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.