I Beat Up Apollo Creed AND Mr. T.
It was an early morning drive to the food bank, the grogginess I usually feel at that hour of the day was exacerbated by the fact that I had stayed up too late the night before, thinking that the 15 minute nap I had snuck in would count for something. Jeff Tweedy was doing his best to keep me awake as I made my way north and then west. I had to stop myself from turning left onto 113. I have gotten so used to the drive to Ryan’s that it’s just about automatic. “Food bank, em…” and I turned the volume control several clicks to the right.
The driveway up to Second Harvest should have one of those steep grade signs that you see off to the side of the road on highways, right before you get to really treacherous rises in elevation. Someone masochistic designed that thing; there was no effort made to alleviate the fact that the food bank is situated atop of a sudden hill, a literal “higher ground” for an organization that serves as a figurative higher ground for so many people in the county. The driveway is a steep bastard, and on a day like today it felt like a truck-eating 90 degree angled leviathan. I got to the half-way point when the truck stopped moving. I was on a solid sheet of ice! I was starting to move backwards! The wheels were spinning like crazy and the mph gauge was reading 60! Holy shit! “Please don’t let anyone else come up this driveway right now…”
Ba’al must have been listening. I gently hit the brakes and shifted to 1st gear. Slowly, slowly, I nudged the accelerator. There were deep tire track ruts on either side of this mountain slope they were trying to pass as a driveway, proof that I was not the only person who had trouble getting up the thing. Deep, deep ruts. Ruts that I would have surely gotten stuck in. Ruts so deep they had cut through the surface layer of permafrost, turning into craters of sloshy mud water. I had visions of having to go into the building to ask for a tow, having Martin gladly offer to help, having to listen to all of his posturing. Martin wasn’t someone I wanted to be in debt to. I let out a “come on, baby!” of support while continuing to nudge the gas, and the truck crept forward by centimeters. I could feel the back tires starting to slip out of line.
“Why in the shit would they not have salted this?! God…” I said out loud and immediately felt like Napoleon Dynamite. “Idiots!” I added with a chuckle for good measure. I slowed down to an utter crawl, and the truck began to stabilize. After what seemed like three hundred years of gently tapping the gas and praying for traction, I had gotten past the two-thirds mark, the point at which the driveway flattened out a little. I was in the clear. Just a little… picking up speed… keep going, just a bit more… and…. I’m uuuUPPPPPP! Dad’s truck was as pleased with itself as I was and we vroomed through the parking lot and around to the loading dock in back.
A burly looking white guy with scanty hair and fewer teeth greeted me in the warehouse.
“Lemme guess. Oberlin Community Services.” He wore a half-grin and carried a clipboard in his massive left hand, the only thing that distinguished him as a food bank employee and not a skull crushing pirate.
“How’d you…” but I was cut off before I could finish the question.
“There a van in yer way out there?” I was still wondering how he knew where I was from, and just looked at him with what probably came across as a blank stare. “Put it this way. There a van parked out there at all?”
“Oh. Yeah, but..”
“Okay, here’s what you do. Go wait to pull around, I’ll send the guy and you can pull it in.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what he was on about with this cryptic set of cave man instructions, but he was so sure of himself that I was sure of him too, and I went back out to the truck. Seconds later another burly white guy appeared, got into the van, gave me a wave and pulled away. The warehouse door rolled open and the first guy started giving me airport landing pad hand signals while I backed the truck into the warehouse. Where else would I have gone, I wondered, as I watched his gesticulations. The hand signals were unnecessary but comical, I thanked him in my mind as I chuckled under my breath. I got out of the truck and he wheeled the first pallet up.
“This way you don’t get your toes all snowy.”
“Oh, thanks!”
He disappeared while I loaded the boxes of pudding snacks, pasta, beans, and tomato sauce. I eyed the boxes of canned orange juice, and the guy reappeared, almost as if he could hear me thinking to myself, “those things are heavy as fuck, and my guns are tired!”
“We’re not supposed to help agencies load anymore, but I’ll help you with these while nobody’s lookin’.”
We got half of them loaded and he said, “hey, you’re pretty strong, what are you, a street fighter or something? I bet you can scrap. Hahahaha!”
I had no idea whether I was being made fun of or not, but the guy’s laughter was so boisterous and self satisfied that I couldn’t help but laugh myself. We finished loading the truck and I offered a sincere thanks, to which he replied “hey, anytime Rocky.” With a pat on the back.
The driveway up to Second Harvest should have one of those steep grade signs that you see off to the side of the road on highways, right before you get to really treacherous rises in elevation. Someone masochistic designed that thing; there was no effort made to alleviate the fact that the food bank is situated atop of a sudden hill, a literal “higher ground” for an organization that serves as a figurative higher ground for so many people in the county. The driveway is a steep bastard, and on a day like today it felt like a truck-eating 90 degree angled leviathan. I got to the half-way point when the truck stopped moving. I was on a solid sheet of ice! I was starting to move backwards! The wheels were spinning like crazy and the mph gauge was reading 60! Holy shit! “Please don’t let anyone else come up this driveway right now…”
Ba’al must have been listening. I gently hit the brakes and shifted to 1st gear. Slowly, slowly, I nudged the accelerator. There were deep tire track ruts on either side of this mountain slope they were trying to pass as a driveway, proof that I was not the only person who had trouble getting up the thing. Deep, deep ruts. Ruts that I would have surely gotten stuck in. Ruts so deep they had cut through the surface layer of permafrost, turning into craters of sloshy mud water. I had visions of having to go into the building to ask for a tow, having Martin gladly offer to help, having to listen to all of his posturing. Martin wasn’t someone I wanted to be in debt to. I let out a “come on, baby!” of support while continuing to nudge the gas, and the truck crept forward by centimeters. I could feel the back tires starting to slip out of line.
“Why in the shit would they not have salted this?! God…” I said out loud and immediately felt like Napoleon Dynamite. “Idiots!” I added with a chuckle for good measure. I slowed down to an utter crawl, and the truck began to stabilize. After what seemed like three hundred years of gently tapping the gas and praying for traction, I had gotten past the two-thirds mark, the point at which the driveway flattened out a little. I was in the clear. Just a little… picking up speed… keep going, just a bit more… and…. I’m uuuUPPPPPP! Dad’s truck was as pleased with itself as I was and we vroomed through the parking lot and around to the loading dock in back.
A burly looking white guy with scanty hair and fewer teeth greeted me in the warehouse.
“Lemme guess. Oberlin Community Services.” He wore a half-grin and carried a clipboard in his massive left hand, the only thing that distinguished him as a food bank employee and not a skull crushing pirate.
“How’d you…” but I was cut off before I could finish the question.
“There a van in yer way out there?” I was still wondering how he knew where I was from, and just looked at him with what probably came across as a blank stare. “Put it this way. There a van parked out there at all?”
“Oh. Yeah, but..”
“Okay, here’s what you do. Go wait to pull around, I’ll send the guy and you can pull it in.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what he was on about with this cryptic set of cave man instructions, but he was so sure of himself that I was sure of him too, and I went back out to the truck. Seconds later another burly white guy appeared, got into the van, gave me a wave and pulled away. The warehouse door rolled open and the first guy started giving me airport landing pad hand signals while I backed the truck into the warehouse. Where else would I have gone, I wondered, as I watched his gesticulations. The hand signals were unnecessary but comical, I thanked him in my mind as I chuckled under my breath. I got out of the truck and he wheeled the first pallet up.
“This way you don’t get your toes all snowy.”
“Oh, thanks!”
He disappeared while I loaded the boxes of pudding snacks, pasta, beans, and tomato sauce. I eyed the boxes of canned orange juice, and the guy reappeared, almost as if he could hear me thinking to myself, “those things are heavy as fuck, and my guns are tired!”
“We’re not supposed to help agencies load anymore, but I’ll help you with these while nobody’s lookin’.”
We got half of them loaded and he said, “hey, you’re pretty strong, what are you, a street fighter or something? I bet you can scrap. Hahahaha!”
I had no idea whether I was being made fun of or not, but the guy’s laughter was so boisterous and self satisfied that I couldn’t help but laugh myself. We finished loading the truck and I offered a sincere thanks, to which he replied “hey, anytime Rocky.” With a pat on the back.
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