But he really had to go!

There I was, sitting in a dilapidated Detroit Michigan jail cell. There was blood smeared on the dirty cinder-block walls. There was also a rather large hairy man with the name Tiny tattooed across his enormous forehead. He kept staring lasciviously eyeing me, so I kept as much distance as possible in the 20’ x 20’ cell we shared.

To make matters worse, my boss wasn’t happy with me. My wife wasn’t none too happy either. Neither were impressed by what they called a stunt. I considered asking Tiny for his opinion but then there is that wandering eye thing.  I’ll explain, so you tell me if I crossed a line.

My name is Billy Gilmore. I work for a national trucking company, driving a semi-truck up and down the roads of the Unites States. I’m a good driver, work hard, take everything dispatchers give me, and rarely complain. I’m loyal too, having worked for this company nearly fifteen years now. In short, they’re lucky to have me.

I was sitting in my Volvo semi-truck at a truckstop just outside Dallas Texas. I was suddenly pinged by the company satellite system. More often than not, this is just a necessary dispatch or safety directive but usually not that important. I regularly ignore them.

This message was marked “URGENT”, I needed to call the office immediately. My first reaction was that something happened to a member of my family, so they were alerting me. Dad had been sick lately. Dread gripped me as I picked up that cellphone.

I called home first to ascertain if everything was okay there. When not living in this truck, I live in Scottsdale Arizona with my wife and our three kids. My wife answered after one ring in a cheerful voice, relieving me of my anxiety.

Wife: “Hello”

Me, breathing heavily: “What ya wearin’?” This was a common joke between us.

Wife: “Nuthin,’ hon.” And if you don’t mind, the pool boy’s here, so I’m, kinda busy.”

This was a common response from her. Then she followed that up with, “where ya at?”

We had talked about five minutes before the ping went off in the truck again. It was dispatch needing me to get in touch with them. This time it was marked “EMERGENCY.” I excused myself from the conversation with wifey to call dispatch.  I’ll pay for that transgression when I get home.

I called and was transferred immediately to Johnny, the head of operations. No call waiting or stupid commercials, straight to the head of the line on this one.

Me:” Johnny my man, I was just getting ready to call you,” I lied. “What’s this emergency?”

Johnny: “Gilmore, thanks for calling.”

Me: “Well Johnny, I really had no choice now, did I? If I didn’t call ya, you’d have stuck your finger on the satellite kill switch to stop my truck from moving. Am I right?”

Johnny: “I got no time to argue with you Gilmore. I got a problem…”

Me: (interrupting) “And your problem is about to become my problem, am I right?”

Johnny: “I suppose you could say that Gilmore, but hear me out, will ya?”

I didn’t reply so he continued. “Would you believe that dumb ass Graham hooked on to the wrong trailer over in Ft. Worth and hauled it all the way to Toledo before the numbnutz realized he was pullin’ an empty trailer.”

Still, I remained silent, but I had an inkling of where this story was going now. The dumbass he was referring to was Greg Graham, not known to be the sharpest knife in the cabinet, but usually dependable.

Johnny: “The load Graham was supposed to haul is still sitting at Jensen’s Manufacturing and it needs to get to Detroit yesterday.”

Me: “Cuttin’ it kinda close, aren’t ya, Johnny?”

Johnny: “Gilmore, you’re the closest I have to Ft. Worth, and the best, so I need you to step up your game and get that load up there as soon as possible. Jensen’s is breathing down my neck like nobody’s business and is threatening to pull the business on us.”

Johnny was known for telling every driver they were the best he had whenever he was in trouble, but I let that pass. The information about Jensen’s was kind of concerning to me as I often pulled Jensen’s freight.

Me: “So when did you promise Jensen’s it would deliver?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, finally, came his weak reply,

Johnny: “Tomorrow, before lunch.”

Me: “Johnny, you know, and I know, and Jensen’s knows there is no way in hell a solo driver is going to make that schedule. It’s nearly thirteen hundred miles away.”

Johnny: “Yep, Gilmore, I know that, but it will help tremendously if we can just get that load on the road and moving in the right direction.

Me: “I guess I better get over there, then.” Johnny now owed me, and I would collect.

Johnny: “Thanks a million, Gilmore. I owe you a solid, dude.”

With that, he hung up, without expressing any more gratification.

Having hauled out of Jensen’s many times before, I made my way over to their giant distribution center. I knew the guard and he let me right in. I grabbed the right trailer, was back out of the guardhouse and heading north in twenty minutes. My trip took me through some large cities like Oklahoma City, St. Louis, and Chicago. I managed to run through a deluge of rain in Oklahoma, heavy stop and go traffic in St. Louis, and a horrible accident by three four-wheelers that shut down the eastbound lane of the highway for a couple of hours just east of Chicago. But I kept goin’.

Tired and hungry, I arrived at the guardhouse in an impossible 28 hours, far exceeding my logbook and several speed laws in the process. I hadn’t showered in three days, nor eaten since lunch yesterday. But by God, I got that load there in record time.

The guard, a large woman who looked to have all the allure of a Marine drill sergeant didn’t seem too impressed by this dirty bum trying to get past her. I explained it was a critical load and that she might want to let me into the dock to unload, but that was not going to happen either. If it wasn’t on her sheet, it wasn’t going to happen. I was told to come back at o-eight-hundred hours.

Mildly peeved, I decided to make lemonade out of lemons. I headed to the truckstop to shower and have breakfast. What this truckstop lacked in cleanliness, it more than made up for with cold water showers.

My mood was fading but I resolved to keep positive. Heading into the restaurant, I spied an empty stool at the counter and headed over. Just before I got there some cowboy took the spot that I was wanting. I sat in a dirty booth toward the back where, as I expected, service was slow.

After about ten minutes a tall thin waitress came over with a pot of coffee and a menu. She poured the coffee and slapped down the menu before leaving without saying a word to me. It would be ten more minutes before she came back to take my order.

You see how my day was going, don’t ya? You probably don’t want any more details of Murphy’s Law, as you have your own Murphy to contend with.

I was back at the gate house right on time, ready to get into the dock. The guard, a different one, pointed to a staging yard and grunted to wait there until they called for me. I explained how critical this particular load was but that got me nowhere either. So, I headed to the staging yard and waited from someone to allow me into a dock.

About two hours later, a heavyset guard waddled up to the truck and casually mentioned I could back into dock 7. He was kind enough to point to dock 7, even though it was the nearest dock to where I sat and had a large number 7 stenciled on the front.

Licitly-split, I had the back doors open and backed into the dock. I have to say, at that point, I was feeling pretty proud of myself for having busted my ass to get them the load. I was thinking about that as I bounded up the stairs and entered a door marked “Truckers.”

Inside the warehouse, the first thing anyone would notice is the cage the shipper had erected to keep truck drivers out. I would not be allowed into the traffic offices, and there was nothing available to tell anyone you were there. Fortunately, there was a fork-lift driver near the cage who seemed to be taking a nap.

Me: “Hey, buddy. I’m here with that hot load out of Texas.”

Forklift driver replied without ever bothering to look my way. “On break, man.”

Now what. Having busted my ass to get here as timely as possible I’m now standing here in a cage, and apparently nobody in this company cares about my herculean task or the load they had to have so badly. I broke laws to get them this freight, dammit.

About this time, I could feel mother nature coming on.

Me: “Hey buddy, I gotta take a leak. Where’s the bathroom?”

Forklift driver: “We ain’t got any.”

Me: “Whatcha mean, you ain’t got any? This big ol’ plant would have to have bathrooms for its employees…”

Forklift man cut me off in mid-sentence. “They ain’t for truckers!” he bellowed, now looking my way for the first time.

Me: “Well, where’s a trucker supposed to go to the bathroom then!”

Forklift driver: “Not my problem, man.”

I stormed out, fuming. Had I been able to get my hands on that forklift driver, I assure you I would have smacked some sense in to him. But he insolent bastard was protected from truckers.

My intent was to relieve myself outside between the tandems of the truck as I really had to go now. That was the plan anyway.  As I got halfway back from my truck there was a sign informing drivers their dock area was not to be used as a public restroom, and to wait until they had left the premises. It also explained the area was under video surveillance and any infractions would be reported to the law. I looked around and saw three outdoor camera’s.

I stared at the sign incredulously. These nazi’s were bound and determined to treat truck drivers as third world citizens by keeping us at a distance.

But he really had to go!

There I was, sitting in a dilapidated Detroit Michigan jail cell. There was blood smeared on the dirty cinder-block walls. There was also a rather large hairy man with the name Tiny tattooed across his enormous forehead. He kept staring lasciviously eyeing me, so I kept as much distance as possible in the 20’ x 20’ cell we shared.

To make matters worse, my boss wasn’t happy with me. My wife wasn’t none too happy either. Neither were impressed by what they called a stunt. I considered asking Tiny for his opinion but then there is that wandering eye thing.  I’ll explain, so you tell me if I crossed a line.

My name is Billy Gilmore. I work for a national trucking company, driving a semi-truck up and down the roads of the Unites States. I’m a good driver, work hard, take everything dispatchers give me, and rarely complain. I’m loyal too, having worked for this company nearly fifteen years now. In short, they’re lucky to have me.

I was sitting in my Volvo semi-truck at a truckstop just outside Dallas Texas. I was suddenly pinged by the company satellite system. More often than not, this is just a necessary dispatch or safety directive but usually not that important. I regularly ignore them.

This message was marked “URGENT”, I needed to call the office immediately. My first reaction was that something happened to a member of my family, so they were alerting me. Dad had been sick lately. Dread gripped me as I picked up that cellphone.

I called home first to ascertain if everything was okay there. When not living in this truck, I live in Scottsdale Arizona with my wife and our three kids. My wife answered after one ring in a cheerful voice, relieving me of my anxiety.

Wife: “Hello”

Me, breathing heavily: “What ya wearin’?” This was a common joke between us.

Wife: “Nuthin,’ hon.” And if you don’t mind, the pool boy’s here, so I’m, kinda busy.”

This was a common response from her. Then she followed that up with, “where ya at?”

We had talked about five minutes before the ping went off in the truck again. It was dispatch needing me to get in touch with them. This time it was marked “EMERGENCY.” I excused myself from the conversation with wifey to call dispatch.  I’ll pay for that transgression when I get home.

I called and was transferred immediately to Johnny, the head of operations. No call waiting or stupid commercials, straight to the head of the line on this one.

Me:” Johnny my man, I was just getting ready to call you,” I lied. “What’s this emergency?”

Johnny: “Gilmore, thanks for calling.”

Me: “Well Johnny, I really had no choice now, did I? If I didn’t call ya, you’d have stuck your finger on the satellite kill switch to stop my truck from moving. Am I right?”

Johnny: “I got no time to argue with you Gilmore. I got a problem…”

Me: (interrupting) “And your problem is about to become my problem, am I right?”

Johnny: “I suppose you could say that Gilmore, but hear me out, will ya?”

I didn’t reply so he continued. “Would you believe that dumb ass Graham hooked on to the wrong trailer over in Ft. Worth and hauled it all the way to Toledo before the numbnutz realized he was pullin’ an empty trailer.”

Still, I remained silent, but I had an inkling of where this story was going now. The dumbass he was referring to was Greg Graham, not known to be the sharpest knife in the cabinet, but usually dependable.

Johnny: “The load Graham was supposed to haul is still sitting at Jensen’s Manufacturing and it needs to get to Detroit yesterday.”

Me: “Cuttin’ it kinda close, aren’t ya, Johnny?”

Johnny: “Gilmore, you’re the closest I have to Ft. Worth, and the best, so I need you to step up your game and get that load up there as soon as possible. Jensen’s is breathing down my neck like nobody’s business and is threatening to pull the business on us.”

Johnny was known for telling every driver they were the best he had whenever he was in trouble, but I let that pass. The information about Jensen’s was kind of concerning to me as I often pulled Jensen’s freight.

Me: “So when did you promise Jensen’s it would deliver?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, finally, came his weak reply,

Johnny: “Tomorrow, before lunch.”

Me: “Johnny, you know, and I know, and Jensen’s knows there is no way in hell a solo driver is going to make that schedule. It’s nearly thirteen hundred miles away.”

Johnny: “Yep, Gilmore, I know that, but it will help tremendously if we can just get that load on the road and moving in the right direction.

Me: “I guess I better get over there, then.” Johnny now owed me, and I would collect.

Johnny: “Thanks a million, Gilmore. I owe you a solid, dude.”

With that, he hung up, without expressing any more gratification.

Having hauled out of Jensen’s many times before, I made my way over to their giant distribution center. I knew the guard and he let me right in. I grabbed the right trailer, was back out of the guardhouse and heading north in twenty minutes. My trip took me through some large cities like Oklahoma City, St. Louis, and Chicago. I managed to run through a deluge of rain in Oklahoma, heavy stop and go traffic in St. Louis, and a horrible accident by three four-wheelers that shut down the eastbound lane of the highway for a couple of hours just east of Chicago. But I kept goin’.

Tired and hungry, I arrived at the guardhouse in an impossible 28 hours, far exceeding my logbook and several speed laws in the process. I hadn’t showered in three days, nor eaten since lunch yesterday. But by God, I got that load there in record time.

The guard, a large woman who looked to have all the allure of a Marine drill sergeant didn’t seem too impressed by this dirty bum trying to get past her. I explained it was a critical load and that she might want to let me into the dock to unload, but that was not going to happen either. If it wasn’t on her sheet, it wasn’t going to happen. I was told to come back at o-eight-hundred hours.

Mildly peeved, I decided to make lemonade out of lemons. I headed to the truckstop to shower and have breakfast. What this truckstop lacked in cleanliness, it more than made up for with cold water showers.

My mood was fading but I resolved to keep positive. Heading into the restaurant, I spied an empty stool at the counter and headed over. Just before I got there some cowboy took the spot that I was wanting. I sat in a dirty booth toward the back where, as I expected, service was slow.

After about ten minutes a tall thin waitress came over with a pot of coffee and a menu. She poured the coffee and slapped down the menu before leaving without saying a word to me. It would be ten more minutes before she came back to take my order.

You see how my day was going, don’t ya? You probably don’t want any more details of Murphy’s Law, as you have your own Murphy to contend with.

I was back at the gate house right on time, ready to get into the dock. The guard, a different one, pointed to a staging yard and grunted to wait there until they called for me. I explained how critical this particular load was but that got me nowhere either. So, I headed to the staging yard and waited from someone to allow me into a dock.

About two hours later, a heavyset guard waddled up to the truck and casually mentioned I could back into dock 7. He was kind enough to point to dock 7, even though it was the nearest dock to where I sat and had a large number 7 stenciled on the front.

Licitly-split, I had the back doors open and backed into the dock. I have to say, at that point, I was feeling pretty proud of myself for having busted my ass to get them the load. I was thinking about that as I bounded up the stairs and entered a door marked “Truckers.”

Inside the warehouse, the first thing anyone would notice is the cage the shipper had erected to keep truck drivers out. I would not be allowed into the traffic offices, and there was nothing available to tell anyone you were there. Fortunately, there was a fork-lift driver near the cage who seemed to be taking a nap.

Me: “Hey, buddy. I’m here with that hot load out of Texas.”

Forklift driver replied without ever bothering to look my way. “On break, man.”

Now what. Having busted my ass to get here as timely as possible I’m now standing here in a cage, and apparently nobody in this company cares about my herculean task or the load they had to have so badly. I broke laws to get them this freight, dammit.

About this time, I could feel mother nature coming on.

Me: “Hey buddy, I gotta take a leak. Where’s the bathroom?”

Forklift driver: “We ain’t got any.”

Me: “Whatcha mean, you ain’t got any? This big ol’ plant would have to have bathrooms for its employees…”

Forklift man cut me off in mid-sentence. “They ain’t for truckers!” he bellowed, now looking my way for the first time.

Me: “Well, where’s a trucker supposed to go to the bathroom then!”

Forklift driver: “Not my problem, man.”

I stormed out, fuming. Had I been able to get my hands on that forklift driver, I assure you I would have smacked some sense in to him. But he insolent bastard was protected from truckers.

My intent was to relieve myself outside between the tandems of the truck as I really had to go now. That was the plan anyway.  As I got halfway back from my truck there was a sign informing drivers their dock area was not to be used as a public restroom, and to wait until they had left the premises. It also explained the area was under video surveillance and any infractions would be reported to the law. I looked around and saw three outdoor camera’s.

I stared at the sign incredulously. These nazi’s were bound and determined to treat truck drivers as third world citizens by keeping us at a distance.

Now I really had to go, and I was really upset.

I grabbed my cellphone and headed back into the cage. I was near dancing I had to go so bad. My intent was to call someone with a little more sense and/or compassion inside the traffic offices. Finally getting the number from information, I called and began carefully navigating the phone prompts. When I finally go to the right department, I instantly got a recording informing me they were on break. Then it went to a recording option, only the mailbox was full, and it wasn’t taking any more calls. It then disconnected me.

Now I was livid, to the point of berserk. My kidneys were about to bust. I was dancing a jig I had to go so badly. Then a thought came to me. I looked around the warehouse from in the cage but could see no one. It was as if they all went home. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so, finally, mercifully I urinated. Right there in a corner of that cage. My God was that a relief.

An hour later, nobody had come out to start unloading my trailer. Another ten minutes went by before there was any action, although that was when two Arizona state troopers showed up. I was handcuffed and brought to the jail, for the crime of public urinating.

Anyway, I need bail money!

Now I really had to go, and I was really upset.

I grabbed my cellphone and headed back into the cage. I was near dancing I had to go so bad. My intent was to call someone with a little more sense and/or compassion inside the traffic offices. Finally getting the number from information, I called and began carefully navigating the phone prompts. When I finally go to the right department, I instantly got a recording informing me they were on break. Then it went to a recording option, only the mailbox was full, and it wasn’t taking any more calls. It then disconnected me.

Now I was livid, to the point of berserk. My kidneys were about to bust. I was dancing a jig I had to go so badly. Then a thought came to me. I looked around the warehouse from in the cage but could see no one. It was as if they all went home. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so, finally, mercifully I urinated. Right there in a corner of that cage. My God was that a relief.

An hour later, nobody had come out to start unloading my trailer. Another ten minutes went by before there was any action, although that was when two Arizona state troopers showed up. I was handcuffed and brought to the jail, for the crime of public urinating.

Anyway, I need bail money!