Driving assignments had become more scarce as the Covid virus dragged on. People didn't want a complete stranger driving their car halfway across the USA. And even the best hygiene practices would not ensure that a contagious person wouldn't spread something. Plus, most of the other drivers I had met in my company were far from clean and tidy.
I was given a vehicle no one else wanted to drive, from the southern tip of Texas to a small town just north of Minneapolis. It was a doolie truck, four wheels on back, and had a flatbed with rails all round the sides. It must have been used to transport some type of animal, because it reeked of manure. I did everything I could to spruce up the smell, including 8 of the Hanging tree deodorizers. In the end, nothing helped more than keep the windows down, in spite of the blazing heat outdoors in August.
I had not spoken directly to the customer, just got texts from him twice a day. I had the delivery address on my paperwork, but at the last minute he asked me to go to another address. Entering the new information into my GPS, I could see that the location was actually 30 minutes closer than the previous address. When I arrived, it appeared to be some type of arena. The parking lot was empty, save for one parked car and the smelly truck I had just pulled to a stop.
After taking a walk around the truck to be sure there weren't any new dents or scuffs, I went to the main entrance and found the door unlocked. Entering slowly, I shouted to see if whoever was there was in earshot. I listened, and all I could hear was a loud, mechanical-sounding hum. I looked for a way into the arena area and soon found myself at seat level looking down at a hockey rink. The sound I had been hearing was a Zamboni which was circling around resurfacing the ice. The man riding the Zamboni was a big bear of a man, with a kegger-sized beer gut. His head was somewhat misshapened, round and jowly at the bottom then narrowing to almost a sharp top. When he saw me, he shouted out "Duck!"
Reflexively, I fell to my knees and ducked my head. One moment later, I was feeling awfully silly for that extreme reaction and got up to walk down and speak to the man without shouting. He was turning off the machine and laughing heartily. "Oh boy, you shoulda seen yourself. I yell duck, and you dropped like a sinner dropping to pray on his knees." He laughed some more.
I tried to keep a good humor. "Are you Mr. Matthews?"
"Nope, I am be Carl."
"Why did you shout duck?"
"You got something against ducks?"
"No."
"Cuz ducks have a lot to do with hockey. For instance I yell duck cuz the most important rule in hockey is duck the puck."
"And score some points."
"Scoring is immaterial next to the puck. Always keep your eye on the puck. Or you might just get a puck in the eye."
"My name is Bill Thomas, and I--"
"Did you hear what I said? Get a puck in the eye?"
"Yes I heard, but I'm here --"
"Ducks are also integral to the game of hockey."
"I'm not here for hockey."
Carl scoffed and shook his head. "Everyone comes here for hockey. That's what they do here. It's the nation's passtime. The number one most attended sport in America."
"I have a truck --"
"I don't give a puck."
"What?"
"You're out of luck."
"But I'm --"
"Now, back to a duck. In reference to hockey. I supposed you've never heard of the Killer Ducks?"
"I think you mean the Mighty Ducks."
"I think you mean the Anaheim Ducks." Carl nodded, satisfied. "Yep, no team ever like the Killer Ducks hockey team. Except maybe for the Charlestown Chiefs, who for one season dominated with violence and mayhem. Boy, those Hanson triplets were absolute chaos on ice."
"That was a movie called SLAP SHOT."
"There's no reason to bring in an attitude, pal. I know how to make a slap shot, and would be very happy to show you right now."
"Bill Thomas!" came another voice loudly shouting from elsewhere in the arena.
"Over here, Mr. Matthews!" Carl called out.
"Carl!" Mr. Matthews hurried over to us. "What are you doing here?"
"Just smoothing out the ice, earning my paycheck."
"You don't work here anymore, Carl."
Carl seemed perplexed. "Since when?"
"Since a year ago. But you keep on coming back again and again."
"Hockey is my life. I need to be a part of it."
"Then come to the games. But you can't keep breaking in here and running the Zamboni."
"And who do you know who can run the Zamboni better than good old Carl?"
"That's irrelevant."
Carl looked wounded. "To who?"
Mr. Matthews turned his attention to me. "You're Bill Thomas?"
I nodded. "Yes sir, I brought you a truck from Texas."
"Yes, a nasty, smelly truck."
"That's how I picked it up, and was told to deliver as is."
"OK, let's go check it out. Goodbye Carl. Now Carl."
Carl hung his head and stomped as he walked towards the exit door. Then he turned to me and pointed, saying "Don't forget to duck the puck."
I smiled. "I never will."
