The load from hell is paved with bad information

When the company that I work for wants us to go somewhere and do something, they send us an email-like dispatch via the Qualcomm unit. The dispatch is a standardized set of instructions telling us the name and address of shipper, the consignee, what date and time it is scheduled to be picked up and delivered, the weight of the load, etc. It is chock full of information.

When the dispatch from hell came in, I couldn’t fully decipher it. The pick-up date had long passed; the delivery date was missed too. There seemed to be several different places where it needed to go. This load was waiting in a preloaded trailer that had been parked in our yard in Yolo, CA.

Every trailer has a gray, plastic container affixed to its outside. It serves as sort of a “mailbox” from one driver to the next. The previous driver for this load had left the paperwork for the next driver, which turned out to be me. But when I checked numbers on the paperwork, they didn’t match what the original dispatch had stated. Even the paperwork itself seemed dodgy. I walked to the back of the trailer and checked the number on the seal. That number didn’t match either. Something smelled fishy. This was a load with problems.

Using the Qualcomm machine-thingy, I sent a note back to my amazing Driver Manager stating my findings and asking for more details. She responded that this load was “OS&D” (the acronym for “Overages, Shortages and Damaged”) and, (here I paraphrase, but not by much) “just shut up and do what you’re told”.

The load wasn’t even going very far; just to West Sacramento. I was only at our Yolo yard, which is basically Woodland. Maybe 30 miles, if that? How hard could this be? Still, something just didn’t seem right.

I found the address easily enough. I pulled up to the distribution center right behind a queue of trucks all waiting to get inside the gates for nighttime unloading. My appointment was for 7:30 pm. I arrived a little bit early, just maybe 20 minutes or so. Being early is good; sometimes you get out of there a little bit quicker.

I parked my truck and walked over to the kiosk to check in. I was told by the nice lady at the kiosk that, since my load was one that had been rescheduled, I would need to pay a fee of $500.00. When that $500 fee was paid, they would assign a loading dock door to me, but not until then. Clearly, getting a load rescheduled at this place was very costly.

Nobody had told me about this. Nobody ever tells me anything.

Back at the truck, I sent a message back to the Mothership in order to tell them the situation and asking for $500. It took seemingly forever before they sent the money, and instead of paying the fee directly, they sent funds to me via my Comdata card.

Comdata is kind of like a trucker’s version of Western Union.

Everyone is issued a blue, plastic card that looks just like a credit card. We use the Comdata card like an ATM card, as a gift card, as a gas station credit card, but most often we use it for money transfer; like a trucker’s version of Western Union. Most of the time, the Comdata card has a zero balance. (Even my pay arrives each week via a transfer to my Comdata card. Once it’s there, I transfer it to my own bank Cumbersome doesn’t even begin to describe it)

The person at the kiosk had given me a sheet of instructions with my fee amount and a phone number somewhere in Colorado to call. Apparently, this was the administrative office for “Lumpers Central”.

Lumpers are people who are paid to unload trucks at distribution centers, but who are not technically employed by the distribution center. They exist in an alternate universe. I call them Lumperistas. The truck driver, not the distribution center, pays them for their unloading work unless the driver feels like unloading the entire truck himself, (which he wouldn’t, unless he happens to have a forklift in his back pocket.).

The Lumpers Central lady had a Comdata draft, which is sort of like a universal blank check. She told me the control number for this check and I wrote the number down. The money needed to be transferred to this specific check, just like a ransom money drop. The hostage (my load of paper napkins) wouldn’t be freed until I paid the ransom (fee).

After an hour and a half, the Qualcomm machine squawked with the news that funds had finally been transferred into my Comdata account. I called up Comdata on their toll-free number, entered my card number, my PIN and then transferred the $500.00 to the Comdata draft number that the nice lady had given me. Once that was done, I called back the nice lady and told her that I had just paid the ransom fee. She sent a message electronically back to the lady in the kiosk back at the distribution center, and that lady assigned me door 36.

At this point, it was long past dark. Normally, distribution centers have extreme lighting; nighttime is just as well illuminated as day. But not this one. It was pitch black. Also, the helpful, painted lines had long since been worn off by countless truck tires, so backing into door 36 was a pain in the butt. (Trailers don’t have backup lights. Tractors have a “utility light” behind the cab, but any chance of that light’s usefulness is blocked by the trailer. I needed to see behind the trailer. To see anything at all in the dark behind you, you have to apply the brakes ever-so-gently so that the brake lights serve as de facto backup lights, otherwise you can’t see diddly)

I eventually got my trailer aligned, but it took me about 10 lame-ass tries. Once I bumped the dock, the Lumperistas started unloading almost immediately. Unloading the truck was easy, but they also had to sort and count the load and that takes much, much longer.

Sometime close to midnight, the on-site accountant for the Lumperistas informed me that the Lumper fee for unloading the load from hell had come to $161.00. Once that fee was paid, I could have my signed paperwork, leave and go home to bed. Using the Qualcomm machine thingy, I sent a message requesting payment for my new Lumper pals. I sent the message in at 12:07 am and waited for a response. Finally, at 1:30 am, the Qualcomm machine squawked with news of Lumper money, waking me up from an impromptu, driver’s seat nap. I went through the stupid money-transferring procedures again, retrieved my signed bill of lading and finally drove the flock out of there.

I made it back to the Yolo yard by 2:30 am and crawled into bed. I was very, very glad to be rid of this ridiculously easy, simple, short-distance load; the load from hell.