Pirates of the Highway: A Million Miles of Modern History Inside an 18-Wheeler

By Bruce T. Pelletier

Take a fantastic voyage across the United States of America through the eyes of a madman behind an 18-wheeler as we witness history unfold in each page of excitement. That's right, folks, the Evil Genius from Chicago has traveled on the dusty roads of Winnemucca, Nevada, to the I-5 and I-95 highways. Some people dream of being an over-the-road driver, but not all dreams are good ones, and being alone was the hardest part of this career. There are some history lessons inside each chapter as well, and soon, the trucking industry will be a thing of the past. So grab a seat and lock yourself in for the ride of your life because our culture is about to be canceled for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662448423

Book preview

cover.jpg

Pirates of the Highway

A Million Miles of Modern History Inside an 18-Wheeler

Bruce T. Pelletier

Copyright © 2023 Bruce T. Pelletier

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-4841-6 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-4842-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Another Day, Another Twenty Cents per Mile

Pyramids of Corruption

Mojave Sunsets and the Tale of Sin City

MDT Mad Dog Trucking in Butcher Town

Mad Dog Trucking in Butcher Town

Lions, Tigers, and Smoky Bears

Eat, Sleep, Drive: The Hunt for the Teriyaki Owl

The Hunt for the Teriyaki Owl

The Road to Greatness Is Under Construction: A Million Miles of Madness and Beyond

A Million Miles of Madness and Beyond

Glossary

Works Cited

Author's Note

About the Author

To my son, Brandon.

Let's Go Brandon!

Watch that old fire as it flickers and dies

That once blessed the household, and lit up our lives

It shone for the friends and the clinking of glasses

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes

—The Longest Johns

Chapter 1

Another Day, Another Twenty Cents per Mile

In order to unfold the rich history of cross-country commerce in the United States, we must focus our attention on the past to understand the future of transportation. Born in 334 BC to the son of Phillip of Macedon, Alexander the Great had succeeded king at the age of nineteen years old, crushing the armies of Persia, paving the way for Christianity and, again, defeating King Darius at Tigris River in the Battle of Arbela.

Centuries later, Sir Francis Drake had been a privateer for Queen Elizabeth and, during the 1560s, was given a slave ship named Judith. Drake and his cousin John Hawkins began trafficking bonded laborers for the transatlantic slave trade. After hitting port in New Spain, the two men and their small crew discovered that selling human resources was outlawed and Spain did not welcome Drake, calling him a pirate. Appointed in 1588 as vice admiral of the British Navy, Sir Francis Drake destroyed the Spanish Armada and later died at sea from dysentery.

According to the scrolls of Saint Augustine, Alexander the Great captured himself a pirate who was responsible for crimes on the high seas and oceans. Despite these differences between pirates and emperors, the lust for power, whether it may be at land or sea, could be a key proponent in any society, whether it's the past, present, or in the future. However, a pirate may only use a ship or a single computer to complete their task of robbing innocent people. Furthermore, mighty emperors such as Napoleon and Alexander the Great accomplished the same goal by a fleet of soldiers, implementing military troops to seize property and other valuable resources.

This book will explain the wicked truth about an industry that prides itself by producing a low standard of living for skilled professional drivers. While large motor carriers such as JB Hunt, Swift, and Werner may use multiple fleets of the diesel beast, in modern times they have become modern-day emperors in the freight wars. Today, there are over 250 major trucking companies fighting to win your business.

There are two types of professional drivers in the United States. First, there is the pirate, which, of course, is the owner operator. They are responsible for their own vessels getting loads, purchasing fuel, and keeping with costly repairs on the road. Next is the powerslave company driver. Coined by a British heavy metal band, Iron Maiden, these drivers do not own their own ships and ride a deadly roller coaster of forced dispatch, poor eating habits, and long hours of free labor for unpaid detention time while working for a slave master motor carrier.

The trucking industry has a slew of backstabbing capitalists ready to rob anyone blind, only to load their bank accounts with your hard-core labor. There are many brutal lessons to be learned inside this elite circle of professional drivers, and the first rule is do not admit to anything. In this game, honesty will only get you into more trouble, and the safety department will have no problem snitching on you for taking out a mirror, violating a company policy, or being late for a delivery. It's Big Brother's way of keeping you under their microscope and giving other companies the red light to hire a driver if you are an outlaw trucker or some crazed maniac rolling down the interstate with twelve tons of heavy metal. On the other hand, if you are a traffic menace, drop dirty for a drug test, or smash up thousands of dollars in company equipment, there is a good chance that this driver could end up killing your family and should be reported to the Department of Transportation and DAC Services and taken off the road immediately. Safety is no accident, and according to a report published by the University of Michigan, they estimated that ten thousand professional drivers die each year.

For those unfamiliar with DAC (Driver A Check) Services, it is a company located in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and their duties are to report to other trucking companies the performance of all CDL holders, including work history, traffic violations, and all work-related bullshit while on duty, operating a commercial vehicle. Some trucking companies make up false statements and try to blackball drivers so that other companies will not hire these drivers. It is then up to the driver to contact DAC Services and clear their record. Good luck. I myself tried to contact them and was on the phone for several hours and placed on hold. I was able to resolve my dispute with JB Hunt and was accused of failing a drug test from them, and after years of fighting, I was clear of all accusations and was able to clear up the lies. This is a perfect example of how these pirates of the highway can destroy a CDL holder and their career with just a few keystrokes on a computer.

The more our technology advances, the more it can deprive professional drivers of their independence, and this becomes a breeding ground for irresponsibility and critical thinking. For example, Qualcomm Wireless had been innovated by some eggheads at MIT in Boston and set up headquarters in San Diego. A white plastic dome is placed on top of a tractor unit's roof and continuously updates the global position by a wireless satellite system. This radar system has the ability to track an 18-wheeler for up to ten meters, and acts as a black box, gathering data such as engine speed, oil pressure, and other vital information, then transmitted back to central command and to the dispatcher. The fuel supply can be disengaged with a simple click of a mouse, and law enforcement can be contacted and seize your vehicle should a driver be on some shady shit during his on-duty time. If you do what your dispatcher says, you'll have no problem using this Qualcomm system and it could save your life should your truck break down in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Preformatted messages can call for help and will have you back on the road in no time.

I had begun my career as an over-the-road driver in January of 1997 with an outfit named Dick Simon Trucking located in West Valley, Utah. The day I graduated from MTA Commercial Driving Institute, I was hired that day and was ready to fly on Southwest Airlines later in afternoon. Leaving the beautiful golden state of California and landing in a cold and gloomy world of Latter-Day Saints, it was time to roll with the big dogs and explore this vast country known as the United States of America.

Twenty cents per mile was the going rate for an inexperienced CDL driver, and as a new recruit, I would make $300 a week for six weeks or until I received an upgrade (my own rig) from a trainer. Sure, it sounds like good money. But after taxes and health insurance, I was lucky to bring home $150 a week. I made more money working at Terra Universal, located in Anaheim, California, selling Duel Perge systems, clean room chambers and laboratory equipment. Hospitals, universities, and NASA were just handful of companies and institutions Terra Universal contacted. On my sales team were Jante Jordan, John Bunch, Karen Turffs, Steve Anderson, and this dude named Tige whom was a huge Iron Maiden fan. My job was to contact these potential customers, pitch a product of interest, and close the deal. Sounds simple, right? Doctors, engineers, and scientists are strange people. They usually drag their feet when it comes to putting together a $250,000 deal for new supplies, but that's another story for another time.

The first day of orientation, I remember approximately twenty people setting down in a small room. The speaker was setting up a video camera, about to lecture, and said, This will be our first time taping this group, explained the orientation instructor. Dick Simon himself wanted to see the faces of all our new drivers, and the type of questions you have for us. However, not everyone in this room was a driver. In fact, there were five new dispatchers as well. We were all here to fill out two pounds of paperwork and listen to the nice man talk about company protocol. He was a thin man, in his early thirties, and seemed to have a pleasant voice when he spoke.

Lunch was serviced at noon, and the delivery guy brought three large football pizzas inside the break area that afternoon. The regular thin-crust pizzas were all right, but not like a Chicago-style pizza. After lunch, the dispatchers and drivers split up. They were taking us to a training class and demonstrate the proper way to install tire chains. We were all inside this room that had a display of an actual tractor tire that stood around five feet tall. Each driver took a turn and installed the one single chain on this learning apparatus. That class killed the rest of the day, and it was time to go back to the hotel with a swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was a real nice setup, and I can say one thing. Dick Simon took care of their drivers. All our meals were paid for, and for once in my life, I felt like a VIP executive. At the end of the day, the new drivers went back to the hotel and filled out more paperwork.

The small minivan picked up the new recruits at six o'clock the next morning, and we were off to the drug testing facility for our DOT physicals. That wasted the whole morning, as we sat around with our thumb in our ass, waiting for everyone to finish. Next was a road test and backing skills. There was no pass or fail. Dick Simon wanted to match the right recruit with the right trainer. I did well on my road test and waited for my drug test results. I had completed all DOT-regulated testing that day at around four o'clock in the afternoon, and the long day was almost over. One more hour and then I can take a nice dip into the hot tub, I said to myself. The van showed up, and we all loaded inside and went back to the hotel. It was time for a swim, a bite to eat, and some shut-eye before the big day tomorrow.

On our third day of orientation, the new drivers waited long hours to be sent out with their new trainers. However, two new recruits did not make the Simon team and had been discharged for a dropping hot, or in this case, failing a DOT urinalysis. The nice man was not nice to these guys. He made them go inside an office and slammed the door shut. I glanced at their silhouette from the outside door window and saw one of the drivers on the telephone. A few minutes later, they grabbed their bedding and luggage and were sent home.

My name was called over the PA, and I was instructed to meet my trainer at truck number 821 inside the yard. I went to the yard, found the rig, and met a thin fellow with black hair and glasses. His name was Doug Sims, a three-year OTR veteran. We fueled the rig by entering a code with Sims Commdata card, then waited for dispatch to send us a load over the Qualcomm keyboard inside the truck. I was talking to Doug about the Chicago Bears, and standing right beside us was one of the guys that failed his drug screen. He needed a ride to Sacramento, California, and once he showed up, the Qualcomm beeped and routed us to Sacramento, California, requesting us to take this chump back home. The reason I call this guy a chump is for the simple fact that he conjured up this bullshit story about some wasp that stung him, and that's why he tested positive for marijuana. Sims and I were not buying any of his crap, and in less than ten hours, we will never see this burnout ever again. Our hitchhiker's name is irrelevant, and his physical appearance was that of a lazy sloth. The three of us climbed into the rig, and I sat shotgun on the way up to Winnemucca, Nevada. This was like the stagecoach days. Now the only thing missing was a Smith & Wesson so that I can protect our shipment and shoot any vermin that got near our wagon. The hour was late when we hit the westbound interstate, and once we arrived in Winnemucca, Nevada, we completed our drop and hook and continued toward Sacramento, California. This was only an eight-hour trip by commercial driving standards, and Doug allowed me to drive for a couple of hours into Sparks, Nevada. He took the wheel from there, because there were dangerous roads along I-80.

Traveling through Donner Pass, Doug Sims was telling us a tail, and how this tragic story all happened. In 1844, a group of pioneers followed the Truckee River up into the mountains. The Stephens-Townsend-Murphy party had found a safe passage and were the first immigrants to use this path heading into California. However, Donner Pass was named after the ill-fated Donner party that became trapped in the Eastern Sierras during the winter of 1846. A group of immigrant families heading toward California was behind schedule with winter fast approaching. They took a shortcut and opted to take a lesser known, less traveled road they believed would be a faster route to the Golden Coast and was forced to spend the harsh winter at a high elevation with blistering winds and below-freezing temperatures.

Temperatures dropped forty-five degrees below zero, and some resorted to cannibalism to stay alive. Some say they found this guy with a crazed stare in his eyes, roasting his wife's heart on an open flame, and the search party left him there to die. Of the eighty-one immigrants, only forty-five made it out alive and reached California. I mentioned the avalanche during 1952 and how the Southern Pacific train was en route to San Francisco. For six days, passengers and crew were stranded as they hopelessly waited for help to arrive. This was my first time going through Donner Pass and was hoping that we did not run off the road and forced to eat this fool just to stay alive. Um, fillet of flesh is probably a bad idea and definitely not good for the digestive tract. If I had an apple in my bag and if the shit went down ugly, I had no problem knocking him the fuck out. The fruit would be shoved into his mouth like a red S&M ball gag, and then I would ram a thick tree branch up his butt hole and cook his fat ass on an open flame. Whoops, I am thinking out loud again, and I am getting carried away with this. So let's continue, shall we?

I was glad that Sims was driving. The icy roads were slick and dangerous as the snow and rain mixed like a deadly substance. Cars flipped in a ditch, upside down, decapitated bodies, and huge pileups along Donner Pass have made this road an unforgiving journey through the Sierra Cement. It's a nickname given by the locals for their wet, heavy, and dense snow that falls from the mountains. I myself was a greenhorn with less than a hundred miles on my logbook and would have jackknifed this rig right off a cliff, killing all of us. Experience is the only teacher up in the Sierras, and if you are not careful or overconfident, you will come home in a body bag.

It was now time to drop off our self-serving friend and have coffee with his parents inside the truck stop restaurant. It was old coffee that tasted like truck oil, but after driving all night, they could serve dog shit on some toast and you wouldn't care. As long as the meal was hot. Reggie Kush and his parents thanked Doug and me for bringing him home alive. I had said goodbye and walked outside for some fresh air. Then I noticed two riffraff types and walked over to see what was going on. As God as my witness, they invited me to smoke up with them. Do you want to smoke some weed with us? they asked. I gave them my fuck you look and said, No, thanks, I am good, and walked far away from them. I never mentioned a word to my trainer and thought that this could have been a setup. Just keep your mouth shut, because the last thing you need are people asking questions, I said to myself. The night air was brisk as I walked toward the truck and looked at this huge machine and wondered if I was able to defy all logic and pull this off. Only time will tell, and I'll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

The next day, Sims and I had breakfast, and I decided to call my editor, Gina LaGuardia, in New York regarding the Ozzfest story. We decided to run your Gloria Estefan piece, and our magazine sent you a check for $75 three months ago. How are you? she asked. Is everything all right? Gina was concerned about my well-being and told her I was a truck driver now and that I would see her once I got to New York. Doug sat there in disbelief. I didn't know you are a writer. Wow! From now on, your CB handle will be Storyteller. What the hell," I said. Sounds good, and that became my CB handle for a while. Doug's CB handle was Dragonfly because he would drag his truck up the steep upgrades, and once on top, he would fly down the road. I said goodbye to Gina over the mounted green phone next to our table, despairing from the world of journalism, entering a new career with unlimited earning potential.

The weather was in good shape, and we had to be there by three o'clock in the morning the next day. Running teams is great. However, you got to find the right person to drive with. Music, humor, and integrity has a lot to do with dealing with individuals on their own levels. I was lucky that Doug and I were cut from the same cloth. He was six months older than I, and we both enjoyed heavy metal music. Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Ratt, and over sixty more bands were in his black cassette case. Doug Sims also lived in Cleveland, Ohio, with his wife and three children. I love heavy metal, and my girlfriend lived Chicago, Illinois, so we were pretty much on the same page. The boys over at Simon HQ were on point when they paired us two together, and this was going to be six exciting weeks of my life. Doug Sims taught me a great deal about this harsh industry, and I thank God that I had Sims as my over-the-road trainer.

We made the appointment time and grabbed a Boars-head run heading for Glencoe, New York. The miles were good, and with two drivers behind the wheel, Simon could run the shit out of that truck and make a lot of money. I loved running cross-country as a team driver and thought, this is the life for me. No boss over my shoulder, start work whenever I want, and travel across this great country at no cost to myself. This was the perfect dream job, as each day became a new adventure. Dallas, Boston, Seattle, and the most beautiful place in the United States, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, were just a few places that I got to enjoy as driver trainee.

Just about the same time we were driving across the George Washington Bridge, the Qualcomm beeped and sent us a message to bring the truck in for service. We had already logged 25,000 miles in less than four weeks, and it was time to change the oil and get a fresh set of Firestone drive tires for the truck. Sims requested a set of wiper blades and pulled into the Molly Picture rest area off the New Jersey Turnpike. It was my turn to take the wheel for the next five hundred miles. He checked my logbook and had me make a few corrections before we hit the road. Our on-duty times had to match up for the DOT scale masters. Otherwise, we could face some hefty fines down the road.

Interstate 90 westbound was the best route to take during winter months. The turnpike was plowed and salted regularly. It was smooth sailing until we reached Youngstown, Ohio. A snowstorm was now in effect and with poor visibility. It was time to downshift and reduce my speed to 45 miles per hour then disengage the cruise control. This allowed the truck to grab more traction and prevent the trailer sliding all over the road. Do or die, it was time to ride that storm out for 120 miles. The wiper blades were in bad shape, and that was fucked up. Driving blind is not a good hobby to have and not suggested for thrills or kicks. Cleaning up someone's body with a sponge is not a good hobby to have either. Death on the highway can be as cold a politician running for reelection in November. Look at former Illinois State governor Gorge Ryan in Operation: Safe Road, which will be covered in the next chapter of this book.

Meanwhile, it was time for my 8-hour break, and under DOT regulations, I had to stop driving immediately. On March 1, 1939, the Interstate Commerce Commission established a rule of maximum hours of driving on-duty time. These laws required motor carriers for hire to limit drivers a total of 10 hours of driving in any 24-hour period. A commercial driver must then take their 8 hours' off-duty time. The 10-hour drive time provision, 15-hour on-duty not driving, and the 60/70 on-duty time in 192 consecutive hours in a 7/8-day period has changed very little in 57 years. Requirements under section 49 CRF Part 395 list all the federal laws under the Motor Carriers Act in 1980 and are printed inside a little green book that should be given to every driver by their employer. It's important to keep up with the current laws, and proposals could change from one year to the next.

It was just after sunrise, and the snow was still coming down in a light flurry. The sky was a dead, lifeless gray, and the wet icy road stretched out for miles. This was becoming more and more routine each day. Wake up and go to work immediately, that's the life of a trucker. The weeks were slowing down, and time just seemed to drag. There was only one more week left until I receive my own truck and run solo. That was the goal, and that is what I was going to accomplish.

Doug and I were traveling westbound on I-80 all night, and he was ready for his eight-hour break. We had reached Walcott, Iowa, exited 284, and parked our rig at the world's largest truck stop. Over eight hundred tractor trailers could park here. The shopping mall, food court, and service bay areas were covenant for the over-the-road driver. This was a good place to fuel up and grab some coffee. After my safety inspection, I climbed inside the black 1997 Freightliner and was ready to hit the road. My logbook was missing, and I forgot to log my sleeper berth last night. Don't worry about it, said Sims. We'll find it later. Come on, it's time to go. So, I buckled up, shifted into first gear, and started moving that black iron horse. The next break would be in six hours, and that would put us near Omaha, Nebraska.

There was too much ignorant squawking on the CB early this morning, and the lot lizard over the airwaves had a raspy voice, probably from smoking too many cigarettes. Anyway, I keyed up the mic and said, Dammit, lady, don't ya think it's a little early for this kind of shit? Hell no, honey, she replied. It's never too early to pop someone's peter. Doug and I thought that was funny and laughed for a moment. I shut off the radio, and Doug went to sleep.

Lot lizards, they live at the bottom of the food chain in a social structure of silver spoons and empty mouths, feeding off the weak and lonely. They can suck the life out of their victims as they extort money for sexual services. If you are not held up by gunpoint or don't catch an STD, you have yet another problem to face with the local authorities. Now you face being arrested, hauled off to jail, not to mention having your good name, along with a picture and paragraph, on a list with each registered sex offender in America. Let's not forget about our Big Brothers over at DAC Services and USIS, a criminal database agency located in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Their job is to watch all of us make suicidal mistakes and keep it for public record. I have been arrested ten times and completed thirty days in the Orange County Jail system, serving a misdemeanor charge for a bogus jaywalking ticket. I was never busted for soliciting a prostitute, but I know firsthand that the legal system can be expensive in the United States. You do not get to pass-go, and there are no get-out-of-jail-free cards for the working poor. Now, you lost your job and possibly ended your career over a $20 blow job. Then you ask yourself, was all that trouble worth losing everything?

Getting back to work, I was in South Dakota as we approached the scale house. This was my first time at one of these facilities, and I was a little jumpy rolling on to scale itself. I hit the brakes hard, tilted their hydraulic scale, and they were pissed. They ordered me to come inside with all my paperwork. I walked inside and passed the DOT agent my manifest. Sir, may I see your logbook please? asked the DOT agent. It must be in the truck, I replied. Please let me bring it to you, it's in the truck, I said once again. I could go to jail if I don't produce that logbook. It has been over forty-eight hours since the Big Apple, and that book could be anywhere in the country. Sims had found it under my seat in good shape. Are you coming inside with me? I asked nervously. You're on your own, he said. I went inside to face the music.

I walked back to the guard shack and tried to explain why I was not in compliance with the DOT regulations and my hours of service. Fat chance. It was hard tying to worm my way out of this one. I had broken the law, and now it was time to pay! The Third Reich demanded $75 cash money and nothing else. My next option was to go to jail until I came up with the loot. Doug felt guilty for not helping me with my logbook and gave me half the money to pay the fine. This fine was never reported to any agency, and that's all I am saying. That was strike one for the safety department over at Simon Headquarters in Salt Lake City, Utah. This fine was not looking good for my record and could raise an eyebrow from Little Brother. Little Brother was cool. However, all I needed to do was drive, listen, and not break any traffic laws. If I was cool with them, they would hook me up with a $150,000 Freight Shaker condo unit, rent free for as long as I want. Staying clean was part of the deal, too, and that's all I keep thinking about. Fuck strike one, people make mistakes all the time. Why should this be any different? I told myself. That's why they put erasers on pencils, right?

Two strikes left in the big game, and this long shot gamble had to pay off, otherwise I would be a 27-year-old homeless man with no future. The odds and the gods were stacked against me, and during a blizzard in Casper, Wyoming. Strike two had almost become a fatal pitch of death and destruction. It was less than 24 hours as we re-routed ourselves around Denver to avoid a snowstorm that shut down the entire city. That's nothing new up in these parts, and living and breathing at an altitude of 5,280 feet, a man's blood thickens in such a harsh element.

The road was open for miles. The sun began to set, and the temperature was dropping quickly outside. Reading the controls inside the Freightliner unit, checking air pressure gages, and periodically applying brakes to keep the drums from freezing up. It was time to get comfortable, grab a tape from the black box, and settled in for a long drive tonight. Doug said, Good night. I nodded and said, See ya in eight hours. The mountain sky was dark gray. The snow covered the highway as I passed an orange salt truck on the road.

The music selected was by a group called Mötley Crüe, an eighties metal band that resided in Los Angeles, California. The sound of motorcycles ripped through the speakers, guitars wailed, and the lead vocalist, Vince Neil, began to sing Girls, Girls, Girls. I could see the emergency vehicles up ahead as the whiteout and poor wiper blades blurred my vision. To play it safe, I merged into the left lane at fifty-five miles per hour, and before my reflexes could react, the Freightliner smashed a Wyoming State Trooper's police cruiser. Sitting in the back of the squad car were three women, and at the point of impact, the unmanned police car rolled slowly down a hill and stopped safely. Thank God no one was killed.

That's it. My driving career is over, I said to myself. I am going prison, and my CDL license will be revoked. Sims exited the sleeper berth and said, What the hell happened? We need to contact the safety department and let them know what's going on. We did just that after the crash investigation had been complete. The good news was that I wasn't going to jail today and was cited a $50 fine for traveling too fast for conditions. Strike two was a reminder that being overconfident behind the wheel of truck could have cost someone their life. Now, I slow down and get ready for prompt action on all roads.

The mudhole in Murray, Utah, was closed, and the new facility located at 5175 West 2100 South West Valley, Utah, was just outside the city limits in SLC. The sixty-five-thousand-square-foot Simon Headquarters included a theater, library, and gym. For the trucks, they had seven new buildings and a truck washing depot. Doug idled the truck into the service bay for an oil change, a new left headlight, and wiper blades. The body shop took care of the steps and left fender that was damaged during the accident in Casper. We washed all the salt off our rig, and now it was time to meet with the safety director, Steve Arvey.

The only thing I could remember was Little Brother's handlebar mustache and cold stare from his eyes and booze reeking from his breath. Rumors suggested that Avery kept a flask of whiskey in desk. That did not matter to me right now. I was getting fired and that was that. You could have killed someone out there, shouted Arvey. You need to be more careful next time, Bruce. I am giving you a second chance to go out with your trainer for two more weeks. I was speechless and thanked the man for not firing me on the spot. Please be careful out there, guys, said Arvey, and have a safe trip. No one likes having their ass handed to them, and I couldn't wait to leave SLC. Steve Arvey was right, and I needed to pull myself together if I wanted to be a professional driver.

It was early in the evening when we got the truck back from the body shop and waited for dispatch to send us our next load assignment. The free coffee inside the driver lounge was all I could afford after paying off my fines. My worst fears were over now, and I still had one strike left before this game was over. Life is a game of chance, and each day, people take risks such as gambling, drag racing, or unprotected sex to bring some type of excitement to their dull and boring lives. The success or failure in this game is not to have you or someone else buried in an unmarked grave at the lost cemetery. Aim high in steering, keep your eyes open, and keep your mouth shut. Remember, folks, the life you save could be your own.

Beep, beep, beep, the Qualcomm sounded off loudly, and it was time to get moving once again. That's it, boys. Break day is officially over, and HQ was sending us to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, to drop off twenty-five thousand pounds of kerosene. This load was light, and we had no problems getting there. Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, the most beautiful place in the United States. Huge plush green pine trees stood as tall as the blue sky. The Spokane River below was breathtaking, and this place was indeed God's country. Boise, Idaho, would be our next stop for a load of spuds back to Salty City. From there, HQ had a loaded trailer heading to Camden, New Jersey, and from there, only God knew.

Suddenly, two weeks had gone by, and it was time to go back to Salty City and get a Skunk Truck with a set of skull and crossbones painted on the side of the truck. A furry little black skunk held a white flag with the skull and bones painted as the Jolly Rodger of the trucking industry. That was my motive to drive for this company and my idea for this book. The odd part was that the owner/operators drove the white trucks and the company drivers drove the black ones. I received my black 1996 Freightliner condo. Truck number 870 was my first upgrade, and now I was a solo driver. It was the year of our Lord, April 12, 1997 when this birthday gift of responsibility was given. My dispatcher's name was Steve Taylor, and he sent me to pick up a truckload of dynamite and haul it to the Rocky Mountains. But first, I had to go with Ralph Turner (a Simon driver) and head to Phoenix, Arizona, and get my truck.

Ralph Turner was a slippery snake. At first, he seemed like a down-to-earth type of guy with his warm smile and quirky sense of humor. The last time I recall driving was in Flagstaff. It was late, and Turner asked if I would help unload the truck tomorrow morning. Sure, I said. But what about the lumpers, do they need any comm check, I replied. We can make sixty dollars each if we unload the trailer ourselves, said Ralph. There were two of us, and it wouldn't take us long. I agreed to this foolish nonsense and said, What the hell, why not? and continued to drive the rest of the night.

Morning came, and we had made it to the shipper right on time. Our appointment was for six o'clock in the morning, and we arrived at six fifteen, allowing us the one-hour window the shipper gave us for traffic. I backed up into a door, and we began to unload the trailer as the customer requested. They wanted us to restack our pallets onto their fancy blue plastic pallets. This was bullshit work, and as I drove a forklift, the wheel hit one of the load locks. Ralph freaks out and claimed I am damaging the safety equipment. Wow! What a coincidence, the load lock was $60, the exact amount I was promised last night. Keep the lumper money and I'll keep the load locks, I said, disturbingly. Then I learned rule number two. Don't trust anyone when it comes to money. Ralph Turner was able to hustle $60. That means I would have to drive three hundred miles to make things right and let the laws of the universe take care of this clown. Hustle the wrong guy in New York or Chicago, and Turner would find his face blown off and his tongue mailed to the family. In my hometown in Chicago, we were taught to shake hands firmly with our right but to carry a non-organic compound (rock) in the left for guys like Tuner.

At last, we made it to the yard in Phoenix, and truck number 870 was fueled and ready to go. I thanked Ralph for the ride and started looking over my new home on wheels. Everything was all right. The truck was clean and in good shape. The inside was nice, and I started fixing up my new nest. I went inside the driver's lounge, watched television, and relaxed before I went to sleep. I noticed on the way back to my truck that all the Simon units in the yard had no skull and bones. The trailers were the same way. What's going on here? I said to myself. Everything under the Simon sun and been replaced with the words Sweet Simon. Something puzzling was behind all this, and I was about to find out. So I asked another Simon driver, and this is what he said.

Albertson's, Kellogg's, and M&M Mars, along with several accounts, joined forces and forced Dick Simon to remove the logo, or they would cancel their contracts and never do business with Simon again. They said the skull and crossbones were symbols for poison, and that was their argument. Another Simon driver told me that we haul perfume and cosmetics, and the trailers had a sweet smell to them. Case closed. This was a wealth of information, and I learned that not just one power controls the application for success. Imagine five little brothers in very expensive Armani suits sitting behind a large marble table, wasting valuable work hours, and fighting like children over a lousy cartoon. There is always someone out there to ruin it for everyone as they try to make a name for themselves in the process. For example, Illinois University was forced to terminate their red-skinned mascot because it was found to be offensive to the Native American Indians.

The desert air at night has a calm feeling as the mountain winds begin to howl. Off in the distance, you can see Camelback and Superstition Mountains. This is the copper state, a Republican Party stronghold, and home for America's toughest sheriff, Joe Arpaio. Punishment is a way of life in Maricopa County, and they seem to enjoy it that way. If you can, try not to get busted by Five-O and catch a case in Arizona. You'll be forced to live in a prison called Tent City and eat green bologna sandwiches. This saves money on red dye number 5. To make things more degrading, all male inmates must wear pink boxer shorts inside this American Gulag. The Fourth Reich has finally arrived and should be coming to your town soon. Get ready, folks, the worst is yet to come, as Big Brother kicks down your door without a search warrant and hauls your sorry ass off to Tent City for a few parking tickets. Once again, it all comes down to terrorism by our own government. Bombs exploding in subway tunnels, Amber alerts, kidnappings, and fixed elections. Get ready for the New World Order as Big Brother controls the masses. Fear is their only weapon, and it's working.

As for me, I was working on picking up that load of class 1.3 explosives tomorrow morning and safely making it to TNT Logistics just outside Fresno, California, the next day. First, I would need a forty-eight-foot dry van. It's not a good idea to haul explosives in a reefer unit. Sparks could ignite inside the trailer, and then you got trouble. Second, I removed all the nails on the floor to prevent any damage to the freight. Third, I pre-tripped my route for this hazmat load and contacted the state troopers with this information on the bill of lading.

Once I got to the facility for my pickup, they fingerprinted me and took a picture. I was now responsible for twenty-five thousand pounds of the good stuff, and now I had a loaded weapon inside my trailer. I had to drive carefully, otherwise a small town could be vaporized and erased off the map with one false move on my part. This was my chance get the job done and do it right. The next day, I arrived in Fresno and unloaded the trailer with no problems.

Each day was the same, one week, truck number 870 would be on I-10 eastbound and next week heading westbound on I-80. Spring was now here, and traveling our great interstate system was safer now without