A Trucker's Tale – Missing The Last Two Pallets

Aug 19, 2026 - 5 hours ago

On remembering names, remembering your location, and a very long, unplanned scenic route. By Ed Miller.

A post-apocalyptic image of the Baltimore Beltway — *David drove several of these lanes on his numerous circumferences of Baltimore.*

WMTS had a trucking terminal about five miles from downtown Pittsburgh. The location was perfect, in that it was across the street from our largest flatbed shipper, and it wasn’t far from one of our largest van shippers. At that time, the terminal was within 30 miles of many of the largest steel shippers in the country. (Today, there are hardly any steel, or steel related, shippers left in the Steel City.)

I received a call one afternoon from that shipper across the street, informing me that one of our drivers had been injured, and they requested my presence at its plant. I walked into the plant’s nurse’s office to find our driver, LaRon, sitting on an examination table. He had an enormous bump on his forehead, which was every bit the size of a small orange. It was a truly bizarre sight, because LaRon, at 5’2” and maybe 130 pounds, seemed miniscule in comparison to the “rising” on his forehead. (In many southern states, a “rising” refers to any bump, or welp, on a person.)

Upon questioning, LaRon informed me that he had been chaining-down his load of steel bars, and that he was using a two-foot-long piece of steel pipe (binder pipe) to make sure his chain binders were tight. Just as one binder was closing-shut, the pipe slipped out of his hands. The binder flew open, and the pipe shot straight-up above him. Just as he looked up, the pipe came down and whacked him on the head, knocking him to the concrete.

The nurse said she thought he was probably physically okay, but she thought it would be best to take him to an emergency room for x-rays. After I finished chaining down, and tarping his load, I drove his unit back to our yard. I then walked back over to the steel mill to pick up LaRon. We then drove five or six miles to the closest hospital. The ER was busy and we were asked to have a seat, and that they would be with LaRon shortly. After 20 minutes, or so, they directed him into a triage room. The nurse said I could also go in, so we both took a seat.

Clerk: “What is your name?”

LaRon: “LaRon Johnson”

C: “What is your address?”

He provided his address.

The clerk then asked and received other pertinent data.

C: “Are you married?”

L: “Yes’m”

C: “What is your wife’s name?”

Here, LaRon answered something neither the nurse, nor I, understood. It sounded like Yorfyundian.

C: “How do you spell that?”

LaRon reached up to scratch his forehead, but he would have scratched the bump, so he moved his hand enough to scratch the side of his head as he proclaimed, “I don’t know! I never did know how to spell her name!”

The clerk was stunned and at a loss for words. She looked at me for guidance.

Me: “Hell, don’t look at me. I don’t know how to spell it. Just make something up!”

She turned to her typewriter, shook her head a time or two, and then she began typing. When she finished, LaRon’s wife had a brand-new name.

The attending physician declared LaRon to be healthy, and none for the worse because of his accident. The doctor told him to be thankful he had a hard head, and LaRon answered, “Yeah, that’s what my wife Yorfyundian says.” It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. The physician looked at me with a puzzled look on his face, but I was unable to answer. Thirty plus years later, when asked a question, I sometimes must stop myself from scratching my head and replying, “I don’t know. I never did know how to spell her name!”

Thanks, LaRon.

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I hope you believe that I could not make up this next story, because it actually happened this way.

“WMTS,” I said, answering the dispatch line.

“This is Joe. I’m empty up here”

“Where is that, Joe?” I inquired.

“Hold on a minute.”

I heard Joe, in the background, asking the name of the establishment. He came back on the line and said, “I’m at ABC Supply.”

“Okay. I meant, what town are you in Joe?” I asked.

“Hold on a minute.”

After asking what town he was in, he said, “I’m in Little Creek.” (This isn’t the real town’s name, but I had never heard of the name he gave me, either.)

“Damn, Joe, I’ve never heard of that one.” Without giving it a thought, I asked him, “What state are you in, Joe?”

“Hold on a minute.”

Incredulously, I heard him ask what state he was in. I even felt sorry for him when I heard uproarious laughter in the background. I suppose ignorance truly is bliss, because Joe came back on the line, while not having a clue-in-hell those folks were laughing at him, and replied, “I’m in New Jersey.”

My last question was, “Joe, do you know where our terminal is located in Baltimore? If you do, then just come on down here.” I wasn’t about to stay on the phone and listen to him ask for directions how to get to Baltimore. Miraculously, several hours later, Joe pulled in our lot.

Understanding directions can be as challenging for some drivers as taking exams are to some students. Possibly, Joe did have trouble with directions. If that wasn’t the case, rather than call the man just plain stupid, truckers often refer to someone like Joe as one who is “missing the last two pallets.” This missing pallet reference is trucker specific, although Joe could have also been described as someone whose elevator wouldn’t go all the way to the top, or who wasn’t the brightest bulb in the ceiling.

Let me tell you about another driver, David, who was (probably) missing more than the last two pallets. He was dispatched to pick up a load of steel on the west side of Baltimore, and he was to exit off I-695 to reach the shipper.

Possibly due to the fact that he was born in a different country, or possibly due to his thought processes, David missed his exit. Thinking he would eventually find the correct exit, he kept driving. He drove the entire circumference of I-695, over 50 miles, as he kept looking for his exit.

Well, he missed his exit once again, and yes, he completed another revolution of Baltimore.

The driver must have thought that his third time would be the charm, because he went around Baltimore one more time. He finally decided he should stop and find a pay phone. After driving damned-near 200 miles, plus paying three separate tolls for the Key Bridge, he eventually found the shipper. It was a damned good thing that he had been dispatched early that morning, because he arrived at the shipper just before they closed that afternoon. p

Ed Miller ([email protected]) has more than 40 years of management and ownership experience in the trucking industry. Today, he is a part-time tour bus driver, published author of “A Trucker’s Tale”, and regular contributor to Supply Post. He is a father of three and a grandfather of two, and lives with his wife in Rising Sun, Maryland.