A Driving Hunger

While making my rounds of 700+ miles per day in the big truck—semi for those who may think a “big truck” refers to a monster truck—I occasionally get hungry. Actually, I pretty much STAY hungry these days. That’s because I’ve decided I probably shouldn’t eat anything and everything in sight all night long as I drive. (Not if I do not want to look like the typical truck driver anyway). But a guy can only take so much hunger, and once in a while, I treat myself to a meal.

Truck stop food being what it is—overpriced bland sustenance that leaves you feeling half sick—I try to go to an actual restaurant when possible. Not a sit-down restaurant; there’s no time for that since I need to keep moving. (No miles equals no pay and I haven’t yet figured out how to live without money)! So, I visit the fast food places like McDonald’s. Some would suggest that McDonald’s food is no better than truck stop food but I beg to differ—I happen to LIKE McDonald’s!

But I also like a little variety and there’s a very good chicken place on my run—southern style fried chicken with all of the fixin’s! The food is delicious, the service is good—well, the people are friendly anyway. The service WOULD be good if I could ever get what I ordered. That, is sometimes a chore.

I prefer white meat and I always specify ALL white meat. The person taking my order acknowledges my request, it’s even printed on my receipt. But somewhere between taking my order and filling it, there is a disconnect. Out of the nearly ten years I’ve been stopping there, I think I’ve gotten only white meat about three times. Usually, I end up with a breast and a thigh. Sometimes, a breast and a leg. And once in a while, no white meat at all.

I’ve decided this has more to do with ignorance than incompetence—no one has bothered to teach the younger employees which pieces are white and which are dark. At least that WAS my theory.

I stopped in for some chicken the other day and was glad when the manager, an older and seemingly competent woman, took my order—and then worked on filling it herself. Maybe this time, they’ll get it right, I thought. But my hope was short-lived. I opened my box to find two thighs.

I’ve considered offering all their employees classes on white meat vs. dark meat. Or maybe making up a little chart for them, with pictures—for all the Facebook conditioned people who NEED a visual aid. But they probably aren’t interested in my input. And even if I managed to educate one or two of them, with a fairly high turnover rate, I’d never be able to keep up and still would probably not get what I ordered. So, I guess I’ll just stick to driving a truck. And stay hungry! ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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The Right Combination

Years ago when I had a real job—managing a fast food restaurant—okay, that might be an inaccurate characterization of a real job. Let me start over.

Years ago when I was managing a fast food restaurant, we went through about a three month period of changing the combination to the safe quite frequently—every few days it seemed. Actually, I think it averaged about once week.

This was due mainly to managers quitting, or getting fired as the case may be. Anytime someone stopped working there, who’d had the combination, we changed it. Normally, this was only an occasional occurrence but for some reason, we went through a lot of swing managers that summer.

As you can imagine, having to memorize a new combination so often was a little frustrating for some of the managers. According to the rules, no one was allowed to carry the combination on them and we did not post it anywhere in the store—for obvious reasons. So, it had to be memorized.

One morning, at about five o’clock, on my day off, I got a phone call. It seemed the swing manager who was opening the store, had forgotten the combination. It was almost time to open, people were waiting in the parking lot, and all of the tills were in the safe. I could have given her the combination over the phone but, that too, is against the rules—you never know who may be listening.

So, I got up, got dressed, and drove the five miles to town. By the time I arrived, I was all prepared to give the manager a lecture about how important it is to pay attention to these kinds of thing, and maybe offer a mnemonic device of some sort to help her remember in the future. But when I walked in the office, I immediately forgot about all of that.

Why? Well, because I noticed the safe was open. The door was closed but the lever was in the open position. All that needed to be done was to pull—the door would swing right open.

When I pointed this out, the manager was of course very embarrassed and apologized profusely for making me get out of bed and come in on my day off. But I wasn’t concerned with any of that. First, she would have needed the combination anyway, to run the shift, but more importantly, the safe had been left unlocked—all night.

A check of the schedule quickly determined which manager had closed the night before. (No, it wasn’t I, if that's what anyone is thinking)! Later that day, I had a little chat with that manager. My goal was simply to remind him to double check everything before leaving the store, particularly the locks on the doors and maybe, just maybe, the safe. That would have been the end of it because (contrary to some people’s opinion) I’m really a nice and understanding guy. People make mistakes. As long it doesn’t become a pattern, I can deal with it.

But then, this not-so-bright manager spoke up. “I didn’t forget to lock the safe. I couldn’t remember the combination so I just left it unlocked for my shift. And then I left it that way for the opening manager in case she couldn’t remember the combination either.” Then the kicker: “But I pushed the door shut so nobody could tell if they broke in.”

My response? Well, let’s just say the safe combination had to be changed again. ~

Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook and paperback on iTunes, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords, or at www.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com. Amazon Profile - http://www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS. Bruce A. Borders is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

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EAT

The year was 1973. My father decided we were moving: from Missouri to Oregon. At six years old, this was quite an adventure for me. I vividly recall the whole thing: the packing, my dad rebuilding the engine on a Ford Galaxy 500 so it would make the trip, loading the U-Haul, and then the long drive. The drive, most of which I didn’t sleep, was apparently practice for when I got older and would spend the better part of my waking hours behind the wheel, in a semi.

The 2000-mile trip was fun. We saw a lot of sights along the way, played games in the car, and ate at McDonald’s—when we could find one (the Golden Arches were not so prevalent in those days). Strangely, it seemed that doing nothing, while riding in a car, produced quite an appetite. By the time we neared our destination however, I think all four of us; my dad, mom, brother, and me, were ready for the journey to be over. I remember finally taking the exit for the town that would be our new home. There was an old flour mill—a big white building badly in need of new paint, a downtown church with a towering steeple, and a big bright blue sign with yellow letters, trimmed in red, that simply said, “EAT.” That’s what caught my eye, the sign, rising high above a drive-in diner. And, as had become my habit on the trip, I was hungry.

My dad said we’d go find our house first, and then worry about eating. We did locate the house, and we did eat, but not at that restaurant. I think it was the next day that we got to enjoy the drive-in’s burgers. However, since our new town had no McDonald’s, we did frequent the drive-in, well, frequently—probably more often than my dad could afford. But you know kids, they just keep asking. The drive-in diner quickly became one of my favorite places to eat.

That’s been 41 years ago now. A lot of things have changed since way back then. A lot of the town has changed; buildings have been torn down and new ones built. Despite the changes, some things remain. For instance, every day, as I arrive home from work and exit the freeway, I see that same sign that I saw years ago. The color has faded, the drive-in is now gone, replaced by another restaurant, but the sign is still there! It’s how I know I’m home. Only problem is; you know how memories are associated with the senses? And how the mere sight of something can bring back the same feelings of long ago? Well, I know it may have something to do with the fact that by the time I make it home each day, I’ve been driving for about 14 hours but, every time I look up and see that sign, I’m instantly hungry!

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Heaven’s Waiting Room

Clare Wilson

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Shirley H. Slaughter

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Bruce A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey, Miscarriage Of Justice, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook and paperback on iTunes, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Diesel Books, and Smashwords, or at www.bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com. Amazon Profile - http://www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS Bruce A. Borders also serves as the Vice President of Rave Reviews Book Club http://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com