ed_rex

So a man walks into the office ...

I got to the office early yesterday, because I thought I might need to spend some time debriefing the boss on the Great Big Gaping Hole now grinning from the rear left door of one his vehicles — the one I had been driving the day before.

I'd parked my bike at at the lot, picked up the van that was waiting for me and shucked my leather jacket in hopes of cooling down a bit before I had to greet my passengers. (Wednesday was not nearly as cold as I expected, so I'd worn a much heavier sweater than I ought to have. I digress.)

I fired up the van, confirmed it was fully fuelled and that I had a spare bottle of washer fluid; tuned the radio to CBC in both Ottawa and Montreal and adjusted my mirrors; set the beast in gear and headed on in, secure in my knowledge that I was without blame, but still, just a little insecure about what the boss was going to say about his mangled vehicle.

The SUV was still where I had left it on Tuesday, the guts of the rear door exposed the world, like bones and tendons stripped of skin. I couldn't help taking another look, rubber-necking at my own misfortune.

It being afternoon, the office was a little cramped. The number one and number two guys were at their desks, the day-time dispatcher — let's call him Normand — was at his, and a couple of my fellow drivers were hanging around.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I called out as I slipped through the swinging gate.

Normand looked over at me, smirking. "Hey, Geoff," he said with obvious delight. "You're supposed to bring the whole vehicle back with you, not just part of it!"

"Hey man! It's in the back!" I said, referring to a dinner-plate sized scrap of metal that had once been part of the vehicle's door.

I took a look at Ahmed, my boss, and was pleased to see he was smiling, but was distracted when Charley, an older driver asked me, "Geoff, do you live in North Gower?"

"Uh, no," I said, "No, I live in the Glebe. Why?"

"Oh," he said, deadpan. "I thought I saw your sweater in the garbage."

"My sweater!" I thought wildly for an appropriate response, but was too taken aback by the non-sequiteur insult to do anything but sputter while the office rocked with laughter.

Grinning, I shook my head and approached the boss' desk to explain just what had happened.

So what did happen? Click here for Dump Truck Horror on Autoroute 40!

You know, by and large, I'm liking my job. The pay's not to far north of minimum wage, but a day's hours (usually) are south of a full eight. Door-to-door is probably about seven hours, which I don't mind at all. Also, I like driving and my passengers range from distant to friendly; thus far, only one whom I would qualify as an actual prick (though most of them could use some lessons about tipping).

It doesn't hurt that the boss seems to be one to treat his employees as people, rather than "human resources". In my case, as someone who gets to work either by bike or public transit, he's made a point of ensuring that I get a ride home if it's especially late or especially cold (sometimes, in truth, I'd have preferred to ride, but felt it would have been churlish to say "no").

Rather revealingly — at least, I think it's revealing; does a sample of five or six out of maybe twenty drivers qualify as significant? — all of the co-workers I've had the chance to question have been with the company for years. Five years stands as the shortest stint so far. And further, with one exception so far, they've all gone out of their way to emphasize that they think it's a good place to work and that they like the boss. All of which suggests that my positive experience is the norm, not an exception.

So. Job. I like it, as jobs go.

Not that it's all open roads and scantilly-clad flight pilots.

Last Thursday saw me get back to Ottawa physically tired and my arms actually kind of sore.

It was our first real winter storm and I was very happy to find myself driving the boss' four-wheel drive SUV rather than a standard passenger van.

The trip to Montreal wasn't too bad. Snow and wind, only three cars in the ditch, and only an extra half-hour on the standard two-hour drive. But the trip back?

Mercy.

Snow. Rain. Freezing rain. More snow. Lunatic transport trucks roaring past with 15 or 20 centimetres between their vehicles and mine. Eight (count 'em!) cars in the ditch. Two-hour drive took four hours, and I arrived back in the office to have some of my co-workers questioning my employer's sanity.

Me, I just shrugged. It's not that dangerous, if you slow the fuck down — which, obviously, I did.

Meanwhile, talking to flight attendants has me (and Raven) contemplating the possibility of making "Come fly with me" our respective mottos. Working 12 days out 30 has a definite appeal.

(The photo, by the way, was taken by my passenger on the way to Montreal, as we crossed over the Lac des deux montagnes to get onto the Island.)