by Finn Murphy
“Hey, Gary, it’s Finn.”
“Finn Murphy. Driver number 6-5-1-8. You know, I was thinking about cutting out early, and then I thought nope, 6518’s going to be calling looking for a load out of Florida, and since I live for 6518, I’m going to stay here until it calls.”
“TGIF, Gary. You’re pretty jolly today. Is that because it’s fifteen minutes to the weekend or is it the sound of my voice?”
“You do have a distinctive voice for a truck driver. You don’t have a southern accent, and you speak in full sentences. Why is it that all truckers talk with a southern accent? I’m dispatching a couple guys from fucking Saskatchewan and they talk like the Dukes of Hazzard. What is that?”
“They’re perpetuating a myth, Gary. A myth is a way of looking at life that doesn’t exist, never did exist, but gives people a worldview they can understand and accept.”
“My question was rhetorical, Finn. You missed the irony. You always do.”
“Rhetorical? Irony? Those are pretty big words for a dispatcher. With all this chitchat, you’ve got really good news or really bad news. Which is it?”
“Lemme tell you a little story, 6518. Can I call you 65, to keep things on a first-name basis? 6518 sounds so formal. Just kidding, Finn, sort of. Do you have any idea of how many drivers I talk to every day? No, you don’t. Sorry . . . It’s quitting time and I’m getting punchy. You know how some of our agents are really small, like that Woodway place in Vermont? He’s tiny, but he’s exclusive to us. Other places have so little activity that one little moving company might be the agent for more than one van line. We don’t like that, but in small markets it works for us.”
“This is fascinating, Gary. Right now I’m looking for a load.”
“Patience, youngster, patience. You’re a young man in a hurry and that’s not always a good thing to be. Anyway, one of these renegade agents is in Key West. He’s the agent for Allied, United, Mayflower, us, everybody. The guy’s name is Helmut. He’s an island guy, more into fishing and boozing than working, but he’s got a big warehouse, and there’s not enough action for any competition, so he’s got Key West locked up tight. Last week Helmut got called out to the Naval Air Station. There’s an admiral with a couple days to retirement. The admiral is from Connecticut, his grown kids live in Connecticut, and he’s going to live in Connecticut after he retires. Naturally, he doesn’t want to pay to move his stuff from Key West, so—because he can—he transfers himself to Groton Navy Base outside New London. It’s his last official posting, and even if he’s only going to be posted there for five minutes, Uncle Sam will pick up the tab for the move. These military guys are no dummies. Got it so far, Finn?”
“Got it, Gary, great story. Does it have an ending?”
“Indeed it does, and you’re going to like the ending, trust me. Helmut went out to the admiral’s res and did the estimate. He couldn’t decide whether to give the load to us, Allied, or United. Not being a guy to stress out about these things, he put off his decision. Come Monday, Helmut got busy and the admiral slipped his mind. The admiral continued to slip his mind until exactly eighteen minutes ago when the transportation officer on base called Helmut to check that everything was in order for the admiral on Monday. Helmut lied to the TO and said, ‘Of course we’re all ready for the admiral . . . Yessirree!’ Helmut then started working the phones. I don’t know who he called first, but we got it. Ya ready?”
“Ready.”
9/26AM OA A1 Key West Shipper Clark GBL 21,000 lbs Pack and load Line haul $16,750 DA Whaling City Movers New London CT Delivery date 9/30.
“Wow, Gary, twenty-one thousand pounds. A full load, and packing. Nice work.” I was automatically doing the sums in my head but couldn’t get to a number. I was going to need a calculator. A true blue pot of gold. This never happens.
“Yeah. Normally we’d be fighting like cats over this in dispatch. There are at least twenty drivers empty in Florida, and some of ’em have been waiting more than two weeks. The thing is, the planners knew they had to get this thing assigned today and all the other drivers have checked in. I told the head planner you were in Miami and empty and would be calling in just before five. You are in Miami and empty, right?”
“Absolutely empty, Gary. I’m down here in Kendall just folding pads and cleaning up the truck.” Actually I was in Sarasota with three shipments to deliver the next day.
“Good. So Charlie, the planner, looks around the dispatch room and says to me, ‘If 6518 calls in before five, give it to him. We can’t take any chances. The guy’s a fucking admiral. If nobody shows up Monday he’ll probably drop an artillery shell on Helmut’s warehouse.’”
“Good story, Gary. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a bunch. Guess what else? The reason you’re unloading the 30th is not only because the admiral retires that day, but also because your agent up there, Callahan Bros., booked an exclusive use from Westport, Connecticut, to Vero Beach loading on the first. Your name is on the ticket. So you’re full going up and full going down. I won’t have to talk to you for weeks.”
“You’ll miss my melodious unsouthern voice, you’ll see.”
“Not likely. Go take care of the admiral. I’ll talk to you in October sometime.”
“OK, Gary. Thanks again. Bye.”
I couldn’t believe my amazing luck. I had 21,000 pounds for Connecticut to pack and load starting Monday and an exclusive-use backup load after that going back down. This was going to be a net $25,000 month, my best turn ever. Freighthaulers who elbow me aside at truckstops and make fun of my chrome-free little Astro can eat my fumes. Fuckin’ sharecroppers.
A pack and load was a rarity for me. It meant that I did the entire move from beginning to end. I didn’t often get these super gravy loads because dispatchers saved them for their pet drivers. I do my job, but I’m no corporate ass-kisser swinging by Fort Wayne laying cases of Coors, Maine lobsters, or Virginia hams at the feet of those who control my fate.
I went outside. Tommy was wheeling in the last two end tables of the Ethan Allen set. It was nice stuff, but Mr. Gross was right. It had no business being down here. We went inside to say good-bye. Tommy followed me, not to say good-bye but to be on the spot in case we got a tip.
“I’ve got the inventory sheet, Mr. Gross. Do you want to check it off and make sure it’s all here?”
“Nah. I’m sure it’s all here.”
“I’m sure it is too. Want to sign right here, then?”
“OK.”
“That’s it, Mr. Gross, we’re all set. Anything else we can do?”
“You sure you boys won’t have a drink?”
“No thanks,” I said quickly. Tommy, I was well aware, would certainly have a drink. “We’ve got to drop another load tonight in Naples.”
“Tonight? Naples? You’re working hard. I used to work hard. Enjoy it, boys. You never know, you might miss it when it’s over.” He reached into his wallet and handed Tommy a ten and me a twenty.
“So long, Mr. Gross. And thanks.”
The paperwork was done, I had the check, and there would be no claim. Mission accomplished. As I made the left on Blue Heron Way back to I-75, I caught a final glimpse of Mr. Gross standing at the end of his driveway with his right hand in the air and the left clutching his scotch.
We were not actually delivering in Naples that night but the next morning. I had an easy two-hour run south on the beautiful, spanking-flat I-75. I was cruising along at an easy 65 when I was passed by a motorcycle. I didn’t see him in my mirrors and didn’t know he was there until he passed me. I would never ride a motorcycle on an interstate. I can barely see motorcycles, ever. Truckers call them murdercycles, and riders are called organ donors. One time on I-90 in eastern Washington I was in the left lane passing another truck and a motorcycle came right between the two of us doing about 90. He had maybe a foot of clearance on either side of two semis both doing over 70.
I took out Mr. Gross’s twenty and handed it to Tommy.
“Here you go. You know I always give my tips to the lumper.” I’ve got this weird prejudice that a driver shouldn’t accept tips.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached for his thermos of Cape Codders.
We got to Naples a little after eight. There was a strip center outside of town where I always parked. There’s nothing resembling a truckstop in pretty little Naples. The shopping center had a Laundromat, a liquor store, an IHOP, a Kmart, and, best of all, a Chinese restaurant. There was a North American truck there already, plus an Allied and a Mayflower. I pulled up next to them. It was starting to look like a truckstop in pretty little Naples now. Normally I’d go over and talk to the drivers, but since I had a full load out of Key West for Monday, I didn’t. The North American guy might be one of those drivers who’s been waiting two weeks to load, and if he heard about my 21,000 things might get ugly. Tommy and I ate Chinese and drank a couple of beers. Around nine fifteen we left the restaurant, and I opened the trailer doors. Tommy grabbed a pile of pads and made himself a cozy little bed. I went up front and climbed into my sleeper. I slept like a newborn babe.
I woke up at seven ready for breakfast and found Tommy sitting on the edge of the trailer reading the sports section of the Naples Daily News. His bed was untouched.
Only God and the Devil know what Tommy does at night.
Mr. Taylor from Bangor, Maine, was next up for delivery. Ever the meticulous accountant, he had given me a preprinted and completely accurate set of directions. Now that’s helping out your mover.
We pulled up at the Taylor house at the stroke of eight. The house was a brand-new Toll Brothers ranch on a golf course. He was very pleased with it. A group of Latino workers were pouring what Mr. Taylor called an Okeechobee porch in the back sunroom by the pool. It was made of smoothed orange and tan Florida pebbles cemented together and evidently a very Naples thing. Mr. Taylor seemed to know all the very Naples things already. He was wearing a pressed pair of khakis and a polo shirt. In the driveway was a brand-new BMW ragtop with Collier County plates they didn’t have in Bangor. Mrs. Taylor was wearing a pastel sundress, and the son was splashing in the pool. The Taylors had shed Downeast like a reptile shedding skin. Mr. Taylor explained to me that everything was going into the garage except a few cartons because their Maine stuff didn’t really fit with the lifestyle here.
He was right. They’d all do very well here in Naples. I was happy for them. For myself, I was not happy; I kept hauling all this furniture down here for people, and as soon as they saw it in the Florida sunshine, they didn’t want it anymore. I could see their point . . . it’s just that it made what I did absolutely pointless.
We finished up the paperwork, and Mr. Taylor signed off on everything. He handed me a fifty and gave me two tens for Tommy. We took off down I-75. I fished out one of the tens from my pocket and handed it to Tommy . . . then I fished out the other one and handed it over. Tommy opened his Cape Codder thermos and poured himself an eye-opener. It was 10 a.m., for crissakes. I watched him cut up his lime and growled at him. I kept the fifty in my pocket. Screw him.
Alligator Alley due east from Naples to Fort Lauderdale is one of America’s great drives. It’s a hundred miles of two-lane blacktop, ruler straight, knifing through the middle of the Everglades. It’s a great road going east in the midmorning but a bitch any earlier because the sun is directly in your eyes the whole way. It’s the same going west in the late afternoon. You can’t see shit. We passed a huge Seminole Indian reservation, massive empty ranches, and lots of signs saying PANTHER CROSSING. This is the final habitat for the remaining dozen or so Florida panthers. Between housing development, Big Ag, and the cars and trucks, I didn’t give the panther very long odds. Alligator Alley hasn’t got a single strip mall, gas station, theme park, motel, condo, tourist trap, or traffic light. I usually stop somewhere about 50 miles in to feel a bit of the silence and the vastness. I don’t linger, though. It’s spooky out there. Just a couple of yards from the roadway on either side is the swamp. Sometimes at night, I’ll pull over to take a leak and all I can think about is that an eighteen-foot alligator’s going to explode out of the water and pull me in. This road is slated to become part of I-75 in a year or two. That will be too bad.
Our penultimate stop was Mr. Warren, going to Galt Ocean Drive in Fort Lauderdale. The neighborhood is called the Galt Ocean Mile and consists of nineteen oceanfront towers highly coveted by those for whom that kind of thing is important. High-rise moving work has its own challenges. I would have to deal with a surly building superintendent, and there’d be lots of rules about when we could work, another set of rules about where we could put the truck, and, of course, loud complaints from the residents about the noise, the truck, use of the elevator, and the overall inconvenience we’d be causing everyone. People always forget that they moved in at some point and caused the same commotion. These high-rises can really mess up the schedule, though; if there was another mover working the building, I’d be dead in the water.
We cruised through the rest of Alligator Alley and met the sprawl at the junction of Route 27. We threaded through twenty-eight miles of the usual Florida thing to the ocean and parked in front of Mr. Warren’s high-rise. Unloading in front of me was a United Van Lines truck. The driver had four guys with him, which was a very bad sign because it meant a big move. This was going to take some finesse.
“Hey, United, you going to be here long?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Me. I’m the North American behind you. I’ve got twelve hundred to drop off on the sixteenth floor.”
“What time is it now?”
“It’s about one thirty.”
“I’ve got thirteen thousand to drop in one little fuckin’ elevator. Up on the twenty-second floor I’ve got two long carries and a shipper who flew in this morning on a broom. I’ll be done around five thirty if they let me finish. I hate these fuckin’ places. I’ve already seen the sign. It says: ‘No use of freight elevators after 5 p.m.’ I don’t know if the super’s going to enforce that or not.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Fuck no.”
“How ’bout I buy you and your guys lunch and you let me sneak my twelve hundred in while you’re eating?”
“Lunch? What’s lunch? Get real, driver. Face the facts. I’m here the rest of the day. Sundays are forbidden, so you’re unloading Monday. Go to the beach, go get laid, go enjoy yourself.”
“Sounds nice, but I’m loading twenty-one thousand out of Key West on Monday.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“I wisht it was me, but at least somebody’s getting loaded out of this sandpit. God, I hate Florida.”
“We have a lot in common. So you’ll let me buy you lunch and unload?”
“Not a chance, driver. Your problems aren’t my problems.”
“How about lunch plus fifty bucks?”
“Nope.”
“How about lunch plus a hundred?”
“How about you give me your load out of Key West?”
“So no dice, really?”
“No dice, really. Look, I’ve got to get back to work. I’d like to help you out, but . . .”
“OK, driver, I understand. See ya.”
This was not good. I had told Gary in Fort Wayne my truck was empty. I don’t often lie to Gary, but the truth in this case would have cost me my load out of Key West and a six-day net of over $10,000. That’s too high a price for the moral high ground. It’s one thing to lie to a dispatcher; they know we lie to them just like they lie to us. It’s quite another to be caught outright. If I wasn’t in Key West with an empty truck on Monday, I might as well go over to Mayflower. Gary would starve me to death. I’d be pulling overflows for months.
I decided to talk to the building superintendent.
“Hi. I’m Driver Murphy from North American—”
“Another mover. So help me God, you guys make my life hell. All you ever want to do is tie up my elevators and piss
off my residents.”
“Nah, that’s not true at all. All we ever want to do is empty the truck and go drink beer. Do you have a note from Mr. Warren about a delivery today?”
The super rummaged through some pigeonholes in his rolltop desk. Clearly this relic was moved from up north and donated to the super by a tycoon’s decorator. And for a tax write-off, no doubt.
“Yeah, Mr. Warren. He’s away. His note says to let you in today and sign for the delivery. There’s a cashier’s check here.”
“The United guy’s got the freight elevator. Can I put pads up on one of the other elevators? There’s not much stuff—a few cartons, odds and ends.”
“No way. The passenger elevators are off-limits, especially on weekends.”
“But United says he won’t be done until six o’clock.”
“So come back Monday.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Absofuckinglutely not. Never on Sundays. It’s etched into the walls around here.”
“But Mr. Warren’s note says to let me in today.”
“So . . .?”
“You know who Mr. Warren is, don’t you?
“I’ve seen him around. He’s not just moving in; this must be some stuff he bought up north.”
“That’s right. Mr. Warren is the president of the condominium board for this building.”
“Rules are rules.”
“Sometimes they are. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to piss off Mr. Warren. His note says he’s expecting this stuff today.”