Driven

Have you ever felt like you were on a never ending treadmill? Constantly dropping one foot in front of the other, but never really gaining any ground? Or staring into that enticing view out the front windshield that never seems to get any closer? It’s always just hanging right there in front of you while time slowly ticks away. That’s the way it feels some days when I’m looking through the windshield of this old Kenworth, staring at the long, lonely stretch of blacktop snaking out before me. It gives the illusion that the horizon is just one more mile down the road. And as the sun begins to slip down toward that horizon each lonely night, it slowly slips a little further away, always just out of reach until it slides right off the edge of the earth, leaving me all alone and in the darkness once more with nothing more than the green glow of the dash lights to keep me company.

It’s during these dark, lonely hours of the night when I’m traveling westbound toward San Diego and nearing my next destination that I don’t feel any real need or reason to pull over, despite what my log book is telling me. My thoughts drift back over my life and all the decisions I’ve made that have led me to this point and time. Sometimes, I can feel her sitting in the seat next to me, her beautiful smile lighting up the night like a beacon, showing me the way.

And then other times, all I feel is the empty solitude of this cab accented by the steady thrum of 18 wheels hammering out their forlorn tune comprised of a single, solitary note.

This is one of those dreary nights where my destination is just beyond the reach of a legal log book and the maximum hours of driving in one stretch. And though my eyes are heavy, traffic is light, and before long, I will be off the black snake and in the spider web of surface roads where there is virtually no chance of being stopped or checked by the long arm of the scale master. The risk is worth the gamble and I push on, the very real risk of getting a ticket increasing my awareness of both what’s on the road around me and what’s parked alongside it.

Not for the first time, I reach my exit without incident or ticket and slide into the Jake brake to ease the heavily loaded truck down the off-ramp. Pulling up to the stop sign, I glance toward the truck stop just off to my left, the bright display of signs trying their damnedest to lure fellow truckers onto their lot. And while a hot shower is very appealing, I’m not in need of food or fuel, opting instead to take the road leading to the right and following the signs and arrows that indicate the truck route through town. The street is lined with small businesses, their livelihoods depending on the endless asphalt ribbon that I’ve just left behind. It’s early morning and most of them are still as dark as night with only the street lights illuminating their empty parking lots. More than a few have large picture windows facing the street and I watch my reflection silently gliding past.

The business I’m heading towards is one that I’ve delivered freight to many times in the past and I know the way in and out like the back of my hand. As I roll up on the gated entrance to the freight yard, I notice the sky is just beginning to grow lighter beyond the reach of the Sulphur yard lights. No one is manning the open gate and I glide on in trailing a cloud of dust as I bounce up the slight angle to the higher level of the several acres of hard pack. There is a long, single level concrete building running along the right side of the lot for several hundred feet. It was once painted yellow but over time has faded to a pukey beige with a loading dock running along its length. This is the back side of the warehouse and the front of the building, where the offices are located, faces out onto a main street with ample parking for its employees.

Knowing the routine, I swing wide left and then ease my trailer back into to an open slot on the loading dock between two other rigs currently being offloaded. Shutting down the big diesel, I grab the bill of lading for this load and jump down to the gravel surface. Before I can turn and shut my door, Bob, the dock foreman is striding purposefully along the loading platform toward me, a big smile on his cherubic face. He’s an easy-going guy that greets every driver with a welcoming demeanor and an offer of joining him for a cup of coffee and a Danish, a habit that has placed a lot of weight on his balding, five-foot seven-inch frame over the years.

Bob, I say, returning his smile.

I just put a fresh pot on, Driver, he calls down to me before turning back toward the open doors. Bring your paperwork and meet me inside.

Strolling along the hard packed dirt toward the nearest set of steel steps leading up to the loading platform, I take note of the other rigs lined up. It surprises me that I don’t recognize any of the other independents.

After climbing the steel grated steps, I hurry through the warehouse, dodging the forklifts running back and forth from the platform, carrying their loads into the deeper reaches of the building where they are constantly being organized according to outgoing needs.

Entering Bob’s office, I hone in on the paper cup of coffee that he’s poured for me and with a nod of thanks, take a long sip, savoring the thick black liquid. Bob knows how to make coffee, even if the Danishes are a tad stale.

How was your run? Bob asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

Too damned long, I reply, setting the cup down to cool and pushing the paperwork toward him as I drop onto the hard metal chair. Thanks for the Joe.

No problem. By the way, the employee’s lounge is pretty quiet right now if you want to take advantage of it while they get your trailer offloaded, he offers, knowing I’m one of the few truckers that will take advantage of every opportunity I get to work out and stay in shape. Long hours on the road can do a lot of harm to a human body, and while I’m not vain, I don’t want to look like the typical three-hundred pound mass of flabby flesh either.

The only time Bob doesn’t offer the use of the employee’s facilities is if I show up between shifts and there are a lot of employees taking advantage of them before heading home or to the local watering hole or wherever they go when they get off work.

I appreciate that, Bob, I reply, rising stiffly back to my feet while gripping the paper cup.

Give the guys about half an hour and I’ll have your paperwork done by then too.

Thanks, I reply, heading back toward my rig to collect my ditty bag with workout clothes and shaving kit.

After a hard run through the weights and then a few minutes at high speed on the treadmill, I take a nice hot shower while simultaneously running a razor over my jaw. When I return to Bob’s office, the sun is shining outside and I feel like a new man, albeit with a ravenous appetite and still wearing my driving apparel, a pair of faded jeans, steel-toed leather upper boots, and a white tee that fits snug. At this point, even his stale rolls are beginning to look good.

Everything’s in order, he says cheerfully, looking up at me with his usual smile. Then a dark cloud passes quickly across his countenance, disappearing so fast that I wonder if it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, when he turns on the smile again and says, I’m off in another fifteen minutes, would you care to join me for some breakfast? There’s a little diner just up the street where we can walk to, if you’re interested.

Although Bob and I have known each other for some years now, we’d never socialized outside of the warehouse, and his offer has me looking at him anew.

Before I can answer, he adds, You can leave your rig where it’s at for now. Won’t be in anyone’s way and we won’t be gone that long.

Sure, Bob, I reply, acting like the offer is nothing out of the ordinary, even though it has me curious.

I’ll meet you out by your truck in a few minutes, he says, giving me the feeling that I’m suddenly being dismissed.

In less than five minute’s time, Bob comes waddling along the loading platform before stepping gingerly down the raised steel steps to the hardpack. Seeing him approaching, I toss my gear in the sleeper of my rig and climb down, locking the cab door behind me. By the time Bob reaches the rig, his face is glistening in sweat and he’s breathing as though he’s just run a hundred yard dash. It’s relatively warm here in the southern reaches of California despite the early morning and his thin cotton shirt is showing sweat dampened armpits.

You okay, Bob? I ask of him, slightly concerned that a couple of block’s walk to a restaurant is going to prove too much for the poor man.

Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.

Would you rather drive? I ask, not sure if he even drives to work and if not, what we can drive since taking my rig is out of the question. Unless this restaurant that he suggested we walk to has a big parking lot.

No, he snaps, giving me a nervous glance before regaining his composure. I mean, I need the exercise. We’ll walk.

Sure, no problem, Bob, I reply, a feeling of unease raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

Without another word, Bob turns and sets off toward the gate that I came in through. Shaking off the unease, I quickly overtake him and we continue on in silence.

It’s just up the next block, he wheezes, pointing up a side street that’s posted closed to heavy truck traffic.

Nodding toward the sign, I remark, That’s probably why I’ve never heard of the place.

His words coming in spurts between breaths, he says, Yeah...not many…of the drivers...know about...this place.

When we reach the door, he pauses with a hand pressed against the doorjamb for a long moment to catch his breath before pulling the door open and leading the way inside. Our senses are immediately assaulted by a blast of warm moist air redolent with the smell of bacon and coffee. It’s just a little mom and pop place that serves breakfast and lunches, both seated and to-go, and closes at 3: PM, according to the sign on the door. There’s an older gentleman in whites with a soiled chef’s hat manning a large grill in the kitchen and an older lady in a too short pink skirt with a pink matching blouse, white tennis shoes, and a ball of dishwater colored hair tied up in a net on her head working her way from table to table with a carafe in each hand, pausing only long enough to refill white porcelain mugs being pushed toward her by a good turnout of patrons. Behind the counter is a younger version of the woman wearing a matching outfit, but filling it out in a much more appealing way.

Glancing in our direction, the older woman calls out with a genuine smile, Morning, Bob. Special for you and your handsome friend there?

Yes, Gladys, Bob replies, his trademark smile firmly back in place, though he’s still wheezing slightly from the walk. Morning Sally, Mike, he continues, addressing the young girl and the man in the kitchen as I follow him along the length of the lunch counter to a booth near the back of the place. It appears that he wants some privacy, as we’ve passed several empty booths.

Before we even get settled into our seat, Gladys, our waitress, is filling Bob’s upturned mug. Turning toward me while I flip my mug up to match suit, she smiles and asks, Regular or unleaded?

Regular, please, I reply, returning her smile.

While she pours a thick black liquid into my mug, she gives me a less than subtle eyeing over, asking Bob, So who’s this fine specimen of a man with you this morning, Bob?

Having caught his breath, Bob smiles while replying, Don’t let Mike hear you asking that, Gladys. We’d rather our breakfast not be spit on or burnt, if it’s all the same.

Mike ain’t got a jealous bone in his body. Do you Mike? she adds, raising her voice so the entire patronage in the restaurant can hear her.

Are you harassing the customers again, Gladys, Mike retorts loudly from the kitchen.

Glancing in the direction of the counter, I notice Sally working her way along the Formica top with matching carafes, her head shaking in disbelief at Gladys’s harmless flirting.

With my broad shoulders, sharp blue eyes, square jaw, and standing at over six-feet, two-inches, I’ve gotten quite used to the opposite sex checking me out. But that doesn’t mean I’ve ever let it go to my head.

When Gladys turns back toward the counter, I give Bob a friendly grin and casually ask him how the world’s been treating him. It’s a weak attempt at small talk, but I suddenly realize that I don’t really know the man sitting across the table from me. I don’t even know whether he’s married or not, because not all men that are married wear a wedding band. And if he is and has a family, he’s never mentioned them in any of the many conversations we’ve had in his office.

As he watches Gladys’s backside, the smile slowly leaves his face to be replaced by one of uncertainty, as if he’s suddenly not sure that asking me to have breakfast with him was such a good idea after all. After a moment of silence, he looks down into his mug like someone reading tea leaves before making up his mind and says, Not so good, I’m afraid.

Though we’re not really close friends, I feel obligated to offer, Anything I can do to help?

He continues studying his mug of coffee in silence, when Gladys suddenly returns, two large plates balanced on her left hand along with the carafe of regular grasped in her right. Bob’s smile is instantly back in place as he looks up at her and sits back to make room.

Here you go guys, she says, placing a plate in front of each of us before topping up my mug of coffee. You need anything else, she adds, giving me an over-the-top wink, you just yell.

Thanks, Gladys. This should be all for now, Bob replies, barely glancing at his food.

Yes, it looks delicious, Gladys, I add, studying the heaping plate of nicely browned hashbrowns and several sticks of bacon with a couple of pancakes on the side.

Enjoy, she says, moving on to the next occupied table where there’s a young couple that look like they just spent a rambunctious night together and are now trying to figure out where they go from there.

Oh, to be young again, I silently yearn, knowing that at just shy of forty, I have a long way to go to old age. But how many things would I have done differently if given the chance to go back and start over? Only the choices that would have kept her by my side.

Poking silently at his plate of food, Bob drags me out of my reverie with a barely audible voice, I know you’re wondering why I invited you to breakfast this morning. Before I can deny my curiosity, he looks up and with a wave of his hand, continues, It’s not like we’re close buds or anything.

Okay, you got me, I concede, my appetite taking a nosedive. Setting my fork aside, I pick up my mug of coffee and before putting it against my lips, add with an attempt at levity, I’m dying of curiosity over here.

His voice barely more than a whisper, he looks around nervously before continuing without acknowledging my comment. I don’t really have any friends. Most of the guys that work the dock see me as the paper pusher while they’re the muscle. And because I work graveyard and don’t have a lot of business degrees and such plastered all over my walls, management just sees me as the night grunt. So long as there aren’t any problems, they don’t want to know me. My neighbors all work during the day when I’m at home, so it’s not like I ever see anyone when I’m not at work.

I’m sure it’s not that bad, Bob, I gently commiserate, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the direction our conversation is going. If he’s looking for a friend, his approach definitely explains why he doesn’t have any. I’m sure there are lots of people that like your company. I pause for a long moment, studying him in a new light as he pushes a mound of hashbrowns around his plate with his fork. It can’t be all that bad, Bob. Maybe you just need to put yourself out there. Join a gym. They’re open all hours day and night. Or find a girlfriend, I tease, trying to shake off the tension growing between us.

Looking up, he glances around before continuing, as if he’s afraid someone might be eavesdropping. You don’t understand.

Then why don’t you explain it to me, I pressure him, quickly growing impatient, my appetite now long gone. A stiff drink is sounding more appealing by the second.

While I impatiently wait for Bob to explain, I glance around the place, trying to catch another glimpse of the young waitress. Though she’s too young for me, she’s still easy on the eyes and a nice distraction from this conversation with Bob.

Two

About 2 weeks ago, just before I was heading home after a slow night on the dock, a guy in a suit approached me, Bob began, all the while glancing furtively around the restaurant as if expecting someone or something to come crashing down on him. He licks his lips nervously and after swallowing a breath, continues, He told me he had his own dispatch company and had heard about me. He was looking to recruit only the best, people that he could count on, he said. Of course, I was flattered by this talk and agreed to have coffee with him and you know, hear him out and see what he was offering. You and I both know there isn’t any loyalty at the place I’m working now.

Sounds good so far, I nod, urging him to continue. Headhunters aren’t anything new to the trucking industry.

No, they’re not, he hesitantly agrees. Then, after studying his coffee mug for a long moment, says, Neither is running contraband.

Is that what this is about? He wants you to slip illegal loads onto unsuspecting drivers? I ask, my attention fully on him now.

Not quite, he mumbles, unable to look me in the eye. Well, yeah, kind of.

Then why don’t you tell me what this is about, Bob? I firmly insist, my grip tightening around my mug. Running any kind of contraband can be a career ender for a truck driver, not to mention downright dangerous depending on the contraband and the customer. And then there is always the possibility of jail time. What kind of money did they offer you and what exactly is the contraband? I ask, growing more impatient and angrier with each passing second of his hesitation.

They didn’t exactly offer money, he stutters, his voice barely more than a whisper as a sheen of sweat breaks out above his upper lip. Actually, that’s not quite true. They offered money, but they offered something else too. He hesitates, taking a deep breath before adding, You’re right about the rest, though. They do want me to slip the cargo into trailers without the driver’s knowledge. Just another anonymous piece of freight.

So why are you telling me about it? Why didn’t you just give me a load and send me on my merry way, none the wiser?

I thought about it, he starts, and then takes a nervous breath while glancing furtively around the restaurant again. Now I’m wondering if he’s looking for cops or someone else.

Cutting him off before he can continue, I ask, How many trailers have you already contaminated without the driver’s knowledge? And just what the hell kind of contra are we talking about here? Drugs, cigarettes? I pause to take a deep breath, giving him my full attention before growling at him, I sure hope they’re making it worth your while, Bob.

It’s not that simple, he stutters, taking a quick sip of his cold coffee to wet his throat before continuing.

Then explain it to me, Bob. Because right now, I’m real close to just calling the cops and walking out of here, I growl, knowing full well I’d never call the cops without first trying to help him out, even though he isn’t exactly a close bud,

Yet, he doesn’t know that, and the thought of being turned over to the cops sends him into a panic.

Please, Driver, you can’t do that, he grovels, almost on the point of tears when the young waitress stops by the table with a pot of coffee and a smile, her eyes on me as if Bob isn’t even sitting across the table from me.

Warm up? she asks with a flirtatious smile and a subtle wave of her head to keep the hair off her forehead.

Thanks, I reply, giving her a wink to let her know that what she has isn’t being lost on me. I am still a man, after all.

As she walks away, I can’t help but notice the exaggerated swing in her hips and the bounce in her step. With my ego freshly stroked, I pull my eyes away from her curves and stare hard at Bob. Out with it, I growl menacingly.

He begins hesitantly, but I can tell by his defeated demeanor he’s about to spill everything.

It began like any other business introduction. Or at least the way I imagined a business introduction to go. Working the graveyard shift, I don’t really get a lot of experience in that. He sips at his recently warmed coffee, relaxing slightly now that he’s decided to commit to unloading some of his burden on another person. He gave me his card and ask for my contact information, which I assumed was normal if we were going to be doing business.

Didn’t it make you wonder why someone would come to you to discuss business instead of going through the front office during regular business hours?

I wondered at first. I was even going to tell him that he needed to talk with the people up front. But he seemed to know exactly what he needed and he made me feel like I was more apt to understand him then the shirts in the front office. He explained how he used to drive a truck before getting into dispatch and that dispatch was just a stepping stone into bigger things and that he could do the same for me. Bob pauses to take another sip from his mug before continuing, no longer looking nervously around the restaurant. He pulled out a large wad of bills and handed the entire wad to me while explaining that it would be my retainer, just like an attorney would get. When I balked, he went on to tell me that in exchange they would expect their freight to get preferential treatment and that I might get calls anytime of the day or night. Nothing that any other consignor wouldn’t want; they were just willing to pay extra to get it.

How much? I ask, shaking my head in frustration that he could be so naïve.

Five grand. Before I can say anything, he quickly adds, The first time he came by. Then he came by again last night, just before you showed up.

I didn’t need to ask. They were happy with his prior two weeks of service and were officially putting him on their payroll for 10 G’s a month. I can only imagine how much freight of theirs he’d already moved. It had to be substantial.

What’s the cargo?

Counterfeit prescription drugs, I think.

You think? I growl, suddenly angry with him again.

I didn’t ask, but I peeked under the shrink wrap on one of the pallets and it looked like cases of empty pill bottles on top of cartons full of black plastic bags full of small pills. Before I can press him, he says, I don’t know what kind of pills. I could just feel them through the black plastic. The pallets weigh about a hundred pounds each, so I’m thinking they don’t need any special equipment to unload them when they reach their destinations.

Turning to look out the window, I suddenly find myself full of questions. But I need to think this through before continuing. This is obviously a large operation and Bob is just one small cog in the larger network. Disrupting Bob’s little piece of the pie might only bring down a butt load of pain on him, and possibly me if I get involved. Before we can do anything, I need to learn more about the entire operation. Especially, who the players are and how widespread the operation is. But why am I even thinking like this? It’s not like I’m a cop or anything.

How many of these pallets have you moved and how do you get the ladings if they’re not coming through the front office?

A single truck drops off a secure trailer and leaves it at the end of the dock where it won’t be in anyone’s way. No one gives it a second look, as we’ve got haulers leaving their trailers on our property all the time while they use their rigs like personal cars until they have another load to haul. He pauses, glancing out the window as if having second thoughts about sharing his burden with me.

After taking a deep sigh, he continues. "The trailer holds close to forty of these pallets, each securely wrapped with plastic banding material and shrink wrap. I receive texts with lading instructions that I print out, affix to the next pallet in line, and make sure it gets put on the next