Fuel Island Fiasco

I think I’m standing in pee.  Once again, we were forced to park at a truck stop last night which has put my driver in a worse than his usual grumpy mood.  One reason is that we had to park in the ‘bumper removal’ section at the end of a long line of fleet-style trucks.  This understandably caused him to jump up all night to look through the curtain every time the dash cam’s parking guard alarm went off.  This interrupts my sleep, too, as he knees me in the snout when vaulting over me to assure himself we have not been kissed by a Cascadia.

Apparently, another reason to not park at a truck stop is the fact that there’s homosapien piddle on the parking lot and not in restroom urinals.  It’s O’ dark thirty in the morning and my driver’s opened my door, directing me to jump out and head to the rear of our step deck to relieve myself, but when I leap down the steps, I’m sure I am standing in a pool of cold pee that didn’t exist last night.

Although his finger is pointing in the direction of some patchy grass, I pause and look at the newly parked truck next to us.  Its curtains are drawn, mirrors zip-tied together and on the door, a faded piece of paper with a DOT and MC number written on it in magic marker, is held on by the same clear tape we use over hazmat placards.  His APU belches black smoke under its missing front bumper (this truck is obviously parked in the correct row) as it chokes out its last and covers the lot with a dark cloud.  It’s obvious to me, the puddle permeating my paws was generated from the window or top step of this almost deceased semi.  This conclusion comes from my superior nasal function.  The look on my driver’s face confirms that advanced senses are unnecessary.

As I relieve myself in the grass, I wonder why some (albeit few) drivers use truck stops as their personal outdoor restroom.  We dogs show a much greater ability to respect those around us by letting our bladders go on grass or a tree.  It’s common courtesy to us, but those neanderthal drivers who inflict an entire parking lot with their bodily smells splashed about are certainly lower on the evolutionary ladder than the canine.  Now, long haul drivers who must piddle in a bottle are understandable, but those who throw or pour it out of a window certainly deserve a bite in the butt, and I would gladly give it to them had I ever actually caught them at it.

As the sun begins to rise, we’re slowly approaching the circus that is… the fuel island.  Now, keep in mind, just because there are a lot of trucks, it doesn’t necessarily mean that said trucks are moving.  A cacophony of drivers line up in an attempt to get to a diesel pump and depart quickly.  The idea is to spend 10-15 minutes fueling, afterwards, move to the “pull up line” (should there be one), and run in for a last coffee or quick trip to the restroom (for the more human of them who know what that is).

During the fueling process there’s always a great hustle and bustle of hoses in hi-flow and the always too short DEF lines being aggressively pulled on to reach the actual DEF tank.  Green washer fluid from five-gallon buckets splashes over the tops of cabs as long handled squeegees are quickly drawn across the glass for a spotlessly clean windshield.  But this would be the description of a perfectly running fuel isle (something that is rarer than a perfectly performing SCR after-treatment system).

The anticipation is alarming as we approach the pumps.  Will the trucks be moving?  Will all the pumps work, or will orange cones be strewn about and yellow bags be covering the nozzles?  Will there be an open aisle?  Will someone be destroying yet another poor squeegee by washing their truck with it?  The excitement is contagious as my driver pulls in behind a Volvo pulling a dry van with “WASH ME” written on the back of its filthy doors.  Door-slammers very rarely wash their trailers, I’m told (must be due to a lack of window squeegees at their terminals).

The rapping of my driver’s fingers on the steering wheel tells me that the perfect blissful attempt at fueling will not be coming to fruition this morning as we wait behind this dirty, non-moving semi.  The steady roll of trucks moving up every few minutes doesn’t appear to be occurring in our line.  The truck that was fueling in front of “WASH ME” has now lumbered off, but the van in front of us hasn’t moved.  Within seconds, my driver spilled out of his seat and began moving at a fast clip towards the “stalled” tractor-trailer in front of us.  I jump over to my driver’s seat to offer protection and encouragement when I’m stalled myself by my driver’s half-eaten breakfast sandwich laying helplessly on the dash.  I polish it off quickly before sticking half my body out of the window, continuing with the stalwart support of my driver.

Watching him eighty feet ahead, banging with a clinched fist on the truck’s door and standing back, he’s obviously expecting a window to roll down.  My driver seems irked by the non-response, as he looks left and right, then back at me.  He stomps back to our truck with that look he gets when brake checked by a four-wheeler.  My loud alarmed barking causes him to stop and turn back around towards the cab of the opposition’s truck.  He sees the same thing I do – WASH ME’s driver walking around the front of his parked tractor.

I can see the striped straw dangling out of his stunned mouth, which is stuck in a plastic cup, with the ice and brown liquid inside it swirling about.  He’s clinging to a steaming, medium-sized bag which has that singular logo on it, representing a delicious food-making place often found in truck stops.  On his disheveled, early morning hair sits a precariously placed large headset (he is obviously waiting for critical, imminent orders from his dispatcher, I assume).

The man’s sudden halt at my driver’s approach makes me wonder if his baggy plaid flannel pajama pants and dirty, torn gray thermal shirt will stain terribly should he spill his cold coffee drink on it. Looking again, I think not.  The rapping of his flip flops stuck over ankle-high white socks reminds me of the rapping of my driver’s knuckles only minutes ago.  As he quickly fumbles around in his pocket for a wayward ignition key, his brown drink spills a bit.  Well, there’s one stain never to be found again.

As I listen to the ardent and fowl lecture being given by my driver to the other, the strange, sloppy driver receives this old school knowledge with a look of total confusion.  Surprisingly enough, it would seem that parking your truck and leaving it before actually entering the fuel isle is not, on any planet, acceptable in diesel fuel island etiquette.  However, it would appear that some driver’s stomachs are more in need of filling than their truck and their hunger becomes more important, so they stop and leave before entering the actual fuel island.  Apparently, this decision is made for drivers behind them, as well.  My driver (in a much worse mood for not having the ability to get across said message), walks back to the truck while pajama pants slinks into his tractor and gradually pulls his rig into the diesel island.

While my driver waits and begins looking for the other half of his tasty sandwich, I see the glow of red brake lights (which thankfully draws him away from the sausage sandwich search).  We begin to move up, but then suddenly stop, before actually entering the fuel isle.  I think to myself, “Why are we not pulling  up to the pumps?  Is his hunger making him stop, too?  Should I not have eaten his sandwich?”  Then a sinister laugh begins to rumble from within my driver – a sort of defeatist sound of complete surrender.  Shifting back into neutral, he pulls the yellow paddle.  All my driver can do is sit back, stare straight ahead, and continue his throaty laugh as I gaze out the windshield.

Finally, the dirty Volvo pulls away from the pumps.  Unfortunately, he is oblivious to the time he has cost my driver, oblivious to the necessity of other driver’s need to fuel up quickly and get on the road, and oblivious to why you never take your break, order food, or leave your truck for any reason before the pull up area.  He is oblivious to what a Streakin’ Beakin’ is, and apparently oblivious to the dragging sound of both hoses, still in the semi’s tanks, separated from their pumps, and heading towards the I-84 on-ramp.