Me and Muslim Mike in the City of Brotherly Love (part 1)
So I left Crazy Tony at a Pilot truck stop in Carlisle, PA, headed home for Houston with a Cuban immigrant named Miguel. He spoke a clean enough English for the two of us to get along and certainly didn’t mind my desire to get south just as fast as we could.
I’d love to say the trip was uneventful, but there were a few snags. Word of advice: If you’re ever driving a big rig in Virginia and feel the need to pee, hold it for the next truck stop. Do not pull into any little town with a gas station; you will tie up traffic. In Hammond, LA there was a miscommunication with Miguel and I ended up locking us out of the truck at the gas pump. Thankfully, there was a driver near by who’d seen this happen before and for twenty bucks showed us the way to break back in. And of course, there was TS Alicia to contend with. The wind was all they said it would be on the training videos in trucker school, sheets of rain pounding everything on the freeway mercilessly. If it weren’t for the trees along the way, I would have seen where the lightning was striking the ground. Cars were lining up in my wake, drivers flashing their headlights to let me know they were there. Miguel kept shouting from the bunk, “Don’t use the Jake brake! Don’t use the Jake brake!” Greasy street rat! Of course I wasn’t using it, not in that rain! I could have choked him except my white knuckled death-grip was already engaged on the steering wheel. We pushed through the outer bands of the storm and made it to Houston in time to take the full brunt of it all. I didn’t care. I think a month had passed since I’d traveled in a car, the sensation was odd, but mom and dad were glad to have me back.
I was in town long enough to make a trip up to Wichita Falls and see my brother Charles. Mom and sister caught a stomach virus along the way making the hot eight hour trip all the more pleasant. I drove, of course. Charles was surprised to see us, even more so me, since he’d been told that I was still out in California. I told him how the news of his forthcoming nuptials softened the bad strangeness of my time there. He laughed and said I’d have to explain that to him some time. We went bowling, ate at a funky Chinese buffet, and talked all we could for the few hours we had to spend together. By the time we left, I wasn’t feeling good. When we got back to Houston I called my dispatcher to let him know I was ill and wouldn’t be available for a few more days. He said that was fine since my new trainer was still two or three days out west of San Antonio and wanted time with his family when he got home anyway. Home for my new trainer was on the west side of Houston. The storm damage and flooding wasn’t nearly as bad there as on the east side where my family once was.
A few days pass and I get a call from a guy with a strange accent telling me to meet him at the truck stop near I-10 and Hwy 146 around 6 AM the next morning. Oh, and he was my new trainer by the way. I was almost done with the ravages the stomach virus had visited upon me, Gatorade and ginger ale had seen to that. I packed my bags a little heavier this time as the experiences with Crazy Tony had taught me much. I was sure to include all my CDs too, not just the rock and roll. Dad and mom got me there around six as requested, but no one from any of the lines I drove for was there yet. We waited, using the time as a long drawn out good-bye. I was more than ready to go when a huge, green Peterbilt truck with FFE decals all over it finally pulled in for fuel. Enter Muslim Mike.
From the start, I thought he was French. Mike was blonde haired, blue eyed, had slightly reddened puffy cheeks and stood about 5’6” tall. He could have been a classic pudgy Irishman too I suppose, but for the accent. I just couldn’t place the accent. He was friendly enough however, and welcomed me into the cab with genuine warmth and concern for my well-being. Apparently the dispatcher told him I’d been sick. But illness aside, it was a much better start to the journey ahead than Tony provided. Our first load together was sitting in Port Arthur, to be taken to Newark. I’d never been to New Jersey and was looking forward to it.
Over the next week, Mike made it his mission to teach me all he could about the business of trucking. Yes, there’s more to it than just driving the truck. Map planning and time management is heavily involved if you want success. I think he found in me a willing student who took what he had to say seriously. After all, the man was making nearly $80,000 a year with no formal education. Hell, there are people today with college degrees that don’t make that much! Apparently some of his previous trainees were less willing to hear him out. I also liked the hole-in-the-wall places we’d eat at.
At the end of the first week, Mike finally asked me, “So, have you guessed it yet?”
‘Guessed’ what, Mike?
“My accent, where I’m from; have you guessed it yet?”
Admittedly, I hadn’t given the topic much thought after day two. By then I was used enough to the way he spoke. He was French anyway, right?
“French? You think I’m French?” He asked with a laugh. “Why do you all think I’m French?”
I told him he looked the part. Besides, I’d never met a Frenchman before and with his accent…
“I’m Syrian! From the Middle East! Have you ever met a Syrian before?”
Of course I hadn’t or maybe I’d have figured him out sooner. Turns out, like Tony with his age and wife, Mike enjoyed playing little games with his new trainees too- only it was far, far less creepy. He was born in Syria, was a Muslim, and came from a family with money, however with the political climate over there, the government seized much of what they had. His wife was eight years younger than he; their marriage was arranged. She was a member of the Syrian Orthodox Church. They had three daughters and a nice, two-story house there in Houston. I eventually got to meet them all and see the house, but that’s another story. He told me his real first and last names, both of which I couldn’t pronounce then and can’t remember now. “Muslim Mike” stuck in my head well enough, though I was sure not to use the nickname around him lest he think it disrespectful. I liked the guy, there was no need for bruised feelings.
(to be continued…)
I’d love to say the trip was uneventful, but there were a few snags. Word of advice: If you’re ever driving a big rig in Virginia and feel the need to pee, hold it for the next truck stop. Do not pull into any little town with a gas station; you will tie up traffic. In Hammond, LA there was a miscommunication with Miguel and I ended up locking us out of the truck at the gas pump. Thankfully, there was a driver near by who’d seen this happen before and for twenty bucks showed us the way to break back in. And of course, there was TS Alicia to contend with. The wind was all they said it would be on the training videos in trucker school, sheets of rain pounding everything on the freeway mercilessly. If it weren’t for the trees along the way, I would have seen where the lightning was striking the ground. Cars were lining up in my wake, drivers flashing their headlights to let me know they were there. Miguel kept shouting from the bunk, “Don’t use the Jake brake! Don’t use the Jake brake!” Greasy street rat! Of course I wasn’t using it, not in that rain! I could have choked him except my white knuckled death-grip was already engaged on the steering wheel. We pushed through the outer bands of the storm and made it to Houston in time to take the full brunt of it all. I didn’t care. I think a month had passed since I’d traveled in a car, the sensation was odd, but mom and dad were glad to have me back.
I was in town long enough to make a trip up to Wichita Falls and see my brother Charles. Mom and sister caught a stomach virus along the way making the hot eight hour trip all the more pleasant. I drove, of course. Charles was surprised to see us, even more so me, since he’d been told that I was still out in California. I told him how the news of his forthcoming nuptials softened the bad strangeness of my time there. He laughed and said I’d have to explain that to him some time. We went bowling, ate at a funky Chinese buffet, and talked all we could for the few hours we had to spend together. By the time we left, I wasn’t feeling good. When we got back to Houston I called my dispatcher to let him know I was ill and wouldn’t be available for a few more days. He said that was fine since my new trainer was still two or three days out west of San Antonio and wanted time with his family when he got home anyway. Home for my new trainer was on the west side of Houston. The storm damage and flooding wasn’t nearly as bad there as on the east side where my family once was.
A few days pass and I get a call from a guy with a strange accent telling me to meet him at the truck stop near I-10 and Hwy 146 around 6 AM the next morning. Oh, and he was my new trainer by the way. I was almost done with the ravages the stomach virus had visited upon me, Gatorade and ginger ale had seen to that. I packed my bags a little heavier this time as the experiences with Crazy Tony had taught me much. I was sure to include all my CDs too, not just the rock and roll. Dad and mom got me there around six as requested, but no one from any of the lines I drove for was there yet. We waited, using the time as a long drawn out good-bye. I was more than ready to go when a huge, green Peterbilt truck with FFE decals all over it finally pulled in for fuel. Enter Muslim Mike.
From the start, I thought he was French. Mike was blonde haired, blue eyed, had slightly reddened puffy cheeks and stood about 5’6” tall. He could have been a classic pudgy Irishman too I suppose, but for the accent. I just couldn’t place the accent. He was friendly enough however, and welcomed me into the cab with genuine warmth and concern for my well-being. Apparently the dispatcher told him I’d been sick. But illness aside, it was a much better start to the journey ahead than Tony provided. Our first load together was sitting in Port Arthur, to be taken to Newark. I’d never been to New Jersey and was looking forward to it.
Over the next week, Mike made it his mission to teach me all he could about the business of trucking. Yes, there’s more to it than just driving the truck. Map planning and time management is heavily involved if you want success. I think he found in me a willing student who took what he had to say seriously. After all, the man was making nearly $80,000 a year with no formal education. Hell, there are people today with college degrees that don’t make that much! Apparently some of his previous trainees were less willing to hear him out. I also liked the hole-in-the-wall places we’d eat at.
At the end of the first week, Mike finally asked me, “So, have you guessed it yet?”
‘Guessed’ what, Mike?
“My accent, where I’m from; have you guessed it yet?”
Admittedly, I hadn’t given the topic much thought after day two. By then I was used enough to the way he spoke. He was French anyway, right?
“French? You think I’m French?” He asked with a laugh. “Why do you all think I’m French?”
I told him he looked the part. Besides, I’d never met a Frenchman before and with his accent…
“I’m Syrian! From the Middle East! Have you ever met a Syrian before?”
Of course I hadn’t or maybe I’d have figured him out sooner. Turns out, like Tony with his age and wife, Mike enjoyed playing little games with his new trainees too- only it was far, far less creepy. He was born in Syria, was a Muslim, and came from a family with money, however with the political climate over there, the government seized much of what they had. His wife was eight years younger than he; their marriage was arranged. She was a member of the Syrian Orthodox Church. They had three daughters and a nice, two-story house there in Houston. I eventually got to meet them all and see the house, but that’s another story. He told me his real first and last names, both of which I couldn’t pronounce then and can’t remember now. “Muslim Mike” stuck in my head well enough, though I was sure not to use the nickname around him lest he think it disrespectful. I liked the guy, there was no need for bruised feelings.
(to be continued…)
posted by BigDan67 | 1:04 PM
1 Comments:
I also listen to Laura Ingrahm, Michael Medved, Hugh Hewitt and Michael Savage when I have the time. I'm in seminary right now, so I usually don't, I just catch Prager because I am usually driving to work at that time. I also am a subscriber to his site, so I can download his shows when I get home.
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