by Mike Rank
| January 18, 2002
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Here I am, waiting for my truck.
Still waiting.
and waiting.
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Buy books to help pass the time.
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I dropped it off on Friday, December 21st at a dingy office in Long Beach
and was greeted by an elderly man who looked and sounded like Red Fox.
"It's $1050 to ship it" he informed me while sipping on a Miller Lite at
9am. "You can make the check out to 'Auto Driveaway' and it will be there in
a few weeks, or you can make it out to me and it'll be there in three
days!". This was followed by a series of cheers and high fives exchanged
with two other men in the room while the pasty faced, bee-hive hairdoed
receptionist just shook her head in disapproval. I accompanied the
Pillsbury Dough-Driver out to inspect my truck, nodding intently as he
explained his philosophy on being a "professional" driver:
"I'm not going to drive any car more than five hundred miles, especially if
it involves going into some place with snow. Sure, I can drive to Chicago
and make $250. Hell, you could give me a car tonight and I could be there
supper tomorrow. But I'll be damned if I'll do it this time of year. If I
get stuck in a snow storm, who knows how long it's going to take me to get
back. They don't pay me to stay in hotels, so it's all coming out of my
pocket. A black man is not designed to spend a week of my life freezing his
ass off in a bus station, waiting for the roads to clear! Ricky got stuck
in a blizzard in Wyoming last year...or was it Wisconsin? Anyway, that fool
drove straight into a snow storm and ended up staying a week in a motel 6.
Between the boozing and the hookers, that trip cost him over $500! Damn
near lost is wife over that one!"
They promised to call me next week to confirm an "estimated" drop-off date.
They never called. Given it being the holidays and I was busy readjusting
my life, I figure I'd cut them some slack. I waited until January 2nd, 13
days later, to call the company and ask when I might expect my truck. Ol'
Fox gave me the 1-800 number for the company they had contracted to ship the
car. After calling this number and leaving messages for three days, I
finally managed to get in touch with Tricia, who explained the big rig
shipping my truck had broken down in Kansas and was waiting to be fixed. In
the back ground, I could hear children yelling "Mommy, can we have Macaroni
and hot dogs now?"
On the 7th, the truck was still broken. They fixed it on the 8th, but it
broke down again on the 9th. They weren't sure where the hell it was on the
10th, but on the 11th they found it and assured me it would be arriving in
Wooster, Massachusetts during the weekend and they would call me to
schedule. They didn't. On the 13th I called & they assured me they would
deliver on the 14th, the called the next day to say it would be there on the
15th. Instead of a truck, I received the phone number for "Ed". He
promised me he'd have it to me before lunch the next day.
Apparently, Ed eats lunch very late. He called about 1PM to get directions
and said they should be delivering the truck around 5 or 6. About 7:30 I
called and was told they should be arriving at 8:30. At 8:45 the call
arrived. On the other end was a confused, timid soul who explained " I am
at 'Stop and Shop' on Mystzylpllx street and do not know the way in which I
am to go and I so sorry my English is so very bad!" I wasn't worried about
the poor grammar as I was that 1) There are seven "Stop and Shop" locations
within a mile of my home and 2) I had never heard of Mystzylpllx street. We
went around in circles for several minutes until he yelled "Hold the
minute...hold the minute!". There was a momentary silence before the clerk
at the store came on the line and asked "Dude, where are you? This guy's
trying to find you." I gave him the most basic directions and the clerk
replied "Dude, I told him that the last two times he was here and he just
keeps coming back."
I went outside and stood in the street, waiting for the driver. I wasn't
there for more than five minutes when a taxi pulled up, mistaking me for the
woman a block away who had called for him and was currently standing on the
sidewalk waving and yelling at him. Rolling down his window, he yelled
"You! You call the cab, you jump in now!" I argued with him for several
minutes before he realized his error and drove off, just in time to leave me
standing suspiciously in the middle of the street as a police cruiser came
by. The officer made a quick U-turn and came back to question my seemingly
criminal activity. He took off just as the transport came lumbering down
the street like a drunken Hobo with a six cylinder, full-size, shortbed
tumor growing on his hunched back.
I thought the ordeal was over, but it only got worse. To get my truck off
the transport, they had to 1) Loosen the chains that held the truck down, 2)
Use the hydraulic lift to tilt the platform at a 45ish degree angle and 3)
Drive the truck off of the ramp onto the sweet, precious pavement.
Loosening the chains was an ordeal for the driver and his copilot, who began
screaming at a language I interpreted as being Arabic in nature. Once the
wonder duo performed this feat, Laurel jumped into my truck and started the
engine while Hardy maneuvered the ramp into place. Laurel was unable to
keep the wheels on my truck straight and nearly backed the truck off the
side of the ramp. I fretted nervously for fifteen minutes while Hardy
yelled instructions in towtruckanese at Laurel, who was rocking the truck
forwards and backwards with an epileptic grace.
"Goomada, goombada, goombada......dyanka! Shooba lala Diyanka! Shooba lala
Diyanka! Goombada lala boola shooba diyanka!" I listened to the yelling
while every unique phrase would trigger the brake lights or reverse lights
as Laurel carefully positioned the truck closer to the ground. Once he
pulled off onto the asphalt, I breathed a sigh of relief. Laurel pulled to
the curb and jumped out of the cab, thrusting papers in my face declaring
"You sign now!". I told him I wanted to check the truck out first and
proceeded to check the odometer before circling the truck several times.
Chunks of ice had formed on the hood, the bed was filled with snow and there
were numerous smudges on the exterior, but my truck had made it home.
I signed the release form on the hood of the truck and asked if I needed to
date it. Laurel stared at me blankly, mouth open and eyebrows askew. I
repeated myself, speaking slowly and loudly so that he could understand me.
"DATE! DO YOU WANT ME TO DATE IT?"
He stepped back, hung his head and turned his gaze to the ground, visibly
shaken. Stammering, he answered " No Date. I am married man."
I stared at him for a moment, watching him grab his left arm with his right
hand and shift nervously on his feet while staring at an invisible spot on
the street. I handed him the papers. He grabbed them, tore off my copy and
handed it to me, taking a brief moment to look me in the eye. He ran to the
cab of their truck and sped off to return home to his wife, who would
undoubtedly be told an exaggerated tale. As I jumped in the cab of my truck
to pull it into my parking space, it occurred to me I should have winked at
him or rubbed my hand against his. Maybe next time.
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