intervention, candy in stores even have wrappers with Jesus on them. It is amazing really. And I mean its fine and dandy, I am not complaining about the spiritual messages throughout the south, but more just marveling at the ubiquity of it all. Night was falling and I was at the wheel. Jesus was telling me to keep that truck moving through Texas, so I continued onward.

California was only a day or so away.

the southern drawl

You could say I am a creature of habit. And some would call this being stubborn. I guess it just depends on which way you look at it. I call it simplistic efficiency. To me, it actually breeds brilliance (YEP) because it allows one to streamline petty things like the food you eat or the clothes you wear and thus focus brain space and time on things that actually matter (like what concert I want to see that night).

That said, for the past 20 days or so I have eaten a meal that consists of Subway and really nothing else. It simply works. In my eyes, I get the nutritional value of some vegetables and the good taste of a stockpile of meat that comes along with a Subway Club—my favorite sandwich. There must be 12,000,000 Subway franchises in America because you find them in the most remote of places. I stumble upon towns like Tomboosa, Mississippi where the southern accents resemble some form of Greek but they still have a Subway attached to the local truck stop. Now, this whole plight for basic routines was intensified greatly when my favorite fresh sandwich shop announced a new promotion: $5 footlong sandwiches.

Yesssssssss.

My clothes typically don’t change much from day to day. The same orange Crocs t-shirt remains as my go-to uniform on work days despite the fact that I have roughly 5 others that were washed recently. Some even have a collar. It’s just much easier for me to make one t-shirt comfortable as opposed to focusing my energy on six. The story doesn’t change much on driving days at the wheel. My style remains familiar— this pair of shorts I picked up in Austin and a blue long sleeve shirt. Capilene remains to be a wonder fabric and the good folks at Patagonia deserve a pat on the back.

You know, if the shoe fits… wear it. Simple.

Truck stops, as I have made it very clear, have also been built in to the routine. And these days in that universe, everybody has got a fire lit under their ass due to diesel prices that are skyrocketing. Truckers are crying bloody murder as pump prices get as high as $4.22 a gallon for the wonder fuel. You know those 18-wheelers you see on the highway? Well, those beasts garner a price tag of about $1,100 to fill up the tank these days. Private fleets are going out of business because their margins are being diminished.

I am left to figure this out through conversations with my trucking brethren. One hot day in northern Texas a man by the name of Cletus was happy to fill me in on it all as we stood in the afternoon heat filling up our tanks. The conversation started with the standard inquiry about what you are hauling. Cletus makes his living off of two burly cabs he personally owns an has been hauling with for the past 18 years. He spoke with a calm that was uncharacteristic of most of the characters you meet at the local Flying J. For starters, I could actually understand the man. Cletus has made a living using his two cabs to haul everything from grease to cotton on trips between his hometown of Vicksburg and Laredo. What was once a very lucrative way to make an easy living has now become quite the contrary. With diesel prices jumping, he is left making only about $1,000 on his round-trip hauls between the two cities. He informed me of a trucker’s strike that was coming and informed me that I should strongly considering hanging up the truck keys on that day. He started to get a little worked up so I jokingly offered to buy the man a tall-boy of Budweiser. He piped down a bit and we exchanged stories about driving through the night and hitting rodents.

But Cletus isn’t the only one pissed off.

Truck stop bathrooms have become an area of interest on the road. Aside from having to typically hold my breath to the point of passing out each time I enter, its always fun to look at the etchings on the walls or glance at the arsenal of accessories you can purchase that apparently help you get laid. There’s always someone in the handicap stall (for the extra room, of course) making sounds that suggest they are giving birth to a baby beluga whale. The air dryers usually don’t work and the paper towel dispenser is always empty. I always take time to read the circulars that are typically posted at eye level above the urinals. The 5-Hour Energy drinks are always on sale at every truck stop.

There is always a wall-mounted vending machine that advertises the availability of condoms with half-inch studs up and down the side or lube that apparently tastes like cinnamon. I have yet to see anyone actually purchase one of these items, but the second I do I am going to make some attempt at trying to gain some insight in to exactly why such an item would be procured. It will undoubtedly involve me trying to act like I am the expert in the field, which usually would get kind of awkward in most places—but never in a truck stop. Very few things get awkward at a truck stop. There is nothing wrong with a small-scale investigation in to the effectiveness of truck stop sexual accessories. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t trust anything that comes out of a bathroom that smells like a dead squirrel’s asshole, but hey, that’s just me.

The cologne dispenser that you also inevitably discover right next to the sink is also of particular interest. It typically advertises the availability of three to five different cologne options and the descriptions always say something like “our special formula designed to smell like Polo Sport.” The whole “our special formula” bit just scares me. Who is creating this special formula? I would love to go to the fake cologne factory in Texas and have a chat with the owner. Now, in stark difference to the mystery of the condom machine and its effectiveness, I have in fact witnessed one man slide three quarters in to the cologne dispenser. He stood there appearing as though he was bracing himself for a hurricane. Within 5 seconds, a volcanic eruption burst through the nozzle and drenched the man’s tattered t-shirt with a barrage of chemicals that were apparently going to freshen him up. My thought was that the guy should first start with a shower and a haircut, but again, this was just initial observation.

The bathroom walls are always covered with intricate drawings of naked women, phone numbers of people offering sexual intercourse and sayings that I either don’t understand the origin of or simply cannot read. Just the other day I spotted a drawing of a large bull that was stepping over what appeared to be a beach ball. Someone must have spent some good time formulating that worthwhile drawing. I’ll bet it’s his tag or something. I just haven’t realized there are bulls stepping over beach balls all over truck stop bathroom America. A slightly more worthwhile example of bathroom wall artwork was an enormous paragraph announcing the diesel strike that Cletus was talking about days prior. It very clearly, albeit with many misspelled words, instructed drivers along I-20 to take the day off on the 1st and 15th of each month and not fill up their tank with the over-priced diesel fuel. This was all in an attempt to apparently drive prices back down. The logic of the whole strike is shrouded in a bit of smoke and mirrors, but I can appreciate a little grass-roots protest. Cletus is clearly not alone.

Truck stops continue to provide entertainment. This has to be getting more and more obvious with the fairly consistent banter about my encounters in one of America’s best kept secrets. Every trip to one is like getting a free prize every 300 miles for enduring the potential boredom that a lonesome highway hands your way. It’s no longer just a trip to fill up your fuel tank, pick up some Chex-Mix and maybe a Coca Cola—oh no. There’s people to talk to, bathrooms to make you laugh and organized strikes to take part in.

The southeastern United States has been claiming most of my time these days. This is a region I have not spent much time in prior years so the lure of an undiscovered land is exciting. Heading in to Charlotte, NC a couple weeks ago from Virginia Beach I decided to call my friend Bryan’s parents (Recall the high school story about the dry-gas with Mr. Sack a few entries ago. His family is something like my second family.) to see if I could potentially drop in for—let’s be honest—a free meal. Only kidding. Well sort of. I left a voice mail on Mrs. Sack’s mobile phone and was guardedly optimistic about the whole thing working out. Not 30 minutes later I connected with an excited Mr. Sack nearly shouting in to the phone. See, I can appreciate this sort of enthusiasm though. And so what ensued was an overly excited shouting match from both ends. When I hung up the phone, one thing was made very clear to me by Mr. Sack: We would be eating a nice meal that evening. A “BIG JUICY STEAK” in the words of a shouting man.

Game on.

What ensued was most definitely one of the highlights of the trip (or wait, work) so far—a welcoming home, family friends, a few beers and plenty of talk about the days back in Michigan when Bryan and I used to get in trouble together in high school. And plenty of good food— A BIG JUICY STEAK, in fact. It felt nice to be in the comfort of a home and not confined to the sterility of another hotel room. That night I watched TV on their monstrous high definition set and sat in the reclining chair that was situated in their old home in Michigan. I even had a beer for good measure. It felt great.

Pulling out of Charlotte the next morning was painful in many ways. It was obviously tough leaving a nice warm home but within about 20 miles of being on the open road the truck came to a screeching halt on the side of the highway.

No joke. AGAIN.

My hands were clenched on the wheel as the power steering went out, the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree (again) and I was literally trying to inch my way to safety on the side of the highway. I struggled to smack on the hazard lights as an 18-wheeler nearly grazed the rear of the truck.

Awesome.

I ran through the laundry list of items that could potentially be wrong despite the fact that that laundry list of knowledge is meager at best. Now that I think about it though, I feel like this whole “making fun of my car knowledge “ is now becoming untrue. As a result of nearly 1 breakdown every three weeks I am becoming an expert. The amount of jargon I can throw around right now is pretty impressive. Cletus would be proud.

I barreled out of the truck from the passenger side and had a pow-wow with Katie to discuss how we were going to tackle this conundrum once we were in the safety of a nearby Oak tree trunk. The traffic made it impossible to hear anything so I found myself once again shouting. We would need a tow immediately. We would need a mechanic. And unfortunately we needed to be in New Orleans the following morning, so we were also going to need a new fucking truck.

We wandered off the highway to the closest exit and found shelter at a Shell gas station. I briefed the attendant on my issue and she looked on with the sort of expression that suggested I spoke like Chewbacca. See, I needed a truck stop. They would have answers. With the yellow pages open in front of me, lots of overly official banter ensued on the telephone as I tried to get some solutions. I was speaking with the sort of intensity that suggested I was ground control for Apollo 13. I followed Dad’s protocol of repeating the name of the person I was talking with at least 5 times per sentence to convey seriousness.

Andy, on behalf of Hunter Towing, showed up within an hour to get the truck off the side of the highway. Meanwhile Katie was getting a cab ride—err hitchhiking with an Indian man—to the Penske Truck Rental Yard. To my amazement, Andy had the Crocs truck ready to go in 6 minutes. The size of his towing rig was nothing short of amazing and I was marveling at the delight of riding in such a monstrosity. As we cruised along with Croc 2 in tote, the entire cab shook with the sort of intensity that knocked my sunglasses off my face. For the duration of the ride I was awkwardly scrambling to keep the glasses on my face and my voice from sounding like I was holding a jack hammer. As I was nearly convulsing in the passenger seat Andy was smoking a Marlboro Red and making it obvious to me that I was a complete pussy. Realizing I needed to harden up, I started to talk about Nascar with him. This always works, especially when you are in North Carolina.

We pulled in to Charlotte Truck Center off of the highway and I hopped out of the tow truck only to realize my entire skeleton had been re-aligned on the drive. Andy was on his eighth cigarette and my hair smelled of sewage as a result. Together we entered the front office through the doors marked with the words “Parts and Service.” James shook my hand and told me he would be taking care of the issue. His cohorts were all huddled around and I was immediately asked for the 5 millionth time if I would be able to provide free shoes to the crew. I immediately replied with an “absolutely not.” I have a different excuse every time, but for this occasion I simply told them I only had women’s shoes in this truck. They backed off.

Ann, the Parts and Service receptionist, walked in 5 minutes later asking the same question. Fuck.

With the truck checked in and a suspected transmission issue, I was not going to get my wheels back for a few days. The Penske Truck Center was contacted with ground control-like behavior and soon enough Katie rolled in to the lot with a shiny yellow truck that was going to need to be loaded with all the contents of the now defunct Crocs truck. I was starting to feel the effects of a stressful past couple hours, but I couldn’t quit. New Orleans was calling.

About 45 minutes in to the loading process I was covered in sweat and dirt contemplating removing my shirt. James came out to the lot as we were moving the truck contents and began asking questions about the loading process. Mildly perturbed with the distraction I started to get a little short with James. He stood there smoking his cigarette blankly staring at me. I awkwardly pressed on and finally he spoke up.

“Haw much lawnger this prawcess gawnna take ya?” The cigarette dangled from his lips and I wanted to karate chop it from his face.

“Shit James, I don’t know. We’ve got a lot of stuff to load. Maybe another hour or so?”

“Welllllllll seeee, I gowtta lock this place uuuup. We closed 45 minutes ago and I wwanna go home.” So I was finally catching on. I didn’t realize he was waiting for us to finish. I told him we could lock the gate behind us no problem. Then he peppered in the last bit of info that got me moving a little quicker. “We been having craazy gangbaaaanger’s in the area cawsing trouble. Had ‘bout 5 muuuurders in the past munth.”

Jesus.

15 minutes later we were packed up.

The dark of the evening had set in. James gave us a nod as he pulled away in his Blue Camaro with the locked gate behind him. His muffler clearly had some aftermarket equipment on it because the sound was deafening. Now that the truck was in the shop for about the twelfth time in two months, I was mildly disgusted with the looming fact that this whole “taking the truck in for service” thing was now becoming part of my habitual routine. Exhausted, filthy and with beads of sweat pulverizing my eye balls, I pushed on in to the night for New Orleans.