by B.J.Rhodes

Wild Bill's encounter with "Sam Colt" left Dan Carter short a driver, and as a result I got stuck with Andy Lamoreux. Two or three months is about average for most longhaul partnerships to last, but two or three trips was all anybody seemed to last with Andy. He stood no more than five foot five and weighed about one hundred and forty pounds, and even with his bushy Afro hairdo and high-heeled boots, the best way to describe him would be - "sawed off". Anyone taller than him was fair game and he wouldn't rest until he had proven he was the better man. The ideal partner for Andy would have to be someone shorter than him, but then the guy would never be able to reach the pedals! Andy claimed to be pure French and would practically foam at the mouth if anyone dared to call him French-Canadian. He didn't fit the profile of a trucker either- he hated country-western music and only liked old-time Cajun fiddle music, which he listened to continually.

He also had a terrible case of Athlete's foot! The thought of using the same bunk as him was enough to make most men want to quit in disgust; when you ran with Andy, you took your own blankets or sleeping bag. When he felt like being a jerk, one of his annoying and disgusting habits was to remove his boots and socks, then sit with his feet on the doghouse in order to let them air out and cool off while he slathered some nauseating salve or ointment on them. It was enough to knock a buzzard off a gut wagon at forty paces and a sure sign that things were starting to deteriorate. Andy used his feet like a rattlesnake uses its rattle to warn you when it has had enough. Everyone joked that when you saw 'the feet", it was time for Dan to give you another partner.

I can testify that a steady diet of Doug Kershaw and his raging Cajun squawking fiddle music from Winnipeg to Montreal and back, along with Andy's rotten feet, was pure torture. The third trip out, I got lucky - his old eight track jammed up but good after he'd inadvertently left one of the tapes on top of a defrost outlet. He wanted a new cassette player anyway, so he stopped at a K-Mart on the way back and bought one, along with more stinking Cajun music. When we stopped in Gary, Indiana for lunch, he proceeded to install the instrument of torture and wouldn't listen when I told him to switch the tape player to positive ground.

"This isn't a damned English truck...only Limeys wire their vehicles positive ground," he snarled in contempt.

"Do it your way," I replied.

Finally when all was ready, he turned on the power. There was a loud snap and a burnt smell , and all that came out of the machine was some smoke. Now he was up the creek - he'd tossed out the box that it came in so that he wouldn't have to declare it at customs. As a result, he couldn't return it. He was hotter than a boiled owl!

"Nothing is going right!" he screamed.

"Take it easy. You'll feel better after we eat," I told him. But his black mood continued, and he hardly said a word over lunch. Back on the road, I tried to take his mind off the cassette player by talking about women. That only compounded his ugly humour - and he confessed that his girlfriend of five years had just recently dumped him for another guy. Again I tried to console him...."Well, that's trucking for you. She likely got sick of you being away so much. Cheer up - there's plenty more where she came from." He was clearly in no mood for any advice of mine. He soon had his boots and socks off, and his smelly feet on the doghouse! I sensed the end was near, so with little to lose, I said, "Jezus, what the hell's wrong with your feet!"

"I got Athlete's foot," he growled.

"Athlete's foot! I thought for a second you were wearing alligator boots! Now I know why your girlfriend buggered off - you should have left your socks on if you were going to make love in the daytime."

He really came unglued, "Oh no! no! She didn't do that kind of thing! She was too nice!" he hollered as he hastily put his socks back on.

"You mean to say that you went out with her for five years and didn't do anything? I don't blame her for leaving," I shot back, with all the tact of an axe-murderer. The idea of it had struck me so funny that I couldn't stop laughing.

But when it was his turn at the wheel....he got back at me by blowing the air horn at every opportunity, keeping me awake. Finally he blew it once too often, and hollered "Wow! You shoulda' seen the chick in that car!" I snapped back that he was wasting his time, and that if some girl actually stopped, I didn't intend to wait around while he went through his lengthy courting ritual. He then changed battle tactics. The truck we were driving was a 1962 Hayes Cabover; the heater control knobs for the bunk were located on the wall just below the opening to the bunk - they were the rheostat type and were illuminated. The more you increased the blower speed, the brighter the knobs glowed, and at night, everything behind the driver was reflected in the windshield. So, of course, Andy could see whenever I stuck my arm out to adjust the heat. I would no sooner get comfortable when he would either roll down his window and freeze me, or roll it up and roast me.

This game of prickery went on until it was my turn at the wheel for the drive home. I didn't bother to retaliate, but was determined not to make another trip with the little rodent. It was around five A.M. when we crossed back into Canada. The first thing we did was to stop for breakfast in the little town of St. Pierre, Manitoba. A couple of truckers I knew and one of Andy's many cousins were in the restaurant. His cousin had fixed him up with a girl that Andy had been eyeing for a long time. They were all planning to go to a party that night.

I couldn't believe the change in his mood - it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He talked my ears off all the way back to the terminal. By the time we dropped off the trailer, it was noon. As I would be driving him home, he suggested we have lunch at the local hotel restaurant on the way. It was his way of trying to make up for being a jerk. All the while we were eating, he prattled on about his big date that evening. "I've got to get my haircut," he said I reminded him that it was Monday and all the barber shops were closed. No sooner had the words left my mouth than the thought hit me like a bolt of lightning - whoever said revenge is sweet must have been thinking of me at that moment.

Fred Coulter's barber shop stood right across the street from the hotel restaurant, and of course, was clearly visible from where we sat having lunch. Even though it was a Monday, old Fred was open as usual...Fred was his own man and did things his way. No one told Fred Coulter how to run his business, or anything else for that matter. He was also the Mayor of the municipality and was known at election time to give any man that promised to vote for him , a free hair cut. When I was a kid, my father like all my chums' fathers, naturally patronized Fred - mostly because he only charged a dollar fifty for adults and a dollar for children. At that price, most of my friends and I were forced to go to Fred's, and the longer you let your hair get, out of spite, the shorter he would cut it. And if your head wasn't in just the right position, he'd put it there, and none too gently either! His rotund figure, combined with his stubby arms and jowly cheeks, tended to give the man a bulldog-like appearance, which only served to accent his gruff disposition. His gruffness was attributed to the fact that old Fred had fought in WWI (the Great War) and it was said that he had been gassed. To a young boy, the part about being gassed went a long way in explaining why he was so fat, and amongst my friends and I, there was an ongoing debate about whether he would explode, or just fly all over the room, if one of us were to jab him with some sharp object. This of course was a ridiculous childhood notion, because the same results could easily be achieved by simply telling the man how you would like him to cut your hair. Few adults, and certainly no kid, would dare tell Fred how to cut hair - you just sat still and kept your mouth shut while he feverishly snipped away at your head, hoping all the while he didn't clip off an ear.

"I see that shop across the street is open. What's he like?" Andy asked.

"He's good - I've gone to him more than a few times myself. Just tell him how you want it cut, and he'll fix you up," I replied, laughing to myself .

"Do you mind waiting while I get a bit of a trim?"

"Not at all. Fred's pretty fast. I'll order another cup of coffee while you're getting clipped, " I said. At the most, all I figured would happen was that Andy would get a bad haircut, but what actually transpired was a lot more than even I could have hoped for.

Andy hadn't been in there ten minutes when up pulled a police car with its lights flashing; two burly cops went inside the barber shop and soon emerged with a disheveled, cursing Andy in handcuffs. His once-bushy Afro now looked like a lopsided mushroom . They stuffed him in the backseat and drove off. Evidently, Andy had sat down in the chair and told Fred to just give him a trim. Fred took one look at Andy and snarled, "You mean you want a haircut!" Then he proceeded to start snipping. Andy sensed Fred was taking off too much, and his fears were confirmed when he saw the huge clumps of hair hitting the floor.

"What the hell are you doing!" hollered Andy. "I told you I only wanted a trim!" and he tried to get up.

"Sit still!" Fred growled, as he slammed Andy back down into the chair. "Don't tell me how to cut hair...I've been cutting hair for over forty years!" and grabbing hold of Andy's hair, he picked up the electric clippers and proceeded to shear him like a sheep.

"You're crazy!" Andy screamed in horror.

"I told you to sit still!" snapped Fred. The lady in the hair salon heard all the ruckus and phoned the cops. "Arrest this bloody hippie," yelled Fred. When the Mayor tells the cops to arrest someone, they don't hesitate. They let Andy out the next day, after the Mayor had cooled off. Poor Andy missed his big date. I never took another trip with him, and I sure didn't envy the next guy that did.

- B.J. Rhodes