Moscow Mule Part 2
(a true story)
The sun had already set as the Air Force officers led us voluntary chaperones to the back of the building where we exited the loading dock and saw the fleet of semi-trucks with their Russian drivers waiting for us. Each chaperone was paired up with a team of two drivers quickly and without any conversation. As I opened the door to the truck I was assigned to, a passionate chorus of Russian choral music and a deep red light came bursting out of the cab. The only word I could understand them singing was “Moscow” repeatedly all while the inside of the cab, and my new travel companions, were bathed in a deep red light so dark it took a moment for my eyes to be able to make out their faces.
In that moment, while my eyes were adjusting to the ridiculously unsettling crimson dome light, and my ears were ringing from an impassioned ballad from hundreds of voices about Moscow, I finally had the thought that these guys could actually be spies. I suddenly imagined my eyes coming into focus and seeing Boris Yeltsin and Ivan Drago from Rocky IV in the semi-truck with me. What in the hell did I agree to?
When I regained my vision, I saw the absolute human embodiment of a bullfrog behind the wheel. With large swollen cheeks and big puffy lips that hung from his face like over-ripened fruit and held a lit cigar. He didn’t bother to stand or even completely turn his oversized face toward me while we introduced ourselves. This was Alex. He spoke no English and seemed even less enthused about my riding with them than I was. What he lacked in warmth and charisma he made up for in cigar smoke and body odor, in spades. His well worn, slightly stained and stinking full-body sweatsuit told me that this was not a man who bothered with first impressions, or other people, or hygiene apparently.
Coach Mike Shanahan
Then, in the passenger seat, sat a tall and slender man who seemed kind of nerdy, well kept and extremely nervous. This was Sergei, and he looked exactly like the former head coach of the Denver Broncos Mike Shanahan. The only differences were that Sergei was a little taller and had a full mustache, but, other than that, a total doppelgänger for Coach Shanahan.
Even though I had worked a full day of manual labor and was absolutely exhausted, with the way the three of us met there was no way I could fall asleep. All across Nebraska and Iowa I sat behind them and thought, “If they are spies, what can I do about it?” By the time we crossed into Illinois I had a very sophisticated plan if things did go badly: run like my ass is on fire, and never look back. Sergei seemed like he might be fast enough to catch me, but at least then we’d be one on one and I’d have a fighting chance. As you can imagine, there wasn’t much small talk the first 24 hours of our trip. I was anxiously trying to figure out if I was in the beginning of a bad James Bond movie, and God only knows what the Air Force officers told them about me.
In the late afternoon the next day we stopped just outside of Chicago and slowly parked in a long row of other big rigs in an absolutely gargantuan semi-truck plaza. The fact that my grandparents’ house wasn’t far away, and that I lived through the night, helped me finally relax a little as I made the long walk from the truck to the bathroom. That is also why my heart almost stopped completely when I walked back and saw the truck was gone. In a parking lot that size, with all of the people and exhaust-filled commotion, even something as large as an 18-wheel semi-truck could silently and easily disappear. I stood in a stunned silence processing the fact that they left me. Do I call my grandparents or the Air Force first? Then I started walking around, slowly but quickly gaining speed, hoping I would spot them. After about 10 to 15 minutes, now out of breath and frantically darting about, I turned a corner and there I saw puffy and pissed off Alex, just as he threw a football to Sergei who pathetically flailed his arms as the ball hit him in the face, and tripped as the ball bounced off of his foot and flew away. For the first and only time I saw Alex smile and laugh and thought: “No way these dudes are spies!” Alex saw me walking up and said “Had move. Wash truck.”
Wonderfully reassured of my travel companions’ motives, I slept for hours once we got back on the road. Late that night Sergei and I stayed up talking while Alex snored louder than I thought was humanly possible. They lived in Brooklyn and moved there seven years ago to find a better life. He invited me to stay with him, and told me how much he loved New York, and that the prostitutes there were beautiful. The many tall arching silhouettes of bridges passed overhead as we wound through the Pennsylvania turnpike on our way to Mechanicsburg.
Once we got to the Air Force base time was again in short supply, so we quickly said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. At the hotel, my friend and I compared notes and laughed at how crazy it was getting hired by the Air Force to ride across country with two Russians in a big rig, and waited for our flight back home.