August 27, 2018
At
the Days Inn, Barstow, California. 6AM. The Trucker’s phone alarm
tweedle-dee’d any dreams to oblivion. A new day, a long one. We
arise and move quietly, aware that in the neighboring rooms it is 3AM
Pacific time.
Brief
showers, just because we can, a short packing job, then with bags in
hand and over shoulder, we face the day. The early morning is cool,
with light breezes stirring the palm trees. We tread across the
balcony, down stairs, and uphill to the parking lot where the big
green Kenworth and others of its ilk are waiting quietly.
A
quick turn of the key to waken the beast, and the Trucker leaves his
Passenger to organize the bunk and prepare breakfast, after a
fashion.
Rolling
west on I-15, the Passenger feeds the Trucker his oatmeal/applesauce
breakfast. The truck is moving and swaying, the early morning hour
is dark. After two mishaps in three tries, the Trucker turns on the
interior bulbs to light the spoon’s way from dish to mouth. Gotta
keep that shirt presentable, it will travel many miles and meet many
dock workers with the Trucker today. Not everyone gets fed their
breakfast via spoon at 60 mph on a crowded freeway before sunrise.
The
split speed limit – 55mph for trucks, 70 mph for cars – is busy
causing its own set of hassles.
The
freshly washed and shined truck’s windshield made the whole world
look crisp and clean. Route I-15 through Barstow took us past the
many truck stops here, every space filled with a truck (hundreds of
them), biding their time for the call to head into the city with
their loads. Four to six lanes one way, the freeway was lightly
traveled, and that mostly trucks, at first.
Very
soon, side roads began releasing channels of traffic onto the
freeway, flowing smoothly into the main stream, which was rapidly
becoming a river. Some changing lanes and adjusting their speed as
needed, others maintaining their preferred speed no matter the
inconvenient adjustments their actions required of other vehicles.
Closer and closer they came, til the freeway was a solid mass of
moving vehicles.
Then
it was down the Cajon Mountain Pass where, according to the Trucker,
the idea that became the Jake brake was born. Though darkness still
reigned, and a full moon shone out of the clear sky overhead, dim
black shapes gave evidence of the mountains, hills, and canyons
through which we passed.
Partway
down, the Passenger inquired as to whether the hot brake smell
wafting in the open windows originated with the green Kenworth. The
Trucker laughed. He had not yet used his brakes enough to heat them
up, leaning heavily instead on the Jake. Then there was the lone
runaway truck ramp on this pass, but a long line of red taillights
between us and it. If needed, one wouldn’t necessarily have had a
clear opening to it without decimating many vehicles on the way, or
going over the mountainside.
And
then there was the weigh station for trucks, seemingly permanently
closed. It does seem a nasty location to use for pulling all trucks
off the road and then causing them to re-enter traffic.
Down
and out of the hills, and across the valley, merging with a similar
river of traffic, flowing uphill into the mountains. The Passenger
looks forward across the landscape, and the lights of the city spread
out below. How beautiful Los Angeles is from here, now!
“No,”
the Trucker says with amusement. “That’s not LA, not even close.
It’s Victorville. Not an LA suburb; we have yet to reach even the
suburbs of that city. This area is what is called the high desert.” Oh.
Lights.
Lights without number, each parting the blackness with an individual
marker of its existence. Streams of red lights before us. Streams of
white headlights facing us. The city below. The stars above. And
the full, bright moon overseeing them all. Only a light haze over
the hills, hanging between the stars and the city, altered the
contrast between light and dark.
Closer
in to the city limits, more side roads empty onto the freeway,
traffic shifting from lane to lane. Among these, a city bus, its
bright interior lights shining onto the road. Empty, but for a back
seat where a young woman dressed a sleepy toddler on her lap. Local
time is now 5:45AM. What is her life like, that she and her little
one are on a city bus at this hour?
Ahead,
a white tractor and trailer, maintaining speed, now straddling the
dotted line, now centered in its lane, now swinging back again. The
Trucker tenses, watching, and the Passenger worries til safely past.
Finally
it is our turn to be a small eddy that swirls out of the river, and
washes up on a side street, down to only four lanes, then three, then
two, and we have arrived.
GrayBar.
In the Pomona section of the greater Los Angeles area. The huge,
new looking warehouse where the first third of our load of spooled
wire is destined. Our world is suddenly quiet. No one is here.
Lights are out. High up the bank, waves of traffic roar on the
freeway. Here, the lot is empty and swept clean. All 24 truck
parking spaces, generous turn around area, and twelve dock doors,
though the building is much longer that what twelve doors require.
The
Trucker parks in front of the warehouse, every light lit on truck and
trailer. After investing in a thorough wash and shine, why not get
the most of it in a pre-dawn photo session?
The
Passenger makes a phone call to Eastern Standard Time, and takes a
brisk walk or three round the perimeter. Bare feet on the pavement
is a comfortable change, not even small stones underfoot. The air is
cool. The moon has vanished into the mist.
Beside the curb. A termite mound, or a pile of dirt?
Blooming hedge along the curb.
Another
truck has arrived. Both back to dock doors. The Trucker and I enter
the receiving door, into a tiny caged area. A short counter is
straight ahead, fronted by two new looking bar stools. On the left
is a comfortable arm chair, by which a sizable bell hangs. The words “Alligator Hope 1986” is engraved on the bell, and a sign hangs by it
instructing one to ring the bell for service.
The
bell is duly rung, and shortly a man on a forklift zips over, and
grants permission for us to enter the warehouse proper, so the
Trucker can remove the trailer load locks in preparation for
unloading. He then requested use of the restroom. Another warehouse
worker escorts us to the far end of the warehouse, and for safety
regulations, waits to escort us back.
And
what restrooms they were! Spacious, and meticulously clean – too
clean to use – this Passenger thought.
Then back through the
warehouse, dwarfed by tall racks holding all manner of sizes and
weights and colors of wire on spools. We learn from our gracious
escort, they stock the spools here, and cut wire and re-spool it to
fill orders that are shipped out. Even combining different wires on
the same spool if so ordered.
In record time, the
order on our truck was unloaded and stacked in the tidy warehouse,
and bills were signed. Then it was back in the truck, back out onto
the freeway to “play in the traffic’ as the Trucker said.
