The Long Haul

by Finn Murphy

  “Yup.”

  “What would he say if he knew you were here?”

  “He’d probably say he wants to fly out here and put his company shirt on the wall. Problem is he weighs four hundred pounds and his shirt would take up a doorway.”

  “Been here before?”

  “Nope,” I lied. I wanted to hear what this guy had to say. “It looks like I’ll be here again, though. What’s the deal?”

  “Just what you see, bedbugger heaven. Need anything? That guy on the end there will sell you walkboards, dollies, pads . . . The guy next to him will sell you drugs. The guy at the four top in the corner has labor and packing material. His buddy sitting across from him has firearms and hookers. This is the Mall of America for movers. Discount prices too, since everything’s been jacked.”

  “What are you? The sales rep?”

  “Not at all. Just giving you the lay of the land. I come here all the time. Your truck is safe. The stuff doesn’t get jacked exactly. It’s more like a guy’s stuck down here and is in arrears back at the office and needs some cash. So he’ll sell off his fifteen-hundred-dollar walkboards for two hundred to the guy over there. He’ll sell them to you for four. He’s the middleman.”

  “How’s a guy going to load without his walkboards?”

  “Mostly it’s guys that are quitting. Before they drop the trailer and take off, they’ll sell off all the equipment. In the good old days there were guys that would buy the load too. That’s when people had TVs and stereo systems that were worth something. Nowadays a new flat screen at Best Buy will run you a couple hundred maybe, the sound systems are in their phones, and their furniture all comes from IKEA. The aftermarket’s gone in household goods. Nothing people move these days is worth shit.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Me too. The moves get more expensive, and the stuff they own is garbage. This is a great place, though. The only thing you can’t do is drop your trailer. A dropped trailer is considered abandoned, and it will be gone quicker than you can say mañana. I hear the hardwood floors from a Kentucky 53 are a household fashion statement south of Nogales.”

  “You seem to know a lot.”

  “I do. I’ve been running Up and Down since ’88.”

  “I’ve been running the coasts since 1980, mostly the Top, though. I don’t run the Dime too much. We do corporate execs. All pack and loads. Mostly big ones.”

  “I’m all snowbird CODs. Lots of little ones. Scottsdale, Sun City. Terrible places. Camp Verde’s still kind of funky.”

  “I did that snowbird work with North American for a while. Eight shipments with nine deliveries in three days type of thing. Very wearing. Lots of digging shipments out of the nose.”

  “There is that. On the other hand, I couldn’t spend all that time with a shipper. On a big pack and load you can be with the shipper for like a week, right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Ever nail a hot shipper on one of those fancy corporates?”

  “Only once, but it wasn’t a corporate, it was a military. Mr. Shipper was an army colonel. Mrs. Shipper was angry at him. I nailed her, not him. Actually, she nailed me.

  “I’m happy for you. I’ve never even come close. Anyone who thinks driving’s going to get you laid has read the wrong memo.”

  “What else do I need to know about this place?”

  “A few things. Always wear your van line shirt. They’ve got twenty-four-hour armed security here. They’re here to protect the movers and the trucks. The story I heard is that the owner used to be a road driver years ago and has a soft spot. Nobody will mess with you here if you’ve got your shirt on. The hookers and the dealers understand that. It’s open season on everyone else, though. In other words, it’s the opposite of the world outside. The other thing is to ask for the mover’s rate. The posted room rate is eighty-nine dollars. You’ll pay forty-nine and get a room with a fridge and a key to the pool. Everyone else has to pay extra for those. Last thing is, don’t go outside the property. This is a nasty neighborhood, but it’s safe inside. The food here is excellent, and there’s nothing outside anyway except a Mickey D. You need to go somewhere? Ask the bartender for a taxi. They’ve got the right guys who will bring you back in one piece.”

  “Thanks for all the info.”

  We shook hands. “Wait till you check out the jukebox. No George Strait or Waylon Jennings. It’s all Led Zeppelin and Grateful Dead. Welcome to the alternate universe.”

  The bartender turned up with another Coors. Before handing it over he asked, “I’m assuming you’re parked and off duty, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Those days are long gone.”

  “Not around here. Not yet, anyway. You checking in? It’s forty-nine bucks with a room in front near your rig. I saw you talking to Kurt. He give you the lowdown?”

  “He did.”

  “Welcome, driver. I’m Bill. You’re with Joyce in Connecticut? Ever run into a driver named Perry Walker?”

  “I know Perry. He just retired.”

  “Perry’s a real gentleman. He’d sit here all night drinking club soda, soaking in the scene. Told me this was the only bar he’d been in in his whole life and didn’t think he’d need to see another one.”

  “That’s Perry. Church every Sunday, even on the road. He’s home in Texas. He’s got cancer. Never had a drop of liquor or a cigarette pass his lips in sixty-five years.”

  “Tell Perry I said hello if you see him. If you need anything, let me know. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Actually, I have a question. What’s the protocol for getting a shirt up on the wall?”

  “Just bring one in. The whole bar does a shot of Jack Daniel’s together and we put it up. I know for sure Joyce isn’t up there. It’s about time.”

  “Thanks. I’ll come back later for the ceremony.”

  I finished my beer and went to my room. It was squeaky clean, though it did smell a bit like cigarette smoke. But hell, I smoke. I took a long hot shower. The water pressure was superb. As I toweled off I grabbed my phone. I was dying to call Willie Joyce.

  “Willie, guess where I am?”

  “Hmm, let me see. The two lesbians who had a fight and split the shipment up when I was unloading? Naw, that was Northampton. Oh, I know . . . where the guy shipped his own golf cart for driving around. Had a custom paint job and a lot of extras. Reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. Nope. That was Sun City. Where are you?”

  “Think harder. I know there’s more in that brain than load plans and bogus driver debits.”

  “Wait. I remember a bar. Lot helpers. Hookers.”

  “Come on, Willie. That could be anywhere. Think harder.”

  I told him, and he said, “Hey, I know that place. That’s the bar with the moving company shirts all over the ceiling. I loved that place. They had a guy out by the pool selling dollies.”

  “Bingo, driver. Bad news, though. There’s no Joyce Van Lines shirt here on the wall. I consider that a serious deficiency. So does the bartender. He knows Perry Walker.”

  “He can’t know Perry. Perry doesn’t go to bars.”

  “He goes to this one.”

  “Good for Perry. Listen, Finn, we need our shirt on that wall. What does it take?”

  “You have to fly out here and put it up. They’ve got shirts here with movers from Germany, Russia. Everywhere.”

  “I should have left my shirt there back in ’79.”

  “It would have said North American. That’s no good. How fast can you get out here? I’m unloading up north tomorrow and can swing back the day after. They have a ceremony. You’ll have to buy shots of Jack Daniel’s for the bar and then they’ll put it up. You should see the parking lot. It looks like the AMSA annual meeting. The guy at the pool has expanded. He’s now selling walkboards and Oxycontin. You should see the girls.”

  “You know I’d love to. Damn. Glad to hear the good old place is still going strong. You’ve made my day. I can’t do it, but I’m glad you’re there.”


  “For sure? What’s the point of owning a company if you can’t break out for a laugh? You’re a multimillionaire, for crissakes, and you never have any fun. You can help me drop this mini day after next, and we’ll spend the night here, have a couple pops at the bar, put up the shirt, and you’re back in Oxford in the afternoon.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Won’t do it, laddie. I know the difference. You should too.”

  “I do. I just get so tired.”

  “OK. I’ll go as your proxy. I’ll bill you two hundred and fifty dollars for the Jack Daniel’s toast.”

  “That’s cheaper than me flying out there.”

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Willie. I’ll bet there’s never been a van line owner in that bar. Much less a van line owner who used to be a driver. You’d be king for a night. A real-life hero with a hundred long-haul drivers in the room. Face it, Willie, you go to the AMSA conferences and they treat you like a leper because you came up through the hawsehole. Here they’d carry you around on their shoulders. We’d need a lot of guys to do that, frankly, but we’re movers. We could do it.”

  “Sure. And like the king I’d be stuck with the whole bar bill instead of just the Jack Daniel’s.”

  “That’s what kings do, Will. They feed the peasants on feast days.”

  “It’s tempting, but no. It’s crazy busy here. I can’t get away.”

  “I’m done with the sales pitch. I’m going over to have a beer and check out dolly prices. Goodnight, Willie.”

  “Be safe, laddie. Hey . . . I’m glad you called. I’m glad you asked.”

  “I know you are, Will. One of these days you’re going to need to say yes before it’s all over. For both of us. You know that, right?”

  “We’ll see. Maybe one of these days . . .”

  Chapter 13

  THE GREAT WHITE MOVER

  I was loading yet again, a GE exec. This time it was a Boston to Santa Barbara pack and load and looked like another easy $20,000 layup. I’m now one of those ghost movers I wondered about years ago. The guys with the nondescript white Peterbilts and the squeaky clean, brand-new unmarked trailers who strut up to the fuel desk like they’re doing Flying J a favor.

  I was finishing up in Boston when I got the call from Willie. He told me to get down to Connecticut, drop the Santa Barbara trailer, pick up another one, and be in Storrs for a widow to pack and load 22,000 pounds the next morning. I laughed and told him to find someone else.

  “Willie, I’ve been loading all day, it’s five o’clock. If I was going to do this crazy shipment I’d have to drive three hours to Waterbury, drop the trailer, put equipment onto the new trailer, plus packing material, which is a two- or three-hour job, arrange for six or seven helpers, get the paperwork, get a tare weight, and then drive two more hours up to Storrs. I’ll get to bed around three a.m., no food, no shower, to spend the next day packing and loading twenty-two thousand, which even with seven guys will take twelve hours minimum. No way.”

  Willie laughed back. “It gets worse, Finn. You’re unloading Sunday in New Mexico.”

  “Which Sunday?”

  “This Sunday.”

  “You’re crazy, Willie. Today is Tuesday. It’s twenty-two hundred miles. That means seven hundred and thirty miles on Thursday, seven hundred and thirty miles Friday, and seven hundred and thirty miles on Saturday. I’ve got a truck, Willie, I drive it myself. You think Scotty just beams me out into the desert?”

  “You’re not calculating this correctly, Finn. You drive three hundred miles Wednesday night and three hundred miles early Sunday morning. That means you only have to do five hundred and thirty each day. Think of the revenue. I’ll put Santa Barbara on a haulaway, and you can pick it up when you’re done with Mrs. McMahon. You’ll make twenty grand on this and another twenty on the Santa Barbara. That’s forty grand in fourteen days. That’s almost as much as I make.”

  “But I’ll be dead, Willie.”

  “You won’t be dead, you’ll be rich. This is perfectly doable. You won’t even have to fudge your logs.” Willie loves this crazy stuff because he gets to play superman. “Who else would be able to handle a full load, at peak rates, on twelve hours’ notice, in the middle of July, for a grieving widow? Nobody but us. Joyce Van Lines, the Professionals. Wait until you meet Mrs. McMahon, she’s a hoot.”

  “I don’t want to meet her, Willie. I want to get some sleep.”

  “I’ve got nobody else, Finn. I told her all about you. The Great White Mover, my number one driver, my old buddy from back in the day.”

  “I thought Tom Sturtevant was your number one driver?”

  “Sturtevant was number one yesterday. Ancient history. He’s in Chicago anyway, I checked. Listen, her husband died this morning . . . Besides, I told her we’d be there.”

  I can hear the ice in his voice. I know Willie very well. If he had to pull the trailer by hand all by himself, a Joyce truck would be there at 8 a.m., and whoever didn’t help him will have become a non-person. Willie’s life is full of ex-friends who’ve crossed him in some minor way just like this. For some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want to join the ranks of Willie’s ex-friends. Fortunately, for some reason Willie can’t explain, I often get a pass that others don’t get. Regardless of that mutual understanding we each stay in character. It’s my turn now, in this decades-old pantomime, to push back.

  “You know why everyone in this business hates you, Willie? It’s because of stuff like this. You give this lady your word of honor you’ll be there, and then you expect someone else to execute it. It’s not right. Jesus Christ carried his own cross up the hill. He didn’t ask one of the apostles to do it.”

  “That’s a very interesting analogy, Finn. Your theme is martyrdom, like what you’re doing right now. I’m offering you the best turn I’ve seen in years, and you want to take a shower and eat and sleep? That’s pathetic. I’m talking forty grand here.”

  “Willie, I know you. When it’s all totted up, it won’t be forty grand. And another thing—I know you never hear this when people say it to you, and I know a zillion people have said it to you, but here it is again: There’s more to life than high-paying loads.”

  “That’s true, Finn. Right now I’ve got a widow who’s relying on my company to move her tomorrow. It’s not about the money anymore. If it makes you feel any better, you’re right about everything; everyone does hate me, and when I give my word I do expect the people around me to execute. That’s why they’re called employees. I don’t care what they have to go through. Want to know something else? I sleep like a baby every night.”

  “That’s because nobody who works for you gets any sleep at all. And I’m not your employee. I’m your contractor, and this kind of stunt is why I’m a contractor. I’m never going to put you in a position to fire me, because if I did, you would eventually fire me for some reason. You’d be out one more friend, and Willie, you don’t have that many friends. You can starve me for loads if you want, you can take your truck back, but you can’t fire me.”

  “What I’m trying to do is load you, not starve you. You said you wanted to make some money. This is real money.”

  “This isn’t about me making money. This is about you making promises to people. This is about you being the man who says yes to the impossible. I admire it, in a way, though I admire it more when I’m not the fall guy. OK, tell you what: You pay for the haulaway and pay me the full line haul from Boston on the Santa Barbara, and I’ll fulfill your promise to Mrs. McGann.”

  “Dream on, Finn. I will pay the haulaway from Boston to New Mexico. That’s twenty-five hundred out of my pocket. You’ll get paid from Farmington, New Mexico, to Santa Barbara on the other one. The shipper’s name is McMahon, not McGann, so please don’t be disrespectful. The lady’s a widow, for crissakes. Anyway, on McMahon you’ll get the line haul and the packing. I’ll give you the whole thing.”

  “That’s nice of you, Will. On McMahon I’m doing the whole thing.”
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  “Are we done here? Don’t worry about what time you get down here tonight. Pete and Rob will be there till midnight at least, and they’ll have your paperwork. And to lighten your load, I’ll have them pull the packing material. It’ll all be ready on the dock. You’re not the only guy in this organization losing a little sleep. I sure wish I was going with you. One of these days I’m going to pack it all in and just get me a big ol’ Peterbilt and do nothing but haul high-tariff pack and loads . . .”

  I’ve heard Willie rhapsodize about giving up his multimillion-dollar business and going back on the road with his big ol’ Peterbilt too many times. It will never happen. He’s going to die of a stroke, on the phone, happy as a puppy, cajoling some poor sap into bringing the same commitment to his van line that he has. When the unfortunate day comes and his veins just give up, bang! It’ll all be over. Some of us will be sad, some of us will be relieved, and some of us will feel unmoored. The thing about Willie, and people like him, is that he gives purpose to the lives of people who haven’t, for whatever reason, found their own purpose. Willie’s a Pied Piper for unmoored individuals because he has all the answers, pays all the bills, and offers a modicum of security. In return he demands complete loyalty.

  Naturally, I was in Storrs the next morning at 8 a.m.

  The McMahon shipment wasn’t a corporate job. She was a cash-paying customer, what we call a COD. The McMahons had lived in New Mexico for thirty years. Mr. McMahon was a professor of some kind and a consultant to the Native American community near the Four Corners. When he was diagnosed with cancer, he told his wife he wanted to move back to Connecticut for treatment. Mrs. McMahon, in ill health herself, was not in favor, but she dutifully called the movers and arranged for the move back to Storrs. The McMahons loaded their 22,000 pounds of household goods, including several thousand Native American artifacts, and went east. They weren’t looking for the Next Big Thing; they were looking for good health care and a closer family circle. They settled into an old white colonial house with black shutters. A few months after their arrival, Professor McMahon went to the hospital complaining of a sore throat. They diagnosed a mild infection, and since he was in chemo, they admitted him for the night. This was on a Sunday. On the Monday he contracted a staph infection, probably from the hospital, but who knows. Tuesday morning he was dead.