Mr. Cook

Lessons from the road

If you work any job long enough, especially a desk job, you find yourself pining for the world happening without you. Yes, it’s FOMO, but when I look out my window, taking a break from a phone or computer screen, the world outside the confines of the office always appears so lush and vibrant. In college I was envious of those who didn’t have to work and instead gallivanted across the world under a guise of studying abroad or cultural exchange. I worked at a cold storage warehouse, and so daily I encountered nomads who traveled far and wide transporting food stuffs in semis.

There’s no such thing as a truck driver without character. Most of them spend the majority of their days in the isolation of the cab that they overflow with personality and conversation once reaching a warehouse. Even the non-native English speakers of which I noticed the majority, surprisingly, were Russian and Middle Eastern, were eager to try new material on an audience like open mic comedy. Many long haul truckers I would never see again and the route drivers I would see more than I cared for. There was however two regulars, brothers, that always brought excitement to early Monday mornings.

Gary and Richard Cook appeared to be in the sixties, but that could have been the effect of the road. All other physical traits they borrowed from ZZ Top. They looked had long grew beards and always wore black jeans and black t-shirts that they could have been mistaken for twins if not a band. In fact, I was unsure of who was who that I called them both Mr. Cook. The Cook brothers came round once a week; Richard to pick up a load going north, Gary taking one south. They would lean over the counter and holler one-liners to the administrators with whom they had great report. With the regularity which I saw them, we got to know each other well. They knew what was current in my life and I knew how my preparation of their bills of lading could help them along the road.

Such was my ease with them and my stagnation in the office that I asked them if I could ride with one of them on an upcoming delivery. For a 20-year-old, the use of volunteered time off in Washington seemed less glamorous than southern California. So I asked Gary—or I hoped I had correctly guessed which one was Gary — if I could come along the following week after he completed his pickup. “Sure! Bring your sleeping bag!”

Next Monday Mr. Cook picked up 26 pallets of frozen desserts—not ice cream, an important distinction on a BOL—then returned for his transportation and delivery documents. Routinely, I had him sign ten pages of triplicate forms, I arranged his copies, then grabbed my backpack, and walked with him out through the parking lot to his rig.

A person in my line of work has preconceived notions about what mess occurs in a cab to produce the disheveled and quirky drivers that we meet. But foresight and mental preparation only goes so far in making one accustomed to the absurd. The first thing I noticed entering the cab was his dentures resting on the dash. The second thing I noticed was the dash itself and how expansive it was—it had to be to cover so large an engine. And that engine! Even parked it had a cacophonous groan as if dreading the upcoming effort of pulling a 53-foot trailer. To see beyond the engine, which actually sits below the cab, we sat towering over every other vehicle. Deflating my amazement, I looked over to Mr. Cook as he reminded me to buckle up while adjusting an oxygen mask to his face.

The freeway south from Eugene wanders through green forests, then upon crossing the border one is exposed to a majestic view of Mt Shasta and shortly thereafter the spidery lake that bears its name. Past that you’re in cow country, and the beauty of the outside world begins to fade. So too does the glorified life of a trucker. Due to the long hours of mindless driving, Mr. Cook drank coffee from a 64oz mug which forced us to pull over frequently , forming impromptu rest areas. The truck on the other hand had an enormous tank and it seemed a half hour was spent filling it up. Though the journey was slow, I welcomed the reprieve from seeing and smelling the miles of endless miles of pastures enclosing cows bound for the slaughterhouse.

I understood why Mr. Cook so eagerly accepted my request for passage on that trip. As normal for him was interacting with others only ten hours a week, he was cannibalistic for conversation. Or, he just craved an audience for what opinions had been silenced too long. He spoke of Obama’s politics, automatic transmissions, and people nowadays.

Sometime later—I can’t say exactly how long as his legally-mandated trucker’s log book had a different account—we ended our day in a gravel lot after buying a case of beer. The beer, I learned, was not just a way for Mr. Cook to enjoy himself but also a means to mitigate his earlier caffeine consumption. I drank my beer from my bunk while Gary sat a few feet apart in his seat. Drinking beer is typically a jovial affair and on the occasion that the beer and conversation is heavy I retreat. There was nowhere to retreat to and so I listened patiently while Mr. Cook lectured me on the importance of working hard and walking the straight path. I could be more than a truck driver, he said. That was true; I wanted to be a lumberjack that summer. He told me the circumstances of him starting a trucking company with his brother: that the mafia had a strong influence in their hometown and despite the rewards of being crooked, the risk of their futures was too great so he convinced his brother to be self-made the righteous way. Though he spent five days a week driving a third the country, he never had to be ashamed of the man he saw in the mirror when home, and in the side mirrors or truck stop bathroom mirrors either.

Hours after our 4am delivery the next day, Mr. Cook dropped me off the shoulder of the highway in Northridge. I would find my own route to my friend’s house. I jumped down from my elevated seat, nearly falling on my face. Recovering from my stumble I heard him yelling something over the engine’s growl. I couldn’t quite make it out. I just nodded dimwitted and thanked him, knowing the directions, whatever they were, came from someone who knew the roads.