I emailed my friend Greg a while back and then he replied to the question I asked. It was a question I had and since he was Truck Driver by trade, he could give me a reliable answer. It has to do with the present book I’m working on and the antagonist used to be a truck driver. I needed to know how to go about getting information through data bases, either through a state’s DMV or the Department of Transportation, or both.
Anyway, he wrote back the answer to my question and told me to call him at the number he had, wondering if I had his knew number. Well, I had to go into my contacts list and confirm if I had that new number, which I did. I was trying to edit the number as the primary default, when I accidentally pressed the number, automatically placing the call. I immediately hung up. Not more than a minute later my phone rings his personal ring tone, and his name appeared.
“Hey there Greg,” I began and we started at the place we left off in the email confirming that I should have the answers I needed through a clearing house the Department of Transportation provided for truck drivers nationwide. We then talked politics, both of us being respectful of our opinions since we are miles away on certain subjects yet think alike on others.
“You know you and I ought to run for President and Vice-President,” he told me half seriously. “After all you know what half the people want and I know what the other half want. We could put all together and get stuff done that the politicians just talk about doing.”
“It was done once,” I reminded him of the Presidency of Adams and Jefferson, who was his vice president from 1797 through 1801. “They ended up hating each other because their views on everything from trading with England and France to the subject of slavery turned them against each other. It was a disaster.”
We then discussed driving, which he of course has a very personal opinion on because that is his profession. At the time I talked with him he was hauling linseed oil from Minnesota to California. He was just outside Indianapolis.
“I had one guy flying between these three truckers. He was in some crazy hurry to get somewhere and all these trucks were in his way. He jetted between two, passed another, went clear across three lanes of traffic, bounced off another truck’s rear trailer tires and damn near went off the highway. He somehow recovered and passed him and just kept flying. I turned on my dash camera on my rig just for the entertainment value.” We laughed at that.
“Down in Southern Idaho on the I-84 between Twin Falls and Wendall, I saw these truckers taking turns passing one another. I held back and just hoped those guys weren’t in a road rage mood. The last thing I wanted was to get in the middle of that craziness,” I told him.
“When crap like that happens, I just stomp on the throttle and go pass them all. I don’t have time for that nonsense. You were right to stay back it sounds like that was exactly what was going on.”
The conversations turned why I bought a camper rather than a trailer or fifth wheel. “I’ll have to buy me a one ton dually if that happen because I intend to get a big fifty-footer and just live in it,” he said.
“I have issues with backing up trailers. If I’m not rushed and think about what I need to do, I can do it just fine, but my worry with buying a travel trailer is worrying about backing into another RV.”
“That’s when you use someone to guide you back.”
“Well, that’s why I thought it best for my sanity and Steph’s temperament to just get a camper. Now she’s talking about a motor coach.”
“Those are as much as a house, Jerry.”
“I know,” I agreed. “You ready to go back to West Richland and climb up the cross on top of Flat Top?” He asked me with a chuckle.
“Not really, I don’t think I could climb that even if I wanted to.”
“Well, I know I couldn’t. There’s no thinking about it,” he laughed. “How did we do it without falling off that thing and ending up dead at the bottom of that hill?”
“We were too stoned to care I guess.” Flat Top Hill is in the center of West Richland, the town I grew up at from 1971 until I embarked on my own in the early 80s. On top of the hill stood a cross to celebrate the Resurrection on Sunrise Easter Service. It’s made of I-beams and fabricated by a local Fabrication company there. It’s around six or so feet tall with the lateral beams around four feet up. So, when we were both in our 20s it was no problem hoisting ourselves onto the cross and smoke a joint and watched the traffic and street lights below on that mid-April evening back in 1981.
We talked a good hour before my belly began screaming that it was dinner time. “I got to go feed myself,” I told him.
“Yeah, I’m starting to get hungry too, but I’m gonna wait until I get past Indianapolis. I’ll talk with you.
“Later, Love you bro, bye.”