He was already gone from the “yard”, as we called the outside of the warehouse on Wellham Avenue, across from the Glen Burnie Mall. You’d see it on a map today as “Holsum Way” which was because Hauswald’s Holsum Bread lived there.

The 318 Detroit Diesel stuck under a maroon GMC Astro had duel exhaust running underneath instead of vertically, behind the cab. Though it stood tall, the tractor was designed for something we weren’t using it for. It only had a three-quarter size cab length. That meant the sleeper bunk behind the driver was more narrow than what cabovers usually had. This was because it was a short wheelbase single-axle, meaning that the rear didn’t have a “twin screw” or two axles behind, which you see under the nose of the trailers they pull. It had, as a result, stricter weight limits than a TS, and if caught at the scales on Interstate 70, was a sure overweight ticket. No one gave a shit. Least of all, the owner of Comet Fast Freight, my father. He told Jerry to leave late in the day to hopefully cruise by the weigh station when it was closed.

Above: A GMC single axle, 3/4 cab Astro

Well, before we could lock up for the night, George, the dispatcher, got a phone call. It was short. We were both in the dispatch office but when he hung up he went straight to the driver’s lounge and lit a Raleigh with a battered Zippo he’d carried as a Marine in the Korean War. I followed him, lit a Camel with no filter with a Zippo I’d bought at a kiosk in the mall one day on lunch hour. “What the fuck was that all about,” I asked. He was clearly distressed.

He rested his elbows on a high window ledge, dragged heavily, and didn’t answer me. I was a forklift driver and an all-around jackoff who had no set job limits. As the boss’s son, nothing was outside of my job requirements.

“Hey, bud. What’s up?” I asked again. George Shanabrook was a friend. We’d talk about anything. But he clearly thought I didn’t matter at the moment.

I found out that was true quickly enough. After the silent burning of the Raleigh, he went back to the dispatch office and called my father, home early for a change, probably to beat the shit out of my younger brother for some trivial shit. Or to rape his favorite daughter, whom I later learned he called his “second wife.” What a piece of shit.

“Howdy Doo,” George said. That greeting told me that what George had to tell him was going to bring dad back to work.

From North Shore, up Route MD 100, no small trip. Route 100 was unfinished. He had to exit near the end of Mountain Road. Then go the rest of the way up Ritchie Highway. It would piss him off, the sick bastard. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but my gut told me I’d best be there when he arrived. It didn’t matter if I knew what was happening. It didn’t matter if I could not help. I just knew to be there. At times I was a devious and clever problem solver, a critical thinker who could override emotion and be helpful. I had my moments.

This day wouldn’t have such a moment.

“Howard County Police called. Someone reported one of our drivers has a woman tied naked to the passenger seat!”

A pause. “Yeah, he’s hauling ass, Ralph. They haven’t seen him. They’ve got the troopers on it. Heading west. It can only be Jerry, he left 45 minutes ago. I think you’d better come back in.”

I’d heard some weird shit growing up around truckers, but I was speechless. It was hard after 1975 to render me speechless. I’d turned into a smart, dirty-mouthed, mean asshole. Yet here I was, mouth hanging open. I wanted coffee to wash out the loose tobacco from the Camel and ease the dryness in my mouth. A dozen flies could have flown in there, and I’d have never noticed.

The phone rang again. An old phone with buttons for different incoming calls plus a Watts line. And a red hold button that flashed.

George’s eyes bulged wide under his strong plastic-framed glasses. My gut sank.

What the fuck was going on?

I knew the driver well. Jerry was from West Virginia and had a sick and very willing sense of humor. In other words, he didn’t just think up funny things; he spared no effort in doing them. He was a big fan of bottle rockets and used to aim them over the back fence at Baltimore Gas and Electric’s service trucks — and drivers — at night. I laughed at the yells of consternation as the poor bastards tried in vain to figure out what was going on.

George was no novice to sick humor either; our back yard where trailers were dropped (sitting on their landing legs) was open to the main parking lot. One night he was supposed to hook up to an empty trailer and take it to a glass company in Keyser, West Virginia to pick up empty soda bottles. It was dark. He hooked up to it, kicked the tires, then went to close the swinging doors.

And noise was coming from inside the trailer, up in the nose. Two teens, fucking their brains out. Before they could react, being naked and all, he shut both doors and took them for a ride around the entire Baltimore Beltway, or Interstate 695. Let me just say, riding in an empty box trailer at highway speeds, in complete darkness, is not something you want to do. Not for a minute, and not for the hour he took. He even paid toll at the Francis Scott Key Bridge and the couple never knocked on the sides or anything. They were probably thinking the ride was over.

When he returned to the yard, opened the doors and let them out, they had somehow managed to get dressed. They slowly and very shakily got out and left without a single word. George closed the doors and went on his scheduled trip. He had been in Korea. Killed Chinese regulars and North Koreans. This wasn’t shit to him but a hilarious torture ride for kids who were trespassing. He may also have been a bit jealous. His teenage humping days were so far in the past that he probably got pissed over that, too. We all miss those years, don’t we?

I know one thing, knew it without being told: those kids were bruised, sprained-up, and terrified. I’ll bet anything, they never went near any kind of trailer after that, probably not even a camper with a bed. And they probably broke up, too. A thing like that will definitely end a relationship fast. I roared when he told me this story. He told it without smiling, face impassive, voice like the narrator of a fucking episode of some old and boring documentary when TV had censors who wielded the power to end careers. Oh, it happened, alright. I still laugh when I think of that story. Hey, easy. I’m an avowed, confessed asshole, okay? I admit it.

When dad got back to the office, more phone calls had come in. About three or four, all from the Maryland State Police. One thing I forgot to mention about the old GMC Astro: The windshields were huge. From the front you could see the driver’s knees. And according to the trooper’s dispatchers, people had reported seeing a woman tied to the passenger seat of a maroon tractor pulling a Comet Fast Freight trailer. Must have been thick rope, I guessed.

But they couldn’t catch him.

Because that 318 Detroit motor could shit and git. And Jerry and his CB always knew where the bears (state troopers) were. Except this evening as the hot summer sun was setting, because he had no idea that he was being chased. Dad took a call that some weenie of command rank used to tell him, “If he crosses into Pennsylvania or West Virginia, he’s guilty of kidnapping and…”

I’d seen my father upset. I’d seen him red-faced with savage rage usually, it seemed, directed at me. But never had I seen this expression on his face. Helplessly enraged and frightened all at once.

Several more calls followed, the police wanting to know if our driver had checked in. I heard that come through the handset and laughed out loud. By now, I was appalled that Jerry was doing this, but at the same time, laughing at the desperation of the state police. Without being told, I knew that they even had a Bear in the Air, a term back then for a police helicopter.

They were waiting for him. He had passed the exit to go north to the Pennsylvania Turnpike and he was, as my father had told them, heading straight into West Virginia on Route U.S. 48-40.

When they pulled him over, cops and feds ordered him out of the cab. They had guns drawn. One opened the passenger door and shone his flashlight up. He cussed. Then he laughed. And soon, everyone had to take a turn looking at what all the fuss was about.

There in the passenger seat, secured not with rope but tarp straps, was a stark-naked, vinyl, inflatable, blonde-haired love doll.

And so, Jerry rode on, not even a ticket in his pocket because he had been caught doing nothing illegal.

And of course, you know me, because, if the story ended there, I probably wouldn’t bother writing it.

It’s funny, but it’s not as weird as the stuff I love to write. Well, now it’ll get weird.

Because a few months later, after Jerry was fired, another West Virginia trucker told me the end of the story.

Jerry had often taken his doll along with him for gags. He often got reported for violating kidnap laws and as the police caught on, they stopped responding. “It’s a blowup doll,” the dispatchers would tell the complainants. It was just Jerry.

But there was a sad fate in store for that doll.

Because Jerry once got a case of the clap from a truck stop hooker. And even people who don’t drive trucks know about those. Often people in cars with CB radios cruise truck stops looking for some love on the tarmac; everyone has their vices.

Well, how was Jerry going to tell his wife how he had given her VD (as venereal disease was called back then, replaced today by STDs) and how was he going to explain to her how he got it in the first place? That was the problem. And being Jerry, he had the perfect alibi.

Like the Grinch, faced with Little Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two, he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.

“I loaned my love doll to another driver, and I guess he musta given it to her.”

The implications of this lie are so grotesque that I was hesitant to go this far with the story, but then again, I’m an asshole.

But his wife believed him.

No, I’m not lying, you couldn’t make up shit like this even drunk. Not even high on anything you’d care to name. Because real life is so much more bizarre than fiction.

His wife wanted revenge. Pissing razor blades, dosed with antibiotics, she took the doll, cut it to deflate it, tied rocks to it and then tossed it into the Tug River.

I would not see Jerry again, but for a brief time we spoke on Facebook. I’m back on there for a very short time to cause trouble, but so far they seem to consider me rather tame.

It’s time to be an asshole. Excuse me, please, and thanks as always for visiting my house. I love having you here.