I settled with my laptop under the covered patio, reading, writing, and watching boats tie up and people come and go. Past the leaning-over channel markers, a one-level, glass-enclosed vessel called Odyssey sailed elegantly along the Potomac towards the low bridges of DC.
I was debating whether I should wind down with social media and a cold brewski or wind up by going online and searching for loads when my reverie was rudely interrupted by my phone buzzing to existence.
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Relaxing while working
“Hey Driver can you recover a trailer in PA,” said a distressed freight broker. “Driver blew a head gasket and this load needs to get to Boston mosh kosh.”
“It’s the weekend, I’m relaxing at the marina.”
“I don’t blame you. But unfortunately, this load can’t wait.”
“What’s the damage?”
“$1200 plus a fuel surcharge of 37 cents.”
I could sense the desperation in the voice of the CH Robinson broker. I wasn’t planning to go anywhere north and definitely not as far as Boston. We’ve all had breakdowns in the past, and there would be many more over the horizon. But I was always up for helping out fellow truckers. It was good karma to do so, and paying forward will lead to some Good Samaritan trucker offering a helping hand whenever I need it most.
“Ok, throw me another $300 and I’ll chug my cold one.”
I immediately packed my knapsack and departed the Slip Inn Marina at Joint Base Anacostia Bolling. The military base in SW DC served as my solace sanctuary after spending weeks on the road. Big Cherry was resting peacefully in my driveway, and after conducting a hasty pretrip, the 10-liter Diesel engine roared like a mythical sea monster.
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Big Cherry at home
The drive to Shippensburg PA on Interstate-81 was smooth and stress-free. A Grisham audiobook kept my mind occupied and in peace with my surroundings. Dusk was approaching, and thankfully the diesel repair shop where the driver’s truck was towed came into view. The trailer was stashed all the way to the back by the thick line of trees. Since there were multiple trailers, it was critical I find the right one. Wouldn’t want to drive 500 miles to Boston to discover I arrived with something that was due in Texas.
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Trailer full of Hides to Boston
She was bright, shiny stainless steel adorned with lots of marker lights. I could tell that she used to be refrigerated since the spot where the reefer unit was located was now covered by a piece of aluminum. I thumped the tires with my wooden bat and felt the desired bounce. All seemed to go as planned. Then when I opened the doors, I was slammed in the face by the rotten stench of death. It wasn’t your typical load of water, detergent, can food, or mixed goods. What I found instead were pallets upon pallets of animal hide, of all shapes and sizes, stacked five feet high. There was no telling how many dead animals were piled in, but there were easily several hundred if not thousands of rotten carcasses that would only decay worse if left in the oppressive heat.
And by the looks of it, it wasn’t just cattle. There was probably pigs, goat, sheep or maybe even alligator or deer. I gagged in disgust. I had signed up for this load, and I’m not the type of guy to fall off just because I didn’t like what was inside the trailer, though the thought crossed my mind.
At least the trailer was all lit up and bright. I reluctantly drove the heavy load on 81 towards Boston. Since I left in the evening, I knew it would be a challenge to find parking. It was only Sunday – hopefully, it wouldn’t be that busy.
Boy was I wrong. Two hundred miles later in this Pilot east of Allentown, a faint knock on my door. It was the Truck Stop attendant. They wanted me to leave. I was parking in a reserved spot. I could see the anger glare at a driver ready to pull into his spot. This happened again at the TA next door, except I was in the way of trucks coming out of the repair shop. And 50 miles later I tried my luck at a rest stop, to no avail.
So after three failed attempts, I was determined to find a Home Depot or Walmart. Google told me to take state road 10 of 287 towards Whippany. I was happy to find the Home Depot parking lot in East Hanover NJ. And for a chance, no one bothered me for the rest of the night – even though I struggled with a bout of insomnia.
There are many Asian enclaves in Jersey and East Hanover happened to be one of them. When I woke up, I was happy to spot an Asian grocery store, Kam Man Market. Similar to Great Wall and Ranch 99, the store has a large selection of tea: Jasmine, Green Tea, Buckwheat, etc. They had a wide selection of products and the fish appeared fresh. You may be put off by the tank of live eels, frogs glaring back at you, or dangling chicken feet and pig’s ears, but this place has a wide selection and the freshest ingredients west of 95. Had an early lunch there to include steamy hot Char Siu Bao, soft and moist with delicious BBQ pork in the center.
Then the uneventful, easy 4-hour drive over the Tappan Z Bridge to Boston. When you’re driving north to New England, take the newly-rebuilt Tappan Zee over the GW Bridge – you’ll save a lot in toll going this way. New Yorkers really love the late Gov Mario Cuomo, even though he was defeated after his third term by George Pataki. Now it was up to their son, Andrew to run for a fourth term.
The drive was tricky since I had to drive on I-90 towards Logan over to the Chelsea seaport. Soon, I was in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the Ted Williams Tunnel, traveling under the Boston Harbor where in 1773, American patriots disguised as Native Americans boarded British ships and destroyed an entire shipment of tea spurring the American Revolution. This is the birthplace of America and a must-stop along my route back home to DC by the fourth.
When I arrived, I was shocked and disgusted to see a dirty warehouse stacked with animal hide. The stench of hiding and salt was overbearing.
“We’ve been here for years and getting ready to move. And we’ve been preserving hides like this for hundreds of years – salting, drying, freezing – it’s fairly low tech,” said Don, the manager at Boston Hide.
“Where do they go from here? I knew Boston had a famous Leather District known worldwide for its production and selection of designer leather clothing and handbags. After all, I used to own a Boston Harbour lambskin leather jacket that didn’t stretch and smelled musty like wood and spice. I wore it around in high school and it made me feel like a big man on campus.
“We’re shipping all the hide overseas to Asia, This shipment will be converted to leather upholstery in your car, handbags, jackets, shoes, what not.”
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Boston Hides
“So how many animals were in my load?”
“Oh, easily thousands. There’s not a piece of the cow we don’t use.”
“Where will the hides be shipped?”
“All over the world. We’ve been in the business for over 25 years and have earned global acclaim as a reliable supplier of hides and skins from the Northern US.”
But before I could drop off the trailer and the disgusting load of animal hide, I had to execute a number of tricky backing maneuvers that would challenge even the hardiest veteran drivers. I had to back down a busy street with a yard assistant stopping traffic on both sides, so I could do two back-to-back 90-degree alley docks into the warehouse dock. That was a lot to ask for, and I almost gave up. But I wanted once and for all to get rid of this heavy load of the dead, rotting animals. Even if it meant doing a dozen consecutive backflips, this load had to go. So though beef is very popular in the US, the use of hide to make leather jackets and seating has diminished. Popularity has gone down throughout the world and consumers are now supporting vegan clothing.
I then drove through Chinatown and onto Harrison to the elegantly chic SOWA (South of Washington). I was surprised to see the number of drug users some homeless, some not, congregating near Boston Medical along Atkinson Street aka ‘the Methadone Mile. An open-air drug market was in full swing on a prominent crossing outside a disheveled-looking convenience store. A few addicts were flopped down on blighted street corners or shooting up something pernicious between parked cars. Danger and despair were prevalent, and it just broke my heart to see many in utter throes of addiction, some unconscious on the ground, some defecating on doorsteps.
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Methadone Mile, Boston
Others were sheltered in makeshift tents, cooking up drugs to sell on the street. Recovery and relapse jockey for space in the same precious few blocks.
For some, this serves as a “Recovery Road” where they will hopefully recover from their addiction and reclaim active and meaningful lives.
As I continued south down Harrison, I wanted to get away from the downtown congestion so I could find street-side parking without a lot of hassle or enforcement. Luckily, I stumbled upon an apartment building undergoing renovation surrounded by scaffolding and safety netting on Thorndike. Nobody would question me here – my work truck looked every bit a part of the ongoing construction, and even the cherry red color blended in.
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My truck parked in a construction zone on Thorndike St.
There was no need for sunscreen – the clouds were thick and heavy with a menacing hint of rain. With my knapsack over my shoulder and ID in my hand, I headed up Harrison Ave to explore the neighborhood affectionately known as SOWA. This booming art and design district reminded me of DC‘s NOMA (North of Massachusetts), a one-time rough and seedy neighborhood that has undergone a rapid transformation. Homeless people coexisted with luxury condos and eco-friendly amenities such as Whole Foods and Health Works. Vintage markets and boutique shops conveyed the trendy, creative side.
After several blocks of strolling, I was elated to discover a festive, pet-friendly open market with hundreds of locals – kids in tow — enjoying a wide array of offerings from some of the city’s most-raved food trucks. A beer garden offering tasty suds from a local brewer was popular and the five taps were constantly gushing. Meanwhile, an up-and-coming indie-rock band was performing catchy originals while a group of teens and twenty-somethings were playing a relaxing game of corn hole, stopping to cheer after every number
Just as I grabbed my Ipswich Ale and a seat to enjoy the music the skies began to open. Just a few warning drops at first which rapidly overflowed to buckets as the handicraft and jewelry vendors dumped their wares in big barrels, not even bothering to keep things together.
I found shelter under a patio umbrella and waited a good thirty minutes for the storm to pass. Being sweaty and grungy from the road, I personally didn’t mind a rain shower, but my backpack and MacBook were not as resistant to weather, so I waited patiently until the storm clouds subsided.
Later that evening, I visited a longtime bar on Tremont St, once owned by Celtic great Bill Russell. Slades serves traditional Southern food to an R&B & Soul soundtrack, and the place was just kicking.
On the exterior wall is a monochrome mural paying tribute to the world-renowned abolitionist Frederick Douglass. On the inside, a prominent sign boasts that its weathered doors have been opened since 1935.
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A very packed Slades in Boston
I looked around the packed bar. People were laughing, and dancing, their hands gently tapping their partners’ shoulders.
“What you having Hon?” asked the bartender, making eye contact and a nod.
“Well, I’m a trucker, originally from Georgia, and love soul food. What do you suggest?”
“Wings are a must. We call them crack wings cuz they’re just so damn good!”
I glanced over the menu and settled for the grilled pork chops, candied yams, and mac and cheese.
“You’re in town for long?”
“Just for the night. Tomorrow, I head to Springfield to see a friend, and this weekend to Cape Cod to deliver some groceries.”
“I truly envy you. Springfield is lovely, and the beaches at the Cape are simply majestic.”
“Yes, I understand it gets pretty crowded there in the hooked peninsular.”
“The traffic can be a nightmare. A lot of Bostonians don’t even bother. We opt for closer shores instead.”
“Really, where do you recommend?”