Friendly and helpful guys

There are three things you need to know for this post to work out for you. First… I think Hispanic dock workers — as a group – are hands down the most friendly and helpful guys out there. Many of them may not speak English, but in my experience they’re generally all about trying to make life easier for you. Second… I think we’ve adequately covered in a previous post that I have a huge butt, however, I’m not sure if I’ve ever thought to mention that I’m just pretty huge in general. Which is cool with me. Third… I’m a pretty butch woman. I don’t think I have a lady-like bone in my body. Stace describes it as: ”you’re like the last person in the world where it would occur to a man to offer his arm to you going down stairs or across a street or something.”

Ok now you’re ready…

We pulled up to this little tiny facility where we had to back in off the street to hit the dock. No problem. Done it a million times. Even though it was a little tight getting through the gate, I didn’t see anything to worry about. But drivers must sometimes have problems backing into their yard as all the dock hands came out to help me in off the street. They were all very young Hispanic men very determined to be helpful. Although none of them appeared to speak English, they showed me the best line to take coming in through the gate, and I went back out to the truck parked on the street. I started backing through the gate.

I looked back quite a ways behind the truck and there was this herd of dock guys standing back there waving their arms around in the air trying to tell me which way to turn the wheel.  I was ignoring them as I always do. I know which way to turn the wheel, thanks. Besides, it might have been a little easier to take them seriously if they had all been rotating their arms in the same direction, but some of them were making big rapid clockwise circles in the air while the other half of the guys were whirling just as energetically in the counter-clockwise direction. Sigh. Dock guys.

Possibly due to the herd’s excellent back-of-the-trailer arm motions, I made it into their dock/yard area with no problems. They were all smiles. So was I. They didn’t want me in a dock. They were going to load us in the yard like they load flat-bed trucks. Cool. No problem. Before I could get out of the truck to open the doors, a couple of guys had chocked the trailer wheels and had the doors open. Cool. Then they started loading us. It didn’t take long at all before they were done.

I went back to check out the load and decided it was pretty top heavy so I had better strap it into place. I grabbed a couple of ratchet straps and headed back to the rear of the trailer. A couple of the guys motioned that they would do it and held out their hands for the straps. Generally, I prefer to strap a load myself so I know its done right, but they were so eager to be helpful that I handed off the straps.

They hopped up in the trailer and started trying to figure out how the straps worked. Well… it didn’t go well at all. Neither of them could get the straps to work. And there seemed to be some tension over who’s idea was better since there was a fair amount of rapid Spanish and some shoving each other around in the trailer. Obviously, I was going to need to get in there before they demolished something.

Now… the only way I can heft my big old 653 pound bod up into a trailer is if one of the doors is closed so I can use it as a hand-hold. So I started to close one of the doors. Suddenly the group of guys still with me on the ground at the end of the trailer understood what I was doing. They started motioning to the forklift that was still sitting there from when they were loading us. With hand gestures, they made it clear that they wanted me to step on a fork and they would heft me up into the trailer that way. Ok now that was just funny. I mean I may be 748 pounds… but I can haul my own fat ass up into the trailer. I don’t need a forklift. Thanks anyway, boys.

I just shook my head and went about climbing in the same way I always do. The strap situation was dire by that point and ended up requiring a hammer to get things put back to rights, but we eventually got them fixed and everything battened down securely. The three of us walked to the end of the trailer and the two young boys jumped carelessly off. I shuddered to think what would happen if I just jumped this 812 pound body off the end of the trailer into space. I imagine my legs would just snap completely off on impact and lay there on the pavement a few feet away from my body — kinda like Sponge Bob’s arms are always doing.

The guys may have been thinking the same thing because again they motioned most sincerely for me to wait while they got the forklift to get me down. I motioned that I would be just fine, thanks. While I didn’t need the forklift, there is a certain way I have to get out. I face toward the nose of the trailer, get down on my knees at the very edge of the trailer, feel for the ICC bumper with one foot, grab the closed door, and let all 942 pounds fly. No problem.

So I got down on my knees, stretched one foot behind me toward the bumper, and stopped dead in my tracks as I felt 8 or 9 different hands clamp all over my thighs, hips, and waist. My eyes flew wide open like Lucy Ricardo trying some booze-filled vitamin drink. My mouth formed the classic Mr Bill circle-of-shock. What the hell?! I snapped my head around to look back at the herd and there they all were. Every single one of them with at least one hand attached to me somewhere. Smiling up at me in the same way they probably smile at their mothers’ friends. Or their grand-mothers’ friends. Perfectly innocent. I just paused there stupidly — half in and half out of the trailer — until I finally realized they were just trying to make sure I got down safely. I climbed on down and they all backed off still smiling politely.

They closed the trailer, I sealed it up, and Stace and I prepared to head out. Just as I was pulling out onto the street, I looked back in the mirror and a couple of them were waving goodbye. Good grief. There’s friendly and then there’s too damned friendly.