Spirit of the Road

by Rick L. Huffman

  I encountered a few potholes during the application process, but we finally got everything ironed out and I was scheduled for orientation. On the following Saturday, the company supplied me with a rental car to drive to Lincoln. I had never been to Nebraska, so this would be a new adventure. Unlike the disagreeable carpooling of newbies at my former company, I would have a rental car all to myself, and I would not have to share a motel room with a stranger. So far, I already liked this company better.

  I had signed on for a southeast regional Coca-Cola/Minute Maid fleet, but I agreed to run nationally while I was with my trainer. I was about to be on the road again.

  Week 16: Orientation and Merlin

  Ringo gave me a ride to the Huntsville airport on Saturday to pick up my rental car. He seemed a little disappointed that I had quit, but he was very supportive. I hired his twelve-year-old son to feed Kitty while I was gone, and Ringo agreed to check in on her on the weekends. I hated to leave the little cat alone, but I couldn’t bring her with me, and it would have cost a fortune to board her for an unspecified amount of time. I did not know how long it would be before I got back home. After orientation, I would be immediately going on the road with my trainer.

  I thanked Ringo, picked up my rental car, and I was on my way. I stopped for fuel somewhere in Illinois and discovered that my credit card had reached its maximum limit. I’d have to rely on my dwindling cash the rest of the way. I spent the night in an unsightly motel in a small Missouri town about eighty miles east of Kansas City, even though I had been tempted to sleep in the car to save money. Despite my worries, I slept well and headed out early Sunday morning.

  I arrived at Day’s Inn in Lincoln, where I would stay for the duration of orientation, and was greeted by a friendly desk clerk named Chelsea. Before arriving in Lincoln, I’m certain that I had never seen such an abundant landscape of cornfields. It was evident why Nebraska was nicknamed, The Cornhusker State.

  After getting settled into my room, I returned the rental car to the airport and, since it was only a mile from the motel, I decided to walk back. The walk would have been enjoyable if it hadn’t been so darned windy. Remnants of snow remained splotched about from a storm that had passed through last week. As I observed the aftermath of the storm melting away, I hoped that it would serve as a symbolic representation for what lay ahead.

  A shuttle bus arrived at 6:30am on Monday to take all of the new employees to the terminal for physicals. At least twenty people of disparate girth crammed into the small vehicle, and I thought that it might be appropriate to add a little mustard—we were packed in like sardines. A petite, dark-haired girl practically sat in my lap. When we arrived at the Lincoln terminal, it was not what I expected. It looked like the Taj Mahal in comparison to the hideous eyesores that passed for terminals at my former company. The huge three-story building was impeccably clean, and the maze of corridors seemed to, ironically, invite the orientation crowd to become disoriented. The building contained a large cafeteria and even a gym. I was again taken aback by the contrast between this and the small, dusty terminals to which I had grown accustomed.

  My first moment of horror came early. I discovered that we would have to take our road test before orientation, and before going out with our trainer. The Century Class S/T Freightliner had a 10-speed manual transmission, and I had been driving an automatic for the past five months. I had not driven a shifter since riding with Ringo, and I expected the road test would happen after getting some practice with my trainer. I was already sprouting nervous beads of sweat.

  The man who administered my road test was an old fellow named Bill who wore a cantankerous veneer like a ski mask. At 79-years-old, he still did a dedicated run from Lincoln to Canada and back every week. Bill’s initial hard-boiled personality was deceiving as he revealed his true nature when the road tests began. His biting but agreeable humor immediately set me at ease.

  “If you don’t wreck it, you pass!” he croaked.

  My road test went surprisingly well. The Meritor gear shifter in the Freightliner operated more smoothly than the one in Ringo’s truck. I even managed to back into a small hole when we returned to the terminal yard. The first thing I noticed was that the closely positioned dual axles on the dry van trailer caused it to react more quickly than the split axles on the flatbed trailers. This was going to take some getting used to.

  I shook Bill’s hand and thanked him as his initial façade of crabbiness was stripped away to reveal a radiant smile. I then returned to the terminal to wait, fill out additional paperwork, wait some more…wait even more, and finally, go to the doctor for my physical.

  The next two days were comprised of the standard orientation rhetoric—some of it useful, some of it sleep-inducing. The dark-haired girl whom I’d gotten to know (almost too well) on the shuttle ride sat at the table directly behind me throughout orientation, and her habit of constantly crunching ice cubes caused me to spend an inordinate amount of time digging my fingernails into my legs. Regardless of this annoying routine, I got to know her during the breaks, and she turned out to be one of the nicest people I would meet there. Her name was Mona, and once she found out who my trainer would be, we had a lot to talk about.

  My new trainer was a family friend to Mona, and to her husband, Calvin. Calvin was also a trainer, and he would be training his wife after orientation. On the final day of orientation, Calvin and my new trainer, Merlin arrived. The four of us piled into Calvin’s bobtail truck and went out for dinner.

  At first glance, Merlin looked as if he might have jumped right out of the pages of Easy Rider magazine. He was middle-aged and of average height. A biker’s beanie adorned his shaved head, and a graying Fu Manchu mustache framed a frequent smile. A cherry-flavored Swisher Sweet often bounced in his lips as he rarely found himself at a loss for chatter. On the day we met, he wore a black sleeveless tee shirt and a faded pair of jeans, which held the dangling chain of a biker’s wallet. As truckers go, Merlin looked to be in pretty good physical condition. He had, thus far, avoided falling victim to trucker’s physique. His gregarious and playful personality made it impossible not to like him on first impression. Since I also fashioned myself with a shaved head, this evoked immediate joking from Calvin and Mona.

  “You guys are going to look like the Cue Ball Brothers going down the road!” they laughed.

  Our first delivery would be to Helena, Montana, but Merlin’s truck required repairs that would not be completed for twenty-four hours. In order to make Helena on time, we would have to drive as a team rather than trainer/trainee. We slept in the truck that night and, although the Freightliner was much roomier than my old Mack, it still didn’t compare to a real bed.

  Merlin and I ate breakfast in the cafeteria the next morning where we watched the rain pelt down in violent torrents. He asked if I would prefer a day or night shift, and I opted for the night shift since I had no desire to familiarize myself with a new vehicle in the midst of a mad rainstorm. I did not know whether I’d be able to sleep in a moving truck, but I discovered that fatigue, in the proper amount, could inspire me to sleep anywhere. We drove through Nebraska and Wyoming and made it to Helena on time.

  Helena was formerly called Crabtown after John Crab, one of the "Four Georgians" who discovered gold along Last Chance Creek. Helena’s main street is named Last Chance Gulch and follows the path of the original creek through the historic downtown district.[15]

  Since I was exhausted when we arrived at the customer, Merlin mercifully agreed to do all of the backing. I didn’t know it at the time, but Merlin would continue to run us as a team. By week’s end, we had logged over seven thousand miles. Merlin became giddy and challenged me to “break the record” next week. I told him that I would probably be more enthusiastic about all this mileage if I weren’t doing it for trainee’s pay while I was making him wealthy. After that, he frequently offered to buy my dinner.

  In fairness, however, Merlin spent a lot of time up front with me while I was driving
. He required little sleep, and he usually remained up front for three or four hours after his shift to offer training and to shoot the breeze. Merlin had been on the road for twenty-five years, and I was confident that he could help me to polish the skills I had, and learn the ones I had yet to acquire.

  From Montana, we would deliver small arms ammunition to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. Although this is a French name meaning Prairie of the Dog, Merlin referred to it as “Prairie Chicken.” I drove through Montana, across South Dakota, and into Minnesota before I ran out of hours.

  On the first night, my gear shifting had been pretty good. On the second night, it was almost as if I had forgotten how. I was grinding gears like a little old lady in a Dodge Dart, and often missing them on the first attempt. This trend continued through the third day until I finally showed signs of improvement on the fourth day.

  From Wisconsin, we got a load of sporting goods going to North Platte, Nebraska. North Platte is home to Bailey Yard, the world’s largest rail yard. During the 1930’s, high crime rates and corruption caused North Platte to be infamously known as Little Chicago. The morally dubious business operations soon captured the interest of real mobsters back east, and representatives from crime families in New York and Chicago were sent to get a piece of the action.[16] I feared that Merlin might have a desire to "whack" me after I made my first attempt to back into a dock when we arrived at the customer. I finally got the job done but suffice it to say—it wasn’t pretty.

  When Merlin coached me, he had a tendency toward overzealousness—sometimes to the point where I perceived it as yelling. I had already politely asked him not to yell at me, and he explained that he did not mean to be yelling; he just had a high-strung personality. I knew this to be true, so I took him at his word. After that, he made an effort to tone down his passion and I, in turn, made an attempt to overlook it when it spilled out.

  Despite the minor disagreements we’d had, I found Merlin to be an otherwise congenial person. He had a terrific sense of humor, and he provided a constant source of entertainment. During our time together, we shared one another’s life stories, and I came to respect him and consider him a friend. We discussed everything from fishing and poker to beer and women, to Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. While Merlin did not have an academic background in philosophy, he had a relentlessly inquisitive mind, and he never seemed to tire of discussing it. It gave him infinite delight when he felt that he had gotten the best of me on a philosophical point.

  After North Platte, to my delight, we got a load going to Athens, Georgia. This would give me the opportunity to stop by my house to check on Kitty, and to pick up my permanent driver’s license. It had been necessary to have a Hazmat endorsement added to my license before going to work for this company, and I was currently driving with a temporary license on which the expiration date rapidly approached. Unfortunately, the Georgia run was not to be.

  Merlin found out that Mona had fallen ill on the road and had to go home for medical tests. He called Calvin and offered to swap loads so he could be home with his wife. So, we switched loads with Calvin at a truck stop and reversed course toward Green River, Wyoming. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t get to stop at home, but I could not fault Merlin for being a good friend to Calvin.

  Before this, I had never been out west other than for Navy boot camp in San Diego. I was enthralled by the majesty of Big Sky country. The sunsets out here looked as if they had been painted directly from the hand of God. As we traveled along I-80, the vast open spaces of Wyoming would be suddenly interrupted by a series of multi-colored buttes. Bearing witness to this kind of breathtaking beauty made me feel that I had finally discovered what trucking was supposed to be like. I didn’t know it at the time, but this feeling would plant the seeds for a future decision. Prior to this, I had never seen a tumbleweed blow across the interstate but, I not only saw one, I also got a piece of it lodged in the grill.

  We made our delivery to Green River and then got a load that we dropped in Ottawa, Illinois. From there, we got a load going to Kansas City. This meant a respite at Merlin’s house in Cross Timbers, Missouri for a 34-hour restart.

  Cross Timbers is a tiny rural town in Hickory County, Missouri that boasts a population of one hundred and eighty-five, but it does have its own Post Office. Merlin joked that the only thing you can buy in Cross Timbers is a stamp. When we got there, I saw that it wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

  I met Merlin’s family, his wife, Rita, his two daughters, Amy and Melissa, and his son, Ronny. His other son was away serving in the Air Force. All of his children were young adults, so everyone spent the first night playing poker and consuming various…consumables. It was my first time playing Texas Hold ‘em, but I wasn’t fortunate enough to have beginner’s luck—I was the first one busted.

  Next morning, I walked to the town square where the Cross Timbers auction was being held. A fast-talking auctioneer attempted to sell what looked like a horde of junk, so it didn’t take long for my interest to wane. Merlin had wanted to be home for the auction to bid on a piece of land where he could park his truck. I returned to Merlin’s house and left him to his business.

  When I returned, an equipment malfunction in the restroom left me in an unenviable position. After attending to my business, I exited the bathroom and coyly entered the living room where Rita, Amy, and Melissa sat. There are certain questions that one hates to pose when they are a guest in someone else’s house, but I found myself in the unfortunate position of being forced to ask one of them. I reluctantly turned to Rita and delivered my embarrassing query.

  “Do you have a plunger?’”

  Week 17 and 18: Tragedy in Cross Timbers

  After our 34-hour restart, Merlin and I made our first delivery to Memphis and then got a load going to Rome, Georgia. This meant that I would finally be able to stop in Scottsboro to pick up my permanent license and check on Kitty. Merlin and I continued to grow closer and I was beginning to see that his mad methods were actually making me a better driver. My confidence and skills were growing with each passing day.

  We spent the night at my house in Scottsboro. Kitty and I had a joyous reunion. She was almost as happy to see me as I was to see her. When I gave her the expected jar of homecoming baby food, Merlin scrunched up his brow in confusion and said, “Baby food for a cat?”

  I guess he just didn’t understand the bond.

  I hated to leave Kitty alone again, but I tried to appease her with all the Chicken & Cheese flavored Whisker Lickin’s she could eat before Merlin and I set out for Rome the next morning. We had a bit of trouble finding our customer, but Merlin seemed to possess a sixth sense that I lacked.

  From Georgia, we rolled across the United States: Minooka, Illinois; Kansas City; Grantsville, Utah; and Topeka, Kansas. I especially enjoyed the splendor of the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies in Utah and the colorful stony-ridged cliffs along the interstate. Merlin and I were already making plans to go fishing in Colorado together and, by this time, being on the road with him was just plain fun. I had even begun to toy with the idea of running nationally instead of regionally. This felt like what I had imagined trucking to be. I was eager to get out on my own and start earning decent money, but I knew I’d miss Merlin when my training was complete.

  After we arrived in Topeka, Merlin stuck his head through the sleeper curtain with the obligatory “Are we there yet?” before I was forced to deal with a security guard who wore an inferiority complex as distasteful as the cheaply-embroidered cloth security badge on his uniform. He haughtily wielded the power of his synthetic patch as if it gave him carte blanche to be rude, obnoxious, and condescending. Nonetheless, we endured the wrath of Deputy Doofus and got a load going back to Memphis. Once again, we would stop at Merlin’s house in Cross Timbers for another restart. We stopped along the way for food and beverages, and all was set for another fun-filled revelry.

  Just as before, Merlin immediately fired up his riding mower and sputtered about the yard as soon
as we arrived. He spun around on the mower with the joy of a child, and I could not conceal a smile watching the sun reflect off his shaved dome as the mower spewed its mulch. When the task was complete, I teasingly asked him if he had a license for that thing.

  “In this yard, I’m legal to drive anything I want!” he replied with an ear-to-ear grin.

  About that time, Merlin’s son, Ronny, whirled into the back yard on a newly acquired motorcycle. Father and son stepped off to discuss the finer points of biking for a few moments, and then Merlin mounted the bike to go out for a test drive. He came back a few minutes later, and we went inside for dinner. Then, I decided to take a walk up to the town square. A craving for Boston cream donuts had penetrated my defenses of willpower earlier today, so I figured a little caloric burning wouldn’t hurt.

  When I returned to the house after my walk, everyone was gone, so I went out to the truck for a snack and to stretch out on the sleeper to relax for a while. Less than five minutes had elapsed when a loud banging on the window interrupted my respite.

  “Rick! Rick!” cried a voice, which I discerned to be that of Rita.

  I opened the door to reveal a distraught face with a pair of bloodshot eyes and cheeks lined with streaming tears. “Merlin’s been airlifted to Springfield,” sobbed Rita with a quivering lip, “he was in a motorcycle wreck.”

  Oh my God! I thought. Airlifted? This can’t be good.

  It wasn’t.

  There was not enough room for me to ride in the car with them, but Kathy, the lady with whom Rita was riding, gave me her husband’s phone number. I had met Gerald, Kathy’s husband, earlier when Merlin and I first arrived in Cross Timbers. Merlin referred to him as “the nature guy” because of Gerald’s affinity for picking wild mushrooms.