Forgetting Balzac

Jonathan W. Murray

He jumped into the car.
"Wassup today my friend? Beautiful weather."
"Fuck, she is nice out buddy. Not much going on with me. Same old same old."
"Fuck man clean your car" he said as he grabbed a handful of wrappers and threw them in
back. He kicked a few other things under the seat.
"So you up for a fatty?
"Of course."
They drove for about twenty minutes smoking the joint and chatting about girlfriends and
dogs. They just pulled off Glenmore Trail onto Macleod when the joint was finished. The sun is
shining bright, low in the sky, the usual for eight in the mid-summer evening. Not exceptionally
hot, just pleasant. After a few more turns they arrived at an average looking house.
Were here. Youre gonna like this shit.
They were in and out quick.
***
It was dark out by the time he was back at his truck. He did his usual inspection, walking
around the extra long behemoth twice. The first time around is routine and almost exactly as he
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did the day of his driving test. That was a long time ago. The only thing different is another
trailer and a converter. Starting at the driver's side of the cab and going to the back. Check air
line connectors and electrical. Verify position of kingpin lock nut (tight against fifth wheel
indicating the trailer is securely connected). Provincial safety inspection sticker is affixed and
current. Hit tractor tire one with hammer which effortlessly bounces to number two, then three,
then four, indicating full tires. Landing gear is raised, and handle is stowed. Swing under trailer
and check all four trailer brakes. Come back out same side and check that back door is secure.
All lights and blinkers are working. This unit is an extended double, so the converter and its
connections are also inspected. The following trailer goes much the same as the lead, coming
back up other side checking tires and lights.
The second walk around is hardly different. Some drivers do it and some don't. Some are
concerned about what need be done and others are quite thorough. He reaches into the cab and
shuts off the hazards, then pulls the stick almost half an inch -- enough to engage the trailer
brakes and the brake lights. He then lights a cigarette and takes a walk around looking at other
aspects and curiosities of the trailer, such as the graffiti or different commercial art. And, of
course, checking the brake lights.
The inspection is routine stuff, but it still takes fifteen to twenty minutes. Public safety is
important, and worth the time. In addition, he also needs to update his log book. The pen does
not cooperate with his brain. The six joints and four beers might be a factor. He knows he is due
for burn out, but the little package in his blue jean pocket will perk him up later. A little taste
wouldnt hurt though. A reassuring thought but he decides not right now. What he is doing is
important and he does not need to be all messed up to do it.
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Leaving Cowtown is usually routine stuff. It is the same old, especially after pulling on the
Deerfoot. The cars, the traffic patterns, and the attitudes are all familiar and predictable. Often
when he arrives in Calgary it is rush hour. The traffic can be horrendous and frustrating. And
often involves a standstill either because some unfortunate soul has hit another, or it is
congested. Ten in the evening is not without detriment though, such as reckless lane changers
and other big trucks speeding or half asleep -- or both.
Tonight, Jim has a good little buzz going. He really likes the buzz that the combination of
beer and pot creates, but the big drawback is it burns him out. He has the perfect solution to burn
out though. Jim reaches in his pocket and pulls out the little paper envelope. He opens his hand.
The envelope sits facing him. Face up with its paper smile. Staring at it for a moment he decides
what the hell. He opens the little pouch and notices that it is nearly all powder. How
convenient.
He grabs his pen and takes it apart so he is left only holding the barrel of the pen. Meanwhile,
he is watching his trailers and the following traffic in his mirrors. He does not see anyone
approaching to pass or pull up beside. For an added assurance, he bumps his cruise control up to
105 kmh. Not bad, and not attention getting. He is already on the North side approaching
McKnight.
Jim makes all his preparations while oblivious of the situation that may exist. He knows what
he is driving into, but today he ignores this knowledge and intuition. He opens his paper pouch,
a bit at a time, and being careful not to undo the folds that hold it together. He then inserts his
pen barrel into the envelope and inhales a 'small' hit up his nose. There, he figures that should get
rid of the blassehs. The burn-out he is beginning to feel.
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Jim feels increasingly anxious, then he starts to sweat a cold sweat, and he gets increasingly
alert. He is feeling the effects very well now and is sure he took more than a little hit. He pinches
the little envelope and tries to guess how much is missing. Its missing maybe a quarter of the
pouch.
Fuck. That's a lot, maybe half a gram up one nostril. He thinks to himself.
He can tell now too, the sweats are really bad, his heart rate is through the roof -- probably
near two hundred -- and he is shaking like he is driving on washboard. He rounds the curve by
the airport and crosses Country Hills Boulevard. Just as he rounds the next curve and crests the
small hill, he sees them.
Oh no, his inner voice bellows. What the fuck was I thinking? Am I stupid?
Its just past ten in the evening. How did he not think of it? The beer buzz must be better than
he thought. Jim has never been so jittery. Ever. Then suddenly it intensifies. His heart races
more. He can see them clearly in the distant blackness. The distinctive amber lights are blinking
above the ever familiar sign stating "All trucks over 4800kg must report when lights flashing."
Holy fuck. They are pulling trucks in too. He can tell because there is a line up to get on the
scale, and there are other trucks pulled aside in the inspection area. Looking through all the
trucks as he downshifts and slows, he sees plenty of vans and flat-decks but there is only one
extended length double. Sweat is coalescing into his shirt collar. Can't swallow. Mouth is dry.
He pulls into the lineup dropping into first gear and leaving the clutch out as he lets the truck
roll with the line. Occasionally he pushes the brake to avoid collision. He is cold now, and could
only imagine how pale and freaked out he must look. There are three trucks before him now.
Another truck leaves the inspection area. Now they have room for his double easily. Two trucks
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left. No one else has had a red light yet. The truck in front of him rolls off the scale to a green
light and quickly accelerates onto the on-ramp back onto the QE2.
It is Jim's turn now. He lets the truck pull itself on the scale. As each axle crosses the scale
surface, he taps his brake momentarily so the scale can accurately measure the weight of each
axle. He is used to crossing scales this way, pausing for up to ten or eleven axles. Today he has
nine axles. At about seven to ten seconds an axle, it is set to be the longest minute of Jim's life.
Another truck leaves the inspection area. The highway transport officer who just inspected it,
wearing blue coveralls, starts to walk back to the scale house. Is he going to be the one to inspect
this truck? Will they even inspect this truck? When they see him walking in all pale faced,
twitchy, and sweating. They will immediately have other ideas. Perhaps they will simply detain
him and call the Mounties. Maybe they wont notice. Could he pull off acting straight feeling
like this? Jim is genuinely freaked out, and looks it too.
The scale at Balzac has always had a bad reputation. Even when he drove truck in the oil
patch, all the old timers would remind him that his paperwork should be in order and his load
should be well tied down if he is ever coming into this scale. The old boys were rarely wrong.
Jim had never been pulled into the Balzac scale for inspection despite going through it daily
since he began this run. Today may be different. His heart is beating so fast. What if he goes into
fibrillation? Maybe that would be good. A heart attack would detract from the situation.
No it wouldn't. Am I daft? He thought to himself.
His heart never beat so fast, and his hands have never been so cold and shaky.
Jim is starting to pull his last trailer across the scale. When he goes by the window, the scale
operator turns around to talk to his colleague who walked in the door. Fuck. Jim is convinced
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they are talking about pulling him in. His last pair of axles is on the scale, he taps his brake, and
the scale reads his weight at around 11,000 kilograms. All told his unit weighs 52,000 kilograms.
Well under the 62,500 he is allowed. But he knows that does not put him in the clear as he is still
the only extended length double in the scale. The company he works for does not have a good
reputation lately either. One driver killed that woman on the Fort Mac road. Another guy got
nailed running the scale. And so many others just had inspections that had them sitting at the
scale waiting for a mechanic or another truck. He expects to see the light go red, which means
park in the inspection area and bring in your paperwork.
The truck rolls off the scale. It seems that the light stays yellow an eternity. The light turns
green. Holy shit. He can go. Jim doesn't waste a moment and starts pounding through the gears
and gets out of there. He doesn't miss a shift or a beat, and has that rig into thirteenth gear by the
time he is halfway down the on-ramp. He watches the sign bearing the green light go by his
head. Relief overwhelms him and despite being extremely high and googly-eyed, he is washed
over with such a sense of relief that he could almost fall asleep. Despite having enough energy to
run a marathon, this experience also leaves him drained. He is exhausted but plainly unable to go
to sleep because of adrenaline and cocaine. What an experience. So frightened and freaked. He
thought his career was over.
"Wow" Jim says aloud as he cracks a beer and lights a joint.