Truck Drivin' Dad

When it was first suggested to me, the idea was a great idea and the solution to my immediate problem but that is not how it turned out.  I embarked on a truck driving career only because I found myself unemployed at a time when work was difficult to find forcing me to try anything that came my way.

"Maybe Bruce would hire you to drive a truck for the dairy," suggested my wife, "he is always looking for new drivers."

Bruce was an acquaintance of ours who was in charge of the drivers at a local dairy in Vancouver.  And the idea of their Dad driving a truck appealed to my children.  I reasoned that many dads make a good living driving trucks and it would be a welcome change from working in an office.

My son asked hopefully, "Will it be a big rig?"

"I could not say." I replied, "I haven't even talked to Bruce yet."

As it happened, the dairy was short of drivers and so I was hired on a trial basis.

"I give new drivers two weeks with a trainer," Bruce explained as he was giving me a tour of the loading dock at the dairy, "by then they should be able to handle the route on their own."

"Fair enough," I said eagerly, "I can do the job . . . you'll see." Then  I asked, "What kind of truck is it?"

I was a tad nervous about how big the truck would be since I had not driven many trucks except for small ones.

"No need to worry,"  Bruce explained for he was aware of my concern, "it's a mini-van." He pointed to one that was being loaded on the dock.  "Yours is a home delivery route."

"Then that should be a piece of cake," I exclaimed.

Come Monday morning, my first day at work, everything was changed.  I was introduced to my trainer, Dave, who seemed an easy going sort of guy with a nervous smoking habit which, I realized later, was due to the fact that he had to train people like me.

"There has been a change," he told me, "a driver quit on Friday without giving notice and we needed someone to take his place.  You will be making deliveries to stores and restaurants along Kingsway, Main Street, and Marine Drive out towards the airport." 

He then took me out to a ten ton truck (which looked like a monster to me) and tossed me the keys.  "Let's go," he said as he stubbed out his cigarette and climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

I had no trouble handling the truck.  In fact I felt comfortable riding in a cab much higher than all the trucks and cars sharing the road that morning.  I had no difficulty driving in the heavy city traffic and I could back into loading docks without difficulty.  But I had an unanticipated problem . . .  I continually got lost!  I just did not know my way around the city well enough.  I was used to living in the suburbs and rarely went into Vancouver.  And two weeks of training made absolutely no difference!

"Do you know where you are going," Dave would ask as he lit off another cigarette.  "You've gone past your turn by a mile and didn't even notice."

"I did, " I reponded,  trying to act surprised but I had to admit that he was right.  I did not know where I was going.  Everything looked unfamiliar to me and I had completely lost my sense of direction.  I mumbled, "Sorry, I'll try to do better."

Sorry doesn't cut it when you have a schedule to maintain and customers are waiting for delivery.  I was fast coming to the conclusion that the job was not for me.  My decision to quit came exactly two weeks to the day I had started work.  We finished the deliverys that day and Dave drove the truck back to the plant.  He was happier than I had seen him anytime during those two weeks.

One incident occurred during my short career that is forever etched in my mind.  I was making a delivery to a Mac's Milk store on Main street, my first delivery of the day.  The proprietor was a jovial East Indian gentleman who kept his store spotlessly clean.  It had snowed and the entrance to the store was slippery.  As I was going through the door with a two-wheeled dolly piled high with two litre cases of milk, I slipped and dumped the entire load.  There was a sea of milk, plastic milk cases, and burst paper cartons everywhere.  The proprietor's face turned white from shock and what Dave said is not printable here.  He went outside to the truck and lit up another cigarette.

I was mortified!  All I could do was apologise to the proprietor and clean up the mess.  I got a mop and bucket out to soak up the spilt milk and then washed the entire floor in the store from front to back.  Milk had seeped though under the front of the coolers and so I had to clean back there as well.  An hour later the mopping up operation was complete.  During those long two weeks that I drove the truck, that proprietor was always wary whenever I entered the store but there was no repeat performace.

My children were disappointed that I quit driving the truck.  My wife was annoyed because I still did not have a job.  I can laugh about it now but I was embarrassed because of the way things turned out.  A month later I found employment at another dairy . . . an inside job . . . making yogurt! I worked there nearly ten years.   There was no truck to drive, no deliveries  to make and no opportunity for me to get lost.