I just changed my cover photo on my Facebook page to the image above. This interesting rendition of our US flag is located at the entrance of a junkyard on old Rte 16 in Rochester, New Hampshire. It has been there for several or more years at the least. I have passed it many, many times as it is on our route to our favorite grocery store about 40 minutes from our home here on Sam Page Road in Acton.
I know nothing of the statement the artist might be trying to make. That it turned up here in the Trump era, I could jump to all kinds of conclusions. But since I never saw a Trump sign within close proximity, I hesitate to conclude it is a voicing a vote of confidence for the Orange shit stain. But so what if it is. The ultimate meaning of any piece of art is in the eye of the beholder. What does it mean to them? What feelings, if any, does it dig up?
It has elicited many differing trains of thought for me over the years.
I really appreciate its ingenuity and artistic medium. It is majestic and grand and makes no apologies. And what a great use of something not many of us ever really think about. A junked car is an eyesore, something to be taken to ....... yeah, a junkyard. This sculpture; for it is indeed a sculpture; this sculpture has well over a thousand words tucked into every crinkle, dent and mangled fender.
The 100 plus year love affair with the automobile here in America has resulted in too many to count cars, trucks and other conveyances used in artistic expressions of all kinds. My favorite is one I watched grow during my years as an over the road trucker. Outside Amarillo, Texas in 1974, some artists bought a strip of land alongside I-40. They named it "Cadillac Ranch" and proceeded too plant Cadillacs, nose down, in the dirt. They inserted one a year for a total of the 10 years.
My first view, there were three in the ground. The last time I passed by there were 6 or 7. They stopped at 10 because the display was an homage to not only Cadillac, but to the Cadillacs that had sported fins. And though this display of junkers is my favorite, I am quickly being won over by the one I pass on the way to the grocery store.
I debated whether or not I should pass on what meanings I draw from the flag sculpture. I decided to not taint the message any one reading this might take from it.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
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When I ran across this video, I knew I had to post it; never mind it's amateurish result. I was at this concert 2 days ago at the Left Bank venue in Laconia, New Hampshire with BA, and the kids. We had great seats and the sound system was excellent. Great time. But then any time with my kid and her Marine is fine with me.
Tedeski Trucks Band headlined with Whiskey Mires performing front band duties. Sadly this video does not cover the whole 10 to 15 minute version. So I am going to also offer the original "Spanish Moon" as performed by Little Feat back the 1970s. Little Feat was and still is maybe my favorite band of all time I never saw in concert. .... Oh well, I can still listen to their music and that is a lot to be thankful for.
"New Lee Highway Blues" is a blue grass song by David Bromberg. Recorded in the1970s, it is one of songs that made me a Bluegrass fan for life and a forever fan of David's. The song is about how tough living on the road while playing music gigs here, there, and everywhere. I did not appreciate the song for its lyrics until I too, went on tour driving Rock n Roll equipment from one end of this continent to the other.
Most of my job played out at night. Load out at the end of gig after midnight, drive hard and fast to the next gig to unload for a morning stage call. Grab some sleep, a few moments of fun maybe, and be back at the gig that night ready to back in the trailer and do it all over again, pounding another super slab hoping dawn comes sooner than later.
I have tried to calculate the number of gigs I hauled to, but I can't. They often just ran by in a blur while I tried to maintain control. More often than not, I needed the tour itinerary to remind where I was, where I was headed, and where I had been. It could be and often was, a mind numbing existence.
A lyric in the song succinctly sums up the grind that Touring was for me:
Nowhere to go from here but up or down the road
And nothing over there but the same goddamned town
Take home pay was pitiful, but the excitement more than made up for it. My highs and lows never again reached the intensity levels they often hit while driving for SHOWCO. The absolute joy of walking out onto a stage before the gig and looking at close to 100,000 Rock fans, then settling in behind a huge speaker stack, stage right, and hearing them roar when the Who make their entrance. Just fuckin awesome, just awesome.
The other side of the coin, being busted for cocaine and spending a week in jail. Never had I been lower than that night at the Fleetwood Mac concert in Michigan when those cop hands grabbed me, cuffed me and tossed me in the back of a squad car.
All in all, I prefer to remember the good times, but remembering the bad always reminds me the Road was a fickle bitch. I never knew what to expect. So I learned to expect it all and deal with it. The joys and pleasures of the Road along with the failures and pain keep my memories grounded in the real world, and keep my delusions of grandeur from getting out of hand.
Two plus years I did this. Two plus years I lived on truck stop food, Green room grub and the very occasional 4 or 5 star meal I would never forget. From the seedy and seamy truck stops to the penthouse high pockets lifestyle the rich Hip take for granted, I saw and experienced it all. But always, always the mind numbing experience reminded me, as I tried to locate the next hall, I might be a small cog in very big machine; without my kind, the show wouldn't go on.
Keep your Rubber Side Down and your Sunny Side Up ..............................
Led Zeppelin's 1977 North American Tour landed in San Diego a few days ahead of the scheduled June 19th show. Having made the run from Madison Square Garden in impressive time, the first two trucks took only a little over 51 hours to drive the 2770 plus miles. The other four trucks were all accounted for by the next day.
That left more than enough time for the truck drivers to find trouble if they were so inclined. The old saying "Idle Hands..." was never truer than during those couple of days before the San Diego show. The Devil got busy when we hit San Diego.
Usually tour schedules did not allow as much free time as the drivers enjoyed during the 1977 Zep tour. With an extra driver assigned to each truck combined with longer drive time allowances, the tour became a vacation compared to any other tour I had been on. Higher hotel bar charges resulted as bad ideas and troublemaking plans began forming in earnest. The tour from start to finish had seen madness unfold, some of it self inflicted, most it seemed at the behest of the "what can go wrong gods". San Diego was following the rhythm track laid down back in the beginning of the tour.
After that first night of non moving sleep, I was full of piss and vinegar the next morning and ready for some downtime with no trucks, no roadies, no drivers; just me, myself and I. As the day played itself out, I was glad I had detoured down that fork in the road I had in mind.
Most of the drivers decided on starting out "tourist mode". Cabs were called and small groups set off to various ports of call around the city. The crew I was with headed to the seedy, where all the sailors flocked, part of the Mission Bay district. All kinds of fun could be found at reasonable cut throat prices. Women, Tattoos, Tittie Bars, and Greasy Spoons all in one convenient location competing for the coins in our pockets.
By mid morning I was half in the bag from drinking 3 or 4 Bloody Mary's with breakfast. Our first stop after was Tattoo Alley. Some of us wanted to get tattoos. Others were just along for support. I had planned to support, but I left the parlor sporting a 3 inch caterpillar Huffing on a Hookah.
The image is not even a close approximation of the tattoo I walked out with. I had chosen a tattoo from the bargain list; one color and cheap. If memory serves, I might have paid as little as ten bucks for it. I had the guy etch the tat on my back so I wouldn't have to regret it in the morning. One of the drivers from Texas commented as we left the place, "I've seen better tattoos in Jail."
That was alright. I had succeeded in satisfying one of my early kid bucket wishes. I had lusted after tattoos since seeing the tats on the crusty old non-coms at the several Air Force Bases where I spent my early years. When they rolled up their sleeves, the tattoos let you know these were real men, manly men. I was determined to own at least one. It was Pirates and Veins in my teeth stuff Dude. Who wouldn't want a tattoo?
We began our aimless shuffling after leaving the tattoo parlor looking for that next adventure. Someone suggested renting motor scooters at a rental place down the street. I remember thinking this might not turn out well as I was halfway to shitfaced at that point. It was early afternoon, and having an accident on a scooter did not seem like a fun way to finish what was turning out to be a wonderful day. I opted out, called a cab and bailed as catcalls of , "You're a pussy, You have no balls" followed me into the cab..
The cab dropped me at the Mission Bay Hilton. Two young women approached me. The conversation may have gone like this:
"So, are you with the Zeppelin Tour?"
I would like to think my response was as cool as I felt in my SHOWCO Zep shirt and aviator sunglasses, but I probably mumbled something like:
"Uh, yeah. ....I drive a truck on the tour..... Why?"
One of the girls said:
"Well cowboy, we want to take you out."
Just like that, I found myself with a joint in my mouth and I was seated between the two of them in a beat up mid 1960s Chevy pickup with Kansas plates. On an 8-track player behind the seat, Zep's first album rocked us out as we headed north on Interstate 5 a ways before splitting off onto Hwy 101 south to head back towards Mission Bay and the hotel.
The women did all the talking. Denise was driving. Her side kick butt dancing at shotgun was named Ellie. They were from Topeka and they had time to kill. They figured they'd try to stay ahead of the West Coast leg of the tour. I was their first victim.
The rest of my day became a fantasy unforeseen. I never imagined a day like this would ever actually land in my existence. I was with good looking women my age who wanted to have a good time. I hoped I was up to it.
We drove south on Rte. 101 for awhile smoking the joint. At a stoplight, a kid in a straw hat was walking up and down the shoulder selling avocados by the dozen. Ellie waved a five dollar bill:
"Will this cover it?"
He smiled, took the five and handed her a bag with a dozen Avocados in it; then tried to give her some change.
"Keep it", and we sped off.
When we were back in the Mission Bay area, Denise pulled into a drive through liquor store.
"So, what goes with Avocados anyway."
Ellie spoke right up.
"Fish tacos and Tequila". She pointed across the highway to a food truck sporting a huge sign that informed all motorists this was the spot to find fish tacos.
I spoke up. "Never had fish tacos. They any good?"
Ellie said, "I haven't a clue. We're from Topeka ferchrisakes. Let's try them out."
Denise ordered a bottle of Cuervo Gold tequila. We crossed the highway and parked near the food truck. With our tacos, tequila and avocados, we set ourselves up on a picnic table nearby.
I don't know about most fish tacos, but the ones we set our teeth into that evening were awesome. The sauce they used on their tacos set off a gastronomical pleasure party in my mouth. I could tell the girls were in heaven also. I opened the bag of avocados, pulled out my pocket knife and opened one up.
A conversation began between myself and the women about whether Avocados tasted better than they looked up close and personal. It took some convincing, but Denise finally took a small piece from me and reluctantly put it in her mouth. Immediately her hand came back wiggling her fingers. She wanted more.
"Damn cowboy, these are great....... How come you know avocados but not fish tacos."
"My mom. Wherever we moved when I was a kid, she found a way to get avocados."
I think we were at "Dog Beach", a beach set up for the pooches to run, cavort, and be the loose dogs they were meant to be. There were certainly a lot people out with their mutts while we watched and consumed our fish tacos, avocados and shots of Cuervo Gold Tequila.
By the time we
had eaten the tacos and half of the avocados, the shots of tequila began to
have their way with us. The sun was setting. I wanted to lay down; I was
suddenly struck with a case of the whirlies. Too much alcohol, too much pot and
on top of a full stomach, well, I was going to be in trouble if I didn’t lay
down. So I did under the lone palm near the picnic table.
Denise and Ellie
followed me over fussing about my condition. Did I feel okay? Was I going to
puke or something? One of them left us for a moment and came back with two huge
blankets. They spread the blankets out and both of them plopped their butts down
all the while trying to entice me into joining them. Laying in the sand had to
be uncomfortable they reckoned. For my part, I was feeling no pain. All I could
think of was I needed to hold it together.
It took a few moments, but I recovered enough to join the girls on the blankets The sun was
still peeking over the horizon. Ellie handed me a shot and we all toasted being
in San Diego and being young and numb. There were no cares considered that
night. We were gloriously drunk and stoned. Life was never better. We sat on
those blankets and eventually passed out, sleeping the night away only to be awakened by the
beach raking guy the next morning.
The girls dropped me at the hotel. I told them they could pick up back stage passes later. They waved and Denise hollered, "We got your room number now. We'll be back later."
MEANWHILE
After I had bailed from the crew the day before, events got really out of hand. Apparently, the drivers decided it was a good idea to do some bar hopping with the scooters. I do not know how many bars they hit, but it was definitely more than one too many.
While I was sitting at a concrete picnic table with two good looking women, tossing back shots of tequila and watching the Sun disappear into the Pacific Ocean, the scooter crew were being corralled by the cops and hauled off to jail. They had cut a swath of minor damages and close calls throughout downtown San Diego, the area around Broadway in particular.
Their scooter mania cost them plenty. Thankfully, it was only folding money they had to pay. But it could have cost them so much more had they not been hooked up to the Zep Tour. The hit and run charges were dropped. Any DUI charges were overlooked. They hadn't really taken anything or anyone out with the scooters. Most the damage was of a side swipe careening damage. The powers that be just wanted the tour out of town with as little negative publicity as possible. The drivers involved had some costs, some fines for damages and such. They were all back at the hotel when I came in after my night of tequila and avocados. Some were even back in the hotel bar getting tuned up again for another loud night in San Diego.
I often think of that time in San Diego with the Zeppelin Tour. A magical night of drunken companionship kept me out of jail. I would run into the girls again up in Los Angeles. Our relationship changed dramatically then.
Later ...............................
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The morning after our night on the beach, Ellie, who was charged with taking care of the music, put on an 8-track with the Eagles 1973 album "Desperado". When "Tequila Sunrise" came on, the terrible voices of a very hung over trio belted out the tune. Damn, that was funny. I think I actually stayed in tune better than the two women did.
Google claims the distance from Madison Square Garden to the San Diego Sports arena in California is 2765 miles. My SHOWCO itinerary has it as 2770 miles . The last Zeppelin show in New York was June 14, 1977. We had four days to cover the distance. SHOWCO wanted no issues making stage calls on time. They flew in a co-driver for every truck.
My co-driver was named Jim. A very likable guy who could not back up a tractor trailer for shit. Of course he had only been sitting in that rig for a few days at that point. In forward mode, he was rock steady, shifted clean and didn't ride the clutch. What really impressed me though, Jim was not a Chatty Cathy nor a whiner. All the way across country he pulled his weight just fine. He was from Kansas City and he enjoyed sipping Codeine cold syrup when he wasn't driving and we were in a state where it was still legal to get it over the counter. He also turned me onto a nationwide network of dealers who sold go fast pills to truckers. He gave me a card with a phone number on it. All I had to do was call that number for a location (usually a truck stop) on my route where I could score some pills. That's about all I remember about Jim.
Two drivers in every truck meant we could legally drive 24/7 across the US; well... almost legally. It could also have been a casual drive at sight seeing speeds. Instead, one of the drivers puffed up his chest in NYC, threw down the gauntlet and loudly claimed in the hotel bar he was going to beat the rest of us to San Diego. This in our face test of our manhood would not go unchallenged. All of us were in. Each truck put up $50, winner take all.
One problem was the first truck to load out ( Band Equipment) would have an advantage of at least a couple of hours over the last truck to load out. Rather than try to work out something fair, it became an, "oh well, you lose dude...see ya later chump". I was hauling sound at 3rd or fourth in the pack.
Six trucks left Madison Square Garden dark thirty the morning of June 15, 1977. Other than one sighting, that was the last time I saw any of them until I hit the super slab outside the San Diego city limits. I saw one of our trucks heading the wrong way. I tried to reach them on the CB, but I got nothing back on either Channel 19 or the west coast Channel 17.
When we found the secure lot for the trucks and trailers, Jim and I were sure we had won. We were the first truck there. A cab dropped us off at the San Diego Hilton on Mission Bay Drive just over 51 hours after we had left New York City. Our average speed with fuel and food stops was just shy of 55 MPH. Yeah, all the way to the Hilton we were full of ourselves discussing what we were going to spend the wager money on. After all, depending on how quick we made the trip, we could count on some significant time off before the one night stand.
As we approached the Hilton, I noticed one of our rigs pulled over to the side of the road. It was Rick's truck. He had not gone to the secure lot first. I envisioned a heated discussion over drinks about whether he and his co-driver had cheated. My recollection of the initial wager was, the first truck to park at the secure lot, not the Hotel won. He knew San Diego did not allow big trucks to park on the streets in that part of town. There would be no fudgin,
Rick was gonna be bummin hard. As we passed by his rig, I noticed a yellow wheel lock clamped to a set of his drive wheels. The San Diego cops didn't waste any time.
When we hit the lobby, I immediately headed for the front desk. My co-driver Jim had other plans. Told me he was hitting the bar to decompress over a couple of alcoholic pops; he would catch up later. I set him straight right away. Drivers always checked in first before any personal time could commence. Too many times there were foul ups and our rooms did not exist or were not ready. It was always soon straightened out as SHOWCO definitely had serious pull in the Hospitality world. But we had to be there front and center to make sure they worked it out. SHOWCO spent buckets of money on traveling and any hotels that screwed up lost their business. The tours were planned months and oftentimes a year or more in advance. Pre-paid Cash deposits with no quibbling were sent in to ensure top of the line service.
Jim didn't like it, but he came with me to the front desk. We checked in, found our room, dumped our stuff and then I said, "Time for cocktails. Let's find Rick and give him shit for cheating." Rick had been with SHOWCO awhile and I knew his habits. He loved to hang out at the hotel bars or the closest one nearby and sip Vodka Tonics until the wee hours of the night. He would definitely be in the bar. He and his co-driver were there as expected.
I slapped Rick in the back of the head as we walked up.
"Bet's off. You cheated."
Rick turned. The look on his face told me the slap was going too far. When he saw me, his frown switched to a smile.
"We did not cheat", he insisted. "We have been here 30 minutes at least, right?' He looked to his co-driver for back up. The co-driver had a blank look on his face and a full drink in front of him. He didn't say anything.
Rick smiled and said:
"Oh don't mind Bill... I don't think he's used to driving straight through from New York. He drove the last leg. He should probably be sleeping, but I insisted he come with me so we could laugh at all you losers when you came in behind the winner.
Rick's grin widened:
"So where's the $50 bucks you owe us?"
" Like I said, you cheated. The winner was the first one to drop their rig at the secure lot. From what I can tell, your truck ain't at the lot and besides, it has a wheel lock clamped on to one set of the drivers."
Rick's smile went slack as he realized the headache he was about to have with the San Diego cops. They were not very tolerant of big trucks that did not follow their rules. My grin became a chuckle.
I continued, " But while you figure out how to bail out your truck, I'll sit back here in the hotel lounge and nurse a double Jack Black on the rocks." I worked up the best shit eating grin I could muster.
John got up awkwardly and staggered toward the exit. I thought he was already hammered and had been in the bar for awhile. As it turned out, he had only been at the bar long enough to order one drink and not finish it. His codriver ratted him out. His awkward exit was just him straightening out truck driver stiffness after a long run.
Two of the other trucks made it to town a few hours later, with the last two arriving the next day. Everyone agreed John had cheated and I agreed to not push the win. It wasn't about the money. It was about bragging rights and I decided to split the ownership with John. I didn't want to win on a technicality, although I had every right to do so.
End of Part One
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Led Zeppelin is considered by many to be the greatest Rock n Roll band of all time. I don't know about that. When I bought and listened to their first album in the summer of 1969, I was positive they were Rock Gods. Not even Eric Clapton or Hendrix could carry their water.
That initial infatuation calmed some and their place eventually settled near the top of my all time greatest playllist. There was and still is entirely too much great music in all genres floating around this planet to make claims of "Greatest", Best Ever", etc. They were great and that is all that matters to me.
To have had the privilege to drive for their tour is one of my great memories. That tour was chock full of madness.
One song on their self titled fantastic first album, "Led Zeppelin" sent shivers up my spine and still does every time I hear it. Please enjoy their cover of Muddy Waters' wonderful Blues tune, "You Shook Me".
If you can't or won't turn the volume up to WOW, shame on you.
One of, if not the most lucrative trucking gigs I had was as a Teamster driving for Lever Brothers (now Uni-Lever). In the 1970s, they were basically just a soap company at that time. Breeze detergent, Rinso, Wisk, Dove, Caress, Sunlight dish soap, and a bunch of other soap products.
I was hired at the Baltimore plant as part of a new transportation scheme using a Teamster local shop that was supposed to be a cheaper alternative than being forced to continue to use Chemical Worker Union drivers. We were new and not very popular on the dock at the Baltimore plant. The Chemical Workers tolerated us, but only because we were at least Union and not independents.
Up to this point in my driving career, I had only mingled with union workers as an independent driver. I usually got along fine with them, but some loading docks were populated by aggressive union assholes who sometimes purposefully made my job hard; the Philly and New Jersey docks were the worse.
So now I was a Teamster. At first, all I knew was, I was going to make significant coin and drive solid, well maintained lease equipment. I was hired on and put on the road as a solo act when the contract with the Teamsters insisted on a team driving set up. Problem was, the dispatcher at the Baltimore plant was having trouble finding drivers with the kind of over the road experience I had from my time driving Rock n Roll bands.
I spent the first 3 months driving the same runs as the two driver teams did.. I kept two sets of logs and successfully kept up with the 3 other teams. It was tiring, but it was an hourly rate, not a mileage pay rate. In that 3 months driving solo, I grossed close to $50K. The overtime money was insane. My dispatcher was going to continue with me driving solo, but a snitch from the Chemical Workers bitched to someone over his head. One week at the end of a round trip run to Los Angeles, I was told I would finally have a co-driver to share the driving with.
At first, the thought of losing all that over time made me grumpy. Once I wrapped my head around the idea that another driver would make my life easier, I was okay with it. I was told to come in for the next run a few hours early in order to meet my new co-driver.
His name was Joe I think. It doesn't matter if it was or not. I will call him Joe. Joe was several years older than I was and full of himself as most of us younger drivers were. But his experience was almost exclusively dedicated to hauling containers from Baltimore docks to docks in Philly or New jersey.
After the introduction, I told him to throw his gear in the side pod of the truck. He told me it wouldn't fit. I wondered about that when he returned to the rig with 4 suitcases for the 7-8 day run.
"What the Hell did you pack for this trip, everything from your dresser?"
I held up my one bag that was half the size of just one of his suitcases.
"I could live out of this bag forever bud. You need to cut some shit out. We ain't got room for your whole wardrobe. I'll give you one suitcase and that's it."
He looked at me. I thought he might start something. He was not happy about me telling him what to do. I probably should have quizzed him harder, but we needed to leave soon if we wanted to be on the road early enough to miss the serious Monday commutes in and around the Baltimore/ DC area.
It took Joe another 20 minutes to sort through his stuff and settle on what he thought he would need. He finally had only one bag. He shoved it in the side pod and we booted.
This run was not the usual straight shot to the Los Angeles plant and back. We ran some dry chemical up to the Fort Lee, New Jersey plant. Dropped the trailer and hooked up to an empty trailer and headed south to Kannapolis, NC to pick up towels meant for Breeze detergent boxes. From there we headed west.
Joe's first trip west made the usual mundane run more interesting for sure. The excitement he showed when we crossed the Mississippi made me remember my first crossing as a child in the back seat of a 1956 Pontiac. There is nothing quite like seeing the Mississippi River for the first time. Add in the St. Louis Arch and man, it makes an impression. The Arch is an amazing sight you can see from miles away.
The rest of the trip West was uneventful with the exception of a stop at the Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo, Texas. I thought Joe would like to see what a real steak meal looked like. He was not only amazed, he took the challenge of eating 72 ounces of steak and fixins in one hour or less. If he ate it all, he would not have to pay for the steak.
I knew better, having already taken the challenge several years earlier. Joe tried hard, but in the end, he fell more than a few ounces short. I thought I was going to have to hold him up to get him out of there. He was a suffering bastard through the rest of Texas, through New Mexico and well into Arizona. I decided to let him lay in the sleeper and I finished the drive to the City of the Angels.
When we finally got to Los Angeles early afternoon, I dropped the trailer and found the motel. I was really beat. I told Joe to cool his heels, we would pick up our return load in the morning. Said I was going to shower and hit the hay. Wake me up in the morning.
Two, maybe three hours later, the phone in the room starts ringing off the hook. Being almost comatose, it took me several seconds or more to wake up enough to answer the damn thing. I was not friendly.
"Hello, what, what the Hell do you want?"
"Mike, Uh I..... Well you see..."
I was very awake now. Hearing Joe's voice on the phone told me he was not in the room and probably nowhere near it. I sat up and started looking for my glasses. Seems I always felt I could hear better if I had them on. This time was no different. I groped on the nightstand, under the pillow, finally locating them on the top of my head where I had pushed them back before I passed out.
"Where are you?"
I climbed out of the bed and reached for the window curtain.
" Uh, well, I 'm in Long Beach."
"Hold on."
I opened the curtain and noticed there was no longer a fairly new Leaseway GMC cabover bob tail sitting in front of our door.
"And you took the tractor, didn't you?"
A long moment of silence followed. So I repeated myself.
"You took the truck didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did, but, .... but I can explain."
I kept my cool. I had learned from my time hauling Rockm Roll that staying calm was more important than the satisfaction of blowing my top.
"Go ahead, explain to me why, what, and where..... And do it quickly."
More silence and then, "Well, you see I ain't never been to California, Hell, I ain't never been West of the Mississippi. And since we had a layover, and since you were asleep, I figured there'd be no harm if I borrowed the tractor and did some sight seeing."
The silence switched sides as I contemplated what this might mean to me, to our run, to the Universe in general. Finally, I asked the dreaded question I had been avoiding to this point.
"Are the cops involved in this "sight seeing" trip of yours?"
"Well, yeah, but it's all okay, I'll pay the ticket out of my first paycheck."
"The ticket?"
"Uh yeah, I kinda got stuck on a beach in Long Beach. Uh Huntington Beach actually. Seems the beach I drove on was not a drive on beach. ........ I would have been fine and not been caught, but I got stuck in the sand."
"You got our 15,000 pound tractor stuck on a fucking beach?"
I was wide awake now.
"Uh yeah. but the cop , hey did you know the cops out here are real friendly, he only gave me a ticket for blocking the access lane and not the driving on the beach ticket. Says it will....."
I had stopped listening to Joe. As lead driver, I knew any blowback was heading my way, not his. Then something told me I was only getting part of the story.
"What are you not telling me? Are you still stuck?"
"Well, that's why I called. See, I don't know who to call out here other than you, so ......."
I remember sitting there on that tired mattress at the Days Inn and realizing that my job was probably over, no matter what I did to salvage the situation.
"Are you at a pay phone?"
"Yeah"
"Give me the number. I'll call Leaseway and let them handle it and get right back to you."
I was finally awake and up to speed and now fully engaged in my crisis handling mindset.
"Well, that's a problem too. There's folks here who want to use the phone."
"Okay, call me back in 1/2 hour. I need a shower and some time to talk with the Leaseway folks."
Joe was more than happy to get off the phone. His last words before he hung up were regarding how he could pass the time watching the naked people at the beach. I remember sitting there staring at the phone. Finally, that something he was not telling me came into focus. He had said he was at Huntington Beach, maybe the most famous nude beach in the USA.
As it turned out, my call to Leaseway solved the logistical problems of the trip. They arranged to have the tractor towed, and when it was determined that Joe had burned up the differential with sand, they put us in a brand new, never been driven, GMC COE (Cabover) for our return trip to B-more. I was never told how expensive this fuck-up was, but from my previous experience having crashed a lease truck on ice in Pennsylvania, I knew it was an expensive mistake.
The return trip from Los Angeles was a quiet trip. Joe and I settled on occasionally grunting at each other. He was fired as soon as we landed at the Leaseway lot in Baltimore.
I was dressed down hard for the fiasco I had no part in as dispatch determined that I should never had allowed my keys to leave my person. I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut.
Joe was not yet out of my life though. A month or so later when I got back from my weekly run, he was waiting for me at the Leaseway lot. He was shitfaced and angry. He began a tirade about how it was my fault he lost his job because I didn't have his back and the only Teamster gig he could get was as a yard rat moving trailers around. Because of me his family was suffering also, blah, blah, blah.
I had stopped listening. I was dead dog tired and all I wanted to do was sleep on a mattress that was not in constant motion. I told him to shut the fuck up, that what happened to him was his own fault and godammit, get out of my face.
Then he said, "What did you do with my gun?"
That stopped me cold. I turned around and stared at him. "What gun?"
"The gun I stashed under the mattress in the sleeper."
"You fuckin had a gun with you on that run to L-A."
"Well yeah, ya never know when you might need one."
I remember staring at him for the longest time. I was astounded. I didn't know where to start.
"You know hauling around a gun as a commercial carrier is a crime and a Teamster no-no. Besides, just how dangerous did you think the road was going to be? I have over 1 million gun free miles under my belt. The only situation I ever felt the need for defense, well, my tire thumper was more than adequate."
"Fuck you", Joe said, "I don't want to hear it. Do you have my gun or not? ... I stashed it under the mattress in the sleeper."
At this point I was heading to my car.
Over my shoulder, I said:
"I know nothing of your gun. It's probably still where you left it. But the tractor is locked up in the garage now. You'll have to wait until I come back for my next run tomorrow night. I'll find it and have it for you then."
I got in my car and left the lot.
Sunday evening when I showed up to grab my tractor to start my weekly run, Joe was there in his car waiting for me. He was out of his car and next to my car before I had even turned off the engine. As soon as I opened my door, his bullshit picked up right where it left off the day before.
"Did you find my gun?"
"No, haven't looked for it yet."
"Gimme a minute to check it out."
"Hey, I'll look for it."
Joe seemed in a hurry. I was not feeling very accommodating.
"You stay right here. You are not getting in my truck ever again."
I continued on to my rig, opened the door and climbed in. I found Joe's gun deep under the mattress. It was wrapped up tight in a paper bag. I hopped down from the truck, turned and gave Joe the bag.
Joe opened the bag, looked in, and then looked at me.
"What the fuck bud? What did you do to my gun?"
"What? ... I did nothing to your gun. You saw, I just found it."
"The rust guy, the rust. it's just a lump of rust."
"Calm down. It's the way I found it. Remember, you are the one who stuffed it under the mattress. The sleeper is a damp place, hiding the gun there was a bad idea. It's all on you asshole, not me. .... you're lucky I didn't throw it out. ............ Besides, the rust is superficial. Haven't you ever owned a firearm before? ..... It'll clean up just fine."
Then Joe opened his mouth one time too many. "Well, why didn't you clean it up then?"
I punched him in the mouth and walked away. If memory serves, that may have been the last time I hit a man.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................................
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Musical choices are probably many, but at the moment, I am drawing a blank. Something related to Trucking? Maybe Greatful Dead of Little feat? Nah. This story needs something different. Maybe some California music from back in the Day: Beach boys, Mamas and Papas, Sonny and Cher? .......... Hmm.
"Hotel California" by The Eagles fits I think. It certainly fits my mood and overall attitude about the Golden State. Here is a live version recorded at the Capitol Center in Largo, Maryland in 1977. I hauled more than a few tours to that venue.
Labor Day. .......... Why was it created and when? From a U.S. government website :"...... in 1882, Peter J. McGuire, general secretary of the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners and a co-founder of the American Federation of Labor, suggested setting aside a day for a "general holiday for the laboring classes" to honor those "who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold."
".... to honor those who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold"
Hmm. Eloquent sentiment that describes what wage slaves do to meet the needs of the Rich to feed their ever growing silk lined pockets.
No one can argue with those words really. Ownership in and of itself creates nothing tangible, physical, nor edible. All ownership does is create the focus of the energies of a group to one specific goal; producing the physical needs and wants of the larger group they are all part of. And for that, ownership grants themselves the largest piece of the reward pie. Fair or not, that's how it works.
Don't get me wrong, I have no axe to grind with ownership in and of itself. The Capitalistic model works, but not very well without at least a modicum of oversight. Left to it's own devices, without any restraints, Capitalism is a no win proposition in the end for everyone, the owners included. They are just the last ones standing. Eventually the system will be replaced by one that is more often than not, more draconian and brutal.
I understand I am using broad strokes to attempt to describe the economic model we use in this country. It is not so straight forward as my first remarks might indicate. There are many influences, good and bad that can create or enhance the over all impact on the culture the economic system exists in.
The broad strokes though, in my opinion, fit into too many scenarios that have already played out many times in the past since Capitalism began its rise from the ashes of Feudalism during the Middle Ages. As a layman, former blue collar guy, and now, retired small business owner, I am thinking the failure of unrestrained free markets are as bad, if not worse than free markets operating under too many odious government restraints. The best results it seems, fall in the middle between the two, where Capitalism is the base system with a government that continues to rein in the worst excesses of the system. At the same time, The government does what it can to help maintain a healthy base economy.
A well managed forest will be more productive over the long term, than a forest cutover leaving nothing but stumps.
This weekend we celebrate the hard work of all the worker bees who built and continue to sustain the greatest Economy in the last century or so. A day only celebrating our workers isn't enough really. But like good worker bees, we take what we can get and go back to work on Tuesday.
My father once told me there is nobility in any type of work. Carrying one's own weight through the labor of their backs or minds is where the real pride comes from, as opposed to the false narrative that defines us through how much we own. As I said earlier, ownership produces not much by itself. Without a workforce, there would be no riches to own.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend and please -
Keep it 'tween the ditches .............
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I thought I would search for a good labor tune. As I began my search, I remembered my favorite song of all time. "Willin", by Little Feat exemplifies my attitude towards work, pushing envelopes, and holding on. For me, "Willin" describes the the can do attitude of American Labor. It definitely described my attitude during the days I drove trucks over the road.
When I played it again, I realized "Willin" didn't dovetail nicely with the sentiment of the post. I will include it anyway, just because, well, it is my favorite song, ever.
To be more in line with the idea, the struggles, and promises our labor force has been part of, here is the original version of "16 Tons" as written and recorded by Merle Travis in 1947.
As promised, here is "Willin", a song that carried and sustained me through my years of pounding the superslabs, dodgin 4-wheelers and Smokies. It was the perfect finish to a precarious youth. I ended up having too much fun and finally got caught being stupid.
I have a handle on the broader strokes of this lost weekend in Dallas, Texas in the summer of 1978. The finer details however, are a tad fuzzy. But knowing myself and how I was at that time in my life, I can fill in the blanks with some safe assumptions. I was reaching the end of my ability to function soberly.
Substance abuse had an insidious hold on me. I was consuming massive amounts of cocaine and Jack Daniels. This 4th of July bender should have been the signal I paid attention to. It wasn’t. It took me landing in jail in Michigan a month and a half later on possession charges before I began to smarten up.
~~ * ~~
After finishing up a one truck tour with the Kinks at the end of June, 1978, I left Los Angeles, California and took a leisurely 3 days to make it back to SHOWCO's headquarters in Dallas.
I was feeling great. A one truck tour will do that. Multi-truck tours always had more intricate moments of drama and mania compared to the lower key rhythms of one truck tours. A one truck tour usually meant smaller venues and were closer to each other or there was more time allotted for the drive than on the bigger tours. A one truck tour often felt like a working vacation.
So I was back in Dallas with over a week to use as I wished before I headed out with Genesis to tour up in Canada and the eastern US. Needless to say, I had stocked up on pot, toot and Jack Daniels in LA before I headed to Dallas. Seven or eight days off stuck at Days Inn in Irving, Texas with no car might be tolerable if I had enough stimulation.
I backed my trailer into a loading dock at SHOWCO headquarters on Governors Row. As the trailer was unloaded, the head of transportation asked me if I would mind doing some more driving while I waited for the Genesis tour to come together. I jumped at the chance. Working beat sitting any day. He sweetened the deal by saying I could expense my week at Days Inn on the first expense sheet of the Genesis tour. Life was really looking up.
I was tasked with hauling a small amount of additional sound equipment to the Cotton Bowl for a stadium gig Willie Nelson was promoting on July 3rd.. It was his "Picnic with Willie Festival" which included acts like Kris Kristoferson, Waylon Jennings, and others.
Because my memories of that weekend are still fuzzy, I can't say for sure if it was a Waylon roadie or some other clown I met backstage who first got me into trouble out back next to the Waylon Jennings rig; a beautifully restored B-Model Mack that reminded me of the tired B-Model Mack I had driven several years earlier, hauling twenty foot overseas containers filled with raw rubber to Ohio.
Since I cannot remember his name, I will call him Slim as I have a hazy memory of a skinny dude with white powder crusted on a badass mustache. Yeah, the 3 or 4 day substance bender started with swigs of Jack Daniels Black, alternating with snorting bodacious lines of toot off a logbook on a fuel tank step.
Later that night I managed to get my truck and trailer outside the gate before I passed out. I woke up the next morning draped over the dog house and my mouth tasted like muddy footprints outside a row of porta potties.
I noticed Slim had crawled in the sleeper and was passed out. Spittle had dripped from his gaping mouth onto my brand clean sheets. The most god awful smell huffed and puffed out of his mouth with each breath. Slim’s eyes opened.
He mumbled, "What time is it?'"
I looked at the alarm clock I had duct taped to the dog house (Cabinet sized structure in a cab-over truck that covers the engine). The clock was not ticking.
"Dunno, forgot to wind that bitch."
I opened the door of the cab and jumped down. As I stood facing the drive tires and drained them of some clear water, I looked up at the Sun. Once the shock of looking right at it wore off, I noticed it seemed to be hanging higher than an early morning sun.
I shouted up at the open driver's door, "Bet it's closing in on Brunch. ..... Is there somewhere close we can eat and get some cock tails?"
Slim stuck his head out and grinned. "Well driver, do your pre-check and then let's go. There's a great Tex-Mex joint over near ABC truck rental in Irving. They know their way around Tex Mex for sure."
By the time I had circled checked my rig and climbed back in the cab, Slim had a couple of beefy lines of toot laid out on the Dog House with a 1/2 pint of Jack Daniel's Black set up between them.
"Won't do the Jack, but I will snort that line if you don't mind. I try not to drive with the demon rum poisoning my insides. Can't afford to lose my license."
Slim looked at me and said, "Yeah, that's what you told the Dallas PD last night when they checked up on us hanging out behind the Cotton Bowl. How you talked your way out of that I will never know. You could barely talk there bout midnight when they showed up."
The sloshing frothy head I had been sporting seemed to clear in seconds.
"Cops were here last night?"........ I tried to remember but couldn't. ....... "Okay. I guess I lucked out then.". ........ What did the cop say?"
"Well he knew right off you were shit faced when you fell out of the truck. He also believed you that you had not moved your rig any further than outside the fence, especially when you could not find your truck keys. He did grab both our licenses and called them in. No warrants, so with a final warning not to drive drunk, he climbed back in his cop car and drove away."
I sat behind the wheel taking this all in and rubbing my temples. I started the truck and began a search in the vicinity for my sunglasses. It was definitely going to be a sunglasses day. Once we got rolling I settled down and in a short while we were at the ABC Truck Rental facility.
I dropped my trailer and parked the tractor in front of one of the garage doors. I began emptying the cab of whatever I figured I might need for the next 4 or 5 days. I dropped the keys in the drop box and began strolling around looking for Slim. He had disappeared when I dropped the trailer.
It was an hour before Slim showed up again. But show up he did; in a beat Pontiac Fire Bird belching black smoke through at least one blown muffler.
"Where you been?"
"I called a cab, went home got my car and here I am now. Throw your gear in the back and let's get us some Tex-Mex and Bloody Marys. ……. And then I’ll fill you in on the plan for the 4th. We’re camping out tonight under the stars and howling at the moon. Al has some fireworks and a portable grill. Come on guy, It’ll be a blast. ( 1128 )
~~ * ~~
I remember eating a Tex-Mex breakfast and drinking Bloody Marys. By early afternoon, I had faded out again until I woke up, face up in some tall grass, around sunset. The sky above me was a layered series of pinks and reds. I tried to sit up and banged my noggin on what I discovered was the front bumper of Slim’s Fire Bird. I was next to a lake surrounded by brown grass. Not a tree worth mentioning as far as my eye could see. In back of the Fire Bird was a group of good ole boys sitting in lawn chairs and spitting into a campfire that was way bigger than it needed to be.
I shuffled over to the fire. Someone tossed me a Lone Star long neck and then an opener. Damn, that beer tasted and felt great as it washed the dust pit in my mouth clean.
“Hey look boys, the dead do come back to life. …. Slim, where did you find this light weight anyway?”
“ Oh he’s alright Jack, he drives a truck for Willie, you know, the show at the Cotton Bowl yesterday? Besides, he’s got Blow.”
I decided it was time to speak up. I smiled.
“Hey fellas, wasup? We gonna party or what?”
Jack stood up and stepped into my space.
“Well friend, that depends.”
I stepped back, out of Jack’s space.
“Depends on what Cowboy?”
We stared each other down a minute or so without another word passing between us. I eventually reached in my jeans pocket and pulled out a mangled and tired looking joint.
“Got a light?”
Jack smiled and pointed at the huge cooler.
“We got no more chairs, so grab that cooler and drag it over to the fire. We’ll just smoke that joint of yours and get to know you.”
We were camping in a local park that surrounded a narrow bay on a manmade lake. There were campsites all along the shore full of families getting their fill of July 4th libations. We were just another family of sorts playing the same game.
Al pulled out his fireworks around nine I guess. I remember a fleeting thought that with all the dead grass everywhere, was it a good idea to set off fireworks? Since it was a fleeting thought, I soon found another fleeting thought to ignore.
The fireworks were fun I guess. I did not partake. I sat on my cooler, drank Jack Black and snorted toot with a shit eating clueless smile on my face while the boys hooted and hollered after each glorious explosion over the lake. Between explosions, I’d raise the bottle and shout:
“ Yer damn right!”
Suddenly, our night of frivolity and celebration turned ugly. Al fired off a rocket that, instead of going up, flew across the narrow inlet and into a campsite located in the wrong spot at the wrong time across from our group of drunk and disorderly cowboy truck drivers on vacation.
It was a direct hit. Sparks flew, scaring the shit out of the family who was camped there. At least that is what the boys thought happened at its worst. We saw flames growing and heard a female voice screech. Shortly, what we figured was the golf cart that had been parked at the park entrance made its way toward the fire. From across the inlet we watched people scurrying and hurrying until the fire was doused. I found out later no one was hurt but several campsites took it hard.
It was at this point the boys decided their welcome here was worn out. Jack and his buds gathered up all the gear, piled in his van and booted. Slim poured me into his Firebird and away we went. He dropped me off at the Days Inn near SHOWCO. I spent the rest of my five day layoff reacquainting myself with sobriety. ( @ 1900 )
~~ * ~~
"Truckin", by The Grateful Dead is the logical choice for the musical entertainment of the this post.
The term "Quiet Quitting" has crossed my FB page a few times now. I looked it up and was amused that it is a term used to describe worker bees who only perform at the levels they are expected to. Once off the clock, they close the door on their workplace. No overtime, no work texts, no work emails, nothing. Do what you contracted for and that is it. In the needlessly contentious world of labor relations in the US, we are supposed to look on employees who only do their job and nothing more as somehow not living up to the work ethic browbeaten into us for the last 150 years.
But this post is not about our work ethic or imagined lack thereof.
Today a fellow pointed out that there is actually an older definition for "Quiet Quitting". It was created back in the hey days of the union movements. It is known as "Working to Rule". Follow the rules of your workplace but nothing else. Nothing. When your shift is up, go home, crack a PBR and relax.
Immediately I was reminded of my time as a Teamster working out of Baltimore in the late 1970's.
Lever Brothers (now called Uni-Lever) had a soap plant on Holabird Avenue in Southeast Baltimore. At the time I was jockeying between driving jobs when I answered an ad for drivers needed at their plant. Little did I know I was stepping into a shit storm battle between two union shops, the Chemical Workers Union and a brand new Teamster local just trying to get off the ground. All I knew was the pay was fantastic. I mean fantastic. It was 1978 and I was going to make over $50K a year. Hello new pick up truck.
The new division was to be a team operation ( two drivers per truck). A team could make the coast to coast run to the Lever plant in Los Angeles and back to Charm City in a week. That was the plan. I made that run that first month solo. Ran two logs, gobbled go fast pills and looked for a way to hook up an intravenous tube for coffee infusions. Eventually they gave me a co-driver and we turned the run faster than any other team. Yeah, we broke rules. but we were the fastest turn in the operation.
A result of this new setup at the Baltimore plant was hard feelings from the workers in the plant. They felt the new transport division should have been theirs. But since Lever brothers was saving I think around $8 an hour by using Teamsters, the Chemical Workers were left out.
In retaliation, the local Chemical Worker shop negotiated some very strict rules about where, how, and when we Teamsters could go, work and use the toilet. For use outside of the truck, we now had only one picnic table set up near the stairs to the Dispatch office. Our movements were restricted to a twelve foot wide strip that ran the length of the loading docks. We had one bathroom we could use. And we could not engage any Chemical Worker in job interfering jocularity. All this happened while I was out on the road the previous week.
Back now from LA, I backed my trailer into the dock, got out and went in the only door I was allowed to use and went upstairs to dispatch. I did not notice the new red lines painted on the floors in front of the docks. Dispatch mentioned nothing about them. I turned in my paperwork for the last run and picked up my papers for the one coming up on Sunday evening. I left dispatch and headed to the dock my trailer was backed into.
I had not gone twenty feet towards my trailer when the blast from the plant whistle sounded. It made me jump. Blue lights started flashing and before I knew it, the plant had gone quiet. Not thinking it was because of anything I had done, I continued to the back of my trailer. I looked down the line of dock doors and noticed all the fork lifts were sitting idle with no drivers on them. They were all headed for their break room.
Just then my dispatcher came running towards me,"What have you done? Did you cross the line? Jeezus Christ, the whole plant shut down. I didn't think they would do it."
I don't know how I looked, but I am guessing I had a blank look on my face.
He stopped in front of me. "Seriously, did you cross the line?"
"What line", was my response. And then I saw the freshly painted line that had not been there when I left for California a week earlier. 'You mean that line?"
"Yeah dumass, that line."
Still not understanding the seriousness of my mistake, I remember trying to shrug it off by saying, "Uh yeah, probably. Why?"
"You shut the whole plant down by crossing that line." ........... I will always remember how upset this guy was, and then he said, "It is going to be an hour now before the plant gets back up to speed."
And still I had no clue how deep my mistake ran. I said something to the effect, "Sorry guy. Maybe you should have warned me. If I didn't know, how is it my fault? Looks to me this is on you."
That was the first write up I received of the three I would get that would allow them to fire me. The other two were also bogus write ups for things we drivers all did on the road to make our turns faster. I ended up losing my job for not "working to rule".
My year as a Teamster did not sour me on unions though. On the contrary, my year as a union driver consolidated my feelings about the need for unions. And then the last 45 years watching management destroy the healthy labor market sealed the deal.
The US business model is based on an antagonistic relationship between managers and labor. Union people understand this and use their collective power to fight it. It is too bad too. Working conditions in this country could be so much better, productivity could be so much higher and relationships between the worker bees and their queens could be so much friendlier.
This American "Us against Them" workplace mentality does no one any good.
Later ...............................................
______________________________
Along with a musical selection, today's post is also offering up a blast from my past, a commercial for the laundry detergent made from the raw materials I picked up and delivered all over the US. I also picked up the Cannon towels millions of lucky women found inside their boxes of Breeze detergent; Their slogan was, "A towel in every box!"
For music that might be appropriate, well, um, not sure. Well, I decided to tip my hat to one of the best fans of unions in American history. A quote from a discography site says this about his most famous song:
“This Land Is Your Land” was recorded by (Woody) Guthrie in 1944 and was his response to “God Bless America.” The song is pro-American from every background. He saw “God Bless America” as too sappy and didn’t do it for those Americans facing the rough edges of the Great Depression.
I have been messing with this story off and on since my first rendition published in my blog on 3/27/2010. It's over 2200 words long. Here it is again, only this time some names have been changed.
The events are true. The people were/are real. The dialog I created to well, I guess add some girth to the tale and to convey the basic truths of that incident as I remembered it. Hence the tag "Fictional Truth".
Anyway..............
_____________________________________
I did not appreciate how close to the edge I was flying back in 1978 when I was driving Rock n' Roll bands from one end of the continent to the other. I had been on the road pretty much non-stop for two years. The mind numbing miles built up. One hall began to look like another. I often had to check my itinerary the morning of a stage call to remind me what town I was in.
My time behind the wheel became a blur of interstate super slabs interrupted by nightmarish back ins to backstage loading docks controlled by surly stagehands. Good sleep was a rare luxury. Food, while plentiful, was always the same leftovers found in Green Rooms across the nation or the classic gut busting fare served up in truck stops.
I was on the David Bowie tour in the spring of 1978. We were on the last leg; the whirlwind leg. The bunched up series of shows on the East Coast meant travel distances dropped but the strategies to make it safely in and out of a city grew ever more complicated. The East was where I had learned the ropes of driving. I was back in my element. I could get 6 or 7 trucks to Madison Square Garden without much hassle as long as everyone stuck together. I could back into holes many drivers from west of the Big Muddy considered impossible. In other words, When I came East, I could be a star.
We had three gigs left. Providence, Boston, and we finished with two shows at Madison Square Garden in New York City. It was in Providence this comedy began for me.
A small crowd of groupies and sycophants were hanging out in the lobby of the Howard Johnsons in Providence when I stumbled through the carousel door to check in. How these fans seemed to know where to go always puzzled me. But they were always around.
Whacko Redhead was parked on one of the over stuff chairs near the front desk. Her tapping feet barely made it to the floor. I only noticed her because her red hair was a couple of feet long and looked like it had not seen the business side of a comb or brush in years. On her head was a Red Sox cap. Our eyes met. Mine stopped at her face. Her stare went right through me. Kinda scared me if you want to know the truth. I smiled weakly and continued to stumble my way to the front desk. I checked in, got my key and directions to my room.
Maybe two minutes after throwing my gear on the bed and collapsing next to it, someone knocked on the door. Not happy in the slightest, I dragged my sorry butt off the bed and opened the door.
"You're with the Bowie Tour aren't you?"
There, in all of her maybe 5 foot grandeur stood Whacko Redhead. Her feet apart like an umpire and her hands on her hips. She pushed past me and came into my room.
"Call me Red...... So what do I have to do to get backstage?" She plopped on my bed.
By this point in my Rock n Roll career, I had grown tired of the groupie scene and frankly, somewhat disgusted with the transactional aspect of sex for access. The easy sex for backstage passes had gone stale for me. Add in the fact that I was dead on my feet, my mood was not all that agreeable.
"I don't do backstage passes anymore. I'm tired. I need some sleep. Please leave." I continued to hold the door open like she was going to obey me.
Red did not get up off the bed. Instead she began to tap her feet again like in the lobby. "Well then", she started, "I am sure one of you drivers is horny enough to cough up a pass. Who should I see?"
Her direct manner and her piercing blue eyes cut through me hard. I began to chuckle. "Well, Earl is perpetually horny. He's always ready for some head."
Red did not bat an eye. "Which one's Earl? Not the 400 pound whale with the whiny voice and scraggly beard?"
"That would be Earl."
"Uh, no thanks. I picked you". ............... So, what's it gonna take?"
"Darlin, all I want is some sleep. Even if I had the urge, I don't think the engine has the fuel." But I closed the door and walked back into the room.
That was my first mistake.
At age 26, we guys always have the urge and the fuel even if we don't think we do. And this is something all the women seem to know. An hour later Red and I were saving the planet by taking a shower together. That sleep I thought I needed, traded in on easy sex for a backstage pass. But I did learn her given name was Angie and she was an ER nurse with a couple of days off. And suddenly this fling had turned into something more. At least it felt that way.
I lost track of Angie, the tiny red cyclone, during the show that night. She made an impression on the crew, but oddly, not a bad impression. Came time for load out and there she was, sitting on one of the speakers waiting to be loaded on my truck. When they grabbed that speaker, she hopped off and walked over to me at the back door of the trailer.
She reached around my waist with one hand and pulled my head down with the other. After planting a screamer of a kiss on me, she backed up. "Well, I guess that's it then. You are off to Boston now."
"Yeah, I guess so."
And then I made my second mistake.
"How'd you like to go to Boston with me?"
I don't think I had even finished talking and she had the passenger door of the truck open and was scrambling up the looped footsteps. By the time I had climbed in behind the wheel, she had a doob lit and was passing it over the dog house to me.
The Old Boston Garden was at worst a two hour drive from Providence. Once there, I figured I would finally get that sleep I needed. It was possible my head could be on a pillow by 2 AM and with stage call not until 8 AM, I might get 4 hours of solid shuteye.
Angie had other plans. On the way out of Providence she insisted I stop at her apartment so she could grab some clean clothes and maybe gussy up some. Since finding Boston Garden should be no problem for the other drivers and the fact they had over 8 hours to find it, I cut them loose with a call on the CB radio. I pulled into her apartment complex around midnight. I didn't pull out until 6:30 AM the next morning. And again like so many times before, I made stage call with only minutes to spare. Buford, the head engineer on that tour was not impressed. Damn women.
I got my trailer unloaded and then headed to the Holiday Inn in Somerville, north of Boston. After a quick romp in the sack with Angie, I headed for the shower and left her parked on chair thumbing through the itinerary for the tour. As I toweled myself off, there was a knock at the door. I wrapped the towel around my waist and opened the door expecting one of the crew or a hotel employee. There standing in all their Parental intimidation glory were Mom and Dad. I had forgotten that I had invited them down from Maine to see the Bowie show and hang with all the cool people backstage.
I didn't move. I didn't say a word. I just looked at them. In the meantime, my dad's eyes had gotten bigger. My mom's eyes had become slits. I turned around and sitting there in a hotel room chair, buck naked, was Angie. Her eyes had grown big also. She jumped up and quickly began to gather her clothes.
I stood there saying nothing. What was there to say?
Mom finally spoke. "Well Mike, are you going to invite us in?"
"Uh, yeah, come on in." I stepped out of the way just as Angie made a beeline for the bathroom with her clothes clutched so to cover her naughty bits.
Mom and Dad come into the room. Mom's eyes were still slits. Dad was grinning from ear to ear. He said, "So, all those stories are true huh?" Mom shot him a hard look of disgust and then began to scan the room for a safe place to sit.
I heard the shower kick in. Good, Red was cleaning up. I turned to my parents, “Folks, make yourselves comfortable. I'm going to get dressed. Be out in a moment." Mom and Dad just looked at me. They still had not sat and that grin on Dad's face was beginning to unnerve me.
Once I was dressed, I came out of the bathroom and was relieved that my parents had figured out where to sit. It seemed to take the edge off the situation that had started so badly. I began. "So this is kinda awkward......"
Mom immediately interrupted. "Awkward? Christ on a crutch Mike, you invited us down. You know how hard it is to get your father to go anywhere, and when we finally get here, you are shacked up with some whore."
"Mom, she's not a whore. They are called Groupies. And besides..........." I can't finish. Mom was not listening. She had made her decision.
Dad piped up and said, "Well I for one am glad we came. She seems a delightful young lady."
Mom turned and stared at my father. "Delightful? Why do you say that? Because she was naked?"
"Why yes dear. Because she was naked. All young ladies are delightful when unclothed."
I can tell my parents were getting primed for one of their daily spats. It always started the same way. One baits, the other bites. I spoke up. “Okay that’s it. Stop right now. Let’s head to the Garden. I’ll leave Angie here. She won’t mind.”
My mom could not resist a parting shot as we moved towards the door. In a loud voice she warned, “Don’t leave any valuables here Mike; they might not be here when you get back.”
Red popped her head out of the bathroom door and stuck her tongue out. Dad smiled at her and said, “Nice to have met you.” Mom tugged on his arm, glared at Angie and we left.
Thankfully, the following hours at the Garden were so special for my parents and myself, the incident at the motel became but a footnote to one of the most bizarre days I had while driving Rock n Roll.
Since it was near the end of the tour, David Bowie had a catered high end meal set up for the crew. Chefs with big hats cooking while waiters wearing white waist coats served food that was absolutely some of the best I have ever eaten. Mom and Dad got to sit down with us. As it happened, David Bowie sat at our table and talked with my parents. He chose our table because their elderly presence was so out of character for this business. My dad was able to hang out at the Sound board while Buford ran his sound check. Both of them ended with respect for the other. They were both geeks. Dad asked questions that Buford had to strain to answer. Geeks just love that kind of shit.
It turned into a good day. If I had had a plan to begin with, I could not have come up with a better series of events to completely impart just how insane the Rock n Roll business was. My parents begged off when I suggested staying for the concert. The meal, meeting David Bowie, the sound check and of course Whacko Redhead was excitement enough for one day. They drove me back to the motel. As I got out, they both insisted they had a wonderful and if nothing else, an interesting time. They drove home to Maine.
I still had to deal with Angie though. She had been cooling her heels at the motel for 5 or 6 hours. Even though she could have robbed me blind during our previous two days together, my mom’s warning skittered through my mind as I walked to the room. What is it about moms and their ability to weasel their way into our minds? It must have something to do with that bonding during pregnancy. After all, they have nine months to implant whatever insidious control device they want.
With this floating around my mind, I opened the door of the motel room. The mess I left was straight now and a fully clothed Whacko Redhead laid passed out peacefully on top of the bed covers. The king size bed wrapped around her like an acre of pasture wraps around a cow. Her red hair seemed under control now. Her eyes closed, she was the perfect picture of calm. I crawled on the bed beside her and was asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
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There was only one tune I could, would, should use with this post. "Under Pressure" - One of the finest tunes David Bowie or for that matter, Freddy Mercury of Queen ever recorded. Hope you enjoy it. It still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand tall and hard. ....... Rock On.
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