The Orientation

Tim's Tales from the Road

The Orientation ©

"It's gonna take gallons of Rosemilk to undo this damage," Laurel muttered to herself as she studied the lines which dissected her face like canyons. A petite, forty-five year old blond, the men she dated swore she didn't look over 35. Examining herself in the mirror, she gasped at what was left of her makeup. She knew they were liars. Sweet ones, but liars just the same.

Laurel took one long last look at herself. Adjusting some loose strands of hair, she sighed and walked out into the bright Texas sunlight. The hot, humid air seemed to take forever to reach her lungs, and making her way across the truck yard, she felt small beads of perspiration wreaking havoc with the patch job she'd just done on her makeup.

Reaching the other side of the yard, she took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into the operations center. The chilled air-conditioned atmosphere blasted the sweat on her face and she involuntarily shivered.

"Hey Laurel! How ya doin' today?" a big voice bellowed from somewhere in the midst of the chaos. The voice was not overtly friendly, nor was it full of the false concern of one those department store salesladies. Instead, there was a familiar, safe tone to it.

"Fine, Hank," Laurel responded. "This heat's gonna kill me, yet. Air conditioner went out on the truck again…" She paused as she ruffled through some receipts on the counter. Never finishing her sentence, she looked up again.

Hank made his way through the maze of desks and scurrying dispatchers, and he stood in front of her at the counter. A huge man, with mischievous eyes and a full, round belly, he looked like the perfect grandfather. His eyes hinted of a lifetime filled with crazy experiences and sporting paunchy recessed cheeks, Laurel had to remind herself that Hank was only two years her senior. She shivered again at that thought.

"Got one for me this trip?" Laurel asked.

"Yep," Hank responded.

"He or she?" Laurel questioned.

"He," Hank answered.

Laurel studied Hank's blank face for some sort of indication of what she was getting herself into. There was no expression, and the longer Laurel looked at Hank the longer he looked back. Nothing. Finally she could no longer hold his gaze and averted her eyes away from his.

Impatient, she questioned him further.

"Well… How did he do in the orientation?" Laurel asked cautiously.

"Fine, " Hank responded dryly.

Exasperated at the lack of any solid information and at Hank's total lack of cooperation, Laurel pouted, pursing her lipstick red lips.

"Hank…" her whining voice trailed off. She waited to see if he'd give her any clues about her new trainee. His expression remained the same.

"Fine, you old stubborn prick. You just be that way. See if I dance with you again at Charlie's!"

She paused, looking directly into his twinkling eyes to see if her powers of persuasion were successful. Still nothing. Damn.

"Will you at least tell me where the hell he is?" Now her voice was firm and pointed.

"He's in the drivers' lounge. Name's Mike. He's all ready to go," Hank responded.

Laurel didn't look at him. Already turning in the direction of the drivers' lounge, as she reached the door, she heard Hank again.

"Laurel?"

She turned back to face Hank. Everyone in the room stopped what they'd been doing and watched them.

"What?" she snapped. Her voice was louder than she'd intended, and with the sudden lack of activity, seemed just short of shouting.

Hank's face beamed and melted into one big smile. "Have a good trip!"

Laurel contemplated an unladylike gesture. Then, sighing, loudly she left the room.

"Okay, which one of you wanna-be cowboys is Mike?"

Surveying the drivers' lounge, several men were watching the television. Looking around, she could tell who among them had recently completed their "welcome aboard sucker" orientation into the company. Especially painful to look at were the ones just out of truck driving schools. Their new boots, clean, unwrinkled shirts, and fresh haircuts were a dead giveaway.

These boys, Laurel thought, look too innocent to be true.

"I reckon that'd be me, Ma'am." The mysterious Mike introduced himself as he struggled out of an oversized chair. A little taller than her own five-foot, six inch frame, his out stretched forearm was anything but muscular. He reminded her of an anorexic John Boy.

"Oh, honey, please call me anything, but don't call me Ma'am. I don't look that old, do I?" Laurel asked with a smile while slightly holding her breath.

"No, I guess not," the young man replied.

He emphasized 'guess' and catching Laurel mid-thought.

"What do you mean, you 'guess?'" Her voice trailed off and had a tinge of desperation in it. Mike just sort of shrugged. She responded with one of her "if looks could kill", looks. Mike got the message. Crystal clear.

"C'mon, grab your gear. We gotta go." She made a quick note to herself to check the mirror again and to look into some new skin creme.

Once in the truck, Laurel gave her usual, "you're in my truck now" speech and watched Mike's face for any indication which might help her judge what the next three weeks would hold. His attitude was typical of all the other trainees that she'd given the once over and didn't let her down. Bragging about his status as first in his class in everything, he was the best student in the history of his truck driving school. The only thing he hadn't picked up was the fine art of brown nosing.

But Laurel's guard was still up. Her last "innocent-looking" trainee only made it three hours out of the yard when he blew his cover. Stopping at the rest area in Texarkana to use the ladies' room, she'd been out of the truck less than five minutes, when she returned to the rig to find an unexpected guest sitting in her sleeper with the formerly "innocent" trainee.

Putting the embarrassed trainee on the bus back to Dallas, Laurel told the young man, "Honey, I have seen some ugly ol' lot lizards in my time, but that one… she was beyond ugly. You need to spend some time at the eye doctor's."

Laurel usually drove the first leg of the trip when she had a new student on the truck. This trip was no exception. After an hour of comfortable conversation with Mike she suggested he get some shut-eye. Once Mike was safely back in the sleeper bunk, Laurel caught up with another company driver. As the two of them ran together through the night, they began to plan a little show of appreciation for Hank.

Laurel woke Mike at dawn and informing him that his career in trucking was about to begin. Taking her place in the shotgun seat, she said a quick prayer. Shuddering as Mike put the truck into gear and attempted to start out in high range. Eighty thousand pounds of truck, meat, and transmission protested. Laurel got her first taste of the first day of what would later become her sworn last training trip of her trucking life.

"Honey, " she said calmly, "what are you trying to do to my truck?"

"Sorry," Mike muttered. "I guess I'm just nervous."

"Listen… Just remember what they told you in that school you just paid four figures to attend. Relax, okay?" Even Laurel liked the sound of her voice. Soft, gentle and motherly, they always relaxed when she…

The truck suddenly shot backwards. Mike mistakenly found reverse, and Laurel reached deep inside herself to relocate that gentle soft voice. This time it has a certain shakiness to it.

"It's okay. We all get a little crazy on our first trip. Just put it into first now, dear, and once we get rolling it'll all come back to you." Laurel was getting tense. Her fingernails dug into the armrest while she waited for Mike's next move. Hank was dead. She knew he'd hand picked this one just for her. She wondered if he was still sore about her winning their last bet on the Cowboys-Raiders game.

Mike finally got the truck into gear, only curbing the tires once as western Kansas disappeared behind them and they rolled towards Denver. Meanwhile, Laurel found herself wondering what the rest of the trip was going to be like.

Lost in her thoughts, she half listened to Mike sing along to the radio. She watched the scenery roll by as the plains of Colorado drifted into the mirrors. Farms and one street, small towns speed by her unfocused eyes. Even the Colorado Port of Entry Scale house seemed to blaze by as the morning sun reflected on all the trucks lined up waiting to cross the scale.

She sat up straight. Wait. She turned her head and focused her attention back into the mirrors. Had they just? The thought was too awful to consider. No, it couldn't be… but yes, they had. Now there were flashing red and blue lights following them. Mike continued singing, totally unaware… Laurel slumped back into her seat. No! Not the Colorado Port of Entry. Maybe it was just a hallucination. She looked back into the mirrors. The patrolman was directly behind them… It wasn't. They had just blown the Limon, Colorado scale. And they were about to be pulled over on the side of the freeway directly across the interstate from the truck stop. Laurel sank into her air ride seat. "Well isn't this just lovely," she thought.

"Mike? Mike! I think you'd better pull over. You just ran the scale. I think we've got a little trouble on our hands." She watched a huge officer get out of the patrol car. "No, change that. I think we've got a lot of trouble on our hands."

Officer Bentley was no easy nut to crack, but through Laurel's persistent smiles and Mike's "I'm so sorry's" the officer finally let the two of them go with just a warning. Laurel wondered what else was going to go wrong and if she had just gotten stuck with the trainee from hell. They weren't even done with their first day. Yet.

Consoling herself, she thought comforting thoughts that at least it was July. They wouldn't be dealing with winter's finest: Snow, ice and chains.

As Denver disappeared behind them, Mike's driving became steady. He seemed to remember whatever all the knowledge he'd forgotten earlier. Laurel gave him some of her hard learned, "old school" pointers. Telling him some of her best war stories regarding life as a lady eighteen wheeler, he responded with the required "ooh's" and "ahh's". Feeding Laurel's ego was the quickest path to forgiveness and soon enough Mike was back in her good graces. Eventually fatigue reclaimed her, and as the truck rolled across the Wyoming line, she slowly drifted off to sleep. Her hair cascading off the window against which she rested.

Sometime later, Laurel opened her eyes. White. Things looked white. Snow white. Christmasy white. Oh my God we're in a blizzard white. Sitting straight up, she struggled to push aside the sleep threatening to paralyze her. Looking around, all Laurel could see was blinding, wind-driven snow. Gazing over at Mike, he was white. Very, very white.

"Mike, where in Wyoming are we and just exactly how fast are we going?" Laurel asked while at the same time dreading the answer.

"I don't know and I don't know," his voice shook.

"Do you remember the last town we went through?"

"Laramie," he responded nervously.

"Okay. Can you remember just how long ago that was?" she asked cautiously.

He did not respond. He didn't have time. A JB Hunt driver blasted by them, blowing up all kinds of snow. They couldn't see a thing. Suddenly Laurel had the disturbing sensation that the truck was no longer travelling on the road. Snow flew everywhere. Laurel felt like they were spinning. Mike screamed and let go of the steering wheel in terror. Laurel looked at him horrified and lunged for the wheel. Mike grabbed the steering wheel again and Laurel felt her stomach change places with her ovaries and finally settle in her throat. Then there was nothing. All was silent. Calm. The snow gently settled on what remained of the cab. Laurel looking over her shoulder stared straight into the graphics of another one of their company's trailers. Had they hit one of their own trucks? No, the angle was too strange. Realization dawned and she groaned. She was looking at her own trailer pushed up against her door.

Jackknifed.

Laurel felt the words penetrate her brain with an ugly, unsettling force. An "I wish I'd never gotten out of bed today" force. She looked at Mike who was looking at her, waiting.

"Why didn't you wake me up when it started snowing?"

"I don't know. I guess I figured that the only way I was going to learn how to drive in snow was to do it. Besides, it wasn't bad at first…"

She wanted to kill him. Here they were on I-80 somewhere between Laramie and Rawlins and her new truck looked like it had just competed in the US figure-skating championships. And lost. Her triple toe loop turned into an upside down, double axle, truck topple. Even the American judges would frown on such fancy skating. And the rest of the truckers heading west bound would hate them for sure. The truck had all the westbound lanes blocked.

Laurel limped her scared truck into Salt Lake City. Putting Mike on a bus back home, he was off the truck, and hopefully out of her life. The truck wasn't too badly damaged, but as luck would have it, almost every driver Laurel knew just happened to see the mess she'd been in. She knew she'd never hear the end of it. She promised that Hank was never going to hear the end if it, either.

It was almost a month after the wreck and the trainee from Hell when Laurel pulled into the rest area to make her check call and talk to Hank. She dialed the 800 number and waited. It seemed it took forever for someone to answer. Finally someone picked the phone up.

"Hello?" a voice answered.

"Hello. Hank please," Laurel asked politely.

"He's not in today. I'll be covering his board. Can I help you?" the voice asked.

Laurel was puzzled. The voice sounded familiar but she couldn't place it.

"Laurel, is that you?" the voice asked.

"Yes," she responded hesitantly. Suddenly, a painful recognition hit her. She knew that voice! Unfortunately she knew exactly whom the voice belonged to. The world began caving in as the voice continued talking.

"Oh, no" was all Laurel could think. Just an agonizing "Oh, no."

"Don't you recognize me? It's me. Mike. The guy that wrecked your truck. I'm your new dispatcher."

Laurel felt her knees go, a tunnel loomed swallowing her, followed by a quiet thud. Then there was nothing but silence and the far away familiar voice on the pay phone receiver desperately crying, "Hello, hello. Is anybody there? Hello Laurel? Hello?"

Author's note: Although this story is "fiction" it is based upon real events and real people. In today's driver shortage plagued trucking industry, many companies are putting people behind the wheel of big rigs that do not belong there. They lack the maturity, training, and stamina to withstand the pressures of life on the road. These drivers are nothing more than "warm bodies" in the driver's seat and being such, they are often abused and exploited by the companies that specialize in utilizing them as a resource.

Unfortunately some of the people that are drawn into the industry are also of a lesser caliber than the traditional "Knights of the Road" who once piloted the big rigs. Especially in the last few years, I have met many new rookies entering the industry who seem to qualify as representing this "new breed". The reasons that these drivers pursue trucking have more to do with trying to compensate for masculinity that is otherwise absent, fulfilling all sorts of wild sexual fantasies or following the age old, the grass is always greener, scenario. I myself have had the misfortune of training a few of these drivers and I am familiar with the stories of others who, luckily I have never ridden with.

One common misconception that these drivers hold is a believe that the mere possession of a CDL (Commercial Driver's License) entitles them to instant respect. I do not follow this logic. Respect is earned. It is not automatic. CDL mills (6-week truck driving schools) do not teach many skills other than how to pass a written test.

I do respect a driver who humbly does their job without recognition and those drivers who have a few hundred thousand safe miles under their belt. Drivers like these don't claim to know it all, but they have managed to operate safely in all sorts of weather, they still have a clean MVR, and they haven't worked for 4 or 5 outfits in the course of their first few years in the industry. I learned long ago the day where you know it all in trucking, is the day where you no longer belong behind the wheel.

Trucking is a hard life. It definitely isn't for everyone. If a driver loves the road and loves independence and adversity then trucking will fulfill many of those desires. If a driver is looking for an ego boost, a penis extension, or for notoriety, it will also fulfill those desires. Briefly.

I would hope to be counted among the former.

And, I am glad the later do not last too long in this the industry that I love. Our reputation on the highways of America and among the general motoring public has been trashed enough in the last few years. If there is comfort to be found in the turn style nature of these new breed trucker's, it is that usually the harsh conditions overwhelm them. They find there are easier ways to get laid. I just hope they don't kill anyone before such a revelation occurs.

Some might consider what I have written to be arrogant. Maybe from their eyes it is. Yet I also know many conscientious truck drivers who would also agree with me.

I also know many talented drivers who have only been in the industry for a short time. But as the miles they safely drive increase, such truckers become an asset to our occupation. Either of these truckers, I would gladly run down the road with. These drivers listen, they ask questions, and they approach the most dangerous occupation in America with the respect that it deserves. And that in itself is worthy of respect.