Boblg, so here's some more words about my trucking adventure with Steve:

We left my house at 4 a.m. I was ready to go at 3:48 a.m. but Steve arrived at 4:02 a.m. and said, “Wow, you’re awake and stuff [and dressed neatly in pink]” (I think he doubted my 4 a.m. beauty-power). We drove to the farmer's market (in Asheville) and picked up the tallest truck I have ever ridden in (except for the time my family's minivan broke down on the way home from Sea World and an 18-wheeler stopped to pick up my mom dad sister and I along with all the hand-puppets and banners-on-sticks that my sister and I scammed). Our mission was to drive to Atlanta, unload a few palettes, and pick up many many more palettes of vegetable and fruit matter.

(Let me add, in the spirit of honest/objective reporting, that Steve said the truck wasn't the biggest, but I thought that (as far as trucks go) it was quite large.) The cab was equivalent to that of an 18-wheeler, and the back was like a giant refridgerator, which was quite noisy, even from our bucket seats in the cab. Steve and I planned to collaborate in the car (truck), but we only managed to talk (shout) and to listen to Patti Smith and Afro-Cuban All Stars (not in tandem of course, and not in that order).

Exciting events include: the fact that everyone talked to me via Steve, saying to him: "Who is that?" not (to me:) "Who are you?" Throughout the day I posed as: Steve’s girlfriend (not with intention, but as soon as I wore my pink over-shirt we both felt that everyone thought it), a journalist (actually no-one thought this, but Steve and I pretended—to my/ourselves—that I was some sort-of Susan Orlean), and Steve’s newest employee/helper. (That last one was the most unlikely as I mostly stood around, but at one point I heroically helped load 32 (boxes of) squashes; I also hurled English cucumbers into the truck.

Also grand was meeting this man from S.C. (within our first 20 minutes of travel) who was advising the truck-stop cashier to believe in Jesus just in case because you're really screwed (after you die) if there is a Jesus, and if there isn't, you haven't lost anything. True, but not good enough for me (us). We didn’t argue with anyone, but we must have looked more secular to the S.C. trucker, because he offered us the following advice instead:

1. Don’t sweat the petty things.
2. Always pet the sweaty things.
3. (Steve, what was #3, I’m still grossed-out by #2, so I can’t remember.)

There are too many post 4:25 a.m. stories to tell. So, in conclusion, I consider my 16 hours with Steve (4 driving, 8 unloading/talking to people, 4 driving) to be a full day in the life of Kirbach. Not counting our requisite 8 hours of sleep, which neither of us got either last night or the night before, that is a 24-hour period of time.

My favorite commentary (from Steve) was either the retelling of his story about the bulls/cows in Hawaii (my favorite Steve-story ever, especially live and in-person with the big-eyes and hands-as-horns motions), or his comment (to me): “Wow, you’re still eating.” (I admit that I’m a dessert-queen and had a mondo 2-day-old pastry after a really-big lunch.) I’m also really glad I learned that dipsticks on trucks are hilarious and obscenely-long. I only regret that I never got to “check the tires” (trucker slang for peeing beside the truck on the side of the road), although that Georgia rest stop where we peed into opposite embankments of that huge open cesspool came close.