Candy Ass

From the crummy little room at the Motel 6 in Indianapolis, where he was trapped for seven days, Dad said, “The Midwest might just be the rectum of America, and if that’s true, then Indianapolis, Indiana is the rectum of the whole Earth.”

Now, it’s a good thing no Midwesterners read this, because that could be considered a slightly insulting assessment.  Let me briefly explain the circumstances under which he made this claim:

As a truck driver Dad is accountable to his log—the computerized system on board his truck that keeps track of how long he drives vs. how long he is stopped.  For insurance purposes he absolutely must stop driving after 11 hours.  No drivers are allowed to go more than 11 hours in a day.  Even if they can’t find a really good place to stop.  Even if they have to behave like “candy asses” and stop two hours early because they don’t want to go over.  Even if they’re almost home on Christmas morning, after traveling for so long, and they have to drive for a few hours past the limit to make it.

So Dad, over the months, got a little lax with the log.  Every time he went over he got a call from a company representative, but because they never yelled at him or threatened him, he figured it was no big deal.  Finally he received a suspension.  Again, the people administering this punishment were good-natured and helped him plan it to coincide with a home visit, so he thought of it more as a little vacation.  He continued ignoring his log requirements whenever he really wanted to.

When he stopped last week at the big trucking terminal in Indianapolis he was instructed to go inside to someone’s office for an official talk.  While in this office he learned that he was being placed on another suspension, this time for seven days.  He also found out that his truck (good old Big Blue) would be taken from him and that this suspension was his last warning before being fired.  Because he was so far from home he couldn’t ride the bus to stay with family.  That’s why he got a room at the Motel 6.  He had to clean everything out of his truck, and gave away his cooler and some other things because they wouldn’t all fit in the taxi.  He said he had to do the “walk of shame, hauling all my crap through the terminal.”  In his voice I could hear the guilt and sadness and fear.

At the end of his suspension, however, he was given a jet black Peterbilt and the news that his log offenses would clear from his record in July if he could avoid further offense.  He’s back on the road, feeling relieved and has resolved (for now) to be the biggest candy ass out on the highway.

Sightseeing In Kansas

Dad says:

So I’m in West Virginia, and I got so close to the New River Gorge Bridge.  Within 60 miles of it, I’d say. It’s one of the highest bridges in the world.  The road I was driving on runs right along the New River for miles and miles, then just at the place where the river enters the gorge my route took me clear around and bypassed the whole thing.  Man I would have liked to have seen that bridge.  Just another Mike Dugan brush with greatness. 

Want to hear about some of my other brushes with greatness?  Over in Colorado I was within 30 miles of the Royal Gorge  Bridge but, oops, no cigar.  The Royal Gorge Bridge might be the tallest in the world (it was the tallest, according to Wikipedia, from 1929 until 2001, when it was surpassed by the Liuguanghe Bridge in China).

Another time I passed within 35 miles of Mt. Rushmore.  I got about 19 miles from the Crazy Horse Monument.  Recently I was at a weigh station about 40 miles from Devil’s Tower in Wyoming.  I knew I wouldn’t see it, so I asked the lady working there—she was pretty clever—in what direction I would have to face to be looking at Devil’s Tower if it were close enough to be visible.  She thought about it for a minute and said, “Well, if you stand right about here…and look off this way…yeah, I think that’s about it.”  Then I asked her how high up I would have to be to see it from where I was standing.  “Oh, I think about, uh, 1,000 feet would probably do it.”

(He was looking toward this...)

(But what he saw looked something more like this...)

So I stood there at the weigh station on the side of the road looking at this view of nothing, but I knew Devil’s Tower was out there, somewhere. 

Brush with greatness!

(He simply is not allowed to take his truck off its designated route for personal sigtseeing excursions.  So he wasn't able to see the New River Gorge Bridge...)

(or the Royal Gorge Bridge in Colorado...)

 he missed Mt. Rushmore...)

(And he missed the Crazy Horse monument by just a few miles...)

But let’s remember I did get to see the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas. 

Ooh, and don’t forget about the Ball of Twine Museum and Gift Shop.  Also, in Greensburg, Kansas I viewed the world’s largest hand-dug well. 

Boy, there's really nothing like sightseeing in Kansas.

A Tiny Roll-Top Desk

My younger brother Chris came from Portland to Spokane for a visit during the holiday.  He was talking on the phone with my dad, who had managed to get home time to spend Christmas with my sisters a few hundred miles away.  I only caught half of the conversation.  First, Chris was listening a lot.  My dad always has so much to say.  Chris has said before that it takes a certain verbal athleticism to successfully interrupt and comment during a conversation with our father.  To Dad’s credit, once this maneuver has been successfully accomplished, he listens with great interest to the things his conversational partner has to say.

So Chris was silently listening for a long spell before he finally said, “OK Dad, do you want to hear my van fantasy?” Up to this point I assumed they were talking about holiday schedules and arranging a time to meet.  How dull.  Van fantasies: here is something to discuss!

Chris said, “I’d like to get an old, beat-up Ford Econoline van—the kind with no windows in the back, like a delivery van.”  From where I stood in the kitchen, washing dishes and countertops, I already wondered if the van would be parked on a dirty street or in an abandoned lot strewn with trash.  “Inside,” Chris said, “the van would have hardwood floors, wainscoting, and a copper ceiling.  There would possibly be a tiny little roll-top desk in there.  See, from the outside it would look like a heap of junk, like it didn’t even run.  Hey, maybe it wouldn’t run.  But inside it would be like a finely-appointed professor’s den.”

Dad must have replied with some enthusiasm, because on my end I heard Chris say, “Yeah, yeah.” 

From here they expanded the scenario to include the signs panhandlers often make—the ones that state variations of some half-truth, always beginning with, “Why lie…I want _____.”

“Why lie, I want caviar and a martini,” Chris said.

Dad threw out another idea, to which Chris responded, “which really means they want a hooker and some heroin.”

Finally Chris ended the van fantasy discussion with the comment, “Why lie?  I want some meth and meth.”

He finally hung up, not having arranged a meeting time with dad, as dad was much too tired to discuss schedules.  He had used up all his energy on van fantasies.  So, Chris picked up his old guitar and continued strumming, trying to work out his old arrangement for the Hall & Oates song my mom played constantly when we were teenagers.  Sadly, he couldn’t quite remember it.  If only he’d had some quiet studio or study.  A place where he could focus.  If only he’d had a tiny roll-top desk.

Here is Chris in my living room on Christmas day.  Two days later he traveled to my sister's house and met up with Dad for the first time in many months.  I was on the phone with Dad when he said, "Hold on, your baby brother Christopher just walked in the door.  Wait a minute.  He’s wearing...Levis.  (pause) Completely normal pants.  (He consults with Chris)  Yes, they’re 501’s.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear regular clothes before.  But he is wearing a tee shirt in what appears to be a size 1.  It’s almost a tummy shirt (Chris lifts the snug tee to reveal his navel.)  Ah, there we go.  Yeah.  And he’s got these pretty gay clog things on (see above photo)." 

Here's a link to a cozy moment with my sweet and mysterious little brother, Chris Dugan:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eo5g_CQPW64