UPS DREAMS

I was working at my local McDonald’s “Hamburger Joint” in the late 70’s, having recently returned to Southeastern College to finish the undergrad degree I’d begun in the late 60’s.

At the time, I was married, and had three small children, and to say I was less than content working as a fry cook in my little hometown, given my relatively advanced age of 30, and the general proximity of many of my high school classmates, would be an understatement of the enth degree.

As it fell together one day, a United Parcel driver took a break from his labors to pick up a quick burger, and when he sat down at one of our tables, I asked my ‘co-cook’ to take over for a couple minutes. And, with this, I strolled up to where “the mysterious man in brown” was hastily devouring his fried bovine sandwich.

“Hi there. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

To which “Bobby Billingsley” responded with,

“Sure, why don’t you have a seat?”

(And with this, I proceeded to do just that).

I continued.

“Bobby, may I call you ‘Bobby?’”

(His name was clearly visible on the left pocket of his potty-brown shirt. Therefore, there was no particular need for him to introduce himself).

I, however, told him my name, and, subsequently, asked a few questions.

“Do you know if your company is hiring right now?”

To which Bobby responded,

“Well, matter of fact they will be hiring part-time package loaders and unloaders at the Lakeland Center next Tuesday at 9am.”

(and)

“By the way, no one begins as a driver. Senior loaders and unloaders bid on driving positions, and you would most likely need to be there three or four years to have any hope of going fulltime.”

He went on to tell me that part-time workers made in the $8.50 an hour range, and, as you might expect, it didn’t take me “a whole heck of a long time” to decide to drive over to the UPS terminal the following Tuesday.

Pt. 2

As I drove up to the blue aluminum terminal building, it was immediately apparent that I would be competing with a myriad of other applicants. There were easily a hundred cars in the parking lot, and, as a result, I immediately “did a 180,” with my steering wheel, and aimed my trusty automobile in the direction from whence I had come.

And then it occurred to me.

Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. I had absolutely nothing to lose. I suppose I had driven half a block from the UPS Center when I pulled over to the side of the road, and did another 180. Arriving in the United Parcel parking lot, I pulled into one of the last available spaces, got out of my vehicle, and walked to the back of a long line of people; mostly my age, and younger.

I was immediately both heartened and disheartened, (if that is possible). It seemed the local UPS terminal was only hiring college students for their part-time crew, (Yay)! But in spite of the enormous crowd of applicants, they only had three available positions, (Boo)!

I thought,

“Oh, well. I’m here now. I may as well fill out the application, and ‘talk to the man.’”

(And indeed, I did).

And hope against hope, I was, ultimately, hired as a package unloader/vehicle washer.

Four decades have come and gone since that day, and my memory of that little season is, by now, a bit cloudy, but “you can bet your bottom dollar” not too much time passed before I submitted my resignation to McDonald’s, and went on to bigger and better things.

Pt. 3

About the time I graduated from college, I was afforded an opportunity I just couldn’t refuse. And rather than procuring a position as a public school teacher, (for which I had so diligently prepared) I strapped myself into the cab of a UPS truck, and began delivering packages for a living; and did so for the next (count ‘em) twenty years.

I have previously written about a few of my experiences as a United Parcel driver, and am not prone to repeat them at length here; other than perhaps a brief summary.

There was the little old negro lady who, having responded to my knock on her door, two or three times a month, would accept the package, and send me on my way with,

“Your old black mama sure do appreciate it, son.”

(or)

“Thank you, Honey. Please don’t forget your old black mama.”

Then, there was the dog that used to chase my delivery truck every time I drove down the street on which he lived. Ultimately, I grew very tired of his antics, and decided to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. One day I dropped by the local 7-11 before I drove down that particular street. I immediately strode to the drink machine, and filled up a Big Gulp cup with some of that rich, syrupy brown liquid, and paid for my purchase.

Resuming my position behind the wheel, I “aimed my trusty steed” towards my momentary quest. True to form the furry, brown critter came darting out of his yard. And with this, I parked in the middle of the road, grabbed the cup of Coke, and sprinted after the hapless, little mutt. It goes without saying that before many seconds had passed the cup was empty, and the dog was cold, wet and sticky.

He never chased my delivery truck again.

Once having parked in a rural area, I retrieved a package from a shelf, navigated the three steps to ground level, walked through a green, grassy yard, and stepped into a carport with the intention of ringing the doorbell, and procuring a signature.

I had no sooner stepped around the garage wall, which faced the road, than I saw him…in all his glory!!! Standing before me was (drum roll) a middle-aged man in his birthday suit. (I kid you not). To this very day, I still have no idea why “Ralph” was loitering in the buff in his garage.

However, when he saw me, he exclaimed,

“Please, please don’t tell anyone you saw me like this!”

Of course, I humored him with,

“Absolutely not.”

(I lied)!

Pt. 4

I will always remember the multiplied packages, multiplied miles, and multiplied hours with which I contended over the course of those multiplied years.

It was not unusual to begin at 9am and drive into the terminal at 730 or 800pm on a daily basis. The Monday following Thanksgiving, the month long Christmas season began, and during that time of year I routinely drove back up into my driveway after midnight.

I endured 95 degree temperatures, and 95 percent humidity. During the summer my potty-brown shirt was soaked with my sweat; so much so that salt streaks appeared. When I was not wet with sweat, I was wet with rain. When it rained my paper delivery pad, with all its handwritten package numbers, addresses, and customer signatures turned to mush, and became all but unintelligible. (So much for tracking a package).

It was not unusual for me to drive 70 miles in a day, deliver 350 packages to 150 addresses, and do regular pick ups at 25 businesses. Once, during the Christmas season, my seasonal helper and I had emptied our delivery truck by 6pm, and were contemplating heading back to the UPS Center when a temporary driver showed up, and told me he had orders to trade trucks with me.

When I jerked open the inside bulkhead door of the somewhat smaller vehicle, I found myself staring at an absolute wall of boxes. All I could do was unload the entire cargo onto the grass, and reload the truck in some approximate order of delivery addresses. I never came so close to driving that sucker back to the building, and submitting my immediate resignation. As it was, I rolled into the building well after midnight.

As it turned out, it was to be years before I submitted my resignation. By that time, I had reached retirement age. And in order to avoid another Christmas, I retired before the season began.

Pt. 5

On my last day I walked into the building, and discovered a chocolate cake, punch, cups, plates and forks laid out on a table, and a “Happy Retirement, Bill” sign mounted on an easel. As the daily meeting began Angie C., my supervisor, congratulated me on my retirement, and made some sort of short, impromptu speech.

When it came my turn to say a few words, I delivered a premeditated ‘au revoir.’

“I’ve been here twenty years, but I can still dance a jig.”

(And I proceeded to do a little two step).

“And I can still do a few one-handed pushups.”

(And with this, I dropped down, and demonstrated five or six of the ‘bad boys’).

“And I can still plant a kiss on my supervisor!”

(And not to be denied, I kissed Angie C. on the cheek. Thankfully, my supervisor was a woman, and not a man).

Apparently, UPS has learned the hard way because the same young lady whom I kissed that morning attached a jump seat on the passenger side of my vehicle, and rode with me on my last day on the job. No sooner had she attached the seat to the cab wall, sat down, and strapped in than it occurred to me. No doubt, a few retiring drivers in the past had ‘gone postal’ on their final day, and had dropped a few choice words on some of their customers; (or worse than words).

However, in my case, the day came to an uneventful close, I bid my farewells to my supervisor, and any drivers who happened to be in the building at the time, breathed a great sigh of relief, and made my way home.

Pt. 6

While I have worked an amazing 40-50 jobs during the course of my lifetime, United Parcel Service is singular of them all, since it continues to “give the gift that keeps on giving.”

Apparently, I have inherited a small dose of Post-Traumatic Stress from my tenure with this prestigious organization; since I still find myself dreaming about the two decades I served there.

‘Til recently, I ‘dreamed UPS’ an average of once a month.

The dream is ALWAYS the same.

I find myself driving ‘Old 59299’ (twenty years after it was, no doubt, consigned to the junkyard) and I am about a half hour from my curfew, and the point and place in time when I need to return to the UPS Center; so that the pick up packages can be unloaded. Unfortunately, I have three or four packages on the shelf which have yet to be delivered. And every one of these packages contain addresses which are unfamiliar to me.

You would have to work for ‘those people.’ They take a rather dim view of drivers returning undelivered packages to the building. This was before the standard availability of cell phones, and the age of GPS. Thus, you can imagine I am feeling a great deal of anxiety, as I read the addresses on the packages, and realize I will have to take them back to the building…undelivered.

And it is always at this point that

…I wake up.

I have often mused that my steadfast service with United Parcel Service continues, and given my recurring nightmares, I am seriously thinking of submitting a bill for services rendered.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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