Ya know I’ve been called a lot a things in my lifetime,
mostly good. Yet the one single distinction I’ve heard more often that any
other, is cool. And ya know what? I’m cool with that.
Now I’m not talkin “The Fonz” kinda cool. Nor am I
referring to the polar opposite of warm. I’m talkin about that ubiquitous
superlative that can say as much about one’s character as it can about the
latest greatest smart phone app.
If you’ve been following this blog for any length of time
you may have noticed that I don’t talk much about my day job. And that’s
because a typical workday for me is far from cool. Let me sum a one up for ya:
Traffic sucked. I got cut off, flipped off, and ripped off. Translation: Some
yahoo nearly takes my front bumper with him in a last ditch effort to head off
as many people as possible before wedging into a coveted opening the size of a
breath mint. Countless others shamelessly flash me the bird on the grounds that
I’m not about to let em follow suit. And on the tails of all that I feel the
cold barrel of a gas pump nozzle in the crook of my back along with a faint
voice in my head whispering, “ put the bulk of the money you just toiled for
today into this fuel tank and I’ll let ya live to slave another day.”
Okay, so my attitude toward my vocation is a tad dispirited,
but the fact is I still take a lotta pride in what I do. For nearly 25 years
now I’ve been gainfully self-employed behind the wheel of a semi crisscrossing
the Southern California landscape with 80,000 pounds of sand and gravel
strapped to my back. And while it’s been a heavy load to bear at times I’ll
still gladly go the extra mile whenever petitioned to do so, and nine times
outta ten I’ll do it with a smile on my face, despite the growing number of not-so-cool
commuters out there determined to make it far more difficult than actually need
be.
Case in point: A few years back I was headin west bound on
Arrow Highway in the city of Claremont, a relatively small college community at
the southern base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Coming up to a red light in the
right hand lane I notice a pair of cars parked curbside. On the sidewalk are
two well-dressed women in deep discussion. Apparently there’d been a collision.
I carefully roll by and come to a full stop at the intersection just a few
yards ahead. Curiously I glance out my right hand mirror to get a second look
but then quickly turn my attention back ahead. The traffic light turns green
and as I inch forward I immediately feel a slight jerking sensation. Hmmm?
I look out my driver side mirror. Nothing. I look out my passenger side mirror
and, What the *^%#$?! Are you kiddin me?! It seems that while I was
waiting for the light to turn green one of the aforementioned women got in her
car left open the driver side door and as I pulled away my trailer axle ripped
the impeding door right off its hinges.
Once cleanly through the intersection I edge to the right
and lumber toward the scene where everyone’s standing in a state of disbelief,
no one more so of course then the poor gal who’s on the losing end of all this.
And who can blame her? After all, what began as a minor fender bender is now a
full-fledged mangled mess. And honestly, I feel like shit, but hey, it wasn’t
my fault, and upon further evaluation the disgruntled owner of the car
compliantly agrees. Three days later I receive a formal letter from her
insurance company sighting me as the guilty party. Not cool.
A short time thereafter I’m in the town of Upland merging
onto the westbound 210. The forecasted rain is comin down in buckets making the
road especially slick. The on ramp to the freeway is one of those spiral
numbers that loops ya around a full 360 degrees. At the top it’s two lanes but
then it gradually funnels into one just before spilling out into traffic. I’m
on the inside lane, she’s on my left a couple of car lengths back but gaining
fast. Needless to say we run out of real estate, the two lanes come together
and at this point she has no choice but to back off. Unfortunately it’s too
little too late. Her only options now are 60 mph traffic to the left and a slow
churning (but no doubt equally intimidating) set of oversized trailer tires to
her right.
Safely stopped on the shoulder and with traffic rushing by I
cautiously make my way over to the silvery sedan. I can see some damage to the
right front side of the vehicle but my first concern of course is to make sure
no one’s injured. It wasn’t a terribly hard hit but then again ya just never
know. With the rain violently ricocheting off my shoulders I tap on the driver
side window, it sluggishly descends, yet before I can express my saintly
concern this fire eyed broad (who’s no spring chicken by the way) lashes out
with a “What the ^%#% are you doin you son of a *&%^# are you #^$&*
blind you cut me off you &^%$# I’m callin the cops,” welcome that someone
might only expect from the mouth of a trash talkin twenty-something. Again…not
cool.
Oh well, these things happen, they’re called accidents. But
believe me, the following was no accident. And truthfully, I still can’t
believe it’s happening.
Last month I was billed to deliver a load of topsoil to
UCLA. When I arrive on campus I blindly hoof it from one nondescript building
to the next in search of Art my contact person. Finally, some forty minutes
later I’m back in the truck being escorted to the assigned jobsite. I leave my
trailer behind because Art says there’s no room to park it anywhere at the site
itself. He proposes I leave it nearby the fuel/service area, which I do, even
though I’m somewhat reluctant based on the fact that it’s a no parking zone.
It’s clearly a low traffic area and there’s plenty of room to safely pass if
needed, nonetheless I question it, but Art assures me it’ll be fine. So I
strategically place a safety cone at the rear of the trailer and off we go.
Once on the jobsite Art dutifully signs my ticket and instructs me to bring the
remainder of the material in the trailer box back to the same location before
speeding off in his lil electric cart. Okay Art. My pleasure Art. No problem
Art. That is until I get back to my trailer and discover a parking citation
affixed to it.
Now I’m sure you know just how frustrating it can be when
things don’t work out or go as planned. I’m sure many a time you’ve felt as
though you’ve done your very best yet for whatever reason it wasn’t quite good
enough, and that sometimes no matter what you do or how hard you try it seems
like you’re constantly and continually being confronted by one thing after
another. It’s tough I know, but it’s also, as I like to say, “All part of the
process.” It’s another thing, however, when someone intentionally, needlessly,
and senselessly counters your best efforts for no good reason
whatsoever.
Now in all fairness to the issuing officer, he or she had
every enforceable right to site me (and then scurry off like some lily-livered
ticket touter). There’s no question that my trailer was in violation of section
21113A of the CVC 2A. However, I feel that in this case a citation was totally
unnecessary. Completely uncalled for. And if nothing else, definitely
not cool. Because 1) unlike in the previous two examples, here there’s no
physical damage, no emotional strain or hardship; nothing at stake, nothing to
gain or recoup. No one—and I mean no one—was in anyway shape or form being
adversely affected by my being there. And 2) I was there that day at the
request of UCLA, on their behalf, doing my job, and anyone—and I
mean anyone—with half a &^$#@ brain could see that.
Over the years I’ve gotten a lot better at desensitizing
myself from peoples inconsiderate and often incomprehensible antics on the
road. I’ve knuckled under if you will to the cold hard truth that no matter how
cordial or courteous I am behind the wheel of this motoring monster my good
intentions are forever destined and doomed to be tolerated at best, and that at
the end of a taxing day I should hardly expect a pat on the back. But this,
this was nothing short of a slap in the face. And you can bet I’m takin it as
such.
I filed an appeal, however, it was promptly denied. So I
appealed a second time, and am currently awaiting my moment of truth before the
esteemed Citation Review Committee.
But here’s the thing. Here’s the irony of it all: The amount
of time and energy being wasted on this trifling ordeal is absolutely
ridiculous. It’s petty, it’s pitiful, and it all comes down to a simple err in
judgment, or shall I say, a fundamental question of character.
Oh well, shit happens, right? It’s called life. And the bottom
line is it’s not always fair, nor is everyone cool.
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