Back when I was a lot younger and I still had full use of both of my legs, and I was in a lot better shape, I worked for the City of Elmhurst Public Works as a parts driver. I don't remember if I ever went over this before in GF, but my average day went like this: I'd get to work and sign in (no clock to punch, so we were on the honor system). The mechanics and bosses would have their morning meeting over coffee and doughnuts while I went about shop prep. The first thing I'd do was collect all the oil bins. The night mechanics were usually nice enough to roll them over to the drain, but sometimes I had to get them from various work bays. If they were still under a vehicle, I left them alone.
I would remove any oil filters (if any) from the basin and toss 'em into the filter bin. Then I'd empty each oil bin using a pump. I'd leave them there for whoever needed them throughout this day. By then my hands were greasy as fuck, so I washed them using the gritty soap that all mechanics use. I'd then check each rag bin and the cans that contained the grainy shit that was supposed to soak up oil spills. If they needed filling I'd go to the supply room and get what I needed, sign it out and probably spend a minute shooting the shit with the guy in charge of that department or whoever might have stopped by for whatever they needed before they hit the streets. I'd fill any bin or can that needed it.
Then I'd roll the recycling bins for cardboard and plastic out to the dumpsters on the very edge of the woods to empty them. I'd then go into the back room, to check the machines the oil pumps emptied into, just in case it got too full. Because there was this one time . . .
About then I'd take my morning shit. After that, I took the parts truck and checked the oil. I got in and checked the fuel level because the night guys also used it. If it needed a fill up, I'd take it out to the gas pump out back and do that. Then I'd park the truck just outside the front door to the garage. By then, the morning meeting would almost certainly be over. That's when I'd find out what kind of day I'd have.
Most mornings the guys needed rides to the police station or one of the fire stations. Or they'd send me to the usual places. Lincoln-Mercury or Ford or Freightliner. Or a parts store in Lombard. Those were common and local and not much fun. Sometimes I'd have to go out to Bobcat or Case, and those were cool because I had to go further. If I was very lucky they'd send me down to a place in Bourbonnais, which would take a very long time. Same with McHenry. Except with McHenry, I could drive over to Crystal Lake and have lunch with my brother who worked at a fast food place out there.
Why did I love to drive out so far? Because if I didn't have those jobs I had to stick around the garage and clean up. I'd have to sweep the whole thing out. I had to clean up oil spills, some so bad I needed special chemicals and really scrub 'em in. If I was lucky I had to fill up the wash bay tanks. That took a while, and I could write up there since no one ever came by but me. Sometimes, though, if I was a very unlucky boy I had to clean the wash bay, and that included cleaning the drain catch-all, which is fucking disgusting. Imagine having to clean ten toilets overflowing with diarrhea, and you'll get an idea of what I had to do on those days. Sometimes they had me use this chemical that everyone in the known universe knew causes cancer to clean really fucked up auto parts. No gloves. My hands were up to that shit up to the elbows.
But none of that was as bad as cleaning the mechanics' fridge. I was the first person to EVER do it, and I gagged while doing it. I never gagged at the wash bay catch-all.
So I needed to be out on that road. Which was why I looked forward every year to the supremely excellent job of going down to a place in Streator, IL. We only did it once a year, just before winter arrived, because they sold snowplow parts. We had to be prepared. If you don't know the distance between Elmhurst and Streator, please know that it guaranteed that I would not have to do a single bit of janitor work that day. In fact, it would get me extra money because I couldn't go all the way down there and back, with them loading an insane amount of parts into the bed of the truck, in the four hours my shift lasted. Yeah, I was part-time, so there was no OT, but I was paid by the hour, so . . .
For my break, I always stopped at this mom-n-pop gas station (remember those?), where I got a bottle of Coke (glass, not plastic) and some beef jerky. I wish to fuck I remembered the name of the brand, but it was fucking delicious, and I couldn't find it anywhere else.
I've been watching SCRUBS lately, and The Janitor is a great character. I really feel his pain, although sometimes he's kind of the cause of it, too. Regardless, I know what it's like to scrub toilets. I know what it's like to see someone toss their garbage at a bin and miss, horribly say, "KOBE!" and walk away without picking that shit up. Sweeping up a garage, something usually considered one of the filthiest places ever, fucking blew. Especially when we had to pressure wash for spring cleaning. I took solace in that one because I wasn't the only one doing it. Everyone not in administrative was required to do it.
Although I got to learn to drive a forklift (illegally, but effectively) and an end-loader (illegally, but effectively) and a snowplow (probably illegally, not quite so effectively). That was kind of cool. Those crazy bastards put me in charge of attaching the cage to the forks so that I could lift mechanics up to adjust the clocks up about thirty feet high on the wall (and replace the batteries) for daylight savings time. The fact that they trusted their lives and health to me spoke highly of me, but kinda low on their brains for them. I was an idiot when it came to working in a garage, and they had to know I was hungover almost every day. It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Although I'm proud to say that I'm not the guy who drove the forklift into the side of the brand new wall at the garage door and tore out giant chunks that are probably still missing.
I was thinking about The Janitor, though. And that made me think of how much I loved those Streator runs. And that made me think of that beef jerky.
During weekdays I like to go read at forest preserves because most people are at work and kids are at school. The possibility of me being interrupted is minimal. But I go on road trips on the weekends. I'm unemployed. I have a job interview for Thursday! Hopefully it goes better than the last one, and they're not looking for a "bubbly" person. The point is, I have a lot of time on my hands.
Why not drive the insane distance to Streator to see if the gas station still had that beef jerky? Surely they would be a corporate place now, so the chances were low, but what the fuck? If they didn't, at least I would know and not think about it very much anymore.
Except . . . well . . . I forgot the way. I was pretty sure that I-80 would get me directly there. Aaaaaaaaaaand it did not. I panicked a little and took an exit that wound up taking me through Marseilles. It's a neat little town on the Illinois Motherfucking River. And it's one of those scary big rivers. Like, all you can think of going over it is, what if this bridge collapses? I don't fear death, but I'd really rather not drown. That's a rough one, and I don't care how many people say it's a peaceful way to go. How the fuck do you know? If you're dead, you can't tell me jack shit.
And no, I'm not talking about people who have been resuscitated. THEY AREN'T DEAD.
But I started seeing the rolling hills of Illinois, and it's hard to remember that out this far from home it does get pretty hilly. Oh yeah, I'm driving into a fucking valley. You idiot, John Bruni. You're smarter than this. It's almost like being in Vegas and seeing the mountains. Obviously not as tall, but still. It was tall enough to make my ears pop several times.
And then there were the ridiculously steep roads. Some of them are almost vertical. And they're one lane roads. I'd look up and see houses perched on the very edge of a cliff. How could you live in a place like that? Especially a place where tornadoes like to touch down every once in a while? And some of these houses are really close to the road. What if your car slipped on ice, and you wound up in someone's living room? And then there are a lot of drops without guard rails. I wonder how many drunks pitched themselves off these drops and into lakes? Or simply a bunch of deadwood at the bottom of a dry creek bed? And there were more than a few small boneyards with no gates and graves very, very close to the road. I can't imagine no one has ever crashed into one of these things.
I'm not used to that kind of thing so close to home. I've been over a lot of this country. I used to visit a friend in Tennessee where we had to walk down a fucking mountain to get to a liquor store. Along the way this one time, we saw that someone had broken down an outhouse for trash pickup. The door even had a moon carved into it. No shit. So to speak. So it's something I can cope with, just not quite so close to Elmhurst.
When I found out I was well and truly lost, I pulled off on a farm road. At least I'm used to those. I was certain that my car's GPS would get me back on track. Aaaaaaaaand it was less than helpful. That's fine. My phone's GPS was more accurate, anyway. Aaaaaaaaaand I couldn't get a signal.
Fuck it. I turned around and made my way back to I-80. I turned off at Ottawa and pulled into a gas station. It turned out I'd passed up Rt. 23, which would have taken me to Streator. I went back. Long story short, I made it, and when I got my bearings, I figured out which was the gas station I needed. Sure enough, it was a corporate place now. I went in and looked for that beef jerky.
Nope. Gone. Long gone.
Ah fuck.
So I got some water (they didn't even have Coke in glass bottles, not even the Mexican Cokes that have real sugar in them) and filled up my tank (I'd burned half of it on the way). And then I headed back.
So I wasted an entire day, but so what? I got to rediscover a part of my own region that is a lot closer than one would think. Although I did expose myself to driving through Joliet, and that is never pleasant. It fucking stinks. Literally. It's like burned rubber and cat hair. (The cat hair is burned, too, in case I wasn't clear.) I also realized that I had lost all of my country driving skills. I had to relearn them, usually at night on my way back. I'm getting old, and my night vision, never great to begin with, has gotten even worse.
Maybe, if you have the time, go out for a joyride. Visit a place near you that you've forgotten about, or maybe never went there before. Explore a bit. Get lost. Find your way back without technology. I have an old battered Rand-McNally, but I just let it sit to the side. Sometimes that's part of the adventure.
Have a little fun. Fuck knows we need some of that around here.
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