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"You just drive the truck," he said with relaxed certainty. "The truck comes alongside the harvester and you go about this slow," slowing his car to no more than a creep over 2 mph along the shoulder of the highway. "Yep, 'bout this slow." He said to himself, pretending to drive his potato truck. I looked around to make sure not cars were nearby. Noticing my anxiety he laughed to himself. I couldn't believe there wasn't something I was missing.
"I don't need a license to drive them? They are big trucks, right?" I asked, puzzled.
"Yeah, they're big. My truck has eight wheels." He paused for a breath, bringing the car back up to speed. "Yeah, I bet you they'd put you in one 'a them army trucks. They're automatic. The bottoms of the truck beds are lined with a belt that turns on, see, and that's how they get the potatoes out. Last year I made over $8,000 just driving truck. You wouldn't make quite that much, but you would go back to California with a good chunk of money."
The unlikeliness of this idea perked my interest. I was planning on heading back to California after my soonest paycheck anyway, and regardless that was a month away, but I did not like the sound of driving 35 miles everyday.
"Is there housing?" I asked, curiosity simmering. "I wonder if I could pitch my tent around Terrace Mill?"
"You could probably get a place with the migrant workers." He said frankly. "I think they live there for free."
The fact remained that I was in need of money. The previous few nights washing dishes in the kitchen had been late and my hands burned from constant scrubbing. For some reason this seemed like the only reasonable plan, a great escape—an annual agricultural priority—the harvest. I asked for his number, but he insisted I call him there, on the spot.
"Just do it now, why don't ya? I'll buy you a root beer if you do." I was trapped.
"Okay." I said, sending him into the station to pay for gas and root beer. I tapped call and the phone rang. Less than three rings in a man answered and I stated my business calling. He summoned me to fill out an application the next day. I listened carefully, memorizing verbal directions to the whereabouts of the operation and after hanging up the phone, waited for my soda.
"Did you call him?" He asked, returning with two root beers. "Yes." I said proudly, popping the lid off my reward.
I drank the Sioux City root beer slowly, the thought of farming bubbling in my mind. I tried to envision myself a truck driver. The next Monday I drove south, vaguely familiar with the surrounding area of the man's directions. Winding down the highway in my Jeep Cherokee a sense of negativity came over me, and I wanted to turn around. An inner voice questioned, "What business do you have farming? Isn't this a stupid idea anyway? You don't have to do this. You could do whatever you want if you turn around."
Reaching 120th Ave I came upon the place I was looking for. Yet at first I was not sure about the building for it appeared more a dilapidated bunker. Like an igloo the size of a football field, the giant lump sat solemnly dominating the yard, tinted yellow from decades of dust and wind erosion. A layer of spray-foam insulation two feet thick coated the outside, giving whole building an sub-organic appearance, like a massive rectangular fungus growing itself out of the ground. Debating whether life could exist in such a building, yet certain I was on the correct road I called the number I had a day previously. Later, I learned this building was called the bin. The man answered promptly as before and confirmed I had found the correct place. Following further directions I drove down a narrow driveway and entered a small office with two desks. On the right, the man who I had spoken with over the phone stood and we shook hands. Turning left he introduced his secretary, then back to me.
"So, we don't need any more truckers this year, but I am looking for a dirt truck driver." He paused, checking my reaction.
Dirt truck couldn't really be much different, I thought.
"Uh, so If you're interested in that we can figure something out." He concluded, studying my response.
The subtle change of job title left me off balance, but I was far from turning back now. I had nothing to lose after all.
"Sure, but don't I need a license of some sort?" I asked, concerned an oversight was being made.
"No. This farm work, and the truck you will be driving is a registered farm vehicle. So, no special license necessary." He replied jovially.
"Wow." I silently realized the reality I was stepping into. "Also, my friend mentioned that I may be able to find housing with the migrant workers? I asked, believing in the prospect of my own plan—after all I was a migrant worker.
"You probably don't want to live down there," he said hesitantly. "However, we have a campsite. If you have a camper you could pull that down here. There is a hook-up for water and electricity, but there are no showers."
The nonchalance alternative put a smile on my face. After committing to being there at 6 am the next morning I was dismissed.
That morning was dark and rainy when I entered the office around sunrise. I removed my jacket and began filling out paperwork as rain whispered against the window. The same secretary pleasantly walked me to the time-card station and I lined up my sheet underneath the punch the machine, the stamp crunching the date and military time in ink, clocking me in. By noon, the paperwork finished, we made small talk about the weather and mutual friends.
"I don't think they'll have you starting today." She informed me, staring at the gray moisture collecting on the window. "You will be getting paid for the hours you spent here this morning—so remember to clock out when you leave—but we won't be started until after orientation on Friday."
The impermanence of dish washing filled me with joy, but with the harvest as my excuse I guiltily declined several promotions. Smiling and laughing, I deflected statements like, "Ben, do you want to learn how to cook?" or "can we keep you?" Their out pour of kindness warmed my heart and I was sad to leave the kitchen.
Thursday morning was blessed with clear skies and warm sunshine. After swimming in the river I tried to absorb the most out of my quickly diminishing freedom. Soon I would be a slave to the harvest. In the afternoon a group text appeared on my iPhone reminding us to report to the warehouse by 10:00 am for orientation on Friday. I anxiously looked forward to the "coffee and doughnuts provided" stated in conclusion. At 9:45 I arrived the next morning, my brand new safety vest reflecting the sunlight like a beacon. I looked around, seeing many people funneling in, grouping together, hugging and shaking hands. I was an absolute stranger. My unfamiliarity with everyone left me standing alone, hands in pockets, looking around at the reunion. Like rain reflected off umbrellas, I felt their joy on my cheeks—like the moon reflects the sunlight I glowed with light emitted by their joy. Returners wore faded green jackets and safety vests. Weathered apparel no longer iridescent gracefully dated several gentleman. Others boldly wore no green, like my friend John. I noticed him from afar at the break table wearing a simple orange hoodie. He shared the table with a collection of people sitting nearby laughing and joking. One hand on aiding his story, the other gripping a small cup of coffee, he wore the glory of a king. I considered greeting him, but my feet would not budge. Finally, we were summoned to the other space where an assembly of about 50 chairs were arranged amphitheater style around a very small television. After inhaling my doughnut we endured three hours worth of safety protocol video. Due to the size of the screen, visibility was an issue in the fluorescent room, so lights were extinguished. Probably filmed in the early 90's, the video began with corny introduction music along with titles and featured a robotic voiced narrator walking listeners through many different instances of work, depicting procedures and potential incidents, risks and prevention. The mechanical voice spoke in a nauseating baritone, with artificial enthusiasm. Listeners soon became vegetables. The blue light of the screen danced around the room and my eyes wandered as well as my imagination. Time wore on awfully slow as I nursed my cooling coffee. Sensing the tipped heads of many older gentleman I fought to hold back my own yawning.
After the videos were concluded we signed a few more papers and filed out of the shop doors. Standing in the sunlight, many continued their hellos while I was introduce to Dale and Ronnie, my fellow dirt truck drivers. The two gentlemen were both alumni drivers and very enthusiastic to have a new partner. Dale well into his seventies with silvery white hair, stood a foot taller than his counterpart and carried himself with humble confidence, offering more jokes than critiques. Tapering out of his sixties, Ronnie glowed with youth, looking up at Dale and back to me wearing a wicked grin. His handshake was as strong as they come.
Dale and Ronnie wasted no time putting me to work. First I learned how to pump and log gas. The small fuel house where the nozzles lived was no bigger than a garden shed and housed one nozzle for tractor diesel, and another for truck diesel. Dale carefully explained how to reset the gauge and where the fuel went and I as I turned on the machine. The pump rang loud as I inserted the nozzle into the fuel hole and began filling. I turned back toward the machine and watched in amusement the as the analog digits spun at differing rates. The small building leaned sturdily into the ground and cob webs clung absently to the walls around. After filling up I began by moving loads of dirt to the "pit" by situating my truck where the pay-loader could dump scoops repeatedly. Once several heaping loads of dirt had been deposited into the truck bed I was waved off and proceeded another 7 miles Relieved that my truck was automatic Completely ignorant of the process was dark in absence of the sun when I awoke. Rubbing my eyes I drove to Brooten, southeast 35 miles, blinking fervently to keep from falling asleep. Not knowing whether I really wanted to drive a dirt truck or not