by Finn Murphy
“What? You and I are going to unload? I’ll need to pick up some help.”
“You won’t need any help. Trust me on this. Just get rolling.”
“Kevin . . . first your dad, now your mom. It’s only been a couple days. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. No. Maybe. This is what I have to do. Please don’t talk to me. Just be there, and don’t bring anyone.”
“I’ll be there, Kevin. I’ll be there. I won’t bring anyone.”
I had a bitch of a drive ahead of me. It was only 400 miles to Farmington, but I was off the interstate in Limon, and it was flat back roads for 150 miles to Walsenburg and then 250 miles of serious twists and turns and ups and downs, in the dark, to Farmington. There’s a reason these Indian reservations are out in the middle of nowhere. The reason is, they’re out in the middle of nowhere. I was pretty whacked-out tired, but nothing would make me be late for this delivery now. Mrs. McMahon was egging me on from the ether. My plan had been to sleep for five hours and do the last run through the night to get there about 7:30 a.m. Not anymore. I filled up with fuel, grabbed three large Dr Colas. and bought Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals at the truckstop audiobook counter for forty bucks. I’d make it so long as the truck held up. I wasn’t worried. A sort of confidence kicked in from somewhere. Whatever was going to happen would happen. I had the sweet feeling of knowing I was on the side of the angels.
I got into Farmington around 4 a.m. The McMahon house was another hour or so west. I found the place up in the hills. There were no other houses around. I parked my truck in the middle of the unpaved county road, set my flashers, and slept.
Around 9 a.m. somebody banged on my door. Once again, I didn’t know where I was. I peeked through the curtain and saw I was surrounded by maybe a dozen pickup trucks. I threw on some clothes and emerged bleary-eyed into the New Mexico morning. A bunch of guys were standing around what appeared to be the lead truck. It was the only new one. My confidence from the day before carried me through. I walked up to the group.
“What’s up?”
“Where’s Mrs. McMahon and Kevin?” someone asked.
“Kevin’s on his way.”
“We’ll wait.” They all turned away. That was it.
A few minutes later a plume of dust appeared on the horizon. It slowly resolved into Kevin’s Winnebago. He pulled up and greeted the man with the new pickup. I saw now they were all Indians.
“Are you ready?” asked the headman. “It’s time to go. You have the artifacts?”
“They’re in the back of the truck,” said Kevin.
The headman turned to me. “Open it.”
“Kevin?”
“Go ahead, Finn. This is why we’re here. Open it up.”
I unstrapped the patio table and opened the trailer. The entire last tier, except for some chowder, consisted of dishpack cartons containing the artifacts. There were fifteen of them. The men lined up and put them into the pickups in about two minutes.
“Let’s go,” said the headman.
“OK,” said Kevin. “Finn, will you come with us? I’ve no family here, and I’d like you to come.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve no idea. Please come.”
“What about the shipment?”
“I don’t know. This is why we’re here. No more questions. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to . . . and you won’t be spoken to.”
“OK, Kevin. I’m in.”
Someone directed me to a pickup. Kevin went to the Winnebago and grabbed an urn from inside and got into another pickup. We headed west convoy fashion, with the headman in the lead. I sat in the middle of the bench seat between two Indians. The truck was old and battered, and the springs of the seat were poking through and kept digging into me. There was no air-conditioning, and we drove with the windows open. The dust from the convoy made it hard to breathe or see. Neither Indian spoke, either to each other or me. It wasn’t long before I began to nod off.
We had driven for almost three hours when all the trucks pulled over for a piss call. When I got back to the pickup, the Indian in the passenger seat was gone. I got in, and the driver Indian handed me a bandanna. “Cover your eyes,” he commanded. Then a bit more gently he said, “I’ll answer a few questions on the ride, but you have to wear the bandanna.”
“OK.” I put on the blindfold and we started moving again.
“What are your questions?” asked the Indian.
“Why am I blindfolded?”
“We’re going to a holy place. Nobody outside of our community can know where it is. Nobody from outside our community should even be going there.” My driver, maybe I can almost call him my host, spoke perfect English with a high-pitched, singsong precision, like the Upper Midwest accent.
“Well, that rules out my next question, which was where are we going. What are we all doing?”
“We are carrying out a warrior burial ceremony for Professor McMahon.”
“What’s the big rush?”
“A warrior of our people is to be buried on the sixth day after his death. The ceremony is supposed to start in the morning. That’s why it had to be today and why some were anxious about your arrival. I personally wasn’t worried. You were the wild card because nobody knew you. Once I saw your truck I knew it would all fit together. These things arrange themselves. That’s why you’ve been invited to the ceremony.”
“I was? Nobody invited me. I thought Kevin asked me to come because he was scared.”
“If you weren’t invited you wouldn’t be here. Kevin isn’t scared. He knows exactly what’s going on. Incidentally, if it makes you feel any better, he’s blindfolded too.”
“What about the artifacts?”
“When we bury our dead we provide them with items they’ll need in the next world. As their life on Earth has been broken, so too are the gifts for the next world. That’s why all of the objects are broken. Over the centuries many thousands of our gravesites have been pillaged by you moon crickets. This reflects badly upon our stewardship toward our ancestors’ memories. McMahon recovered many gifts that were lost. Now they’re going home. It’s been a long time.”
“What’s a moon cricket?”
“You are a moon cricket. You have a pale face like the moon and a squeaky voice like a cricket. Also like a cricket, you don’t know when or how to be quiet. I’m not speaking strictly personally here, you understand. Basically, it’s anyone who is not one of us.”
“Why did McMahon bring all that stuff to Connecticut?”
“No more questions.” After about fifteen minutes we came to a stop and I heard doors slamming. The driver reached over and took off my blindfold. We were atop a mesa. The headman had changed from jeans and flannel shirt into some sort of ceremonial dress.
The warrior burial ceremony lasted until early evening. My hosts were explicit that I not divulge any details. I’m not going to.
The convoy dropped us off at the McMahon ranch a little after eight that night. The sun was starting its descent, and that beautiful soft desert red enveloped us. Kevin went into the house and brought out six Coronas, and we sat on the patio. He opened two of them and handed one to me.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” I answered. “You know, it was supposed to be me and your mom sitting here drinking Coronas talking about life, the universe, and everything. That’s not happening, but I think she’d be OK with how it all turned out. I tell you, Kevin, this has been the weirdest move I’ve ever done.” We clinked bottles. “What’s next?”
“It’s all going back. Tomorrow. You can start the truck and drop everything in storage at Joyce in Connecticut. It will take me years to sort it all out.”
“You know this will cost you a fortune.”
“I’m not worried about money. I’m an orphan now. Whatever connection I have left to my parents is in that truck, and it’s going back with me. This house is finished for me. The Indian thing was their thing, not mine. I’ll sell th
e ranch and keep what’s in the moving van. Tomorrow I’ll drop off the Winnebago and fly home. I have my marriage to repair, my kids to raise, my own life to live.”
We finished our beers, and Kevin went back into the house and came out with a sleeping bag. “I’m going to sleep under the stars. I can’t sleep in the house, and I won’t sleep in Mom’s bed in the camper. I’ve run out of options. You can sleep in the guest room if you want. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll sleep in my truck. I always sleep like a baby in there.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Great White Mover. The Indians were really impressed with you. The name helped, of course. They all agreed that you actually were. That was some slick timing. They pretend they don’t care about time, but when it comes to burials, they care only about time.”
“Thanks for telling me. Right now, I’m thinking I am the Great White Mover after all. Good night, Kevin.”
I took the four remaining beers back to my cab, cracked another, and called Willie at home.
“Hey, laddie,” Willie said. “How’s the desert?”
“Dry and hot, Willie. Tell me something: What’s a salesman’s commission these days for booking an interstate job?”
“Ten percent. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause I just booked twenty-two thousand pounds from Farmington, New Mexico, to Waterbury, Connecticut, for you.”
“Really? Who? When?”
“Shipper McMahon. It leaves tomorrow. I’m hauling it too. Send the Santa Barbara all the way on the haulaway truck. You can have Phil unload it from Redlands.”
“No way, Finn. Santa Barbara is your shipper. I’ll put McMahon on a haulaway and bring it back here.”
“No, Will, I’m bringing it back. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Nobody talks to me about non-negotiable. What’d you do, get religion out there?”
“Yeah, Will, I got religion.”
“I’m not sure I like this. I could get pissed off. Don’t you work for me?”
“Willie, I don’t work for anyone. Not for a long time now. I’m bringing your truck back with McMahon’s stuff. You can decide whether to like it or not.”
“What if I decide I don’t like it?”
“Then I’ll fly home to Colorado. The Indians will hide the truck, and I can guarantee you won’t find it for a thousand years.”
“Indians? What Indians? What are you talking about?”
“Do I get the commission or not?”
“Commission? That’s another issue. You’re supposed to deliver Santa Barbara. Besides, you didn’t earn a commission. This fell into your lap. What happened out there?”
“She died, Willie.”
“Who died?”
“Mrs. McMahon.”
“Oh.”
“Oh is right. Do I get the commission?”
“She died on you? You kill a shipper and you’re talking about a commission? That’s cold-blooded.”
“I was trained by you, Willie. Sometimes in the wild, babies eat their parents. Yes or no?”
“. . . Yes, I suppose.”
“Good boy, Willie. I’ll see you on Friday. I’m going to take my time.”
“Goodnight, laddie. Drive safe. I want you to know, I don’t like this.”
“Rubber side down all the way. Good night, Willie.”
I hung up, cracked another beer and lit a smoke I’d bummed from one of the Indians. I watched the red sky turn to black. It happens real fast out here in the desert. So fast you wouldn’t believe it if you weren’t there.
I switched on the ignition, started the truck, and turned the air conditioner to high. Once the cab cooled down, the New Mexico night air would keep me comfortable until morning. I undressed, pulled back the filthy sheets, and crawled into the sleeper thinking over the past week. I was dog tired, had a satisfied customer, and just beat Willie Joyce out of twenty-five hundred bucks. That’s a pretty good week in my world.
I lay quietly, snug in my cocoon, wondering why people think it’s odd that a guy like me is a long-haul mover. I just helped another family navigate a major transition. What else could possibly matter? This is why we’re all here: to help each other navigate.
My last thoughts before drifting off were about navigation. A mover’s job is to shift people from where they are to where they’re supposed to be. Lucky for me, every once in a while I find the place where I’m supposed to be too. It’s a priceless gift that I only get when I’m out on the road.
It’s the best job in the whole world.
EPILOGUE
Truckers aren’t generally travelers on their off-time. The mundane domestic things that often annoy regular people are cherished by people like me. I love cleaning my little house, even the bathroom. Straightening out my garage or sorting odd socks will have me whistling with pleasure. We also do this with our trucks. It’s a rare long-haul mover who doesn’t keep his cab and trailer pristine and completely organized. I suppose it’s a psychological reaction to the mess most of us have in our lives outside the truck.
One day not long ago, Willie had me run empty to Denver after a particularly lucrative quick turn to British Columbia. I got that one because I was the only driver in the fleet with a valid passport. I was annoyed to be deadheading fifteen hundred miles. Vancouver to Denver is the same mileage as Boston to Miami, but Boston to Miami is flat all the way. From Vancouver I get to experience the full catastrophe of American mountain driving. First is Snoqualmie Pass out of Seattle, and then there’s the great granddaddy of all hills, called Cabbage, heading east out of Pendleton, Oregon. After that there are various bumps all the way to Fort Collins, Colorado, any of which would have an East Coast driver reaching for his Valium.
After I arrived at the Joyce terminal in Erie, outside Denver, I knew why they’d sent me. Terminal is not quite the word for the Joyce facility there. It’s actually a two-acre parking lot. There’s no office or staff. It’s there to spot or drop trailers and to arrange origin or destination services for drivers coming through. When there’s action in the Denver metro area, they call me to arrange help and keep the place in order. That’s fine when I’m there, but when I’m out on the road I have to do it remotely. It’s not a problem, because I have good help in Denver. But the helpers can’t drive trailers.
When I pulled into the yard I saw there were nine trailers dropped willy-nilly, all facing in different directions. All of them, I knew, would be full of empty cartons, garbage, and unfolded moving pads. The cleanup would be a massive job that reminded me of that chapter in Moby-Dick after a whale has been caught and killed and the oil has been boiled off. The whalemen spend several days cleaning the ship and themselves, from the bilges to the top of the mainmast. Once they’re done, or sometimes in the middle of the job, they spot another whale and start the process all over again. Cleaning up a previously fully loaded trailer takes two men almost a full day. There are a couple hundred pads to fold, tape to take off, cartons to empty of paper, and trash to haul. Then it’s off to the recycling center to dump the cardboard. If I have time, I’ll hose out the trailers. It’s hard to believe how filthy trailers can get hauling household goods. Not as bad as a chicken choker, but bad enough.
I called Julio and Carlos and told them we had a week’s worth of cleanup. They weren’t thrilled. First, I’d need to put some order in the lot, which meant I had to put the trailers in a line. I started with the one hooked to my tractor. I backed it onto the property line, set the brakes, laid down a sheet of plywood, and went around to the far side and cranked the trailer landing gear onto the plywood. I’ve set trailers down on dirt before, and sometimes the landing gear sinks down a couple of feet so the trailer looks like a cat stretching itself with forepaws low and ass in the air. (You need a heavy forklift or a tow truck to get the thing high enough to slip a tractor under when that happens.) After the landing gear was down I pulled off the gladhands that hold the service and brake hoses, and disconnected the electrical cord. Then I re
ached under and pulled the fifth-wheel lever, releasing the kingpin. (The fifth wheel is the roundish flat metal plate on the tractor that the trailer sits on. The kingpin is the rod that sticks down from the trailer that fits into a slot on the fifth wheel and locks the apparatus together.) Next, I climbed into the cab, released the air ride bags, thereby lowering my tractor, disengaged the air brake, and slid off the trailer. Now I was a bobtail tractor looking for a trailer. I backed up to another one to the point where my fifth wheel was just under the trailer. I set my brakes and hopped out to eyeball the levels to be sure they were about even. If I was too high, my fifth wheel would bang into the trailer body and damage it. If I was too low, the kingpin would bypass the fifth wheel, and my trailer would hit the back of my tractor and damage that. If I was only a little too low or a little too high, the fifth wheel hook wouldn’t engage, so when I pulled away the trailer would drop onto the ground.
I’ve done this twice and it’s horrible. The first time was on the Post Road in Cos Cob in my early days. I didn’t check the coupling, and when I made the hard left from Cross Lane onto the main road the trailer slipped off, breaking the hoses and blocking all lanes of traffic. I’m very lucky I didn’t kill anyone. The idea of traveling down a highway and watching the trailer slide away into an oncoming lane of traffic gives me nightmares even now. Especially now. Anyhow, when I dropped that one, John Callahan came out with a forklift and an extra set of hoses. He replaced the hoses, lifted the trailer with the forklift, and had Little Al slide the tractor underneath and hook up. An operation like that takes about twenty minutes, provided you have the forklift and hoses to hand.
The second time I did it was relatively recently, when a driver dropped a trailer at residence and I was to take it away. I checked the coupling and the hook was engaged, but when I started moving I could see the trailer sliding off in my mirror. I didn’t bust the hoses that time, but I did have to spend a half hour cranking the landing gear all the way from the bottom. Nowadays I always have a flashlight with me, and once I hook up I go underneath the trailer and visually inspect the coupling. After that I set my trailer brake, put the tractor into low low gear, and engage the clutch. If the tractor doesn’t move, I’m locked in, probably. I’m never 100 percent sure until I make a turn. It’s nerve-racking.