WAREHOUSEMAN

Cloudy and cold is the way I remember it, or steamy hot and humid. There were extremes at the warehouse: back-busting hard labor and coffee breaks allowing for a bit of rest and relaxation.

I remember the first time I was told to take "the '62" (old Chevy box-end with lift-gate) over to the thrift store. This meant driving the truck out of its stall across our parking lot to a narrow driveway at the end, whipping the truck around to back it in down the drive-way the 30 yards to the thrift store loading room. I was fine until I had to use the tiny mirrors to back up. No way to turn my head and look behind me as I could in a car; that big box behind the cab allowed no visibility behind. I was fine for the first five yards or so then lost my bearings. I had no spotter and had lost sight of my target: the large roll-up door of the thrift shop. After frantically looking in both mirrors for clues and man-handling the huge steering-wheel (no power-steering), hoping no one was watching this driving fiasco (did I mention it was cold and drizzling rain?), praying I wouldn't be stuck in the slushy grounds on either side of the driveway. After a few minutes of the the now established pattern of looking, steering, and praying, I got out of the truck to assess my progress. How could I be this far off the road?!? If not for the tracks I'd left in the soggy tall grass it would appear as if the truck and bed had been set into place as if to allow it to die in a field.