As a born and bred Southerner I never took too well to New Jersey but driving a truck for a living meant that I went there a lot more than I cared to tell. In December of 2001 I made what was and will forever be my final trip to New Jersey.
After 9-11, travels from the Mid Atlantic States to New Jersey, New York and beyond became hell. Every bridge, toll plaza, rest area, bridge, tunnel and sometimes even industrial parks and truck stops became the domain of the police and the military. Getting searched by men carrying M-16s became an every day experience. I can only imagine the hell the tanker drivers must have been going through.
Having suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since my teenage years wasn't helping any either. I was beginning to think the police and soldiers saw me as a terrorist and couldn't understand why they didn't seem able to tell the difference between a long headed redneck Southerner with a Southern draw and a Middle Eastern terrorist. Was I paranoid? Damn straight! And with good reason.
A week before a group of drivers that included your's truly had prevented a mob from attacking a Sikh family that was having dinner at a service plaza along the New Jersey Turn Pike. We didn't do anything really, just stood our ground with a few steak knives until the highway patrol got there then got in our trucks and drove away. Seriously, they couldn't tell Sikhs from terrorists? Even dumb rednecks like me see the differences.
On this particular day I was delivering to a warehouse in a tiny town near Port Elizabeth. The name escapes me now but it was pretty much like all the other little hell holes in the area. When I arrived at the tool booth I asked the attendant if the directions I had were correct. They were simple enough, just two turns off the turnpike and I would be there. "Look good to me," he said. As much as I dislike New Jersey I've always found their toll booth attendants to be very helpful.
"Wish me luck," I said jokingly.
"You're going to need it." he replied as I eased out the clutch and put the old Freightshaker in gear. I remember thinking how it almost seemed as if he was serious.
I found the first turn with no problem. It was when I came to the next intersection that I became concerned. You see, there wasn't a street sign in the entire town. The polls were there but the signs were gone. And the narrow streets afforded no place to park a tractor-trailer. I drove slowly down the street, stopping at each intersecting street and looking as far down the street as I could see but saw only houses, nothing that looked like the sort of place where a tractor-trailer rig should be. Many years of trucking had taught me hard lessons about just turning down any street I happened to come along.
I finally came to a wide enough place to pull over and park so I got out and went from business to business asking if anyone knew of the place I was looking for or if I could use a telephone. The answer to both questions was always no.
When back in my truck I noticed several trucks passing by with men standing on the running boards outside the driver's windows as if they were talking to the drivers. It was then I figured it out. Every little New Jersey town has a scam they pull on the out of town truckers. They leave the locals alone so nobody does anything about it. A few minutes later a guy walks up to the side of my truck and says, "What you looking for, I can take you right there for two bucks."
"Two bucks, that's all?"
"Just two bucks," he says with a smile.
He lead me right to the place standing on the running board of my rig, helped me find an easy place to turn around and everything. I knew it was a rip-off but I reached into my wallet and handed the man a $5 bill saying, "Keep the change."
"Naw," he said angrily, "you told me twenty. Twenty dollars, man!"
"We agreed on two dollars, I gave you five, now get out of here."
"No, twenty!" he shouted as he angrily approached me balling up his fist as if he was going to hit me. I pulled a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver from beside the seat and easily changed his mind.
I waited until he was out of sight then walked inside for my dock assignment. Luckily there was a dock available and they were in need of what I had on the trailer so I got backed in right away. Minutes later, as the forklift removed the second pallet from my trailer a voice behind me said, "Put your hands on top of your head." Out of the corner of my eye I saw a cop with a 9mm or 40 cal aimed my way.
"Where's your gun?" he asked.
"Locked away in the cab."
"Let's take a walk outside."
It wasn't like I didn't already know the law but the kind officer was happy to explain to me that in New Jersey possession of a handgun was a felony. But he could let it go if I simply paid the man the twenty dollars I owed him. I tried to explain my side of the story but he reminded me of life in New Jersey prisons so I reached into my wallet and handed him $15 to give to the man. "Five more," the cop said.
"But I already gave him five."
"I know," he smiled, "five more for his trouble."
So now you know why I refuse to ever set foot in New Jersey again. I quit my job a few days after that and never went north of Virginia again. I'm posting this story to this blog because I don't want Greensboro, North Carolina to become like that New Jersey town. You see, corruption at the lower levels only runs rampant when corruption exists at the top. Dirty leaders cannot control dirty cops because the dirty cops always have something on the dirty leaders and dirty cops can't control criminals because the criminals always have some kind of dirt on the cops. And with Greensboro, North Carolina having the reputation as the most corrupt city in North Carolina it's time we started cleaning from the top down before truck drivers from somewhere else start writing stories about us.
