Right after we got married, my husband and I went trucking together, so he could work and I could spend time with him. The first few days were awful. Really, truly awful. This is the story of my introduction to the trucking world.
We arrived at the terminal, tired and hungry. I really really really really really had to use the restroom. The second he pulled in, I jumped up, begging to be let out. He said no, he had to park. I sat back down, waiting impatiently while they directed him through to where the line began so he could get the work done on his truck.
A few moments later, I asked if I could go again. This time, he was parked, so he told me where to go and let me down. I RAN to the area where the truckers were gathered, burst through the gates, pushed open the doors and ran to the bathroom.
I came back out and realized I had a problem. I didn’t know if he was in the bathroom and I should wait for him or if he was still in the truck. I decided to wait a few minutes. Fortunately, the terminal has Ms. PacMan, the only video game (with the exception of anything Mario) that I’m even remotely good at, so I played. No sign of The Man.
After a few minutes indecision, I went out and looked around. Here’s the problem: in a terminal, the line of trucks are all for the same company. They’re all the same color, they all have the same logo and there are virtually no distinguishing marks. Fortunately, I knew where he was parked.
Except for one thing. He wasn’t there.
I frantically searched, looking for any sign of the truck I knew to be his: the GPS on the window, my garter, which he hung in the truck, or his map, which was on the ledge at the front, or the Volvo symbol. All while trying to look like I wasn’t trying to look at truck windows. No luck.
I made my way back to the trucker’s lounge. Inside, it’s pretty dismal. No internet. Ms. Pacman. A small TV (playing “Covert Affairs”, which I’ve now seen enough of to support my initial assumption that it would be dumb), about eight round tables and some vending machines.
Outside is even worse. A covered area with two picnic tables and a little yellow bird, flailing because it fell out of its nest and broke a leg or a wing or a tail.
So I played Ms. Pacman. And then I bought sprite, and wandered through the trucks again. Still no luck.
Back inside. Out of cash. Cell phone in truck. Laptop in truck. Sat at table. Played Pacman.
Went through the trucks again.
I must have looked pretty lost, because on my way back, a mechanic stopped me, “Lookin’ for someone?”
“How long you been married?”
He laughed. “If you lost him after three days, I wonder what you’ll do in three years.”
I walked away to the peals of his laughter. Back inside.
The next time I got up to search, I saw my husband. THREE hours had gone by. Literally.
“I’m sorry, honey. I went to sleep and then I just woke up and I wondered where you were because I thought you were just going to go and come right back!”
Yep. That’s what I thought, too.
Oh, and if that’s not enough, we were at the terminal until afternoon of the following day – about 24 hours later. Seriously. I hate truck terminals. Especially that one.