She Knows Where She's Going

Once again, in this business of mine, there is no predictability. Some of my friends produce a puzzled look on their faces and ask “you mean you don’t know where you’ll be?” The answer is quite simple. No, I have absolutely no idea. There are certain areas where I’m pretty sure I’ll be passing through again, based on past trends. The metropolitan New York area is one of these areas. I think I’m one of the last idiots left who will agree to navigate New York City. However, I won’t go there cheaply. It’s a hard place to drive a truck when you consider all the road restrictions, challenging traffic configurations and high cost of tolls. Go over the Outer Bridge Crossing, Whitestone and George Washington Bridges and you’ll pay 25 to 30 bucks a pop. The Verrazano Narrows will burn a hole right through your pocket going both ways. Long Island is perennially congested and people drive like their hair is on fire. But, this old place has an air of home, having spent more than half my life living on the New Jersey side of this mess. I know these roads. In all, there are no definite lanes of back and forth dedicated familiarity with my company. It’s the life of a gypsy. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. Go, go, and go. Hurry up and wait. When it’s time to go, my onboard computer flashes the message in all cap letters “IT’S CRITICAL CHECK OUT TIME!” We ain't talkin' about a fancy hotel here.


The preceding couple of weeks have been an exercise in back and forth. I’ve felt like I have been running up and down a basketball court. I picked up a load in Seneca Falls, New York, in the heart of the Finger Lakes region in Upstate. For those of you who are history buffs, Seneca Falls was ground zero for the Women’s Rights Movement led by the likes of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony in the mid 1800’s. It's a beautiful and bucolic area situated between two of the big Finger Lakes. My load was an enormous pump, headed to an oil refinery in Plaquemine, Louisiana. This run took me back down the New York Thruway, around Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus and Cincinnati before heading due south on Interstate 75 through Kentucky and past the famous “Florence Ya’ll” sign on the water tower and then over to and around Louisville. The route then led me to where I make a right hand turn at Nashville to Memphis and then down I-55 through Mississippi to my drop, outside of Baton Rouge at Plaquemine. For those of you who remember Pluckemin, New Jersey, it kind of sounds like that.

When I got to Louisiana, it was full blown springtime going on. Blinding sunshine and mild spring fever producing temperatures were now replacing the frigid Upstate New York variety. I felt like just walking around with a grin and asking everyone “how ya’ll?” But, I didn’t. All these hardhats would have thought me nuts. At the refinery, there was no loading dock. Here I am, scratching my wooden head, wondering how they’re planning to take this contraption off my truck, when this pre-historic sized back loader comes romping up with the longest forklift forks I’ve ever seen. The operator simply slid those forks into the cargo hold of the Fat Cat and pulled out the pump on the pallet. I forget how many thousand s of pounds it was. Well, ok then. Thank you very much, we appreciate the business very much. Now, it was on to the truck stop and some recuperation time.

As I approached the truck stop in Denham Springs, Louisiana, I passed the largest Bass Pro Shop known to man. It had a huge lake around it, with a restaurant and more square footage than you could possibly wander around in your lifetime. There were interesting Cajun establishments surrounding the stop itself. This wasn’t a truck stop, but a paradise! Those who know me well know that Cajun food makes me crazy. All that rich sauce based French cooking causes me to resemble a hungry wolf. My nose grows long and the tongue kind of flaps out one side. Henry's Louisiana Grill in Acworth, Georgia back home is my absolute favorite restaurant. The Atlanta Constitution-Journal rated his "Ooooh La La" dish one of the ten best in Atlanta worth driving fifty miles for. When I entered the building and made my way back to the driver’s lounge, all the truckers were smiling and heaping praise on what this little corner of the world had to offer and plotting where they would visit first. This atmosphere was a whole lot different than the usual grousing that goes on. One driver turned off his phone and stated “I don’t want my company to know where I am...” I am now invisable, he proudly announced.

I got myself cleaned up and partook in a little snack and was dreaming about the Cajun cuisine scene, when my phone went off with Kim from the company on the other end. Kim is the regional fleet director over a long list of dispatchers and it usually means business when she calls. She wanted to know if I got the opportunity going to Cincinnati and what I would do it for. Ooops, I had forgotten to switch the onboard computer over to my phone when I left the truck. Kim described the opportunity and I responded with a figure higher than the stated rate. Kim countered with a figure higher than mine! At this point, she had me a little confused, but I just kind of went with it. We’re not talking pennies higher, but a substantial dollar more. THAT has never happened before! Maybe all those voodoo pins I had imagined when I pulled into town were actually good luck charms. I don’t know, life is kind of quirky at times. I just agreed and said “I’ll take it!” Now, there would be no Bass Pro Shop, Cajunfest Feast on a long groaning board or prolonged exposure to Vernal Equinox sunshine. This mule team is heading right back up the same road I came down. Before this week would be completed, I would feel like an Etch-A- Sketch being run back and forth by a first grader. Now, I really think the object of this whole trip out has changed to “how many times can we run through Cincinnati?” I think I had enough practice a long time ago on a Friday night with the fellas trying to see how many times we could go around the Somerville Traffic Circle in my youthful home area. But, I don’t think there’s a Mr. Bee’s in Cinci or a circle. If there was, I'd probably be going around it. Put the map away and turn the GPS off, the Fat Cat knows where she’s going.