This chapter is primarily about the four supervisors I worked under for most of my time at Overnite Transportation. As I mentioned at the beginning of my driving career with McCormick Food Service, Danny Eldridge had a significant impact on every aspect of my life during those four years. But these four men had an even greater influence on me—simply because of my maturity. The older I grew around these men, the more I appreciated and respected everything they did to help me.
Let’s start with Tom Williams. I’ve shared stories earlier about my time on the dock before my driving career began here at Overnite. But after I started driving, Tom Williams was always there whenever I faced trouble—big or small. Here are some stories I must tell:
- The first accident I had while running the southwest route was in the fall of 1983. I was pretty shaken up, and Tom could hear it in my voice. He and Ken Singleton jumped in a car and arrived about ten minutes later. They helped me through every part of it. Afterward, they took me to Bonanza Steak House at High School Road and Washington Street and bought my lunch. I will never forget that.
- In 1985, when one of my customers, Miller Hoft down off South Harding Street, was on strike with a picket line up, I’d never dealt with a strike before. I was told in Charlotte during orientation to call in if it ever happened. I did, and Tom came to the rescue again—driving across the picket line, loading up, and driving out as if it was nothing. It wasn’t that I was afraid to do it; I just had more respect for the strikers, and Tom knew I’d have to deal with them after the strike was over.
- There was also a time in 1987 when the dock slammed me with more deliveries than I could handle before my pickups. I got very aggressive over the two-way radio with Charles Spinks, and the next voice I heard was Tom’s. He asked, “Gerry, where are you?” I said, “TransCity Warehouse on Kentucky Ave.” He told me, “Don’t move.” I thought I was probably fired. I was upset because I couldn’t get all my deliveries off and felt like a failure. Tom came, probably cooled down before arriving. He explained that all that was expected of me was what was humanly possible—no more, no less. I asked if I still had my job, and he said yes. He shook my hand, and I continued my route. In my opinion, Tom deserves sainthood—he saved my ass more times than I can count.
Then there was Charles Spinks, God rest his soul. I usually knew before leaving the terminal whether I’d have a good day based on my delivery load. I’d give him a heads-up, and he’d often have other drivers help me make pickups. Charles, rest in peace, my friend—I’ll always remember you.
Next, we have Ken Singleton, my favorite terminal manager. I’ve said a lot about Ken, but the fact is, in my career, I’ve never worked for anyone as compassionate and kind as him. He was the best—and always will be—as far as terminal managers go.
Finally, Judd Haynes. Judd was a straight shooter, making us responsible for our actions—but he did it without resentment. He was personable and had a great personality, but he made sure we did our jobs right. If we didn’t, he wanted to know why. Judd passed away some years ago; I can’t remember exactly when. God rest his soul. Rest in peace, Judd, along with Charles.
There’s one more thing I need to mention: after I finished my regular route, if there were extra city loads to pick up or deliver, we were allowed to do them. If we were short-handed, we had to run them, but if everything was covered, we could go home. I did this many times—often running short-haul road runs on Saturdays to make extra money. Chicago, Columbus, Lexington, and Louisville were the most common loads I moved. It was one of the perks of working in a non-union environment, and I enjoyed it.
Now, here’s the tragedy in the title. On October 20th, 1987, around 11 a.m., a military fighter jet crashed into the front of the Ramada Inn Hotel in my delivery route of Park Fletcher. Ten people lost their lives. God rest their souls. I was less than half a mile away, delivering a load to the People’s Drug Warehouse at Stout Field. I heard the explosion and initially thought it was just another jet breaking the sound barrier. But then I realized how often I was at the intersection of Executive Drive and Bradbury Street—the exact spot where the jet crossed just before crashing into the hotel. I consider myself very fortunate and thank God I wasn’t there at that moment.
My Trucker Life 