Ursinus Truck

This is a truck. We live by trucks. Most of the time, we love trucks. Except when we don’t.

At IRN we work with trucks every day.  We load hundreds of trucks at hundreds of sites around the country every year.  Trucks are our lifeblood; we live by trucks.  Just call the office and ask to talk to Bill Yorkell.  Bill manages most of our trucks.  Ask Bill if Bill likes trucks.

Like the truck coming to Emerson College in Boston.  The driver calls, he’s ten minutes away.  A half hour later he calls again.  Missed a turn.  We give him directions, he’s ten minutes away.  A half hour later we call him.  He’s at another intersection.  We give him directions, he’s ten minutes away.  Forty-five minutes later, he calls again.  He gives us the name of an intersection.  He says, “This is where I am.  I’m parked and I’m not moving.  If you want me at your location, you can come get me.”  Except he uses more colorful language.  Poor man, he’s been five minutes away all this time.  Somehow he got his eighteen-wheeler up on top of Beacon Hill, where the streets were meant for horses.  Somehow he got his eighteen-wheeler down off Beacon Hill without wrecking any buildings or cars or fire hydrants or pedestrians.  But that was it, he’d had it with Boston, he wasn’t moving.  We sent a one of the moving crew running over the top of Beacon Hill to get him.

Or the truck coming to Rutgers.  He had our address:  350 First Street, New Brunswick.  He calls.  He says, “I’m parked at 350 First Street.”  We’re loading a little ways from there, so I tell him to stay put, I’ll come get him.  I run out to First Street.  No truck.  I run up First Street.  No truck.  I run down First Street.  No truck.  I call the guy back.  “Yes, I’m at 350 First Street,” he says.  “I’m looking at the sign.”  I am at 350 First Street, too, and there is no truck at 350 First Street.  I say to the guy, “What town are you in?”  “East Brunswick,” he says.  The guy is two towns away.  Aaaargh!!  A couple of the movers jump in their car and go get him.

Then there was the trucker in North Carolina who didn’t like where we were loading.   He gets out of his truck, he walks around.  “Won’t do it,” he says.  ”Not enough room.  Not gonna try.”  Of course we had already loaded two trucks at this spot.  So the trucker gets back in his truck, throws it in gear, and starts driving away.  I’ve got a crew of ten movers, furniture pulled out of the building.  So I chase the guy down the street yelling like a mad gorilla, and jump on his running board.  He stops, which he doesn’t have much choice about, with me on his running board screaming into his left ear.  We find a different place to load from, where he is OK placing his rig.  The project goes on.

Emerson did not get to jump on the guy’s running board.  Emerson had a truck coming to Atlanta, on a Saturday morning, with a moving crew that’s getting paid time-and-a-half, with furniture out on the street.  He sees the tractor-trailer drive by.  He flags the guy.  The truck does not stop.  Five minutes later Emerson sees the truck drive by again, going the other direction.  Emerson flags him again.  He does not stop.  Emerson runs down the block and sees the guy’s tail lights, going away.  Going away.  Going round the corner.  After a lot of phone calls we find him.  He is heading back to Savannah; just didn’t feel like being a truck driver today.  More phone calls and we get a backup truck.  The project goes on.

Trucks.  Ask us about trucks.  We live by trucks.  We LOVE trucks.  Most of the time.


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