I grew up with the owner, his dad owned it, his son runs it now. 46 years. Started out in the union, then we went non union. I was in the union ten years, don’t know if I’m vested for a pension, don’t have the patience for that kind of thing. When I retired, he gave me ten thousand and asked me if that was fair. I said a thousand for each of the 46 years would be fair. He said, “That ain’t happenin,’” and we laughed.

I did pick up extra money picking up cars for him from down in California on the weekends and playing Santa for his kids at Christmas. I was the senior driver, had my own truck for 20 years; only I drove it, had my own electric jack, with a charger. I cleaned my own reefer if need be and even cleaned some produce cases for some good customers on grand openings. It was a 14 speed, a five, a four and a five, three sticks. I had driven one with 20 gears. If you missed a gear you were fucked, had to pull over.

Worked with this one dude who was younger, who said he couldn’t drive a stick, that he had to drive an automatic. I didn’t believe it—that’s not even a truck driver! So he shows me his license and sure enough it said automatic only. What the fuck!

I generally had the run into eastern Oregon over Mount Hood or up into the Blues above Yakima in Washington. Doing in town runs instead of over the road, gets you stuck in rush hour traffic and subject to all of these stupid fuckers in their skinny jeans who can’t drive. [1] I’d back haul potatoes, generally. Going over that mountain, most of the year, I’d have to throw chains on the tires. In and out of a semi, in long pants, you cut your legs and balls up and ruin those pants quick. So I have always worn cargo shorts all year round.

That is a twelve percent grade coming down to The Dalles for 20 miles. [2] The kid that drove with me would never drive that, would go back into the sleeper. They don’t even clean up the wrecked trucks whose brakes gave out on them—you could see them down there and that kid couldn’t take that. I had my brakes checked at the shop every day. They took care of my truck. I’d pick up presents for the order pullers too, make sure they did me right, no three watermelon bins piled up and ready to collapse.

Now, going up into Washington, up I-Five, where our girls go to get their Indian cigarettes for half of way too much a carton, is that Weigh Station.

[State Police, Federal?]

That is DOT: Department Of Transportation; Federal, fucking pricks! Now, I don’t wanna die. My paperwork is right, take no drugs or shit to keep awake, have my brakes right and don’t run overweight. Really, with produce, as opposed to dry grocery, its easier to stay underweight. Truck took eighteen pallets. I could pinwheel them and get twenty in.

I get pulled over for a full check up in Washington. There are twenty trucks ahead of me. These fuckers are pulling over everybody and piss testing them. I told him, “I’m underweight, just got my brakes done,” and he’s like, “Are you refusing to piss?” as he gives me this bottle.

These other twenty guys are refusing to piss and are being taken out of service for ten hours. I told him, after he does the entire check, “I’ll piss, but I really have to piss, so you’ll have to give me a bigger bottle than that. This is my truck and I don’t want to fuck up the interior.”

He says, “Fuck you, get out of here.”

“Hey, could I use your bathroom first—i really have to piss?”

“Go, fucking leave,” he says. So I really have to piss when I get to Aberdeen.

That’s the DOT deal. They can ground you any time. In Portland, they have a big facility, a building you drive your truck into and has a cut out underneath of this so these fuckers can walk under your truck with flashlights and do it right.

The point is, with my regular routs going over The Blues, my brakes were always on and I used my Jake Brakes a lot—loud as shit. You don’t use them in built up areas.

[Are the Blues part of the Cascades? Is Mount Adams, west of Yakima, part of The Blues or Cascades?]

They are kind of foothills, I don’t think a range on their own, a finger of The Cascades, I bet. They do that wind farming up there and it is scary how much worse a twelve percent grade is than a ten percent grade when you’re hauling weight.

[Are all DOT officials pricks?]

Does a hard dick want pussy?

[laughter]

But they aren’t the only pricks out there. You get them in stores and back at the yard too… That’s another story. Come on, brother. Let’s break open that Blackberry [Royal] Crown [Canadian whiskey].

…

Notes

-1. The Land Lady has been buying me new pants. Pants cut for men of low body weight these days, seem to be cut for men with vaginas, not masculine genitals. The zipper is up on the pelvis. Unless you have a foot long dick to reel out, you have to pull down your pants to use the urinal! We had been discussing this, the consequent wearing of his cargo shorts sparking the conversation about going over The Blues.

-2. The Dalles is a small city on the Oregon side of the Columbia River, spanned by a bridge to Washington.