Yes, the trees are mostly bare now. I'd thought of writing, the leaves are thinning like a man's hair, but that was a week or more ago. There's only a few tufts left now, around the ears, as it were. Secrets hidden by the leaves are now revealed, some beautiful, some best kept under wraps. I particularly like the tapering end of Dolan Ridge, upon which I live. From the top of the ridge I can look out, for a brief spell, across the Beanblossom Valley to the hills beyond, and if I'm coming home from work and it's dark, or getting dark I can see the headlights of cars as they climb or descend the hill. That's useful information as the stop sign there at the junction sits in a tuft of grass in the middle of the road, a left over from times past, and to turn left up the hill requires caution.
The darkness accumulates. As early as I start in the morning you might think it strange that it would be dark already on my way home from work, but after a 14 hour day that's possible, and we're more than a month away from the solstice.
Christ, they're running me ragged at work! I'm not sure what the deal is. It had become quite easy, with mostly only one or two stop loads that got me back to the yard early. I wasn't making much money, but I liked it. Holly, the morning gate guard at Electrolux, said that it was the beginning of the slow season, which for appliances starts before the rest of retail. I'm wondering, though, if it doesn't have more to do with the new dispatcher I had, who was just recently fired. I didn't think that my dispatcher had much to say about the loads themselves; that he just distributed what he was given from Electrolux as he best saw fit, but now that my old dispatcher is back it's been hell. I wonder if we're playing catch up, or did I piss him off before he left and now it's payback?
I mean, every load now is three or four stops, and they're long, mile wise. I know that I'm still the low man on the totem pole, with the sleeper cab, but come on. By all rights I should have slept on the truck three times last week. Give me a break. Then, the one day that I did make it back at a reasonable hour my first delivery for the following morning was so early that I had to pick up that evening; I wouldn't be able to make it on time if I'd waited for the yard to open in the morning. But that load wasn't ready yet so I had to wait. There's nothing that I like to do more after my work is done for the day than wait around for the next day's work. There is absolutely no compensation for that time spent, it's just my contribution for the privilege of having a job, I guess.
They said that the load wouldn't be ready for an hour or two. I parked my tractor and got out my book, I'm reading Proust, then decided, what the hell, I haven't had a chance to visit Morris at all this week, and bobtailed to TLC for my car. Trucks do drive 10th street but it's awfully narrow and those miles would be unauthorized, plus, if there wasn't a lot of parking available then I'd have nowhere to tether my horse.
So I got to the hospital and signed in as usual, then made my way through the sterile hallways to the Special Care Unit, went through the doors and saw that Morris' bed was empty. No, his space was empty, there wasn't even a bed there. I heard the nurse, who was talking on the phone, say, “Just a minute,” and then she turned her full attention to me, bless her heart. Morris had been moved just the day before to a facility outside of Spencer. Going home that way might add more miles than 10th street, but it's sure as hell a prettier drive.
So he's about the same, really. I've seen improvement though, corroborated by the nurses this time rather than hope dashed by their qualifications, and the staff at Kindred Hospital in Indy sent him off with high expectations, rather than saying “There's no way to tell.” With his own room and the expectation that he is healing and can actually hear me I've begun reading the book I bought for him so long ago: Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stevenson. What pleasure to read aloud such well crafted, old fashioned language. It gives my tongue a workout.
Returning to the day I was talking about I'd figured that by the time that I got back to the yard my load would be ready. No such luck. We truck drivers are allowed a 14 hour day, after which we must shut down, regardless of what the circumstances are. They took it to the very limit before I was out of there. I drew my lines on the graph honestly but without wriggling room. These days the log book, once called a “comic book,” is taken seriously.
By all rights I should have slept on the truck that night, although I would have had to do it there on the TLC yard, which we're not allowed to do anymore. No matter. I have a deep aversion to sleeping on the truck. Once it was my home, when I was on the road, and although a single night at my real home proved to be rejuvenating I was, perhaps, more comfortable sleeping on the truck. But that was when I had no choice, and it was a different truck, with a different mattress. Now I don't care if I get home after my bedtime, I'll not sleep on the truck again unless I absolutely have to.
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