Translogistics

Ernie-Earl here, T-Dawg s better-educated cousin, sitting at the third table from the door at the local Starbuck s, sipping a mocha latt and wearing a Peterbilt cap with a quilted goose down vest so the girls will think I m a trucker.

In the blogging racket, you read a lot of other blogs looking for stuff to steal information to use in your own. I came across the following at the end of an otherwise ordinary post in a blog written by a retired trucker.

I once worked for a company that three months before had a driver pull into the terminal, walk into the dispatcher s office, and shoot his dispatcher in the back of the head. Dead. The driver walked back out, sat in his truck, and waited for the police to come get him. Life in prison.

We ve All Been There

Now if you re a typical trucker, your reaction is probably, There but for the grace of God

We ve all been there. We ve all had the experience of having our only connection to the company being a sorry !#$%! who doesn t know #$%! about trucking and doesn t give #$%! about our problems. Where do companies find these guys? They must have all come from the same litter, weaned on sour milk, fed sour grapes and dosed with bitters until they were big enough to bite people and live on their own.

And they must have all been hired as truck dispatchers because no matter who you work for, the voice from the home office will be some !#$%! with the same sorry attitude as the one for your last employer.

I have a radical proposition. Admittedly, it s a stretch but hear me out. That dispatcher that you dream of dispatching in the same final way as Mr. Life-in-Prison (but much more slowly) isn t just a sorry excuse for a human being.

He is a human being.

Only a Theory

Hear me out, just hear me out! It s only a theory. What I mean is that when he s not at work, wearing a headset and sticking needles into the little row of dolls on his desk labeled T-Dawg, B.A., Ted, Tiny and Tim, he s at home mowing his yard, hugging his wife, helping his kids do homework and generally being a solid citizen.

But then he goes to the office. He sits at his desk and puts on his headset. His fingernails suddenly grow hard and curved. Hair sprouts from his body. His eyes grow yellow and feral, his teeth long and sharp. He growls softly to himself. It s Monday! He loves Mondays.

Why? What makes an ordinary man into a sadistic, salivating monster? What happened?

You did. And Ted. And Tiny and Tim. The dozen or two dozen truckers that he s supposed to supervise and support, they re what happened to him. Nobody calls to tell him they re on time, the weather s perfect and it s a joy to hear his voice. No, they call to say they ve got a problem, something s wrong and it s not their dang fault. Truckers may be shut up in a metal cab without any companion except maybe a pet mutt, but at least they re not stuck in the same cramped cubicle listening to a dozen other truckers in states of unhappiness ranging from annoyed to outraged, going gripe, gripe, gripe all day long.

Natural Adversaries

The relationship between trucker and dispatcher is inherently adversarial. The dispatcher isn t just the guy who keeps track of company truckers; he s in the unhappy position of also being the company enforcer, the one who tells drivers they can t be home for their kid s birthday or that they have to make the delivery tomorrow even though they re can t do it without driving fifteen hours straight and he s not going to tell them to break HOS regs because that s against the law; all he s saying is they have to make delivery tomorrow.

So naturally nobody loves him. And he knows it. How would you like to have a job where your coworkers favorite fantasy is a funeral with you as the guest of honor? He gets defensive. He develops a thick hide and a flat affect. He separates his emotions from his work and takes on the it s not personal, just business that lets people with unpleasant tasks live with themselves.

By definition the dispatcher s job is middleman between company policy and driver needs, which aren t always in sync. He s not your friend but he doesn t have to be your enemy. His idea of a perfect day isn t making porcupines out of those little dolls you think are on his desk. His idea of a perfect day is nobody behind schedule, trucks running like brand-new and the only sound from his truckers is a bunch of guys whistling while they work.

Not Your Friend, Not Your Foe

Get over it. Your dispatcher isn t your friend but he doesn t have to be your enemy. No, really. Here s how. The next time it looks like you ll be behind schedule or you re worried about your truck, let him know before it happens. Warn him and do it in a calm professional way that doesn t imply he ll be happy to hear you re in trouble. It s his job to handle problems. He hates that but the more he knows what problems may come up, the more he feels in control. He ll appreciate that.

And when things are going right, tell him that too. With a thanks once in a while. And when you need home time, tell him two or three weeks ahead so that he can plan. Make his job easy.

But when you do have problems and he s part of them, talk it over. Keep the anger out of your voice. Explain your point of view quietly and succinctly. Ask for his point of view. Listen politely and when he s done, restate what he said so that he knows you listened. The two of you may not become best friends; you may not even reach a resolution but at least you ll understand each other and, more important, shown mutual respect. He may not agree you re right. He may not apologize for himself or the company. But you may find that the problem doesn t occur again because he knows about the issue and is taking pains to avoid it.

Beats Doing Time

This approach isn t easy. It doesn t always work. But it just might work. And it sure beats a life sentence.

That s all from Ernie-Earl until next time. Ten-four, or, as the Starbuck baristas say,

Ciao!