The Pilot was jumpin' with truckers -- guess a state the nature of California needs a constant infusion of freight, regardless of how sick the national economy is. That spelled trouble for me, though, because where there are a lot of trucks there aren't a lot of opportunities to make good money.
Trucking as an industry is among the truest examples of the supply and demand principle that rules our capitalistic society. Let's say there are ten trucks in town that want to go to Texas, but there are twenty loads that need to get there. Suddenly it gets real expensive to move freight down to Texas. He who has the deepest pockets is the one to get his load hauled, and the truckers win the day by demanding three or four bucks a mile. Flip the script, though -- and say there are twenty trucks looking to haul loads, but now there are just ten to be had. Now the power is in the shipper's hands. They play the trucks against each other, forcing them to undercut one another or risk hitting the road with no paying load at all. Before you know it, guys are quoting prices that have them running at a loss -- but it's better than rolling empty and earning nothing. My rig gets about six miles per gallon; that hurts when nobody else is helping foot the bill.
There's a popular movement amongst independent truckers lately that hopes to change that principal. Their tagline is Say no to cheap freight. The idea is that if none of us is willing to cave in and give away the farm on a rate, the shippers will have no choice but to pay decently.
Perfect idea on paper, but it could never work in the real world. There's always gonna be that guy fresh off the boat from El Shithole abroad that will drive a deathtrap of a truck for next to nothing. This reject pockets every penny instead of putting some back into his business. Eventually, his rig will break down or fall to pieces, quite possibly killing somebody in the process; but that doesn't matter to this asshole. To him, the American Dream means eating steak for dinner instead of rice and bread -- even if it means he's putting the lives of everyone else in jeopardy while he earns that meal. If he survives the death of his truck, he buys another hunk of scrap and starts all over again. Maybe, one day, we'll find a way to make people understand... but I doubt it.
The drive to hoard every cent is a major component of the problem with this country... we all want to earn as much money as we possibly can, but then we turn around and try to spend as little as possible for the things we need to get by. That's awfully short-sighted -- like that drawing of the snake that's eating its own tail.
See, let's say Jane Doe needs a bar of soap but she refuses to pay more than a dollar for a two pack. Now Joe Blow runs a soap company. He sits down and figures out that his factory can produce, for the sake of example, a hundred and twenty bars an hour -- so a two pack every minute. Let's say the ingredients to make that two pack cost ten cents... then there's the wrapper, that costs another ten. The overhead to operate the factory (the electricity, the water, the rent, the taxes - and so on) boils down to another dime. Now he's at thirty-cents total cost.
If the grocery store is gonna sell his two-pack for a dollar, he has to be able to sell it to them for half of that. He wants to earn a living, so he adds ten more cents to each pack to pay himself. So far his total cost is forty cents, so that leaves just a dime to pay for labor. Problem is, making just sixty packs per hour means a dime each is just six bucks.
His plant is in America... everybody thinks they're above working the line for six bucks an hour -- which is what he would have to pay if he was gonna meet his half-dollar target. He ends up having to pay twelve bucks an hour, so now his cost is sixty cents per two pack. If he sells it to the retailer at that price, they aren't gonna take the hit and still sell it for a buck, so they just change the cost of the soap to $1.20 to compensate.
Jane Doe demands a good wage too, so she should be able to afford to pay that price -- but she refuses. What happens? She buys some garbage soap from China, where the workers are essentially slave-labor and do the job for just a dollar a day.
Of course, Jane bitches and complains because her husband is unemployed and can't find a job. What about Joe Blow, you ask? Poor bastard went out of business because nobody bought his overpriced soap. The people who used to work for him are out on the welfare line, right behind naughty old Jane, who essentially caused the whole f'ing problem. If she had any sense at all, she would realize that it's all because she wouldn't come off that extra twenty cents. Her husband could've worked at the soap factory for that twelve bucks an hour had she helped keep Joe Blow in business. Now, all the jobs have moved away to places where people aren't so damned greedy.
Anyway -- let me get off of my soap box (I guess that's a pun) and back to the story...
Nearly starving to death, I had gone to the little sub shop inside the truck stop. I had one eye on the big LCD TV's on the wall serving as real-time load boards while the other watched the minimum wage lackey making my sandwich. Catching a good load was important, but I don't trust these sandwich artisans as far as I can throw them, and most are pretty portly nowadays. She scooped a nice portion of tuna on to my sub, so I gave her enough credit to only half watch her. I'm glad I did, because I caught a glimpse of what might've been my temporary salvation.
"Oceanside, California to Cape Canaveral, Florida." I read the board aloud. "One pick, one drop - no touch. Fifty-three foot reefers, late model equipment. Easy run, good pay."
Yes! There must be a God after all! If this load was real and I could get myself signed on, I'd be in perfect shape! The only potential hurdle was the whole late model thing -- Big Red and my trailer certainly aren't new, but what a freight broker can't see over the phone can't hurt him! I had to hurry to a phone before the whole truck stop beat me to the punch, so I broke the cardinal rule and turned my back on the Subway counter. I raced to a nearby payphone, slid my credit card and dialed the 800 number listed on the screen.
"Good morning, Sunspot Logistics." A cheerful female voice answered. "Are you calling about the Oceanside load?"
"Um, yes!" I replied hurriedly, hoping beyond hope that I hadn't seen the opportunity too late. "Do you still have a run available?"
"I do!" She replied to my delight. "It picks up in Oceanside tomorrow morning, but you have to check in at the gate by midnight tonight. It has just one stop in Cape Canaveral. Are you a solo driver or a team?"
"When do they want delivery?" I asked without revealing my hand. If they were looking for a team to run constantly and bang the load out in just a few days, I could pop a couple of No-Doze and pull it off by myself. Log books are made to be manipulated, but brokers don't like to hear that.
"Solo or team?" She asked snidely again, apparently wise to the game.
"It's just me out here." I replied, defeated.
"That's fine." Came the answer, to my surprise. "They'll take delivery on Friday, that gives you six full days to make the trip. No pallet exchange needed, no unloading fees. We're looking at twenty-nine hundred and fifty miles -- what kind of rate do you need to get it done?"
Ah, my favorite part! Negotiating time! Nothing gets my juices flowing quite like a back-and-forth price haggling showdown! I don't know why, I've just always loved the little game of verbal chess that determines how much bread is gonna be baking in momma's oven at the end of the night. It can be a fine art against the right opponent, and can make or break a trucker if he's not really careful about how he handles himself.
Shoot high and you might price yourself right out of the game. Shoot low and you'll be hauling for pennies on the dollar. The trick is to start just a bit outside of the range they're looking to pay, then let them haggle you down to their absolute maximum. If you play the cards right they can actually feel good about overpaying -- like you cut them a deal or something. Most of the time, they have no idea that you just gouged their eyes out; that's the mark of a true trucking maverick!
"Well," I started in my squeaky let me help you tone. "Fuel is pretty pricey right now, so I'm gonna have to put
a surcharge on top of my typical rate. Then there's the thin freight pool coming out of Florida at this time of year, so I have to take that into consideration as well. With the miles and the fuel, plus a good buffer of time built in for loading and unloading; I think we're looking about --" I paused, calculating that perfect number in my mind.
"I've got fifty-five hundred on it." She interrupted.
"Deal!" I answered, satisfied with my work -- though she didn't really let me have my fun. "You said you were Sunspot Logistics? I don't know that I've pulled for you before, I might need to sign your contract."
"You haven't." She replied quickly. "Where should I fax or e-mail the paperwork?"
I gave her all of my info and hung up, smiling ear to ear with the knowledge that I'd make it home in time to pick up Sammy from his mother's. It was a decent pay-day too, so I figured I'd be able to float the reefer replacement as well.
My glee was brought to an abrupt end, however, when I saw the sub woman holding my sandwich all wrapped up in that little clear plastic bag. I wonder what she could've done to it while I was distracted? Just to be safe in case it was inedible, I purchased a couple of cookies to go along with it and went on my way.
The woman at Sunspot said it would take about a half an hour to send the contract and rate confirmation over, so I decided to check out the little store area for a while. There wasn't much of use, of course. The typical tourist fare like the refrigerator magnets shaped like the state and such -- I don't need any of that crap, I already have the whole damn set stuck up on the fridge at my apartment.
I always liked looking over the lighting accessories and other cab goodies, even though I've given up on customizing my ride any further. I already had the skull gear shift knob, the wizard heads for the door lock pins, the leather steering wheel wrap, the illuminated neon ash tray, the chrome brake valve covers that say Live and Free on either one, the golden switch replacements, the mud flaps with the woman on them, enough marker lights to make my rig look like a Christmas tree, the purple utility lamp on the back end, the grill cover that makes it look like the truck has teeth -- oh, and the fuzzy dice that hang from my CB mic.
Back in the day, when Big Red was young, I used to enter her in those Pimp My Truck competitions. It was a lot of fun, but I never won enough prize money to cover even a small portion of the dough I put into it. It was my ex-wife who eventually forced me to stop -- I really owe her a thank you for that. I would've blinged my way right into the poorhouse if not for her objection.
While browsing their assorted wares, something unique caught my attention. It was a little transparent hunk of plastic with a 12-volt plug coming out the back of it, wrapped up a fancy blister-pack with a bold catch phrase across the top. Let Jesus light your path, it said.
I had to pick it up and look closer, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I did. This thing was a little plastic mold of Jesus Christ, draped in robes with his arms spread at his sides. It had an LED bulb in the middle, and apparently it glowed in one of four selectable colors when you plugged it into your cigarette lighter; red, blue, green or white. I had to have it! For the low-low price of $9.99, who wouldn't want it?
Once I'd looked over the audio books on offer and decided there was nothing of interest, I checked out and went to the communications center to check for my fax. There was a two-page packet marked to my attention from Sunspot Logistics -- nothing more. That seemed strange to me since, in my experience, most freight brokers make you initial and sign a twenty-page contract before they even consider telling you who their customer is. This set of paperwork was much more straightforward and simple than I was used to; but it was apparently all Sunspot wanted.
There was no legal mumbo-jumbo about trying to steal their customer or diluted requests for proof of insurance; just a sheet detailing the pickup and delivery locations, our agreed upon rate and a space for me to sign. I did so and faxed it back, then waited a couple of minutes before calling the broker again to confirm that she received it.
"Yes, Mister Johnston." She said. "I've got your paperwork together, and we're good to go. Check in at the gate when you arrive and the shipper will provide further instruction. I'll need you to call and check in every day once you're loaded and rolling."
"How quickly do you pay?" I asked anxiously, knowing it would be Janet’s first question.
"Seven days after receipt of the signed proof-of-delivery."
"Perfect." I replied. "Do you need a copy of my authority -- or cargo insurance? Anything at all?"
"No." She returned plainly. I wondered if she knew what the hell she was doing -- those things are standard requirements. "We're good to go -- just be sure you're checked in before midnight."
Noting the time, I realized I had to get rolling... I couldn't very well pick up my return load without getting the candy off my wagon first... time for me to fly!
Chapter 4