Big Time Truckin: True Trucking Stories
Dispatch 9: Trucker Jail

by Kirk Gonnsen

It's true. I did jail time. Trucker Jail that is.

It was during my first tour of duty on the highways. A little run from Michigan to Oakville. I thought I had enough time - practically and legally. Because in the world of the trucker, both are relevant.

The trouble was, I was sick and getting sicker. The flu had me. Fever rising and the aches and pains and miserableness were consuming my every thought and movement. In the thick of disease I had to figure out my logbook, how much time did I have left today, even though today was now tomorrow, because it was after midnight, but I was still running on my allotted 13 hour day, or 10 hour day in the states, but 13 when I hit the border, so yes, I did have enough time to get back to the border and no, wait, I had to do a split off duty time, because you need 8 hours off consecutively between work periods, regardless of calendar days, or I can split it into two distinct times if both are more than 2 hours, and I'm going to do that, or I did that, didn't I? Or I did it twice in a row, so what does that mean?

I slept at the dock. Practically and legally, I needed it. I was loaded with something, couldn't even remember, but I slept at the dock and two hours later I awoke and started driving. Crossed the border at Sarnia and carried on. An hour and a quarter later I arrived at the Dorchester Truck stop thinking I only had two hours left of this miserable week and I could go home to nurse myself back to health. NO!

Five minutes later I saw the flashing lights of the weigh station - the INSPECTION station at Putnam, HWY 401 eastbound. I pulled in. The sign said FORWARD, I pulled forward, slowly, the sign said STOP, I stopped on the scales. The sign said PARK, shit. I parked.

6 AM. A full inspection of my truck and trailer. A full inspection of all my paperwork for the truck, the trailer, the load and the driver. She looked at my log book, the lines and scratches and scribbles dating back for the whole month. Every moment of my professional life, when I ate, when I slept, when I stopped to piss and refill on vending machine coffee and Bear Claws.

"You're over your on-duty hours by fifteen minutes," she said.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes." She replied, and pointed out the error of my calculations. I waited. Thinking about telling her I was sick but decided against it. "You can't proceed from here. You'll have to sleep in your sleeper for 8 hours before you can leave."

"Oh."

"I won't give you a fine though."

"Oh."

"Ok?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"You can leave," she added, "but you can't drive a commercial vehicle."

"Oh."

I walked out to my truck, feeling her eyes on me. I'm going to jail. This is what the other driver's meant when they said, "trucker jail."

I called dispatch and they came to the load's rescue, sending another truck to take my loaded trailer and leave me with an empty. "What about me?" I asked. Can somebody drive out here in a civilian car and switch it for my truck?"

"No."

"Oh."

Into jail I climbed. Unable to sleep. The fever roared on. And I don't have one of those condo cabs. No TV, no double bunk, no fridge, nothing. I couldn't read or play guitar with my mind numb from flu. I just sat there, staring out the thick curtain, listening to all the trucks rumbling past. Lucky bastards. Lucky bastards, I thought. One day I'll be free. Then I'll show them. I'll show them how obedient I can be. Damn.