was at a company called Ploof. It is now Cypress Truck Lines. I'm proud to say that I have been banned from ever being employed by them - forever. I worked for Ploof right out of trucking school. The school was in Davie, FL and it cost me $430.I applied for the Ploof job by taking a road test in an "ancient" Mack conventional with 1 seat. Knowing Cypress, I'm sure this truck is in service somewhere. The driver who went with me made me drive him home in the worst drug invested crime ridden neighborhood in Miami. I sat in the truck with no air conditioning, in the 100 degree Florida heat and humidity with him inside his little house. Every window had bars. The front door had bars. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. A man came up to the front of the truck. He had a broom stick with an Arby's bag on the end. He stood there, certainly high on something, holding with stick with the Arby's bag up in the air. I have no idea what he wanted. What I wanted was the other driver to come back outside and get me out of this horrible neighborhood.
Two weeks later, I'm at the Ploof Tampa terminal to meet with my trainer. A former US Army "noncom", I don't remember much about him, other than I didn't like him. He was idiot. He had a mustache. I don't like moustaches. I'm don't know what happened to him and I don't care. His truck was, even then, a late model White/GMC/Volvo something or other. It was a conventional and cab-over rolled into one. There was no sleeper, but there was a not very wide "bed" in back of and above the two front seats. There was no room for anything. I was a lot thinner back then and could barely fit back there. Ploof decided we were to share a motel room every night until he felt "comfortable" that I could handle the job alone.
So it's the first night. It was late. We were in the room. He told me I couldn't call home and talk to my wife because Ploof would not pay for the call. I said I'd pay for it. He told me to take a shower. I said I don't shower at night - I do it in the morning to wake up. I had a robe on. He called it a "house coat." He asked why I was wearing it. I ignored him. I don't stand around in my underwear when I'm a motel room with an idiot, especially a idiot with a moustache.
Lights out. I was exhausted. I was emotionally drained, not from driving the truck, but from being with this moron. I had just fallen asleep. Something woke me up. He was snoring. Snoring so loud that I'm quite sure the door to the room was shuddering. And he had a bad case of sleep apnea. He would stop breathing and then wake up, quickly fall asleep again and then the loud snoring would resume. It was like sleeping with a sick whale.
Day 2. Day 3. I did not sleep. I was driving a truck with one eye closed. I was so tired. There were no cell phones, no GPS's, no laptops and NO QUALCOM. Everything had to be done over the telephone. We had to call and wait on hold for just about everything.
Day 4. One more day to go until we're back at the Tampa terminal and I can go home for the weekend. It was 9pm and we're in Jacksonville. We go out for dinner at a Waffle House kind of place with other Ploof drivers, who all used to be in the "peacetime" Army. I was as uncomfortable as Donald Trump at a Flying J. And I could barely stay awake. My head almost dropped in my plate of spaghetti.
After eating we went back to the terminal. He told me to get some "shut-eye" in the truck. He would rest in the drivers lounge. I got in the truck and squeezed in the tight "sleep compartment." I never slept in a truck. There was no snoring, but the engine noise and vibration and heat from being on top of the engine along with being severely overtired, kept me awake. If I had any drugs to help me sleep, I would have surely used them.
2am. He got back to the truck. Time to leave. Oh my God. No sleep. He wanted me to drive down to Tampa while he slept. We left the terminal. It took every ounce of will power and strength to drive. I made about 1/2 way. We stopped at a rest area. He told me to continue to drive. I told him I couldn't. I had nothing left to give. He was very unhappy, but he drove the rest of the way.
We delivered our load in Tampa and arrived at the terminal about noon. He checked in and was told not to go home, but deliver another load somewhere with me. He got very angry and had a heated argument with the terminal manager. I just watched. He won. He walked to his car and I walked to mine. I waved and told him I'd see him Sunday night. I lied.
I never went back. That night I wrote a letter to the terminal manager. I don't recall what it said. It doesn't matter. I never drove for Ploof again. A week later I was up in NJ helping Mrs. Grumpy take care of her elderly sick parents.
Recently I saw a similar truck, this time with Cypress markings. I laughed. The unit must be 20 years old. I wouldn't drive for Cypress if they were the last trucking company on the planet. Anybody that asks me, I tell them to go anywhere else other than Cypress. And for the new truck drivers that are reading this, I advise you do the same thing.
