Here's a funny story for y'all... I used to haul lead solder waste from San Diego clear to western PA, regular runs to Altoona & Ellwood City, deadheading back to Dago for a break before repeating the run. My normal route included running I-44 out of OKC till I picked up I-70 on the other side of St. Louis... which meant that unless I ran around the Joplin scale, I'd run up on it and I'd have to go through the time-consuming rigmarole of having the D.O.T. officers inspect all of my paperwork, perhaps the rig as well. I'm talking truck paperwork, doctored comic book, huge pile of Uniform Hazardous Waste Manifests, the whole nine yards, so a hand could spend half an hour in the chickenhouse on a good day, which is usually why I just ran around the scale. Missouri is big on checking placarded wagons, they like to know what a driver is hauling through their state, 10-4?
Well, one fine spring day, when I was making good time and I wasn't in any particular hurry, I decided to roll up on the scale and deal with the bull$h!t... I was wearing baggy shorts, combat boots & sunglasses as I eased onto the scale with my rig near gross (lead solder waste is heavy). That scale had an intercom with camera attached, so I smiled at the camera as a D.O.T. hand said, "Pull around the back and bring in all your paperwork!!!" My reply: "Let me put on a shirt!!!" I pulled around to park, then stepped into my sleeper to grab a shirt. On my very last trip, I had purchased a hemp shirt from "The Hemporium" in Springfield, MO, a stylin' button-down Hawaiian-style shirt, black with green silver-edged marijuana leaves all over it... thing was immaculate, it only cost me $60 but it would've been suitable for any party, anywhere. Just the ticket for chickenhouse attire, aye?
So I don the dope shirt, grab all my paperwork and walk into the coop... as I open the door, the very first thing I see is some D.O.T. hand in one corner grilling a Mexican who couldn't speak a word of English. Evidently, the Mexican was trying to convince the D.O.T. officer that he had made it down from Chi-Town in x number of hours. The D.O.T. reply, accompanied by a loud denial buzzer noise: "EHHHHHHHHHNNNTTTTT, WRONG ANSWER!!!" I turned to look the other way, and there was the D.O.T. officer in charge, sitting at a desk and looking down at some paperwork. Since the other D.O.T. hand was busy grilling the Mexican, I stepped over in front of the desk and stood there, looking for all the world like a goddam Italian waiter with my sizable stack of paperwork held exactly as I would hold a heavily-laden tray of food, my arm crooked and the load positioned near my right shoulder...
Well, Mr. D.O.T. Man figured he'd show me my place by ignoring me for awhile, so I calmly stood there and tried to gauge his mood. Remember, I'm having a wonderful day and I'm in excellent spirits, but this guy is "busy" with a stack of paperwork already on his desk. In due time he glances up at me, letting me know he's aware of my existence, but also letting me know through his "body English" that it may be awhile before he has a chance to inspect my paperwork... D.O.T. work is VERY IMPORTANT, you understand. He lowers his eyes back down to his desk, but somewhere during this process he realizes that the clean-cut ex-Infantry hand standing in front of his desk is WEARING A GODDAM DOPE SHIRT IN THE CHICKENHOUSE!!! His head snaps back up, he does the classic double-take, and he says---I sh!t you not here, he practically roars:
"GET THE F#% OUT OF HERE!!!"
My response, given politely with a smile as I lean in toward the desk and hold out the stack in my hand, presenting it just as an Italian waiter would at a restaurant table:
"WHAT, YOU DON'T WANNA CHECK MY PAPERWORK???"
Again, he roars:
"GET THE F#% OUT OF HERE!!!"
I oblige by bowing out, turning to the door and making tracks to my truck... didn't wanna push my luck, don'tcha know? But that was the funniest look on the guy's face, I almost burst out laughing when he did the classic double-take at the shirt. I reckon his superior officer must have been en route to the chickenhouse, and this guy didn't want some @$$hole truck driver standing around in a goddam marijuana shirt when the big cheese arrived, LOL. Releasing my parking brakes and rolling round onto the scale again, I waited for the green light and hit the f#%ng highway, laughing the whole time at what had just happened. I must say, that was the FASTEST visit I ever paid to that particular chicken coop... dude never even looked at my paperwork or my truck, LOL. I briefly considered wearing the shirt into EVERY chickenhouse in the future, but wisely decided against it... no need to press my luck.
ANYWAY, THAT'S THE SAGA OF THE HAWAIIAN DOPE SHIRT & THE JOPLIN CHICKENHOUSE... THAT GOOD HEMPEN SHIRT SERVED ME WELL OVER THE YEARS, BUT NEVER BETTER THAN ON THAT SPRING DAY IN JOPLIN, MISSOURI, LOL.
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