Takes One to Know One

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Thanksgiving, and leading up to it

Every year I spend Thanksgiving away from home. This isn't completely by choice, although it ultimately comes down to just that. You see, trucking is one of those non-stop businesses. While most companies can shut down for the day, or even for the four-day weekend, freight still has to move; because, when Monday comes around, all those people who were off work for the holiday need something to do.

There is an unspoken rule at my company: pick one. It's either Thanksgiving off or Christmas off. We have a choice. Now, you can try taking both off, but it usually means that you get home late for Christmas. I like to safe-side it and leave out mid-October. Then I stay out until Christmas comes around and I have all the leverage in the world to tell my dispatchers that I want to go home for Christmas. They can't really deny me when I've been such a hard worker for the past, what, ten weeks straight? It kinda sucks, but it's usually worth it.

Most of the time I can guarantee that, on Christmas day or the day after, I get the flu. It comes with a combination of being too stubborn to pay twenty bucks to get a flu shot and the fact that, being alone in my truck for weeks at a time, I'm like an Indian with an armful of Anthrax blankets and a few yellow fever handshakes. I just lose my tolerance for sicknesses.

This year, though, I caught a lucky (sic) break. I got the flu yesterday. It means that I won't have to worry about being sick while I'm home, but, regardless of where you are, having the flu sucks.

I felt it coming on around noon or so, when I went inside for an emergency bathroom break and evacuated sickly-smelling water. Uh oh, that smells like flu shit.

About two hours later, I was at a truck stop in full flu mode. Chills, body aches, nausea and, of course, more diarrhea. My first intuition (which I always tell my wife to go with) was to call my company and get approval to stay in a hotel. I didn't, though. It just seemed like too much work at that point. So I evacuated one more time, bought a couple bottles of 7UP and bundled up under my covers to sleep it off. If I can offer one bit of advice concerning the flu: sleep it off.

I awoke a bit later (I'm not sure how long it was), after dreaming that I had farted. Now, this is not a good situation to be in when one has the flu. So I did a quick check - one finger to the back of the pants, which I call "checking the muzzle heat" - and discovered that I had just shit my pants. So I did the only thing a person can do in this situation. I stood up, dropped my pants and shorts and used paper towels to wipe off my shame. I grabbed a new pair of drawers and a pair of sweat shorts, bagged up my paper towels and soiled clothing, and went back to sleep.

I woke up again after about four total hours of being in bed and ventured inside the truck stop. I went to the bathroom to prevent having to change clothes again, bought some water and another 7UP, and went back outside. I called my lovely wife, who was absolutely thrilled that I had shat myself, and then went back to sleep.

I woke up about thirteen hours later feeling much better; a little weak, but better. I had another scare when I sneezed and blew a very fast and big fart, but another muzzle heat check proved negative.

Thanksgiving day itself has been okay. I drove a bit today, but felt a bit depressed. My wife and kids were cooking up turkey and I wasn't there. My father was doing the same, feeling a bit down because he had nobody to host turkey dinner for. It stinks how, as we get older and move away, that we have to remember the past and how precious it really was.

I know that Christmas will be better. Even though my dad won't be able to see the kids this year, we'll send him photos and videos so that he can get some enjoyment out of it. Maybe, someday, we can all be together for the holidays. All of them. Until then, we just have to be content with our own calamities.

Flight Gear

I have always been a fan of flying. As a child, I lived pretty close to all my relatives and never got the chance to take that thrilling childhood flight.

When I went to the army, though, I had to fly to my first duty station for Basic Training. So not only was I in for a lot of excitement with joining the military, I also got to take my first flight. I remember sitting on that plane from Pittsburgh to Atlanta and trying hard not to grin from ear to ear like an eight-year-old boy. But I just couldn't help it.

All these years later I would be hard-pressed to remember every single commercial, military or even helicopter flight that I took. Even today, though, I still get that little childlike thrill when the engines spool up and I start rocketing down the runway.

Since I don't have a lot of opportunities to fly these days what with work and lack of places to go on a plane, I decided to look into the narrow world of flight simulators. If I can't fly all the time for real, I might as well do it from my laptop.

I have already explained that I am not a big fan of paying for things. So the Microsoft side of this venture really didn't enter my possibilities. Once again, however, Google saved the day and found a free flight simulator called Flight Gear.

Flight Gear is an open-source program that you can download from the web. Free of charge. You can even download different aircraft and maps. I fly Boeing 787s, single-engine Cessnas and even a fully-stocked A-10 Warthog that gives one chills when the 30mm gun belches out its death-dealing wall of lead. Fucking incredible.

I have been playing this for a couple months now and it never gets old. I'm quite proficient with it now and, if the need ever arises, I feel pretty confident that I could get a real plane off the ground. Landing it, well, might be a problem. I still don't have that part down fully. I usually overshoot the runway and end up landing in the adjacent field. But I'm fucking bad-ass when it comes to taking off.

Try it out if you have the time and want to fly. Like I said, it's free. I'm not being paid to write this or anything. I just love it and felt like sharing.

Waiting

There are few things in life that are as annoying as forced waiting. Driving a truck and hauling produce makes this a double whammy. Add the fact that produce growers and shippers in Yuma, Arizona have trouble keeping labor (all the illegal immigrants don't want to be so close to the border they just crossed), and you have a real mess.

First of all, there is rarely a time when you only have one place from which to pick up. It's usually two or three.

Then there's the issue of appointments. Nobody shipping fresh bulk produce will give an appointment even a day before the load is supposed to ship. It has to be day-of. One appointment might be at ten in the morning. Your second pick is eight at night.

Now, the first pick won't have their product ready until seven in the evening. Then they take three hours to load you and the second pick closes before you can get their product. Guess what. Now you have to get an appointment for the next day. Now you're a day behind on a load that really should be on a rocket ship in order to get there on time.

So you finally get loaded and off you go. You have to monitor the temperature as you go and your dispatcher calls or sends a message several times a day wanting an ETA to the receiver.

When you get to the receiver you find out that they're backed up and won't be able to unload you for several hours. So now your trailer is a storage facility.

Oh, and if your temperature is off - even if it's because the shipper didn't cool the product properly - the load is rejected. So now you have to wait until your dispatcher can find some shady asshole to buy the product to resell to Asian food stores and food kitchens.

Ah, a day in the life of a reefer hauler. Fucking grand, wouldn't you say? So the least you can do is eat your fucking fruits and vegetables. Because some poor fuck just got paid way too much money to bust his ass to bring it to you.

Childhood Fears

When I was six years old, my father allowed me to stay up and watch a show called "Werewolf". I had thought it was on the USA Network, but after researching I have found that it was initially on FOX. That aside, all I know is that the show scared the living shit out of me.

I was intrigued by it and also didn't want to look like a pussy and run out of the room. The idea that a man, or many men, could change into a wolf and then hunt down fellow humans was completely mesmerizing. The effects ran much deeper, though. This stupid show really got into my head.

At the time we lived in an old white farmhouse right across the road from a corn field. Now, if you've ever spent any time around corn, you know how menacing it is all by itself. When the wind blows the dry stalks and leaves rub together and make a hissing, scraping noise. The stalks all wave in unison and the thought of wandering in there opens up an whole other box of possible terrors. The corn wasn't the worst part of this whole package, though. The real problem lay within the house itself.

Off the dining room was a short hallway that ended at the door of the bedroom where my brothers and I slept. The door is the kind that has the old-style skeleton key hole seen in movies. The hallway had two other "doors" to each side of its short length. One was to the bathroom, the other was to the upper floor. We didn't use the top floor, nor did we venture up there much. The entrance to the upstairs was covered with a piece of paneling that was nailed into the door frame. Around the time that I watched the werewolf show, however, the paneling came down occasionally. This was the beginning of the most horrifying time in my life up to then.

You see, my father and the neighbor, who was actually our landlord, thought that there was some good use to be had of the upper floor. Another bedroom, perhaps. When they took down the paneling and walked up there, I foolishly followed. It was daytime. It was safe.

I remember looking at all the dust and cobwebs and feeling a bit of trepidation. This place hadn't been inhabited in a long time. The paint was all peeling and there was a bit of a claustrophobic feel to the whole thing. I can remember looking out the little window and seeing the driveway below. So far and so remote this little room was.

Now, after we came back down I can't remember whether they put the paneling back up. I would imagine they would; just in case a kid decided to go exploring. In my memory of that time, though, the paneling was only leaned up against the frame. Just enough of an angle so that it wouldn't fall on passersby. It might have been three or four inches from the frame at the bottom.

That night, with my bedroom door fully open and the night light plugged into the socket in the bathroom, I lay in my bed and looked down toward my feet. The view was straight down the hallway, the dining room table in sight. Around the open area between the paneling and the door frame a furry hand with long nails, more like a paw than a hand, reached through and gripped the paneling and moved it; just slightly, but I saw it. Then came the snout, ugly and wrecked by its own overeager dental display. One sniff, two. Then it was gone.

I was scared to the point of temporary paralyzing. I couldn't scream, I couldn't move. It was probably for the better. I didn't want to move. I didn't want it to see me or smell me. It would surely have me before I could run through the hall and across the dining room and living room to my parents' room. It would have me and they wouldn't hear.

This went on for a while. One night the paneling was completely gone for some reason. The werewolf came to the bottom of the stairs and peeked around the corner at me. He snarled, I tried not to shit my pants. He must have gotten tired of it eventually and just went back upstairs.

Now, these were all, of course, hallucinations brought on by intense emotional distress and fear. I don't remember if I ever told my parents about it. Even if I had, there was nothing they could have said that would have eased my fears.

All these years later, after more than twenty years of roaming the earth and living life, only one thing scares me: Werewolves. I'm not even kidding. I fear no man. I fear no official. I fear no beast (werewolves excluded).

It's such an irrational fear. Science has no proof of the existence of werewolves. They are only a folk legend. Believing in them, or being afraid of them, is stupid.

However, when I see that the moon is full and the clouds shine high in the sky, I WILL NOT get out of my truck in a rural or wild area. If I have to piss so bad that my bladder is going to burst, I would rather piss my pants than step out for a leak.

A little over a week ago I was listening to CT & Jivin on XM Radio and a guy called in saying he had seen a werewolf at a Rest Area in Delaware. As he told his story I could feel my skin puckering up and goose flesh popping up. Even as I write this in a truck stop laundry room, every time someone walks by the door I jump a little. This is how deep this stupid little fear goes.

Now, do I hold it against my dad for letting me watch that show? No. That's ridiculous. I had seen many other monster movies and saw many after that had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, The Exorcist is my all-time favorite movie. The werewolf show just clicked something deep within me and still clicks it today. I actually watched The Howling a while back and, even with all the shitty effects, it still scared me. Fucking werewolves.

I'll probably die with this fear. But I think I would rather fear something ridiculous like a werewolf and have no other fears at all. At least if what I fear kills me, it'll be one hell of a story.

Life Eternal

Ok, people.  Time for some heady shit.

Throughout the annals of time, man has attempted to create for himself an eternal life.  He has used religion, philosophy and medicine to create everlasting existence.  Man does not wish to die.  Doing so is his greatest fear.

Why do we fear death?  Some of it is probably due to the actual act.  Dying would have to suck.  There's that pain factor involved.  Except for dying in your sleep at a very old age, most methods of snuffing it probably involve some amount of pain.  But I doubt that this is really the underlying concern.

I think people fear death because it's an inconceivable state of existence.  Dying is something we all must do, but nobody can sit around and really explain what it's like.  Before the day of your birth, you can't possibly know, from a first-hand account, what life on this planet was like.  Sure, you can read about it and even watch movies and listen to music made before your birth, but you have no real recollection of what it was like to exist back then.  Death will probably end up the same way.  The problem is that we can't seem to reconcile with that idea.  We just can't wrap our heads around the fact that, after we die, things will continue on without us.

I have had much time to ponder over death while driving down the road.  I have broken it down in its sections so that I can imagine, (1) what it's like to die, the actual act of crossing over; and (2) also what may or may not be on the other side.

First off, let's talk about the act of dying.  Most people probably have at least one near-death experience.  I'm not talking about the kind you hear about on the talk shows with seeing a light and all that horse shit.  I'm talking about a time when you were in a situation that, if certain factors had been slightly fluctuated, you would not have survived.  Perhaps you once nearly drowned in your pool.  Maybe a gun you were handling accidentally went off and it was pointed away from you.  Even a car accident where you walked away unscathed.  If a few of the factors were adjusted, you could be dead right now.

I often try to tune myself in to what it would feel like to die.  There are usually two scenarios I run through based upon things I've experienced:  vehicular accident and gunshot.

I've been in a few accidents in my life.  The first one was when I was six and I still wear the scars from it to this day.  I broke both of my clavicles and had 79 stitches put into my face.  A pickup truck T-boned the Volkswagen Bug my mother was driving and my door was the impact point.  Now, even though I can't remember much of what happened that day, I can recreate a similar scenario in my truck.  I often imagine hitting a bridge abutment, since taking on a car is unlikely to result in my death.  I try to imagine seeing the abutment coming toward me and try to think of how it would feel as my truck smashed into it.  I think of how the concrete smashing into my face and body would be excruciating and the breath would instantly be gone, irrecoverable.  Would I hear the bang of the impact?  Probably not.  Would there be a few seconds to ponder or would it just be "lights out"?  Would my neck or my head or my shoulders hurt?  I don't know.  I try to play out all the scenarios.

Now, the gunshot thing is a little different.  It's not a complete destruction of the body like the accident.  I usually think of getting one to the head.  I don't know why, but it's always the most vivid to me.  I have been shot at before, so I have a pretty good idea the impact a bullet has when it strikes an object.  I don't believe that a gunshot to the head hurts very much, if at all.  Scientists are pretty sure that the brain has no nerve endings and can't feel pain.  Of course, the entrance and exit wounds might hurt a bit, but by the time you could register any pain, you're probably already dead.  This one often becomes so real in my mind that I can actually feel a tingling in the center of my forehead while I'm trying to imagine what the impact of the bullet would feel like.  Again, though, is it just a quick thing or do we linger?

Ok, enough with the morbidity.  I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad or sick; I'm just trying to set the stage.  So, after the deed is done, then what?

If you're religious, you probably have been taught about some type of afterlife.  Many believe in a heaven and a hell; each one has its own treats.  Some believe that you "sleep" in your grave until some reanimated deity comes for you.  Then there are those who just believe that death is the end, nothingness.

I'm normally on the side of those who think that death is just a fade-to-black ending; all suffering of life over; nothing; nada.  However, something made me think that maybe it's not.

Alright, let's begin with a question:  What is consciousness?  I don't mean the literal dictionary term.  Not that consciousness is a state of being awake and alert.  But what makes consciousness possible?  Is it a number of factors that come together to spark alert life?  What if consciousness lies in a single molecule, or even an atom, that man has not yet discovered?  We certainly know very little about the brain and how it operates.

The other day there was a story about how Chinese scientists disconnected a chimp's arm from its brain and then ran wires from the nerves in the arm to a computer.  The brain was then hooked up to the same computer via similar wiring and, suddenly, the chimp could move its arm.  They disconnected the wires from the brain and hooked them to a different part of the brain and the arm still fucking moved.  How in the hell could that be?  Nobody knows.  The brain is still an ultimate mystery to science.

That said, what if there is a single atom within our bodies that allows us consciousness?  What if it exits our bodies when we die and then seeks out another being that's waiting for that conscious spark?  Maybe it rides on our last breath and floats around looking for a female who is becoming pregnant.  Maybe it sits in our brains and waits for thousands of years before it can be swept up after a long decomposition and then looks for a new host.  And what about those poor souls who suffered at the hands of an eager mind that decided to encase your last breath in a jar, to be used at a later time.  It was once an old wives' tale that a person's soul left them in their last breath; holding a jar over a person's mouth at the moment of their demise could capture a soul.

Even the most ardent atheist cannot deny that, scientifically, we all live forever.  The same atoms that make up your body have existed since the dawn of time.  The air you breathe was probably inhaled and expelled by Roman soldiers or dinosaurs at some point.  When we die and turn to dust, those same atoms will one day be used by the earth to support life.  The carbon that makes up your nose might be part of a frog's leg; your eyes, a blade of grass.  Life must go on and no more of the ingredients can be made.  No matter how you form the Play-dough, you only get so much in the can.

So, does our consciousness live forever?  Will you ever get the chance to find out?  I doubt it.  I think it's pretty evident that, even if my theory is true, the atomic particle can't carry memories with it.  In a way, it really is the end, I guess.  But just think for a moment; some day you might be you, but looking through different eyes.  Your consciousness: alive once again.  You are shed of the memories of your former life, but your consciousness lives inside another host.  I guess that would make us not even human.  Perhaps we are only parasites that feed off of the bodies of living things.  Perhaps "consciousness" is just another tapeworm that feeds off others to exist.

Well, now I freaked myself out with that last paragraph.  Think it over, just don't forget to live in the meantime.