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151 pages

English

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Description

This is an unvarnished look at the trucking world as seen through the eyes of one who experienced it. It especially applies to the area of trucking known as “Long-Haul”, for that is what the author was for a long time.
This is not a “pretty” book, nor is it “politically correct”, as it speaks of the raw realities that are, and not those things we wish them to be. The drivers face these head-on, alone, and if they didn’t, you would have to. Upon reading this, you should have a much better understanding of why there are trucker’s resistance movements in both Canada and the United States. As one driver phrased it when hearing that this was in the works, “Please hurry. We are dying out here.”
However, it does have large doses of the humor that he needs, to survive in this strange world where few others can.

Sujets

Biography

Autobiography

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Publié par	Xlibris US
Date de parution	06 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781669861508
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Easin’ On
The Confessions of an American Outlaw
LoneWolf

Copyright © 2023 by LoneWolf.

ISBN:
Softcover
978-1-6698-6151-5

eBook
978-1-6698-6150-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/30/2022

Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
845574
Contents
Foreword

Chapter 1 Oh, Izzat So?
Chapter 2 A Beautiful Day
Chapter 3 Laws
Chapter 4 Bureaucrats
Chapter 5 Two Meals
Chapter 6 Loads
Chapter 7 “Please, Sir, Go Away! You’re Not Safe Here!”
Chapter 8 On Men
Chapter 9 Lot Lizards
Chapter 10 Women Drivers
Chapter 11 Signs
Chapter 12 Unusual Qualities
Chapter 13 Oil and Water
Chapter 14 The Pass
Chapter 15 Back Country
Chapter 16 The Alaskan Wonder
Chapter 17 Chicken Coops
Chapter 18 The Grapevine
Chapter 19 Shippers and Receivers
Chapter 20 CB Radios
Chapter 21 Scuse Me a Second—Gotta Spring a Leak
Chapter 22 Comic Books
Chapter 23 Dispatchers
Chapter 24 Government Parasites
Chapter 25 Peeking through the Trapdoor
Chapter 26 That’s Crazy!
Chapter 27 Drivers I’ve Known
Chapter 28 Sharing the Road
Chapter 29 Government and Politics
Chapter 30 Solitude
Chapter 31 Socialistic Dogma
Chapter 32 The Endgame
Chapter 33 Yet Another Ticket
Chapter 34 Solving Problems
Chapter 35 Moving on dow n the Line

Warning!
Those who are sweet and innocent probably should not read this book, because it is written by an ornery old man who tells it like it is.
Those who disregard this advice are at risk of contracting the dreaded ailment known as diafloogus of the lower ba- orgatory, and the ONLY cure for that is a humungus enema.
We wouldn’t want that to happen to you.
OK. You’ve been warned.
Foreword
Folks, this is an unvarnished look at the trucking world as seen through the eyes of one who experienced it. It especially applies to the area of trucking known as “long haul,” for that is what I was for a long time.
The situations described in this book are real except for those items that are obvious exaggerations or parodies. However, even those have a serious purpose as they illustrate things that need to be brought to your attention as well as reflect accurately how the poor guy feels while it is happening. Sometimes one must adopt an attitude or persona that he doesn’t like to survive.
While this book was still in the concept stage, I described it to a fellow driver. A look of agony crossed his face, and his comment was short and to the point. “Please hurry. We’re dying out here.”
I apologize to him for taking so long and dedicate this book to him and all the other unsung heroes who provide us with the necessities of life while enduring the scorn and slander of the liberal media. I consider it one of the greatest honors of my life to have been known and accepted in their ranks.
I’ve recounted these stories as accurately as possible, and if there are a few discrepancies due to my faulty memory, I humbly ask the forgiveness of those involved.
Finally, keep in mind that most of this was written back in 2007, so some things are a bit dated. However, rest assured that the situation now is much worse than it was then.
LoneWolf
Chapter 1
Oh, Izzat So?
Studying the Basics
I lived in a small Eskimo village years ago, the name of which will remain unmentioned for obvious reasons. They are a delightful people, possessing a phenomenal ability to live comfortably on practically nothing while raising the word ingenuity a few notches in meaning. But it was their wit and spirit that attracted me the most.
This village was the administrative and commercial hub of a very large area containing an airport, hospital, bank, and weather station, so representatives of government, big business, and other such high muckety-mucks were constantly flying in and out. But there was a problem here. The only place to stay overnight was an old, dilapidated place. There, the few guests were kept awake most of the night by drunks and women desirous of providing men with “services.”
Eventually, it was decided to do something about this. A small piece of land was acquired and readied, and when spring rolled around and the river ice broke up, a barge brought in numerous mobile units. They were unloaded with difficulty, moved to the property, and fit together in the shape of a gigantic capital E . This was to be the city’s new inn.
But the new inn had the same problem the rest of the town did—it was sitting on top of more than three hundred feet of permafrost. That meant that underground utilities were impractical if not impossible, for anything buried would quickly freeze. Therefore, it was decided to subscribe to the same services everyone else did. A water truck would deliver the water needed, and a honey truck took care of sewage.
Because of this necessity, none of the rooms had a toilet. All the “toilets” were in one room in the main unit, and each consisted of a five-gallon bucket inside a special box that was about chair height. It had a toilet seat on top and was accessible by a trapdoor to the outside. That way, when the honey truck came, they could reach in through the trapdoor to get the bucket instead of having to pack it through the interior, grossing out the guests in the process. One just hoped he wasn’t sitting on the pot when they reached in to get it.
This arrangement seemed to work well; indeed, for all I know, it still is. Most of the guests were important officials and didn’t mix much with the locals.
There was something they didn’t count on though. There were numerous Eskimo kids around. One couldn’t help but grin when spying one of them, for they always had a smile that covered their entire face and framed two of the most mischievous, twinkling eyes you ever saw. They were the living definition of the word imps .
And those kids had discovered these trapdoors. In the evenings when the light wasn’t too strong, they would gather around and silently open them. Then using both hands, in a desperate effort to stifle their nearly irrepressible gales of giggles, they would watch as these high potentates took care of business.
Now I knew full well that what these kids were doing wasn’t exactly couth, but I couldn’t bring myself to squeal on them, for what they were doing seemed, in a strange sort of way, to be almost, well, apropos. You see, these people they were spying on were the forgers of the world in which they were growing up and would live as adults. It seemed almost fair that they should have a chance to study them from all angles.
Plus, you must admit, it’s not unusual to have the same substance emanate from both ends of these officials. And it wouldn’t hurt anything for the kids to know that. About here, I imagine you are asking what this tale has to do with trucking. The answer, to be honest, is Nothing – yet – Everything. I’ll explain in due time.
Another Lesson
A second story comes to mind. I got it straight from one of the young men involved (no, it was not me), and it occurred at least fifty years ago. He and his friends were country boys with all the mischievous desire for adventure this implies.
There was a grumpy old farmer living nearby whom they dearly loved to pester. So, I feel we can safely assume the old fellow had reason for his grumpiness. He was augmenting his income by renting rooms to the city slickers so they could enjoy the country atmosphere. The boys knew this and got an idea.
They had been studying about radios and electricity in school and had learned how to construct crude devices of this type. So having acquired the few pieces of equipment they needed, they crept down on the place very early in the morning before the sun was up. It only took a few minutes to rig a loudspeaker under the seat of the outhouse and run a few wires up the hill through the weeds and behind the brush, where they had stashed a battery and microphone. Then hidden, they waited for daylight.
Eventually, it came, and the people in the house began to stir. Smoke eased up out of the chimney, and the smells of breakfast became discernible. Finally, the door opened. Their luck held. It was one of the guests, a big, heavy, fat woman with the regal air and movement of a battleship. And she was sailing straight for the outhouse. Though they were ready to burst with glee, they waited.
She entered, and they still waited—fifteen seconds, thirty seconds. Finally, figuring she had enough time to get comfortably ensconced on the throne, the one with the deepest male voice reached for the microphone and yelled in wild indignation, “Hey, lady! Whaddaya think yer doin’? I’m tryin’ ta work down here!”
Ah, yes. These scamps had been hoping for a reaction, and they got one. Yes, indeed. There was a piercing scream, and then the door fairly exploded off the side of the outhouse as she came flying out with her clothes at half-mast. She was emitting noises that seemed to range anywhere between an air-raid siren and a whole herd of enraged banshees.
The boys? They were lying on the ground,