Four days ago, Friday: two trips to town, two interesting return drives.
First: Two p.m. Route 2, heading out of Montpelier. Behind a fast-moving truck -- looking like a dump truck: same wheel base, same kind of cab, but with a bed half the length or less than standard issue. We cross the bridge where the limit goes up to 50, the truck driver gives it the gas. With the increased velocity, stuff begins flying out of the back, mostly short strips of plastic, like the stuff used by surveyors to mark trees. Yellow mostly, now and then pink. Punctuated by bits of white paper that fly up out of the back, swirl off to the side of the road in the truck's wake. Whatever they've got back there, no one threw a cover over it, it launches colorful litter all the way to East Montpelier, me feeling unhappier about it with each passing mile. I moved close enough to get their plate number, passed them when they slowed at the junction of 2 and 14 in East Montpelier, got the company name and town..
Back home, I gave them a call, trying to remember the last time I'd done something like this. (Answer: years. Maybe years and years and years.)
A woman answered, speaking with what sounded like a faint English accent. (Go figure.) We swapped hellos, I gave her a quick rundown of my drive behind the truck, asked if they would consider throwing a tarp over the back next time they had a similar load. Her response: flat-out denial. They only carried mulch and loam, she said, and they always covered the back of their trucks. What I saw, according to her, could not have happened. After a couple of minutes of that, I got firm. Wasn't my imagination, I told her and I was not calling to chew them out, just to ask for good will and consideration. I could have called the State Police, I pointed out, but gave the company the respect of speaking directly to them instead of passing it off to the law. Her manner changed with the words "State Police," her tone softened, she became more tactful. I gave her the truck's plate number, she said they'd check into it, we wished each other a good weekend and rang off.
Later, around 8 o'clock. Just beginning the drive home, I pass an older guy who has his thumb out. On impulse, I pull over, clear a bunch of stuff off the passenger's seat, get the door open just as the guy reaches the car. I say hello, ask where he's going. Barre, he responds quietly. I tell him we won't be traveling the same route for long but I'll be glad to give him a lift to the fork in the highway. He settles into the seat, pulls the door shut, and a wave of body odor fills the vehicle, intense enough that I take a moment to make a mental adjust. The guy looks to be around sixty, is thin, unshaven, with a prominent adam's apple. He wears work clothes -- old, a bit threadbare, but neat, the pants pressed -- with heavy shoes, a quilted vest, a lunch box.. He leans away from me, shoulder up against the door, speaks quietly, sparingly, doesn't look me in the eye. I fill the space between us with some polite talk and a question or two, his responses are minimal. He reminds me of an older, smaller, more gaunt, more reticent version of Henry Fonda's version of Tom Joad.
A minute or two later, we reach his disembarcation point. I pull off the road, let him out, say good-bye, wish him luck, again doing most of the talking. The door closes, I pull back out onto the highway and head home, the lingering odor strong enough that I open a couple of windows. Last I saw of him, he was walking off in the direction he needed to go, thin body moving tentatively in the fading daylight. And then he was out of view.
España, te echo de menos.
rws 3:09 PM [+]
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