Day 5: Fucking La Grande

Or as my friend Sadie would say:

Fuuuuuuuuucking La Grande

Why the animus?

Because this is how my day started

I didn’t see it happen, but I heard it. I had my back turned. Instinctually, like with any loud noise, I turned to see what had happened. Porter is at a 45° to their gate, still backing into it, even as the noise should have told him to, you know, stop. Window’s open and I hear him painfully state the obvious, "I guess that’s the gate” or something equally asinine. My fight or flight response had kicked it, wasn’t thinking straight, but I knew I wanted to let this idiot have it. However, I’ve learned from experience to cool off and get some distance before reacting.

Porter had one job. To drive the thing straight into their lot. Not sure how he fucked that up, but the worst part was that there was no sign of contrition. Not from him, not from his higher-ups. They were as blasé as if they’d knocked some shit off their desk. There were subtle signs of embarrassment, but no real admission of fault. Now, as someone in customer service I can tell you that this is the exact wrong way to play it. For instance, when I was at the bike company, an entitled boomer backed into my car (the ONLY one in the whole lot), was a total bitch about it, and I HAD TO BE NICE TO HER. Because she was the customer and I was a representative of the company. Think about that. Now think about these dumbassess who FIX CARS FOR A LIVING smacking my rig into their gate, doubling down and grinding it a little more, and then acting like it wasn’t a problem that required any real acknowledgment or apology. What. The. Fuck.

I was so angry. Still am. (Clearly)

I’m going to speculate and pontificate —you’re in for a bit of a tirade— so if that’s going to harsh your mellow, skip down to the very end (the picture of me and another guy) because that’s where it does an amazing 180.

I think there were two big reasons why I got the reaction that I did from these stiffs. First was the same reason that people kept asking me if I was from Portland, why I got lots of dumbfounded headturns in town, and why a local glass artist leaving his studio and I had a brief meeting of the gaze and seemed to telepathically communicate some serious mutual respect. I’m an artist, an outsider, a weirdo (probably a kwheer libtard to boot!) and my vehicle is a big fucking billboard of eccentricity. I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that it would have broad appeal, and that dudely dudes could respect the craftsmanship, ambition, and size of it. I guess I should have put bullhorns on the front, dangled truck nuts on the rear, and be dressed like goddamn John Wayne to earn the respect of the Working Man.

I’m positive that if I’d been more clean cut and my vehicle was a 150K custom build from one of the dixie cup RV makers (seriously, have you ever noticed those things have the same uninspired “paint stroke” art on them as stupid dixie cups?) that they would have bent over backwards to make it right. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t yell. I had my opportunity for self-righteous anger, I could have barked my way to the top and been the Strict Father. That probably would have gotten their respect, or at least their submission. And that’s what I think this is really about, reason #2. Dominance in male-dominated culture.

Hear me out.

There is a political thinker who was hot for five seconds during the Kerry campaign, George Lakoff, I think his name is. Wrote a book, Don’t Think of An Elephant, big hit in the liberal political junkie circles I inhabited at that time. A lot of throw away political-wisdom-du-jour in there, but one thing really stuck with me: his description of the family value models. It just made so much sense.

Liberals operate under the Nurturant Parent Model, which means that the parents are (theoretically) equals who make decisions together; communication, sensitivity and empathy are highly valued as are the opinions and feelings of those being parented. By contrast the Strict Father Model is the conservative template. Dad is the head of the household and he is never wrong, even when he is. (The most cartoonish real-life example of this is the actual slogan of one OAN’s anchors “Even when I'm wrong, I'm right.”) The Strict Father has one acceptable emotion: anger. Anything else is a sign of weakness. The world is built on strength overcoming weakness. Dominate or be dominated. And so he does. He yells, he restricts, maybe he hits… all in the pursuit of establishing dominance and maintaining order. Remember “Law and Order?” Yeah, that’s where that shit comes from. And make no bones about it, it’s actually about dominance, not equal justice under the law.

So, I’m convinced that’s who I’m dealing with. Men who were dominated by other men, established hierarchies of dominance and only understand the world through this limiting perspective. Granted I have my own limiting perspective, I’m just glad it’s the sensitive artsy fartsy one.

So when Porter finally decided to meander back to an appalled me, he was projecting nonchalance. His complexion told another story, but his voice did not waver as he casually footnoted that “one of his guys would look at it.” Nothing to see here, didn’t do anything wrong. As I was waiting for him to cough up some semblance of a guilty conscience, he took the lead and established me as his inferior on the hierarchy. Again, I could have played this game, though it’s not native to me, and ripped him a new asshole. He might have thought I was a prick, but on some unconscious level, his submission would equate my respectability. Like a pack of wolves. And us? We’re a pack of cats. (That’s why we can’t get shit done. Ever tried herding cats?)

Since I was lower than Porter, I was now lower than everyone above him. And none of them made any effort to change this. That was on me, apparently. I blinked first. I’m the loser. The Portland hippie bus freak who’s loss of business won’t affect their bottom line one bit and can, therefore, fuck right off.

I told them I was going back to the hotel and that they could reach me in a few hours. They still had to fix my rig- remember they thought they did, but didn’t?

I’ll be honest, this was the low point of the trip. Car smushed, job in question, no real accountability from the idiots in question, and who-the-fuck-knows how long it will take to sort it all out. Operating on little sleep and diplomatically submerged rage I booked myself a room at the La Grande Inn, sat on the edge of the bed and had a little cry.

Took a shower and was quietly amused by “shampoo shampooing.”

Fresh out of the shower, still in a towel, I plopped down on the bed to take advantage of the mindlessness at my disposal in the form of 1,200 cable channels. I didn’t get through three minutes of channel surfing before Porter called, he told me that it would be a week to get the part (which previously he’d said they’d be able to get same day) and that he could either have his guys replace the “tin” or send it to a body shop and have them do it. No. You’re not going to take apart my vehicle, what you’re going to do is pay for the parts and my labor. Porter clearly wasn’t expecting this. To replace the tin? His composure was slipping, ever so slightly. Yes, that’s right. Pause. Well, that will have to get run by Jimmy, the service manager. Okay. I’m going to call around and see if I can find someone who can do it sooner. I’ll call you guys back later.

There goes my scheduled nap time. Now I’m making calls to Boise to see if there’s an adult in the room who has their shit together. I find DPF Alternatives and, literally, the only thing they do is exactly what I’m looking for: someone to clean my stupid filter. But they won’t remove it, too much hassle. A few calls to some foreign specialists (don’t let the Dodge logo fool you, it’s a Mercedes under the hood) and I find German Star, they can’t take it til next week, the 16th or 17th (DPF can do overnight for cleaning) and they recommend Boise Muffler. Boise Muffler can do it Tuesday the 8th. Well… that’s better than the 16th or 17th. I make the appointment and let my cousins in Boise know I’m finally coming. I had texted them on Day One saying I’d be there that day. Ha.

Now I call back the shop. Oh, and I had done some digging around and discovered that their source for the after-market part, partsgeek.com, was out of this part and that it would take them four weeks to get the replacement. Was the shop bluffing or incompetent? Either was equally plausible. I get the dealership, not the service shop, and asked to be connected. On hold, bounce back and I’m told that Porter’s not available. Okay, please connect me with Jimmy. Hold. Not available. Okay, here’s the deal, I state firmly, but without a raised voice, I brought my vehicle in, I was told it was fixed, it wasn’t, I brought it back and one of your guys ran it into the gate and damaged it. I’m pretty unhappy and have no interest in giving you my business. I expect to be refunded for the work that was done. I’ll need a shuttle to come pick me up so I can collect my van asap.

Pause.

Now I have their attention.

I’m so sorry, I will get you back to Jimmy our service manager. Thank you for saying that, you are the first person to apologize and I appreciate it. Another pause. That’s… I’m…oh, wow, I’m so sorry, that’s not how we do our business here, hold for a sec. Jimmy’s on the phone now, more audibly embarrassed than Portly, but still not really acknowledging any wrongdoing. That Strict Father shit runs deep. He assures me that a shuttle will come to pick me up around 4, they’ll call. Now, I could make a bigger deal out of this and insist that they comp me for time and materials, but I’m ready for amateur hour to be over. I just need to get the fuck out of La Grande. You’re going to comp me for the work, I state, and that’ll make us square. We can do that, he says.

Now it’s nap time.

4:05 Porter calls, Jimmy’s out front. Personal escort from the service manager? This might be the closest they get to an actual apology, or maybe they don’t want to get sued. Lucky for them I’m out of patience and time. It’s also not my style. Nurturant Family Value Model to the max. Let’s have a cry and hug it out, lol.

Jimmy is turning on the charm, bordering on obsequious, which wasn’t necessary or particularly helpful. (Okay, I relished it a tiny bit). Should we get your bike? It’ll fit in the back, I can put it in for you? No, that’s okay, I have to come back here to get the rest of my stuff anyway. His anxious damage-control buttering-up strategy was to overtalk with a big smile. Told me all kinds of random stuff, like how his daughter lives in Lithuania with some guy she met in undergrad. Thankfully it was a four-minute drive.

Get the keys, get a refund receipt and then it came. The apology. Sort of. “Well, we won’t let him drive anymore,” Jimmy says referring to a present, and stoic, Porter. The guys laugh. Hardy fucking harr. Right before I leave Jimmy slips in a “Sorry for the inconvenience.” I was polite.

Done is the time of suffering incompetence. Give me a professional. Yesterday.

Rig back to the hotel. Me to Denny’s. Convenient that it’s just right next door.

I order the greenest, fishiest meal possible and sit down to hammer out the Day One Pt. 2 blog post (I’m currently living Day 15 and writing Day 5, so…)

I’m there til after dark and now I’m text-bombing all my contacts from the porch on my mobile-ish home the first legit blog post. Normally I wouldn’t get so meta, blogging about blogging, but it was in this solitary moment that the real silver lining came into focus. First was the security guard who confirmed the trucker-fuck-you status of my slow roll on the I-84, but then came the real reason I got stranded for another 24 hours in this unhappy place.

Enter Neil Smith.

(This photo was taken the next morning after a spontaneous second meeting, if I’d known it was going to be our one and only photo together I’d have put on a better shirt)

Is that a Conestoga Wagon? It is. I like that, I’m from Texas, I love everything Western. Only read Westerns, reading one right now. You built that? I did. The smoking figure, obscured in darkness comes closer. There’s enough ambient light from the Denny’s that I can see him now, tall, graying a little around the edges. Neil’s a talker, but he’s the best kind of talker. He’s the kind of talker that has great stories and keeps you laughing, then gets you to cry, then has you laughing again. All in a tight 30.

Sixty something, a vet of the first gulf war, he’s taken bullets, run his own business, raised several kids, and been with the same woman since he was 15. Neil is just about the most approachable person I’ve ever met. He’s deeply curious and has a great story to tie-in to anything you could possibly lob him. I told him about my shop debacle, he told me about his. I told him about things going wrong on the road and then he gave me his roadtrip-mishaps greatest hits. And that’s where the laughter turned up to 11. All kinds of shenanigans, Neil’s a long-haul trucker, so the stories abound: Skirting the bureaucratic & dysfunctional 50 state system, successfully duping cops, hopping curbs with a full load, smashing a fast-food pickup awning when the teller told him to drive through despite his repeated warnings. Neil could do standup, lord help me, I almost peed my pants.

The real magic, and tears that I was careful to conceal (Old West, remember), came when Neil told me about his business. He inherited a small trucking company from his father. Started out just him, but then he took on a few guys. One of them was hard up, had a kid he couldn’t support, had been dealing drugs to make ends meet. Neil took him under his wing, showed him the ropes and gave him a way out. That man has a house now, he can provide for his family, even owns his own big rig. Filled with gratitude, he asked Neil how he could possibly repay him. Not thinking much of it, Neil off-handedly told him to find two more guys and do for them what Neil had done for him. And you know what? That guy did. And then they found two more, and they each found two more, two more, two more, paying it forward… they are up to 237. Two hundred and thirty-seven. I’m positive this is why I got stuck there as long as I did, the universe wanted to make sure that I could bear witness to a great man, a humble servant, spreading goodwill, dignity and livelihoood to those society has deemed irredeemable. The world has Porters, but it also has Neils.

“These guys, they live in a four-block radius, never been out of the town they were born in. I take them out on the road, show em New York, show em Atlanta, Los Angeles, Miami… and they say ‘I could get paid to do this!?’ That’s right, that’s right.”

Two hundred and thirty-seven lives. Two hundred and thirty-seven.

When you meet someone like this it’s hard not to feel like they were sent here for the greater purpose they are quietly carrying out. Okay, Neil wasn’t shy about it, but it didn’t feel like he was boasting either. Just telling it like it is.

We exchanged information and Neil promised he’d look me up in Philly next time he’s through. I’m off to bed, brushing my teeth, and I missed two calls in a row. I assumed it was an anxious family member. Nope. It was Neil. It’s like 12:30

12:43 and I’m off to bed.

So grateful there are Neils in the world and that I was lucky enough to have him bookend my, otherwise, shitty day.