Yesterday my wife Cat and I were driving on the freeway, when she said, “The slogan of the truck we just passed is “Always Late.’”
“Take a picture!” I said. “Take a picture!”
Being a Superior Human Being Who Always Gets It, Cat immediately started scrounging around in my bag for the camera I keep on me for those occasions when life insists I make fun of it.
“Got it!” she said, triumphantly holding aloft my Kodak Cynico-Matic.
I adroitly maneuvered alongside Mr. Party Tardy; Cat leaned over my lap to get the picture; I tried not to cry as she used my crotch to steady her elbow—and voila: the picture above.
So what’s the deal with the slogan, “Always Late”? Does the driver of this truck also have that slogan on his business cards? Is his big sales pitch, “You can count on me to be late! If I’m supposed to be there by Tuesday noon, you can bet I’ll be there sometime Wednesday! If then! Now where’s that meat you want hauled?”
And what’s with the Evil Death motif? The truck and trailer—-both painted Ominous Purple—-were festooned with skulls and crossbones. It was like a truck driven by the son of Cap’n Jack, Thrasher Sparrow.
Or maybe the truck driver is the ultimate fan of the band Death Cab for Cutie?
Maybe the skulls aren’t meant to be scary. Maybe they’re supposed to show what this trucker’s customers look like by the time their delivery finally arrives. That actually makes sense, because I could not drive slow enough to stay next to this truck—-and I drive a Ford Focus. When we first pulled up alongside the truck, we had just started up a long, slight incline on the freeway. By the time Cat grabbed my camera, Mr. Purple Wane was so far behind us that it was like he was driving in reverse. I basically had to park on the freeway and wait for him to catch up.
No wonder he’s always so late. He won’t go.
I used to be a warehouse-working Teamster: I loaded and unloaded trucks twelve hours a day. I knew a bunch of truck drivers. They were good guys. They took speed to help keep them awake: out of shape, gray-haired, big-rig drivin’ pill poppers, is what they were. I couldn’t help but wonder if whomever was driving this truck was the son or daughter of one of those guys. Maybe. Anything’s possible. Apparently.