The gal who answered the phone at 911 asked me if there had been an accident. I told her no, I just needed help getting out of there. She said an officer would be on the way shortly.

I flipped on the flashers and looked at the long line of traffic behind me. Hmm... what to do? Casually, I stepped down out of the truck and and over the light pole that had been knocked down... yes, that's right... I said light pole.

Now it hit me! A cop was on the way... I'm parked next to a street light that has been mowed over by a truck (not mine)... there is a looong line of pissed off drivers behind me. Man, things were not looking good!

The cop showed up just as the guy in the Little Debbie delivery truck, who was stuck right behind me, was asking how long it was going to be.

Officer NoHumor walked up, looked at the downed light pole and the first words out of his mouth were, "Did you do that?"

"No," I replied, "I did NOT do that. I just need some help to get back to Tchoupitoulas"

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This is NOT the Daytona 500... you don't win a prize for being first.

lol

i think yer startin to give ole snazz a run for the money

this is gettin better and better (reading of course...livin it would have sucked)

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I AM A FLATBEDDER, I TRAVEL WITH ALL EQUIPMENT NECCESSARY. CHAINS (FOR THE UNRULEY ONES), STRAPS (FOR THE SEMI-UNRULEY ONES), AND TARPS (FOR THE ONES NOT TO BE SEEN WITH YOU)!

I think I can learn from this, man that had to suck!

This is a great read, Barcode.. Of course I had to go to the beginning...

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He points over towards Tchoupitoulas and says, "It's that way."

Well duh! I knew that already, after all, I just came from there. I explained to him that it probably wouldn't be a good idea for me to go back the same way I came—that the trees were a bit too low and hitting the top of the truck. "Yep, they're gonna do that, " he says.

He then asked if I wanted to try to turn around. That didn't look like an option either. There were too many obstacles in the divider. So I asked him how to get back to a designated truck route.

"Go up to the end of Saint Charles to Leake avenue and turn left," he says, "Take that back to Magazine street and then Jefferson will take you back to Tchoupitoulas."

Ok, sounds easy enough right? I figured I'd seen the last of Officer NoHumor. Wrong...

I very slowly made my way up Saint Charles, stopping a few times to make sure the really big branches were going to clear. As I neared Leake, and stopped to study the intersection, Officer NoHumor was just pulling up. He turned his lights on and stopped a car on the one way street that looked like the only way I'd be able to turn left—going the wrong way for the hundred yards or so to Leake.

With the car out of the way, I swung out wide and started around the corner. When I had the tractor about half way into the turn, Officer NoHumor began motioning wildly for me to back up... not to come that way. Gingerly, I eased back out of the corner, forcing the cars behind me to back up as well.

And on that note, my eyes are burning tired. To be continued tomorrow...

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This is NOT the Daytona 500... you don't win a prize for being first.

Some drivers have all the fun.

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Just read the entire thread, Now where is the next post????????

That's a great story you have going there, keep it up.

After straightening the tractor back up, he motioned for me to turn left on the tiny little street going the RIGHT way. I told him I couldn't make that corner. So he points to the end of Saint Charles, which butts up against Leake at an acute angle—that wasn't going to happen either. I told him I had no choice but to turn right—I THOUGHT he understood that.

He replied, "Ok, then you are going to follow me!" Hmm, great—I'm going to follow a guy that can't understand why a seventy foot long vehicle will not make a 40 degree turn backwards, especially with a telephone pole on the corner.

I made the right turn, then pulled to the side of the road and waited for him to pull ahead of me so I could follow him. I watched in the mirror as he came up along side of me and rolled down his window, "What part of turn left didn't you understand?"

BAM!!! That was it—he lit my fuse! "The truck WILL NOT go left around that corner!" I reiterated.

"Find your own way then!" as he pulled away and left me sitting in Crackville.

Now I was pissed... no... I was beyond pissed! I was "gonna-drop-this-trailer-right-where-it-sits-and-bobtail-outta-here" PISSED!

I started jamming gears while I simultaneously dialed the number for our shop guy, who was a former driver. I really don't know why I called him, other than to vent, I pretty sure the incoherent babble coming out of my mouth, mostly containing words that began with the letter F, went right in one ear and out the other.

"I can understand your anger... I been there man..." he said.

I don't know what the hell he thought as I screamed into the phone about stupid cops, crack dealers, dropping the trailer and leaving it... when I get that damn mad, pretty much nothing I say makes any sense.

I came to the corner of Leake and Oak street, and saw a place along side the railroad tracks where I could sit and gather my thoughts—yeah... right across from G-Dog and Homie's Backyard Crack and Gun dealership. I sat there a few hundred yards away and watched these two guys deal crack as they walked up and down the street. Now I was really on edge.

I called the broker and explained that I needed the number to the warehouse. I was stuck in a residential area and needed some help getting out of there.

"I don't seem to have a number for them," she replied.

Oh... nice... real nice. Now WTF?

I sat there a little while longer, studying satellite images of the area and considering my options. Then, G-Dog seem to notice my presence and started walking towards my truck. Uh oh... not good—cracker-boy lost in Crackville with a high-dollar load!

Time to move on... sorry, gotta go... no time to chat. I reasoned it was better to top the trailer, than to be robbed and left for dead.

to be continued...

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This is NOT the Daytona 500... you don't win a prize for being first.

You're killin me.... You're gonna have to serve us lunch if you keep hangin us like this...

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Magazine street didn't exactly look like a designated truck route either. The looks I was getting, from the people sitting in the little sidewalk coffee shops, told me that few, if any, big trucks went down that street. I rolled up to a guy in a beer truck facing the other way and asked him which street would get me back to Tchoupitoulas without running over too many street signs or traffic lights.

"Next light," he said, "turn right."

"Is that Jefferson?" I asked, "I can get a big truck down there, right?"

"Yeah yeah yeah," he replied, "no problem."

Well, not exactly...

I swung out as wide as I could and still ended up having to pull the tractor up on the island protecting the traffic light—not something I like to have to do. Run the steer tires up on a curb with a loaded truck, no matter how gently, and it damages the steel cords.

Thankfully there weren't any islands at Tchoupitoulas. I made the left turn and ended up at the warehouse, almost exactly 6 hours after I went by the first time.

The guy at the warehouse says, "Man, where you been? We saw you go by and figured you'd be right back."

I gave him the Reader's Digest version of the hell I had just been through.

"Man, you shoulda just did a U-turn at Napolean! That's where all the drivers turn around at."

A day late and a dollar short... Thanks! I'll keep that in mind next time I have to come to Crackville.

And so ends another day in the life of a truck driver.

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This is NOT the Daytona 500... you don't win a prize for being first.