JEFF IS IN MY SHOW

"As a little childe riding behind his father, sayde simply unto him, Father, when you are dead, I shal ride in the Saddle." [Stefano Guazzo: Civile Conversation III.xliii]

My kid is in my business. He's in my show. Not that I want him in it. I don't. I don't think the trucking business is the greatest business to be in right now. Not only do I have to deal with volatile fuel prices, a driver shortage, a bad public image, stifling rules and regulations, deregulation, cheap rates, bad roads, bad weather, breakdowns, escalating insurance costs, accidents, lawsuits, and the DOT; since September 11th the media has lumped trucks in with planes, boats, hazardous materials, biochemicals, and water as possible weapons of mass destruction. Hijack a truck, load it up with explosives or germs, put some whacko terrorist martyr behind the wheel, and point the vehicle in the direction of Yankee Stadium on a Sunday afternoon when the Yanks are at home against the Red Sox. You want your kid to own that truck?
But even if I don't know want my kid in my show, he wants to come on board because, as he readily admits, he doesn't have many alternatives. You see, Jeff didn't quite make it through Drexel University in Philadelphia. He didn't even know what he was when he decided college wasn't for him. True story:
"Jeff," I said. "Let me ask you something."
"Go ahead," Jeff answered.
"Be honest with me," I said.
"I will," he said.
"Mom and I want to start planning for our retirement. And what you do...what you are...makes a difference in our plans."
"Your point being," said Jeff.
"My point is this," I answered. "And be honest with me!"
"I will!" said Jeff.
"Tell me," I said. "Are you a sophmore or a junior?" I asked.
"I don't know."
Jeff was gone from Drexel shortly after this conversation. But that doesn't mean he is ignorant. Drexel is a good school and he is a bad student. They don't mix. Like he told us one Sunday afternoon at a family dinner, "I quit studying when I was in third grade." I believe him! And that means he'll fit in perfectly with dad and his crew because most of us quit studying when we hit grade three. I wasn't a good student; it's just that I was better at hiding it than Jeff. Or Jeff is more honest than me. If I were a good student I wouldn't be in the trucking business spending $150,000 on a tractor and trailer to make $50 a day. If I were a good student I would be doing three or four root canals a day at $1250 a pop.
But, although I don't think it's a good idea, I do know Jeff will fit in perfectly. He's a great kid, easy to like, gets along with people, and a kid who will go to bat for his employees when necessary. This he gets from his mother. He's also smart (He really is.), pugnacious, gritty, and a little wry with some con in him. Oh yeah, he's got some mettle too. It takes cojones to deadpan, "I don't know," when I have plunked down 75 grand for three years of Cs, Ds, and Fs.
In short, he's got a little bit of his old man in him too.

The Highway Reporter

HOURS-OF-SERVICE

Here is a synopsis of the old and new Hours-Of-Service rules issued by the U. S. Department of Transportation, Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration and printed on a credit card-sized card by J. J. Keller & Associates, Inc., Neenah, Wisconsin:

Old Hours-Of-Service rules:
1) CMV (Commercial Motor Vehicle) driver may drive 10 hours after 8 hours off-duty.
2) CMV driver may not drive after 15 hours on-duty, following 8 hours off-duty.
3) CMV driver may not drive after 60/70 hours on-duty in 7/8 consecutive days.

New Hours-Of-Service rules:
1) CMV driver may drive 11 hours after 10 hours off-duty.
2) CMV driver may not drive beyond the 14th hour after coming on-duty, following 10 hours off-duty.
3) CMV driver may not drive after 60/70 hours on duty in 7/8 consecutive days.
>A driver may restart a 7/8 consecutive day period after taking 34 or more consecutive hours off-duty.


How To Make It Work

Friday, October 16th and I'm busy with the usual problem: not enough equipment. But I'm taking loads anyway, not realizing I am short a driver because Jimmy just got in from Florida (I mean, he just parked the truck.) and did not want to work the rest of the day. I didn't blame him. He has been gone for six days and he is tired. But Jimmy needs money and I need a driver.
"Hey, Jimmy," I said. "Do you want to deliver a load of apples to Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing?"
Johnstown, New York and Schodack Landing, New York are 88 and 148 miles east and southeast of Canastota, New York, our home base. This is a short haul from Canastota, but when you have three pickups and have to drive 176 miles west of Canastota, it becomes a time-consuming deal. It was a load I knew Jimmy would not want to pick up (I didn't blame him.), but the money was good and I did not want to pass it up. So before Jimmy could answer, I pressed on.
"I'll go get it and you deliver it," I said. It was a load Jimmy could deliver tomorrow morning and be back home tomorrow afternoon.
"Yeah," he said reluctantly. "If you go get it, I'll deliver it." I know my drivers.
"I'll go get it," I said. "It's got three pickups...Empire, Albion, and Bucolo...so I'll go. I'll leave right now."
I didn't want to go because I knew these three pickups were going to be a time-consuming pain in the ass. But I had to cover the order, and I knew Jimmy wouldn't go if he had to pick it up and deliver it. So after getting expense money from Jeff and directions to Bucolo Cold Storage in Burt, New York from Jimmy (I have been to Empire and Albion.) I left the yard at 11:15 am. My pre-trip inspection consisted of asking Jimmy how the truck was running.
"Good," he said. "It's running a little hot, but you'll be all right with it. We can look at it when I get back. It's got water so it's got to be something simple because it doesn't run hot all the time...Something electrical because the fan doesn't kick on at the same temperature all the time."
I was at my first pickup, Empire Fruit Growers in North Rose, New York at 12:28 pm.
"I'm here for Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing," I told the receptionist as she got up from her desk and lumbered over to the sliding glass window separating the lobby where I stood and her office.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Brothers, Schodack Landing," I said.
"Oh," she said. "Let me check."
The receptionist returned to her desk and computer. After tapping a few keys and staring at the screen for an answer to her input, she looked at me. "They haven't sent your order over yet," she said.
"Oh," I said. Damn, I thought. "I guess I'll just wait in my truck until you get the order from the shipper."
When I got back to my truck I called my wife, my sounding board for whenever I am aggravated, frustrated, angry, confused; and need solace, security, pacifying, opinions, and help. "Judy," I said. "I'm at my first pickup and they don't have my orders yet. I'll be lucky if I get home by midnight...and I forgot to bring a magazine!"
"Where are you?" Judy asked.
"North Rose," I said.
"Where's that?" she said. "Near Buffalo?"
"Judy, I just left an hour ago. I'm in a truck, not a plane."
"Then where are you?" she asked.
"Thirty to thirty-five miles northwest of Syracuse."
"When will you be home?"
"I don't know. They don't even have my orders yet. So if I leave here by three, I'll be in Albion by five. If I leave Albion by six, it's almost an hour to Burt, my last pickup. If I leave Burt by seven...seven-thirty, I'll be back in the yard by ten-thirty...eleven. I should be home before midnight."
"Sounds like a long day to me," Judy said. "Especially without your magazine."
My next call was to the produce broker who arranged this load.
"Hold on," Mike said. And after a short pause, "Hello."
"Mike," I said. "I'm at Empire and they don't know what I'm picking up?"
"What are you doing in the truck?" he asked. Mike recognized my voice, even on my cell phone calling from a relatively dead zone. That's a good sign, I thought.
"The guys have been working hard lately, so I've been doing a little driving...to give 'em a break."
"Hold on," he said. And after another short pause, "We'll get the order to them in a few minutes. We've been real busy today."
"I understand, Mike," I said.
"Thanks for calling," he said. "Bye." Mike's all business.
I left North Rose at 2:34 pm and arrived in Albion (about thirty-five miles west of Rochester) at 4:22 pm. Another truck (that I hired) was already here which made me happy because they were usually late to Albion. "They work on their own schedule, not the customer's," Gary, the loader here once told me, hinting that he would be extremely happy if I never used this carrier again. But today the truck was on time. And I had carried some of this truck's apples across from North Rose so it would not have to make all the pickups I was making. This driver's day was going to be easier than mine.
I saw Gary and asked him if he was ready for me. He said he was waiting for another truck that he had to load first, but since I was here he would start on me until the other truck arrived.
"That truck isn't coming from Bucolo's with my stuff, is it?" I asked.
"No, he's not," said Gary.
No such luck, I thought.
Gary finished the truck I hired and had started on me when the truck he was waiting for finally arrived.
"I've got to get him out first," said Gary. "He's going to Boston, then to Portland, and then back to Tewksbury, Mass."
"All tomorrow?" I asked.
"Supposed to," he said. "And he's got to stop at Empire to finish."
"Why didn't they throw his stuff on me?" I asked.
"I don't know," Gary said.
"Have at 'em," I said.
Gary had the Boston/Portland/Tewksbury all in one day truck done and on his way to Empire in a matter of minutes. He had me on my way to Bucolo's Cold Storage at 5:10 pm; and I pulled into their yard at 5:56 pm for the two pallets of apples nobody could bring to Albion for me. After loading the two pallets and a brief conversation (drivers, the cost of fuel, the scarcity of trucks) with Chris, the owner's son, I was on the road again at 6:13 pm. After stopping once for fuel and to eat an apple I stole from Bucolo's, I pulled into our yard at 10:15 pm. That is, I went off duty at 10:15 pm.
That is: eleven hours of service on duty and I'm back to go. There's still 88 more miles to Johnstown, sign in, unload, sign out (This alone can be time-consuming. Have you ever been to Safeway Stores distribution center in Upper Marlboro, Maryland?), another 60 to Schodack Landing, sign in, unload, sign out, and wait for the next dispatch or return to the yard for further instruction. The Wal Mart appointment is for 3:30 am, and then ASAP to Hannaford Bros. And since these are two of the produce broker's most favored customers, I did not want to be late or I'll be out a most favored customer. But, I have a problem. The way I see it, and I think I see it right, the problem is hours of service on duty. I have already been on duty for 11 hours, which means, once I get to Johnstown I have to go off duty for 10 hours before moving on to Schodack Landing. That's not ASAP. And I dreaded making a call to Mike (remember, he's all business) in the middle of the night to tell him I could not deliver his apples to a most important customer for another 10 hours because I was 60 miles away from Schodack Landing and had to go off duty. Oh Lord, find me another most important customer!
BUT..! This was a tandem deal. I was only picking up the load of apples. Jimmy is going to deliver it.
It took Jimmy approximately 11 hours and 45 minutes from the time he left our yard to the time he returned to our yard--to deliver Wal Mart, Johnstown and Hannaford Bros., Schodack Landing and come home. Gosh darn chain store distribution centers hold you up sometimes. And Jimmy's a big man. He likes a nice, big, time-consuming breakfast after he's empty. But we did the delivery legally, which begs the questions...
How many small, fiscally strapped, overly regulated, in need of every load they can get trucking companies have extra employees on the payroll who can spare tired drivers and make every delivery on time and do it legally? Or...
How many small, fiscally strapped, overly regulated, in need of every load they can get trucking companies have a compassionate owner with a CDL...like me?

The Highway Reporter

GUITAR MAN

"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives." Charles Fisher, in Newsweek...
...or...
Sometimes a man just needs a diversion from his work.

When my wife, Judy, told me that one of her cheerleader's mothers was a music instructor, I saw it as a sign from God. And the Sign said to me: my man, the time is now. This is the moment you have been waiting for ever since you heard Neal Sedaka's, Calendar Girl. Ever since you heard Bob Dylan's harmonica. Ever since Bruce revived a long dormant dream...My man, you are going to learn how to play an instrument.
Coincidently (another sign from God?), Judy's cheerleading banquet is this weekend. And since she just finished her fifteenth successful and final year as varsity cheerleading coach at Christian Brothers Academy in Syracuse, New York, this banquet would be her last. I had to go. I had to meet my guru.
"I know why you want to go?" said Judy.
"This is your swan song," I said. "I want to be there." I lied.
"Right!" said Judy. "You want to meet Pat."
"That too!" I said.
Then I called my son, Jeff, who can play the guitar and the piano, to see which instrument he thought was easiest to play.
"I don't know," he answered. "Why?"
"Because I want to play an instrument," I said.
"You can't," he said.
"I'm serious," I said.
"You can't sing and you can't play," Jeff said. "You're tone deaf."
I totally ignored his assessment of what I knew to be my latent talent and pressed on. "How about a harmonica?"
"Dad, why don't you just pretend you're in high school and buy a Mustang?"
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," Jeff responded.
"Do you still have the first guitar you bought?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I gave it away."
"YOU GAVE IT AWAY!?" I said.
"I left it in Philadelphia," he said.
"I WANT IT!" I said.
"Dad, you can't play!"
"Where can I buy a guitar?" I asked.
"You can't," Jeff said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Your fingers are too fat," he said.
"I'm going to learn," I said.
"You can't learn," he responded.
"I CAN!"
"YOU CAN'T!"
"I CAN!"
And so the conversation went. But whenever somebody, especially my wife, son or daughter, tells me I cannot do something I want to do, it only strenghtens my resolve to do exactly as I plan...
At the banquet I met Pat, who was extremely happy to learn I wanted to play an instrument. "It certainly is never too late to learn," she said. I smiled weakly, thinking she said that as if I was going to die soon and had come to the right person to learn quickly. All I needed to do was choose the right instrument. The harmonica was my first choice, but Pat thought a harmonica would be difficult.
"You have to have a good ear to play the harmonica," she said. "Play it by sound." Since I didn't know re from fa, had never put two notes together in harmonious conjunction in my entire life, how was I going to play a harmonica by sound. My first choice was out of the question.
Pat then suggested a guitar (my second choice), piano (third choice), or..."With your lips, you should try the trumpet." I told her I took trumpet in seventh grade, but quit when lessons interfered with basketball practice. I'm 5'7" in shoes with heels. I should have stayed with the trumpet. Hey, I have the lips!
I admitted to Pat that I did not understand the mechanics of musical instruments. I thought playing a harmonia would be a simple thing. Blow into it while moving your tongue left and right on the air slots; and if you do it long enough, you'll get it. Music would come out. I thought a guitar was tough with all the different finger configurations on six strings, moving your fingers the length of the neck, and changing finger configurations at the same time. But when Pat assured me it wasn't as hard as it looks, I forgot about the piano and trumpet. I mean, every boomer worth his rock 'n roll salt has played a chimerical Gibson; one arm a windmill spanking six strings on the downstroke, the other stroking an imaginery neck; then smashing the thing defiantly in triumph on the stage a la Peter Townsend of the Who...I pictured myself out on our deck on a warm summer evening in jeans, no shirt, wayfarer shades, and baseball cap on backward. It's my fify-fifth birthday. Everybody is prodding me to play something...maybe something I wrote. At first I say no, then reluctantly (yeah, right) pick up my guitar and play some Dylan...The Times They Are A Changin'...flawlessly.

The Highway Reporter

TRAVESTY AT RICH FOODS/PERRYMAN, MD

"Let me say that the credit belongs to the boys in the back rooms. It isn't the man who sits in the limelight like me who should have the praise. It is not the men who sit in prominent places. It is the men in the back rooms."
Lord Beaverbrook (Maxwell Aiken: 1879-1964) From the song "The Boys in the Back Room," sung by Marlene Dietrich in Destry Rides Again.

The following is a letter I wrote last winter to Mr. Marshall Carpenter, Director of Warehousing and Transportation at Richfood, Inc., Perryman, MD thanking him for the gift he presented to an owner-operator I hired to deliver a load of potatoes to his warehouse during a blinding snow storm.

Dear Mr. Carpenter,
On Wednesday, January 28, 2004 I hired an owner-operator to haul a load of loose ten-pound bags of potatoes from I. Rapasadi & Sons, Inc., Canastota, New York to your distribution center in Perryman, Maryland. The vendor was Cambridge Farms, Inc., Avon, Massachusetts. The appointment time for delivery: 7:00 am, January 29, 2004.
From Canastota, New York to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania this owner-operator fought snow, blowing snow, whiteouts, and slippery roads to deliver your product. He did not break down, oversleep, or waste time at a truck stop. He did not have a cell phone, and chose not to stop to call because of the terrible road conditions and the urgency of getting to his destination. He arrived at your distribution center at 8:36 am, one hour and thirty-six minutes late for his appointment. His "reward" for fighting these acts of God was a $273.00 fine, calculated at $7.00 per pallet. (How this figure was determined is, in my opinion, also an act of God. Why not $6.00 per pallet? Why not $10.00 per pallet? Why not just take the whole damn freight check?) And because the potatoes were double-stacked (one pallet of potatoes on top of another), there was, in effect, a double charge because two pallets occupied the space of what is usually one spot. That's 39 pallets of potatoes at $7.00 per pallet--$273.00 on a load that paid $612.00 to the truck. That's a $273.00 reward for driving through atrocious weather conditions to make his delivery.
Mr. Carpenter, I am sure your company has determined the legitimacy of this policy before implementing it. So I am requesting a copy of this policy for three reasons. First, if I am ever stupid enough to send another truck to your distribution center, I would like to let the truck know what the real deal is. I knew nothing of this policy before the fine. Second, I would like to examine this policy myself, especially the part about compensating a truck for detention. It does happen, Mr. Carpenter. But I am sure this policy has made provisions for equitable compensation. (I'll bet it's $7.00 a pallet.) I would like to know, especially in light of the new hours of service rules. And third, a copy of this letter, a copy of the $273.00 assessment for late delivery, and a copy of the unloading policy (I just know you're going to send me one.) will be sent to Cambridge Farms, Inc., the Department of Transportation, Heavy Duty Trucking, Commercial Carrier Journal (CCJ), Refrigerated Transporter, and the Owner Operator Independent Driver Association requesting an objective opinion of the legitimacy of this unloading policy. I will also request the above magazines print a copy of this policy so owner-operators and trucking companies will know what Richfood, Inc., Perryman, MD is all about before visiting you. A copy of this letter is also being sent to Mike Kamphaus, Regional Vice President, Supervalu, East Coast.
I will hold this letter for two weeks from the day I mail it to you, waiting for a copy of the policy. If I do not receive a copy I will assume you are not going to send me one, and I will inform the above parties of your decision. Better yet, Mr. Carpenter, fax a copy to the above number. Let's expedite this thing.


Mr. Carpenter never did send me a copy of the Richfood/Perryman, MD unloading policy. And I never did send this letter to the Department of Transportation, Owner Operator Independent Driver Association, or any of the trade magazines mentioned above. Hey, I need the work.

The Highway Reporter