Tim's Tales from the Road
Tim's Tales from the Road
The outlet mall rose up out of the last of the flat lands like some oasis dedicated to the whims of the shopping Gods. Redding California, or actually Anderson to be specific, was gearing down from the free for all of the Christmas Eve rush. Most of the holiday travelers had already arrived at their destinations and the parking lots and hammer lanes were starting to ease up. Life was getting downright tolerable on the nerves. For the first time in days, Interstate 5 was actually a nice place to be. Up ahead, in the distance, Mt Shasta dominated the sky with her icy white slopes and pointed defiance of the horizon. All that elevation made a mockery of everything else, including the tallest foothills at the base of Shasta. The snow hanging on those hills and the soft pink of winter light joined forces to make the radio's Christmas Carol's sound like a believable possibility. Joy to the World on a Silent night and have yourself a merry merry and a happy happy. I was all there and more.
Northbound with a load of salad, I debated the thoughts roving around in my head and had a few good arguments about should I's or shouldn't I's. Finally, I gave into the idea that was brewing. Diving for the outlet mall exit in a move that made the shrink wrapped pallets riding behind me fornicate, I dropped gears on the decent towards the stop sign at the bottom of the exit. Making a left, I danced under the overpass blessed with a once in a lifetime clean shot into the outlet mall. The trailer tires missed all the curbs and parking next to a RV, I waved a "howdy do" to the nice little gray haired lady sitting in the driver's seat. Now by the looks of things, and I ain't no expert here, I think its safe to say that granny was most likely clueless on how to drive all 45 feet of that motor home on anything but the flattest flatlands. Her bumper stickers told the stories of don't bother knocking if this rig's rocking and that thank you very much, she was spending her children's, children's inheritance. Giving me a neon red lip sticked smile she held some mistletoe up over her head while I grinned back at her.
Maybe in the next life honey, but not today. I had a mission.
After blowing a kiss her way, I locked up the idling green Peterbuilt. Paying no further mind to the innocent gray haired wonder waiting for whatever sign she was waiting on to depart, I put the terrorized motorists that were sure to be in her path up and down the interstate as far from my mind as I could. Let the angels watch over that Grandma in her Beaver Coach with the hopeful mistletoe induced smile.
Dallas slept soundly and never noticed that the truck was stopped. Tiptoeing out of the rig, I silently shut the metal door of the cab and turned to survey a compulsive obsessive paradise. Ralph Loren. Toy Liquidators. Levi's. All the good stores and all off them still open, just for me. It was as if they were saying, "We are here Tim! Here just for you. It's Christmas Eve. Shop! Shop! Shop! We forgive you for putting all the ones you love on hold. We accept your procrastination! Let go and let Mastercard! And Visa! And Discover! Onward oh truck driver, there is still time!"
I heard angels singing somewhere above me. Accompanying the canned holiday music shrieking out over the parking lot they roared, "Peace on Earth! Good will to men! And yes, everything really is on sale at up to 70% off retail."
For truckers, the holidays can be a maddening time. Most malls hate us and don't want to see a Peterbuilt parking where three Porsche's could. The Gap, Kmart and Victoria Secret need truck drivers to haul the goods "just in time and oh by the way, why weren't you here last week?" But, those same mall stores would rather that we arrive after hours, sneaking through their back door and "please, if you can help it, don't let the customers see you. Thus for the long hauler, Christmas shopping is a rather hit and miss affair. With more misses than hits. Forget grabbing the latest Furby or Cabbage Patch Kid. Forget the allusive Barbie Cash Register. Forget heisting the last Super Duper Ninetendo Ninja Pokemon Poopie Doll in all of Portland Oregon. Or, grabbing one in Portland Maine for that matter.
Truckers are to drive and not be heard. The best goods ride air ride. We the new profit centers of the dot.com retail world truck, 24/7, moonlighting, and day lighting as Santa's "other" helper's. Eighteen wheels rolling on rubber meeting snow, rain, and more snow. We not only dream of White Christmases, but we have nightmares over them. Especially during the holidays we haul for the long haul and, if we are lucky, we might get a few "drop and hooks" thrown in for good measure. Rather than fingerprinting every 48,000 lb Toys R Us load dispatched our way.
But, far be it for us to consume anything that isn't found at the Flying J. Marked up nine times the normal price and thrown at helpless drivers by a big, BIG haired Bertha behind the fuel desk, who when asked if it can be exchanged at any other truck stop, says "sure honey, but it'll cost ya."
And you don't doubt her for a second.
So, to make a really long story longer, the malls with all their savings, wide-open parking lots and endless 50% off's aren't exactly in love with us. Its wham bam thank you man. Open the doors and throw that freight, then get the hell out. The ladies in Nevada at least give a goodbye kiss when its time to hit the road.
Redding isn't like everywhere else. Or at least it didn't used to be. Truckers and BMW's, Ramblers and Chevys, and Mustangs and Campers all made the outlet mall parking lot a large melting pot of metal. The great equalizer, man's wonderful ability to procrastinate, defines the male species when it comes to shopping. And glancing across the mall, most of those still running around in desperation were indeed men. Frantic men with mustaches, deeply worn frowns and visions of ending relationships dancing in their head rushed from store to store seeking solace. It was Valentines Day II: The sequel.
I was not alone. Looking at my watch, I realized that time was growing short before the stores would close. Already the cars were getting scarce in the lot. Only losers like me remained. I quickly bought what needed buying and within an hour the job was nearly completed. Walking into the last store, for the last gift, the clerk shook her head when the bells on the door jingled as I closed it behind me. She sighed loudly and kept doing whatever it was that occupied her attention. Whatever that was it wasn't me.
"I am gonna be closing in five minutes. You better hurry." She said in a tired voice never looking up at me. The woman behind the counter counted her till lost in a flurry of bills, tally marks and rubber bands.
The store's Christmas lights were already turned off. The music was silent. A bear clothed in holiday sweaters did silent twirls on imaginary ice skates in a winter display in the window. Watching the bear, I was almost hypnotized by the motion. The rest of the clothing store was deserted. Everything in the place was still and quiet. An enormous hollowness overwhelmed me. The party was over and the guests left without me. In that silence, the loneliness of the holidays and the road ahead hit me like a giant gust of cold Arctic wind. I turned and looked out at the parking lot. Our rig waited. Solitary and alone.
I rummaged for a sweater. My brother's taste in just about everything was always directed towards things that I could never afford. Even at the outlet mall, the price of a sweater with the right brand rivaled the price of a full lube, oil, and filter service on a big rig at the truck stop. I finally found one that I didn't think he would scowl at. Walking up to the counter to ring up the sale, the woman standing over the register looked up at me and met my eyes for the first time. She looked exhausted.
I tried to smile at her. "I guess I am "It". At least until the day after Christmas sales…and the inevitable exchanges. Thanks for waiting on me."
She actually looked at me now. Smiling a weak but real smile. "It's o. k. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that two people didn't show up for work today and I got stuck doing most of this day alone." She looked out into the parking lot and seeing only our truck there, she turned back towards me. "You in that truck?"
"Yep. That would be me. And, my co-driver. But, he's asleep." I answered.
"Better asleep now, when that truck's not moving, than later." She stared out the window into the parking lot and at the traffic out on the freeway. "God, what I wouldn't do for some sleep," she sighed looking back at me. "Will that be cash or charge?" she asked.
"Cash." I said pulling some crumpled bills from my pocket.
She rang up the sale and suddenly looked up at me with a strange expression. "You aren't gonna make it home for Christmas are you?"
I shook my head no.
"Where's home?" She asked.
"Well ma'am right now its Spokane. But someday I hope to have a place up north of there. We already have the land but right now it's just that, land. Hoping to get a place built up there maybe in a few years. So home…well, these days, outside of an apartment, home is in that truck sitting out there."
"Everyone needs a home. Especially at Christmas." She smiled another weary smile and I had to agree with her wisdom. Yes, everyone did need a home, especially at Christmas. Momentarily forgetting about the transaction, she started talking to the complete stranger standing in front of her. I learned in the next few minutes that her home wasn't exactly perfect either. A single mom with two teenage boys and an ex husband laid off from the lumber mills with a restraining order against him, she faced bankruptcy and more than enough trouble with her kids.
"But you know at this time of the year you can always find someone who has it a lot worse. I am actually doing pretty good. Got a roof over my head…and I will get to be with my boys celebrating. After all, this week they are both grounded anyway." She laughed, handing me my receipt. "Would you like the sweater wrapped? I'll do it for you for free?"
"Sure, that would be nice." While she wrapped the sweater, I looked around the store and spied a small white teddy bear. I picked it up and looked at the bear thinking of those I loved so far away.
"It's the last one. I found it in the back. I thought it would sell today but I guess it didn't. Cute isn't he?" I looked at the saleslady and was embarrassed to be caught holding the teddy bear. "Don't you think it's a tragedy that a cute bear like that didn't sell before Christmas? I bet there is someone that you know that needs a bear on Christmas? Right? She stood there holding a red bow waiting for an answer. I felt the redness sweep over my face.
I shrugged. Then grinning sheepishly. The thought of presenting that bear to a few of my rugged burly trucker friends was absolutely beyond sanity. The equivalent of giving them red roses. A teddy bear with a bow on it would raise serious questions and could be fatal. "I really doubt that anyone that I know would appreciate a teddy bear like this."
"Think harder," she said and thrust the bear into my hands. "It's Christmas."
Pulling the decorations out of the jockey box of the idling Peterbilt, I tried to surpress the smile spreading across my cheeks, ripping them to shreds. The idea began the night before, down in Santa Barbara. I'd snuck into Target while Dallas was having coffee with his mom. Finally accepting the idea of Christmas on the road I bought some bright rainbow garland and hid it inside the laundry bag.
Now exposed in the outlet mall parking lot, I went to work. There would be no more bah humbug feeling sorry for myself, if I had anything to do with the course of the holiday. But, I would have to get the job done quickly before Dallas woke up.
Stringing the garland on the grill and around the wreath that was already placed on the giant radiator grill, I stretched and pulled. Up and over the C B antennas the bright colors of the garland caught the afternoon light. Around the handholds on the sleeper, weaving the strands and the strings, anything that was metal and exposed I covered in garland.
Working my way back to the trailer, I looped the garland over the ICC bumper, around the door hinges, and finished with the mud flap brackets. Stepping back to survey the job I'd done, I decided that although my handy work looked good enough for starters, something was still missing. Thinking for a minute, a better idea came to me. Balancing precariously on the bumper, I took some soda water and began to write words in the dirt plastered on the back doors of the trailer. Soon letters, then words, and finally sentences formed under the dirt. Shinny chrome stainless steel appeared replacing the dirt. The words were simple. They were profound. I wondered if anyone would notice them. Or, if the power of the season, would encourage a response. The words spelled out on the trailer said, "Honk if you have Christmas Spirit. C'mon, Just Do It!"
Pulling back onto I-5, before I cleared the on ramp I was immediately passed by another one of our company trucks. Grabbing the CB mic, another driver named Tom responded. He and I started chatting. Both of our loads were bound for Spokane. He was grateful to run into us as he was driving solo. Instinctively both drivers knew that the company of another driver would keep our minds off of the sadness of hauling over Christmas Eve. Talking about produce, the end of the year and our perpetually messed up loads, we decided each respective truck needed more power, larger sleepers and new dispatchers.
Making our way passed Lake Shasta and her deep, blue, cold waters we began winding our way through Dunsmuir Canyon. Chasing Tom's trailer doors while the elevation increased, the conversation eventually moved from work to more personal matters. We explored politics, personalities, and musical interests. Traffic became sparser and sparser but the occupants of almost every car that passed us waved. Some passengers gave us the thumbs up. Kids thrashed their arms wildly in the international symbol of "Trucker honk that horn!" It was then that the second idea of that memorable Christmas Eve hit. After thinking about it, I asked Tom if he would be open to spreading a little Christmas Cheer. He seemed game and brightened at the idea as the huge flanks of Mount Shasta suddenly caught the last light of a fading sunset. God rode the sky ahead of us preparing our way. Everywhere the magic of a snow filled Christmas eve sunset turned the reds, pinks and purple of an December's last light into a heartfelt moment of hue, golden shadows and subtle peace.
Without warning Dallas charged forward from the sleeper. "Tim, stop the truck. Something's wrong!"
I looked at him confused. "What are you talking about. Everything is fine. What's wrong?"
"I don't know. Something is wrong though. People have been honking like crazy at us. Something's not right! If you'd turn down those Christmas Carols you'd have heard them!" I looked at a very worried and upset Dallas. I could tell by his expression that he was going to need a cigarette. Thinking about the blaring horns, I suddenly remembered what I had written in the dirt on the trailer doors. Make that two cigarettes.
I couldn't keep the smile off of my face. Christmas Spirit was still left in the world after all. People had been honking like crazy and I just hadn't heard them. A grin the size of Montana split my face.
"Why are you so happy? Stop the truck! We must have blown a tire. I bet our mud flaps are toast. Probably ate up the bracket too. Tim, why aren't you stopping? What's so funny?" Dallas was getting pissed.
"Dallas it's wonderful. Can you believe it? Listen!" I rolled down the window and a passing van honked its horn, waving arms extended out the window.
"What are you talking about? He asked.
I began explaining what I had done. He looked at me incredulously. When I finished telling him about the doors, the garland and the simple message scrawled on them he sighed. "I still need you to stop the truck."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I need a cigarette."
Dallas never went back to bed and instead he rode quietly in the shotgun seat. Skirting the base of Mt. Shasta, we left the "big road" behind us. Remaining hushed, our thoughts drifted through the winter splendor, cart wheeling through other forgotten memories as we watched the nightrider's replace the day tripper's. The highway stayed deserted, as we caught the final exhale of the season. Silent on 97.
Weed, California marks the first mile marker of US 97, one of the most spectacular, yet undiscovered highways in the world. Running hard on that two-lane highway, we labored up the long grade winding up into the high desert. North of the big mountain, broad valleys dropped away to our left. Dark, blue mountainous horizons framed all four sides of the region, turning dark against the outlines of peaks that held that last light. Before the night completely retook the sky, the small towns that dotted the fifty-mile valley came to life. Weed behind us. Eureka to the north. Montegue nestled in the middle. Higher and higher we rose while Shasta stood stationary, white, and brilliant. Finding myself taking long satisfying looks behind us, staring as she became smaller and smaller in the truck mirrors, I wondered about the hundreds of times that I had seen the mountain and how each time I witnessed those glacial outcroppings they appeared different.
Shasta finally dropped out of view replaced on either side of the highway by white, snow covered pines. The trees stood tall, like waiting sentinels. Occasionally snow would drop in a silent whosh. Cascading and catching the nightlight, the air sparkled with flurry of powdered snow suddenly released to a winter breeze's freedom. The trees waited posted on the lookout for Santa. Spying on us from above, stars also sought his silhouette against the heavens. Everything twinkled and the magic of the moment held our attention. The deserted Christmas Eve highway touched every sense and breathless, I knew that God sculpted this living Christmas card just for us. Lit by a slowly rising moon and the brightest star far to the north, we rode into the night and all was at peace.
Chasing Tom's marker lights we dropped into the Klamath Valley and played tag with the coves of a snow covered frozen Lake Klamath. The jagged peaks of Mt McGloughlin, Crater Lake, and Mt. Scott marked our progress. With each mile traveled, the road became covered with greater amounts of snow. The exhaust stacks exhaled giant white breaths into the night and the windows of the cab were cold against our skin. In the stillness no one spoke. The C B radio was calm. It had been over an hour since we'd met the last set of headlights. Jack pines and white aspens carried our thoughts and I wished that the night would remain. Endless and fulfilling.
Dallas finally broke the quiet and said softly, "It's an incredible night."
I had to agree. But as grateful as I was for the moment, I didn't know the half of it. The good lord wasn't finished teaching us the finer points of making the best of whatever a man is handed, even if that lesson comes on a holiday. Dallas, Tom, and I were in for a lot more blessings before dawn would mark Christmas Day.
Halfway between Bend, and Klamath Falls Oregon lies Chemult, Oregon. The small, one street town defines those western places that rise up in the middle of nowhere hoping to grow into a "someplace special" someday. A destinations where hitting the big time honor of becoming a dot on the map equals a few greasy diners and fewer buckboard hotels. In true western style, the digs of Chemult came complete with stable lodging for nomadic cattle rancher's mounts and corrals for their beef stock. On either side of the highway parking big rigs hugged the shoulder. Truckers and loggers chowed on corn dogs and chicken fingers and canned chowder. Waitresses knew who was new, who was passing through and who had stayed too long. The town hosted the harshest, never-ending winters and summers that were too damn short.
Chemult was also home to Kathy, a short, happy faced woman. Young, twenty something, and down on her luck, she was a short order cook/waitress/dishwasher extraordinaire. On her shift, she was a one-woman show. Recently exiled from the military, the result of a M. S. diagnosis, Kathy found herself isolated but still full of a young woman's dreams. Through no fault of her own, fate had left her standing alone at the altar in Chemult. No longer able to drive or get away, her only getaway became the drivers that drove through her drive through life long enough to have some fries layered in Chili, a milkshake, and one of her notorious smiles.
If a driver didn't have time to stop, he'd better at least lay one on the air horn when just passing through. A wind whipped Kathy often ran out the door waving wildly even with waiting customers lining the walls in front of the counter with the ancient cash register that she couldn't even see over the top of. But most days at the Crater Lake Diner Kathy's life passed too slowly. Waving at a favorite trucker's disappearing mud flaps or the sight of a smiling face looking for her from a speeding Kenworth through the frosted windows made Kathy's day and it was a Chemult trucker tradition. Failure to honk or wave on a pass by could mean a swift kick, a slap with the menu or worse no hugs on the next stop through. It could also get you in trouble with other freight haulers.
No one messed with Kathy and on her good days, Kathy's smile could encourage another hundred miles out of a tired driver. On her bad days, the same hundred miles could wait. She would have someone to chat with and brush away the tears. At least until the next tired cow hauler or reefer driver stopped for some grease.
Kathy was the closest thing to real "family" many drivers had on the big road. If the freight Gods sidetracked us to other highways, her letters arrived sure as spring to remind us that no matter what, we had a home. Even for those drivers that didn't quite know what a home was.
The long, sweeping curve and "speed zone ahead" sign announced our entry into the hamlet of Chemult. Jake brakes were silenced and gears were dropped. The town was deserted for Christmas Eve. A few hours shy of midnight, we eased the trucks through town passing the silent and darkened drive-ins, diners and motels. Even the Crater Lake Drive In was dark.
"Well I guess this is it", Tom said. "You boys ready back there?"
"I am, don't know about Dallas though" I responded.
"Ready for what? Dallas asked.
"Operation Christmas Spirit," I said with a wink.
"What are you up to?" He asked that familiar alarm creeping into his voice.
"C'mon, you'll see." I giggled.
We parked the trucks on the side of the highway north of town. Leaving all the clearance lights lit, I met Tom at the back of his truck. It was cold and the my breath made clouds that joined that of the other two. Every step on the snow made a crunching sound and the wind was a silent whisper through the trees. Up above us the moon danced in high whispy clouds.
"What should we sing?" Tom asked me.
"Sing?" Dallas asked alarmed.
"Sing?" He repeated himself receiving no answer from either tom or I. "Tim, just what is going on? Who are we "singing" to?
"I think we should just sing "we wish you a merry Christmas". The words are easy, I doubt we can forget them. What do you think, Tom?" I asked.
Dallas was catching on. "What if her dad shoots us, either of you ever thought of that?"
"No one is going to get shot…well maybe we might. If we sound too bad. Haven't heard you sing yet,Tom. You any good?
"Nope" Tom responded.
"Well I have heard Tim sing and he is awful." Dallas added.
"That so Tim?" Tom asked.
"Worse" I said.
Well that's good. I won't be alone then if someone starts throwing things!" Tom laughed.
"I can't believe I am doing this," Dallas moaned.
Grabbing a small sack from the jockey box I looked at them both. We'll lets get going before we both freeze our asses off. I followed them towards a mobile home set along side the highway. The minute we cleared our rigs, dogs began wailing, barking and howling. Soon every dog in town was up and joined in. "Well, hopefully they won't be able to hear us, now" Tom said.
"Or no one in town will be able to hear the gun shots" I added for Dallas benefit.
We trudged through the snow and around to the front door of the mobile home. Arranging ourselves in front of the trailer house Tom looked at Dallas and I. "On three," I said.
"One...Two..." I counted.
Dallas groaned.
"Three!" I finished the count.
"We wish you a merry…" We sang as loud as we could. The dogs became enraged. We were worse than horrible. I imagined angels all over the universe cringing. God probably left the solar system until we finished. Porch lights came on. A door opened. We sang louder and awaited the shotgun blast. The dogs howled and the song wasn't even finished before Kathy's entire family was standing there listening to us. Or rather enduring our attempt as singing.
Kathy's poor family didn't know what to say. Obviously they were not expecting company. Especially, as they looked at the spectacle that the three of us must have made. Kathy wasn't waiting for their approval. She already bounding down the stairs and full of hugs. Invited into their home, we obliged saying the usual "we can't stay longs" and "oh ok, if you insist, but only for a minute's". Handing Kathy the Teddy bear that the woman from the Outlet Mall had convinced me to buy, her lips began to quiver. Eyes got wet. There were gushing tears, and more hugs. Kathy was beside herself. Tom and Dallas were too. I felt warmer inside than I had felt in a long time and there wasn't a dry eye anywhere to be found. Her family was unable to say a thing but there smiles said more than words ever could.
Fifteen minutes later following Tom and Dallas back through the snow and back towards our trucks no one said a word. The stars were crystal clear and the crunching footfalls kept time with our labored breath. Soon it would be midnight and Christmas would be upon us. We got in our respective rigs, air brakes were released with a swoosh. Then followed motion. Gears found holes. White plumes of exhaust vapor rose toward heaven.
We trucked silently northward for nearly an hour. Lit up like Christmas trees, the rigs danced through snowy forests and to the northwest Mt Bachelor and the Three Sisters played hide and seek with the trees. Up ahead, in the distance a bright star shone. A star that was much brighter than all the others. Guiding us, just as it had done all night. Towards a destination. Towards someplace better. Towards hope. And towards a place called home. Yet behind us there was someplace just as special. A place that moved our hearts and brought tears to our usually dry eyes. A small darkened diner usually lit up by a heartbeat.
Tom's voice finally came over the C B Radio. "Well at least we didn't get shot."
And I thought about what Tom had said while I watched that northern star chase the clouds. No sir, we didn't get shot. At least not by any bullets. But, the three of us were mortally wounded just the same. By a good helping of love. And a whole heap of Christmas spirit.
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