He said, "Hey, it's Bomp (short for Bompa, which means Grandpa in kid speak). Got a little location update for you. I'm on Staten Island. That's right adjacent to New York City. And I got to drive over the Bayonne Bridge, which is a remarkable device. AND, I saw downtown New York from there, including the new Freedom Tower, which still has cranes on top. OK, Bye."
Dad recently hit a another truck with his own in the parking lot of a truck stop. The damage was minimal, though the driver of the other truck when crazy with anger and called raving to the Portland police, who told him they don't come to truck stops to inspect fender benders, and that he should settle down and call his insurance company.
Dad felt sure he would be fired. He learned over and over again in truck driver training school that hitting anything with his truck, ever, would get him instantly terminated.
From Portland he drove to my sister's house for a week of home time. He faxed photos of the damage and a report of the accident to his bosses at the terminal. He unloaded everything in his truck that he couldn't carry, feeling that he would have to ride a Greyhound home after returning the Peterbilt and being officially let go.
But he wasn't fired. He is now on probation, which means he can't slip up at all for six full months. He was so relieved. And to celebrate his continuing employment, he decided to take a temporary route on the East Coast between Staten Island and New Jersey, in hazardous, unceasing urban traffic, where accidents are occurring at a rate of something like a million per minute.
He has always wanted to see that part of the country, though, so what the Hell. He's a risk taker.
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