"Wait a minute... How'd you park this truck here, Yankee?"
"How do you think I did it?"
"Well, I'd have to say you pulled in behind the truck in front of us and then that truck behind us pulled up after."
"But..."
"But both these guys been here the whole time. I seen them sitting here when he were coming in."
"So..."
"So, how'd you park this truck here, Yankee?"
"How do you think I did it?"
It's 2am and there are no decent parking places left at any truck stop, including this one. If Mickey hadn't spent over 4 hours feeding the product of two weeks worth of his roadtime into slot machines in New Mexico, we'd have arrived around 9pm instead of 1am. We might have actually had a chance at finding a parking place off the road. Instead, this was the only spot I could find. I had also seen it when we were driving down the road toward the entrance of the truck stop. After fueling, Mickey went inside and told me to try to find a place to park. After circling down every row of the lot, I returned to the two parked trucks on the side of the road directly in front of the convenience store. I sized up the gap between them and grinned. Perfect.
"Well?"
"I parallel parked this truck between these other two already sitting here."
"You did not. Not without a spotter, you didn't. Not in the dark. Not a chance."
"If you say so. It's also raining a little, you should include those bonus difficulty points as well. I want scored correctly and fully."
"Nevermind that now. I really need to know... How'd you park this truck here, Yankee?"
"How do you think I did it?"
Sunday, July 24
More of the same.
"Use that jake brake!"
For two days after I told Mickey to shut the fuck up and go back to sleep, things were fairly good. When I was driving and he was in the sleeper berth, anytime I slowed down or changed lanes he would poke his head out to see what was going on. Unable to correct anything or even comment, his head would immediately disappear again. Those were two very good days. Those days are over now.
"It's on."
"Doesn't feel like it."
As much as I hate to say that phrase of his 'makes my blood boil'... It does. It actually does. It takes every bit of my self-control not to engage both emergency brakes and send his angry ass flying out of his bunk and into the truck cab with me. And as the truck sat precariously on the summit of an incredibly steep decline and he tried to recover his composure - possibly remove the gear shift from his broken rib cage - I'd casually point to the lit indicator light.
"How's it feel now? Does it feel like the damn jake brake is on now? It's feels to me like all the brakes are on."
I'd never actually do it, but I've thought about it. I've thought about it alot. As I mentioned in a previous post, driving for extended periods of time affords me with alot of time to think about things. Most of the time, I think about seriously hurting Mickey. It's practically all I think about for hundreds and hundreds of miles.
He left me at a truck stop in southern California. "Accidentally". Rule #2 of Mickey's truck is: "When you're in the sleeper berth, make sure you leave your shoes in front of the passenger seat. That way no one gets left behind because we'll know the other is on board."
I was wearing my shoes while in the truck stop, so I'm not entirely sure where the confusion was. These aren't my rules. They're his. No shoes = no passenger. Definitely not a terribly complicated concept and definitely not restoring my confidence in the man.
If he keeps his act up, I might "accidentally" return the favor.
For two days after I told Mickey to shut the fuck up and go back to sleep, things were fairly good. When I was driving and he was in the sleeper berth, anytime I slowed down or changed lanes he would poke his head out to see what was going on. Unable to correct anything or even comment, his head would immediately disappear again. Those were two very good days. Those days are over now.
"It's on."
"Doesn't feel like it."
As much as I hate to say that phrase of his 'makes my blood boil'... It does. It actually does. It takes every bit of my self-control not to engage both emergency brakes and send his angry ass flying out of his bunk and into the truck cab with me. And as the truck sat precariously on the summit of an incredibly steep decline and he tried to recover his composure - possibly remove the gear shift from his broken rib cage - I'd casually point to the lit indicator light.
"How's it feel now? Does it feel like the damn jake brake is on now? It's feels to me like all the brakes are on."
I'd never actually do it, but I've thought about it. I've thought about it alot. As I mentioned in a previous post, driving for extended periods of time affords me with alot of time to think about things. Most of the time, I think about seriously hurting Mickey. It's practically all I think about for hundreds and hundreds of miles.
He left me at a truck stop in southern California. "Accidentally". Rule #2 of Mickey's truck is: "When you're in the sleeper berth, make sure you leave your shoes in front of the passenger seat. That way no one gets left behind because we'll know the other is on board."
I was wearing my shoes while in the truck stop, so I'm not entirely sure where the confusion was. These aren't my rules. They're his. No shoes = no passenger. Definitely not a terribly complicated concept and definitely not restoring my confidence in the man.
If he keeps his act up, I might "accidentally" return the favor.
Friday, July 22
Thursday, July 21
Suck it.
I found these treats in the Mojave. On the left we have the scorpion sucker with actual dead scorpion inside. These suckers are available in three delicious flavors: apple, blueberry, and strawberry. (Shown in apple.) On the right we have the tequila sucker complete with worm inside. It tastes exactly as you'd expect.
Yummy.
[I'm not sure what went wrong, but I'm going to attempt reposting that photo in another post. Apologies.]
Yummy.
[I'm not sure what went wrong, but I'm going to attempt reposting that photo in another post. Apologies.]
Monday, July 18
Backseat driver.
''Use that jake brake!''
It's the third time Mickey has yelled this phrase at me. It's also the third time I've needed to activate them, the third mountain descent, and the third time I've had them engaged before he's demanded that I do so. Before I continue, allow me to explain what he's referring to and why he keeps doing so. The jake brake, more commonly referred to as an engine brake by road signs, is a device that is intended to slow or dull the building momentum of a large vehicle as it descends down a sloped roadway such as a mountain. Basically, it is intended to keep your vehicle from reaching dangerous speeds while preserving your air pressure reserve required to active your service brakes via the brake pedal. Without the engine brakes engaged, it is possible to exhaust all of your air pressure by continually and constantly applying the service brakes. When the air pressure becomes extremely low - between 20 to 45 psi - the emergency brakes are then automatically activated and remain locked until the air pressure is built back up. If you're going down at sloped roadway at excessive speeds when this happens, a jackknife or roll make occur. So, Mickey isn't needlessly concerned. However...
''The jake brake is on. They are engaged, active, functioning, working, slowing the vehicle as we speak.''
''You sure about that?''
''Yep. I'm also pretty sure only I know what's going on up here, so... Maybe you should go back to sleep and let me drive.''
''I still don't think you're using the jake brakes.''
''Why don't you get up here and take a look?! Seriously. Either get in the passenger seat and try to tell me what you think once you have some clue as to what's actually happening on the road in front of us and what I'm doing behind this wheel... Or just shut the fuck up and go back to sleep.''
He went back to sleep, apparently. Is it possible I had tried to engage the engine brake and simply been unsuccessful? No, it isn't. There is a tiny indicator light that turns on when the engine brake is turned on. Light on means the engine brake is on. Light off means the engine brake is off. I may not be a genius, but I'm a fairly intelligent, highly educated man. I took Calculus, readers. I think I can handle this simple procedure. In fact, I think anyone who is unable to handle this procedure should never be allowed behind the wheel of anything.
I understand that Mickey has probably had some really terrible trainees. I'm sure he's had students run over curbs, sideswipe vehicles, get stuck under low clearance overpasses, drive into ditches, and destroy all kinds of public and private property. I get that. I'm not one of those idiots and I don't like being treated as though I were.
I also don't like a man who is laying down in his bunk with the privacy/blackout curtain drawn shut acting like he has any damn clue what's happening on the road around us or what I am/am not doing behind the wheel. It's ridiculous. There's no alarm that sounds when I activate the engine brake. Other than the indicator light and a slight slowing of the vehicle (only noticeable when avidly observing the speedometer), there is no way to know that they have been activated. This particular truck has engine brake mufflers applied to silence the usually very loud and distinguishable noise associated with the application of this device, or there would be that to consider. It should also be noted that while the engine brake aids in slowing the truck on descents, it is effective alone. The service brake is still necessary, if at a slightly less rate. I think the engine brake saves you from using the service brake about 30% of what you would without it. Helpful, but only moderately so.
Much like my trainer, the backseat driver.
It's the third time Mickey has yelled this phrase at me. It's also the third time I've needed to activate them, the third mountain descent, and the third time I've had them engaged before he's demanded that I do so. Before I continue, allow me to explain what he's referring to and why he keeps doing so. The jake brake, more commonly referred to as an engine brake by road signs, is a device that is intended to slow or dull the building momentum of a large vehicle as it descends down a sloped roadway such as a mountain. Basically, it is intended to keep your vehicle from reaching dangerous speeds while preserving your air pressure reserve required to active your service brakes via the brake pedal. Without the engine brakes engaged, it is possible to exhaust all of your air pressure by continually and constantly applying the service brakes. When the air pressure becomes extremely low - between 20 to 45 psi - the emergency brakes are then automatically activated and remain locked until the air pressure is built back up. If you're going down at sloped roadway at excessive speeds when this happens, a jackknife or roll make occur. So, Mickey isn't needlessly concerned. However...
''The jake brake is on. They are engaged, active, functioning, working, slowing the vehicle as we speak.''
''You sure about that?''
''Yep. I'm also pretty sure only I know what's going on up here, so... Maybe you should go back to sleep and let me drive.''
''I still don't think you're using the jake brakes.''
''Why don't you get up here and take a look?! Seriously. Either get in the passenger seat and try to tell me what you think once you have some clue as to what's actually happening on the road in front of us and what I'm doing behind this wheel... Or just shut the fuck up and go back to sleep.''
He went back to sleep, apparently. Is it possible I had tried to engage the engine brake and simply been unsuccessful? No, it isn't. There is a tiny indicator light that turns on when the engine brake is turned on. Light on means the engine brake is on. Light off means the engine brake is off. I may not be a genius, but I'm a fairly intelligent, highly educated man. I took Calculus, readers. I think I can handle this simple procedure. In fact, I think anyone who is unable to handle this procedure should never be allowed behind the wheel of anything.
I understand that Mickey has probably had some really terrible trainees. I'm sure he's had students run over curbs, sideswipe vehicles, get stuck under low clearance overpasses, drive into ditches, and destroy all kinds of public and private property. I get that. I'm not one of those idiots and I don't like being treated as though I were.
I also don't like a man who is laying down in his bunk with the privacy/blackout curtain drawn shut acting like he has any damn clue what's happening on the road around us or what I am/am not doing behind the wheel. It's ridiculous. There's no alarm that sounds when I activate the engine brake. Other than the indicator light and a slight slowing of the vehicle (only noticeable when avidly observing the speedometer), there is no way to know that they have been activated. This particular truck has engine brake mufflers applied to silence the usually very loud and distinguishable noise associated with the application of this device, or there would be that to consider. It should also be noted that while the engine brake aids in slowing the truck on descents, it is effective alone. The service brake is still necessary, if at a slightly less rate. I think the engine brake saves you from using the service brake about 30% of what you would without it. Helpful, but only moderately so.
Much like my trainer, the backseat driver.
Friday, July 15
Cabin fever.
I want my own truck.
I don't want it a month or even weeks from now, either. I want my own truck now. Now, now, now.
I don't know if spending the last eleven days stuck in close quarters with one of the most miserable bastards of all time has finally taken a toll on my patience or if the fact that today was unofficially declared ''offensive joke day'' proved to be too much for me, but I think I've had enough. I almost vomited twice today.
I realize alot of this situation is my fault. At any time, I could have requested another trainer. I still can, of course. But, there's no garauntee the next one won't be horrible in completely new, unimaginable ways or in the exact same ways. Also, people talk. I don't want a reputation for being this whiney, difficult bitch. Because, I'm not. I do whine, but not outloud. I blog-bitch about it. That's healthy. I swallow it and then purge it all over the internet whenever an opportune moment presents itself. I'm really surprised that I've already reached my annoyance threshold. It's perplexing. My parody/mimic defense always works. I'm a natural actor. I perform on some level every single day. It's automatic. I often don't even realize just how much of me is simply a combination of defense mechanisms, trained behavior, and facades. This shouldn't be a problem for me, but it is.
I'm not repeting a single joke. Usually, I choose a few of my favorite examples of dialogue to sprinkle throughout my posts, but I'm not going to repeat anything from today. I'm actually actively working on forcing my mind to overwrite the information. But, I have no new data to replace it with. I would memorize a user's manual at this point and worry about overwriting that information later - if only I had one.
Eleven hours of driving allows me alot of time to think, dissect, analyze, rationalize, ponder, obsess...
Then Mickey announced he was considering quitting smoking. He added a byline of ''cold turkey''. I told him that might be good for his health, but I didn't care to still be in the truck whenever he decided to begin that experiment.
Maybe there's an out there. I hope so. He's still thinking about it. He might talk to someone. That would be lovely. I don't care if they upgrade me to my own truck or throw me in with another trainer - long as I don't have to start all the way over. My patience is already exhausted.
I don't want it a month or even weeks from now, either. I want my own truck now. Now, now, now.
I don't know if spending the last eleven days stuck in close quarters with one of the most miserable bastards of all time has finally taken a toll on my patience or if the fact that today was unofficially declared ''offensive joke day'' proved to be too much for me, but I think I've had enough. I almost vomited twice today.
I realize alot of this situation is my fault. At any time, I could have requested another trainer. I still can, of course. But, there's no garauntee the next one won't be horrible in completely new, unimaginable ways or in the exact same ways. Also, people talk. I don't want a reputation for being this whiney, difficult bitch. Because, I'm not. I do whine, but not outloud. I blog-bitch about it. That's healthy. I swallow it and then purge it all over the internet whenever an opportune moment presents itself. I'm really surprised that I've already reached my annoyance threshold. It's perplexing. My parody/mimic defense always works. I'm a natural actor. I perform on some level every single day. It's automatic. I often don't even realize just how much of me is simply a combination of defense mechanisms, trained behavior, and facades. This shouldn't be a problem for me, but it is.
I'm not repeting a single joke. Usually, I choose a few of my favorite examples of dialogue to sprinkle throughout my posts, but I'm not going to repeat anything from today. I'm actually actively working on forcing my mind to overwrite the information. But, I have no new data to replace it with. I would memorize a user's manual at this point and worry about overwriting that information later - if only I had one.
Eleven hours of driving allows me alot of time to think, dissect, analyze, rationalize, ponder, obsess...
Then Mickey announced he was considering quitting smoking. He added a byline of ''cold turkey''. I told him that might be good for his health, but I didn't care to still be in the truck whenever he decided to begin that experiment.
Maybe there's an out there. I hope so. He's still thinking about it. He might talk to someone. That would be lovely. I don't care if they upgrade me to my own truck or throw me in with another trainer - long as I don't have to start all the way over. My patience is already exhausted.
Tuesday, July 12
Laid over.
I didn't realize it at the time, but Mickey was scheduled to take five days of home time after delivering the load he was hauling when the company called him, ordered him to divert his course to pick me up, and delayed his home time for a few weeks to provide me with at least that much training time. The only good thing to come out of that would be he'd have even more home time to enjoy whenever they decided to grant it to him. Also, I'd start making a paycheck.
He drove the rest of the afternoon/night after picking me up, because the course diversion had made him late and he wanted to make up time if he could. The truck's governor makes that impossible, though. Without momentum from a full trailer and a steep, lengthy decline, the max speed of the truck is 65mph. I didn't mind not driving the first day. I had enough to deal with just settling in and mentally preparing myself for the weeks of training with this man that laid ahead. I was anxious.
A part recall we received after completing delivery left us stranded in Harrisburg for a two day layover. We stayed at the Piñata. It was a fiesta themed hotel run by a Latino family. The shuttle driver had an even more coherent accent than Mickey, but he was a dark, happy, strange, little old man and he was funny to listen to regardless of comprehension.
''Yeah, buddy. (No idea followed by a giggle.) You know what I mean?''
''Yep.''
''Yeah, man. (Not a clue followed by more giggling.)''
The room we stayed in was extremely feminine. All of the wooden surfaces of the room had been painted a very light shade of pink. Mickey was beside himself.
''Look. They got a huge vanity so you can put your makeup on.''
''Damn. I knew I forgot to pack something.''
''Well, that's a shame. Maybe there's some in one of those little pink drawers.''
''Nope. Bible and take-out menus.''
''We sure need those. I'll order some pizza. You better take advantage of the shower while we got one.''
''I definitely will.''
We watched 18 hours of television each day. I watched more television since starting my new job than I ever did while unemployed. The first few days of my training seemed rather pointless, but I get paid whether I do something or absolutely nothing. So, there's that.
He drove the rest of the afternoon/night after picking me up, because the course diversion had made him late and he wanted to make up time if he could. The truck's governor makes that impossible, though. Without momentum from a full trailer and a steep, lengthy decline, the max speed of the truck is 65mph. I didn't mind not driving the first day. I had enough to deal with just settling in and mentally preparing myself for the weeks of training with this man that laid ahead. I was anxious.
A part recall we received after completing delivery left us stranded in Harrisburg for a two day layover. We stayed at the Piñata. It was a fiesta themed hotel run by a Latino family. The shuttle driver had an even more coherent accent than Mickey, but he was a dark, happy, strange, little old man and he was funny to listen to regardless of comprehension.
''Yeah, buddy. (No idea followed by a giggle.) You know what I mean?''
''Yep.''
''Yeah, man. (Not a clue followed by more giggling.)''
The room we stayed in was extremely feminine. All of the wooden surfaces of the room had been painted a very light shade of pink. Mickey was beside himself.
''Look. They got a huge vanity so you can put your makeup on.''
''Damn. I knew I forgot to pack something.''
''Well, that's a shame. Maybe there's some in one of those little pink drawers.''
''Nope. Bible and take-out menus.''
''We sure need those. I'll order some pizza. You better take advantage of the shower while we got one.''
''I definitely will.''
We watched 18 hours of television each day. I watched more television since starting my new job than I ever did while unemployed. The first few days of my training seemed rather pointless, but I get paid whether I do something or absolutely nothing. So, there's that.
Sunday, July 10
''What do you call smoking dope?''
Well, Rule #1 in Mickey's truck is: No whores and no drugs. So...
''I don't know.''
''J.B.Hunt driver with his britches on fire!''
When Mickey catches me off guard with one of his jokes, I do laugh hysterically. This one especially sent me into hysterics. I can only say that it was around 5am and my senses were not all online and active yet. It really wasn't funny, but that's exactly why it was so funny. Most of the time, though, I have to force a pity chuckle.
Mickey hates alot of different groups of people. He hates black people. He hates Latinos. He hates Indians (both people from India and Native Americans). He hates gays, lesbians, bisexuals (which is bullshit and doesn't actually exist, in his opinion), and transgenders (which he won't even talk about specifically and instead refers to them as ''those other things''). He hates liberals. He hates Yankees. He even hates other truck drivers, especially those employed by J.B.Hunt, Schneider, and Swift. It's this last group of people that he jokes about. He literally has thousands of these jokes in his arsenal. I've already heard about one hundred of them and it's only day six.
''How do you separate a J.B.Hunt driver from his student?''
''I don't know.''
''With a crowbar!''
''Heh, heh.'' Too late. I'm fully awake and unamused now.
''You have to pry them apart! With a crowbar!''
''Oh yeah. I get it. Heh, heh. Funny.''
No. Hell to the no. Not at all. Nope.
''I don't know.''
''J.B.Hunt driver with his britches on fire!''
When Mickey catches me off guard with one of his jokes, I do laugh hysterically. This one especially sent me into hysterics. I can only say that it was around 5am and my senses were not all online and active yet. It really wasn't funny, but that's exactly why it was so funny. Most of the time, though, I have to force a pity chuckle.
Mickey hates alot of different groups of people. He hates black people. He hates Latinos. He hates Indians (both people from India and Native Americans). He hates gays, lesbians, bisexuals (which is bullshit and doesn't actually exist, in his opinion), and transgenders (which he won't even talk about specifically and instead refers to them as ''those other things''). He hates liberals. He hates Yankees. He even hates other truck drivers, especially those employed by J.B.Hunt, Schneider, and Swift. It's this last group of people that he jokes about. He literally has thousands of these jokes in his arsenal. I've already heard about one hundred of them and it's only day six.
''How do you separate a J.B.Hunt driver from his student?''
''I don't know.''
''With a crowbar!''
''Heh, heh.'' Too late. I'm fully awake and unamused now.
''You have to pry them apart! With a crowbar!''
''Oh yeah. I get it. Heh, heh. Funny.''
No. Hell to the no. Not at all. Nope.
Mickey
''I'm sorry. I still didn't catch that.''
''At home.''
''Oh. I don't know what I was hearing, but-''
''It's alright. I'm used to dealing with you Yankees and having to repeat myself. I don't speak the Queen's English.''
''I don't think I... Um. Ok. So...''
Filling out forms in my logbook for the first few days of my training was challenging and fun. My trainer, who I will refer to as ''Mickey'' based on his physical similarities to Mickey Rourke (while filming Ironman 2, most specifically), is a Southerner with a very delightful and at times incoherent Southern drawl. Unfortunately, this is the least interesting thing about him.
''Married?''
''No.''
''Ex-wife or girlfriend?''
''Nope.''
''Kids?''
''No.''
''You're a fag!''
''Ha. Yeah. I'm a fag.''
''So, why aren't you-''
''Divorced twice and enjoying the privilege of paying allimony and child support for some careless life decisions?''
''You got a point. So, you're not queer?''
''Are you?''
''Hell no. I don't (something incomprehensible) and that's that.''
''Never can tell.''
''Oh, you can tell most of the time. But some of them are sneaky sonsabitches. They infiltrate our ranks and degrade our society from within. So I always ask. My wife says I'm a racist, homophobic bigot. She says that like it's a bad thing. I don't care what anyone does in private behind closed doors. I just don't care to see it and have it thrown in my face.''
''I agree. Certain things should stay private.''
''You ain't religious, are you?''
''Not especially. I believe in personal accountability.''
''Well, that's alright. Long as you don't get offended easy.''
''I'm not sure you can offend me. Maybe, but I doubt it.''
''We should get along alright then. Long as you're not one of those whiny liberals, because you won't like me much if you are.''
''I used to be. Then I started working for a living.''
''Ain't that the truth!'' He laughed until he choked, then he added, ''God, guns, and country.''
''I can handle that.''
Kinda wish I had a gun to handle, just in case. Luckily, my mind is a tricky, marvelous weapon in its own right and my tongue is always sharp and never needs reloaded. This is going to be very, very interesting.
(...to be continued.)
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