t began as a chilly, Pennsylvanian night, a night that promised a short run and the opportunity to go home and lift some legs. The quads and hams were primed and ready. But that promise of leg aerobics was to be denied by the firemasters that live in my trailer brakes.
“Just tell me what happened, Dut.”
The setting is 119 south between Greensburg and the PA Turnpike. Your Literary Hero is flagged down by another driver at approximately 1:30 AM by the driver yelling “Dem tandems is on fire, Dut!!!!” So I pulls the tractors off the roads, ya see. And to the horror o this author I find that Satan has indeed planted his seeds inside the brakes of my back trailer tandems. I put out the emergency triangles and to my terror I turn back around to see that the brakes have now engulfed the back tires in a tremendous flame. Then came the whistling noise. Oh, the whistling. One tire exploded like a shotgun in the cold night and then a second blast as the other, opposite tire erupted in orgasmic fury. Your Literary Hero grabbed the fire extinguisher and began battling the demons in the brake housing.
“We have come with gift of water and manpower.”
But this was a battle that even a strong-bodied and strong-minded warrior like me could not win. Soon my extinguisher blew its load and luckily up came a guy in a garbage truck, who noticed me standing helpless as the trailer literally caught in a small fire. All of Wal-Mart’s load was going to be destroyed! So the other driver pulled out what can only be described as a massive fire extinguisher and he and Dut did battle ‘Backdraft’ style with those satanic, flame monsters. I realized I had a little more juice in the extinguisher, and I think at one point I was spraying it behind my back as the other driver, ponytail-adorned at that, stuck his nozzle between his legs and killed the inferno.
A passer-by was able to quickly draw this picture of Dut and his garbage buddy duelling it out with Lucifer’s brake-henchmen. Camera was unavailable. For comment.
Then the fire department came. Oh, the fire department. They spent a good hour keeping the hot brakes from starting up again. Then the state police came. Oh, the state police. They spent a good hour questioning Young Deeby and gathering information. Then came some dude in a pickup. Oh, the pickup. And he replaced those tires and left. Then came some other dude in a pickup. Oh, some other dude. This man had a limp and a moustach. He was able to get me to move the trailer to New Stanton, where I sat for 3 hours while he fixed basically everything on the back of the trailer, and by “fixed” I really mean “fixed enough to get to Belle Vernon”.
“So I hear you like to battle fires. I got one you can try to stop. I need your license and measurements.”
Then I went to Belle Vernon, and in a classic Schneider move, was allowed to drop that trailer for an empty one, whenever I clearly should have brought that trailer back to the maintenance yard. But, alas, now some other driver will have to deal with that trailer, as I am certain that he will never be informed of what the fuck happened. That trailer should be accompanied with a cassette tape that plays ‘Land of Confusion’ on it 17 times, so that the next driver who grabs that trailer has something to listen to while he realizes endlessly that he’s probably going to die on his way back to Bedford.