59299 & TRUE CONFESSIONS. Pts. 1-4

*On this day twenty years ago, October 23, 1997, I retired from United Parcel Service. I post this blog in celebration of that event.

Our Catholic brethren have instituted the tradition of Confession in which faithful members of that sect regularly step into something akin to a double telephone booth and confess their sins to a priest; at which point said priest admonishes the supplicant to say 10 or 20 ‘Our Father’s’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’ as penance for their spiritual transgressions; (and possibly crimes).

They say confession is good for the soul.

Well, there may be something to it since I’m inclined to confess a few things I’ve kept hidden for, well, as long as I remember.

And it so happens that all of my transgressions, at least all I care to share with you, occurred in and about my 20 year tenure at UPS, and more specifically in and about truck numbers 59299 and 59358. (I can only wonder whether said trucks have, by now, been transformed into stethoscopes, doorknobs and car tags).

At any rate, there were several circumstances in which I was involved, at the time, that seemed anything but humorous, but which, in retrospect, now elicit a smile, and perhaps even a hearty chuckle.

The chronology of the follow events are, by now, out of mind and memory; though not a myriad of details surrounding them.

There was the time I found myself delivering packages to vendors at our local Orange Festival. Somehow I got wedged between two rows of cars, and found myself with very little room to maneuver ‘Big Brown Bessie.’ Backing up one too many times, and an inch too much, I heard a crunch. Dismounting my vehicle I realized I’d backed into someone’s private vehicle.

Given the almost insignificant results of my vehicular shenanigans, and considering the hopelessness of locating the owner of the automobile amongst the vast crowd, I made the momentary decision to …depart the premises. I can only wonder if Jim or Jane noticed his or her front bumper the next morning, noted the unusual paint residue, and exclaimed,

“That potty brown color looks a lot like the Big Bessie my UPS man drives.”

If so, the powers that be remained uninformed and I kept on keeping on.

Speaking of accidents, UPS drivers were allowed one a year; ‘whether we needed it or not.’ And when our mileage and number of starts and stops were taken into consideration, it was a minor grace, indeed.

There was the time that I drove a bit too close to an offending tree branch, and heard the all too familiar sound of paint being scraped from Old Bessie. Pulling my aluminum friend over to the curb, I unsnapped my seat belt, negotiated the three steps on the passenger side of the vehicle, and ‘took a gander’ at my handiwork. “Yep,” I thought. “I did a job on it.” (And indeed, I had). It goes without saying that given a scenario such as this, our drivers were expected to report the infraction. And it goes without saying that such a report, no matter how minor, was ‘added to the tab.’ (Needless to say, a second infraction was grounds for termination).

At that time, (and perhaps thirty years later) it was usual for our mechanic to ‘brush stroke’ the offended area with UPS custom tint, and send it on its way; with a permanent shot of spray paint later in the week. And given this variable I made the precarious decision to drive my injured metal friend in the direction of the nearest car and truck hospital. Pulling up to paint shop, I jumped out, walked briskly to the window, and (minus any specifics) asked whether they had any paint of the desirable shade. They did. And before I left the paint shop, I did; with a brush to go with it. That evening I chose a little traveled route towards my local UPS center, pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and applied a modest bit of potty brown paint to the wounded area. Did I mention I kept a few ounces of the stuff in my stash at home should history repeat itself? (Well, I did).

Pt. 2

Christmas at UPSwas the ‘funnest’ time of the year. (Not).

Our workload doubled. And it wasn’t unusual to find one’s self with a couple dozen remaining delivery packages as midnight approached. Did I mention that midnight was our curfew? Did I mention our boss took a dim view of a driver bringing back more than one or two undelivered parcels? (Well, he did).

One evening in December, as ‘the bewitching hour’ approached, I pulled up to my next delivery stop, slung open the bulkhead door and cast my eyes upon a couple dozen undelivered packages on the 4^th shelf, bottom. As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ of the volume and movie, “Jane Eyre” was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?”

Since my home was situated on my delivery route, I often dropped by for lunch. This time around I dropped by for a different reason. Backing my UPS truck up to my garage, I lifted the heavy door and unloaded my remaining packages onto the concrete floor. I summarily entered the number and affiliated address of each of the packages on my delivery pad with the notation each had been left at the front or side door. Did I mention what I’d just accomplished was contrary to everything holy? Well, it was. (At least, when it came to the UPS bible).

Having returned home that evening my wife and I loaded the offending packages into the back seat and trunk of our car, and (you guessed it) navigated the remaining several streets of a nearby mobile home park; tip-toeing my inanimate darlings to 4537 Redwood and 4657 Oakwood, etc. etc. etc., until every last package had been delivered.

And then there were the dogs.

Closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city. And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5^th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5^th Street, SE was very much like any other street in “Winter Haven,” (the location of the famous, “Cypress Gardens,”) with one exception,

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

And I think I know why!

(To be continued)

Pt. 3

As the sun set on the western horizon, I generally found myself on Thornhill Road, and when my last package was recent history I pulled over into a grassy area of a mobile home park to complete my paperwork.

One August day I repeated the same closing ceremony which I had repeated many times before. With one unique difference. As I pulled away and prepared to turn right in pursuit of the local UPS center, my back tandem tires rolled over …something. There was no mistaking it. Bump! Bump! Unbuckling my seatbelt I negotiated the three steps to the street,

…and saw him lying in the grass where he had crawled; after I’d so rudely rolled over him with my 3.5 ton Brown Bessie.

The German Shepherd lay dying, and there was little or nothing I could do about it. After a few remaining spasms his ribcage relaxed, and with a soft gasp, he breathed his last. To say I felt badly would have been a gross understatement. The dog had apparently crawled up under my truck to escape the heat, and when I cranked the engine he’d had very little time to rouse himself before…

I attempted to locate his owner to report the situation, but to no avail. No one seemed to know anything about the unfortunate canine, but having notified my supervisor, I was forced to leave the beast lying in the spot where he’d crawled; after having been so rudely dispatched. Funny, it is only in the last few minutes that I have reflected on the notion that, after the mishap took place, the poor beast crawled out from under the vehicle.

Ever since that fateful day I have mentally branded the animal with the name, “Shadow;” since he’d found his way under my delivery vehicle, and into the shadows, to escape the heat of the day. As a spiritual person I tend to believe all pets go to heaven; at least those which we claim for heaven. And would it surprise you to know, I expect to see Shadow there? (Well, I do). One of the first things I plan to do, one of the first actions I plan to take when I arrive there is

…to apologize to Shadow for having dispatched him before his time, and so rudely robbing him of a long and happy life.

Pt. 4

George Baird, my supervisor, was riding with me that day. From time to time, and only a couple minutes before I pulled out of the building, (and much to my chagrin) he’d surprise me with a,

“Hey Bill, I’ll be riding with you today.”

And with that, he’d slip a portable jump seat into the passenger frame of the cab, and off we’d go.

The day had been somewhat uneventful, as George and I rolled up and down the streets and boulevards of Winter Haven until… I discovered a package I’d neglected to deliver. Well, I can tell you I wasn’t real impressed, and I knew my supervisor would be even less impressed than me to have to retrace the path from whence we’d come. And thus, I transgressed another verse in the UPS bible. Not unlike Aiken of old, I hid my little treasure amongst a multitude of pickup packages in the back of my truck. And before the day was over, I did it a second time. And it seemed that old George was none the wiser for it;

…with the emphasis on ‘seemed.’

For you see, when we pulled into the UPS center, and I opened the back bulkhead so the truck could be unloaded, George B. joined me on the dock, and pulled out one, and then the second of my hidden treasures.

“Bill, can you tell me what this is all about?”

He’d known all the time, but decided to wait ‘til we returned to address my little transgression.

I suppose I ‘hemmed and hauled around’ a moment, and finally countered with the most common lie of all time.

“Uh, I really don’t know.”

(and)

“I had no idea they were there.”

Well, suffice it to say Old George had pity on poor deceitful little me for, as I recall, he merely shook his head, and walked away. After he left, I retrieved the parcels and stuck them on the first shelf so that they could be delivered the next day. (“Grace and Mercy there was free.” At least on that particular day).

And did I tell you about the nudist?

(I can tell you, I LOL when I recall the event).

I was well on my way to the conclusion of my work day when I turned right on Lake Eloise Drive. And since I had a delivery package for #769, (a fictional number, but a very real happening) I pulled off the road, retrieved the parcel and walked down the driveway to the house. A wall minus a garage door separated me from the domicile now. And as I walked around the wall, and into the carport, I found myself face to face with

…a very naked man!

“Mr. Smith” had apparently been swimming in the adjoining creek, and upon returning to his garage had divested himself of his bathing suit; with the intent of opening his front door and retrieving his street clothes.

You would have thought I caught him robbing a bank!

“Oh my! Oh no! I’m sorry! Please don’t tell anybody you saw me like this!”

Well, he couldn’t have been any more surprised than me, and no doubt I promised to keep his little secret.

I just caught myself in another lie.

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

I’ve considered sending a bill to UPS for my ongoing services.

**As I may have implied, while I make no excuse for several instances of deceit during the course of my service to UPS, the intensive and sometimes unfair expectations of this delivery service prompted me, (and others) to sometimes stretch the truth or tell the untruth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 22. Copyright Pending.

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