How to deliver packages in record time, Part 3

Many times there were a few businesses where I could walk through the back door and no one would be around. I could have loaded the truck with whatever wasn't bolted down.

One time I walked into the back room of a paint store to find a young female clerk passed out on the floor. I assumed she had passed out from the fumes of mixing the paint, but I didn't see any open containers. The other store personnel were in the main customer sales area oblivious to this girl splayed out in the supply room.

I walked in the sales area and quietly told them that one of their coworkers was flat on the floor in the back room. I didn't want to startle customers into thinking there was a crime scene in the back room. Turned out the girl was three months pregnant and had not eaten properly that morning, causing the fainting spell.

But that incident indicates the unrestricted access my uniform and truck gave me to businesses. If there was no one around to sign for packages, I would leave them when returning to the back room and sign their name and continue on my deliveries. a few of them over time would question me on who signed for the packages I left the previous day. I would normally blow it off as no big deal, inferring that no signature was needed for those packages.

As you can see, this little time-saving technique not only save me from being stressed so much of the time while on the route, but it allowed me to pursue my other interest — chatting up the super hot looking babes on the route, hell yea!

How to deliver packages in record time, Part 2

Most UPS customers are good about signing for deliveries, although there's always some who want to make you go postal on their ass. Here's the worst of the worst:

— (1) "I'll have to get someone who can sign for those packages; I can't sign for them." (This is probably the #1 delay by customers who think they'll be fired, sued, and never allowed to work again.)

— (2) Customers who say, "I didn't order this." Then they want to stand there like I have a solution for them. The messenger always takes it up the ass, so to speak, or gets an earful. They can either refuse it or send it back, that's their two options. Inevitably they'll say, "Oh no, don't do that. I'll accept it."

— (3) Customers asking the driver "What is this?" Now think about that. You're asking the driver what's inside a box. Are you kidding me! I didn't order what's in the package, yet it's the customer with the deer-in-the-headlights look on their face.

Those are the three most common time-wasters for UPS drivers. Some delay is understandable during stops, but the same reasons are frustrating at the least. Thus, my time-saving method thanks to my florist shop owner.

How to deliver packages in record time, Part 1

I learned a nifty but controversial time-saving tactic from a small town florist shop owner. He was understaffed, doing the work of three workers one day when I arrived, and he said, "Just put the package over there and sign my name for me."

I did and I was out of there in record time; no need to chase anyone down to sign for the package, I could skip the chit-chat, and off I went.

From then on, the florist shop owner changed the way I delivered packages, albeit against official UPS policy.

When the driver has to wait on the customer, Part 2

Given this [prison] location, the type of truck assigned to the route, and surrounding area, I can tell this UPS driver who services the prison probably has a 13-15 stop per hour route. The one stop here that costs him 10 or more minutes was equivalent to 3-4 other stops in the same time — time that cannot be made up without racecar driver efficiency and the hope that other stops will be ultra-thin on time, allowing him to catch up.

Many times, however, you don't recover time lost on such stops. You hope that your remaining customers are nice enough to stick around a few minutes past their closing time to accommodate you. I can't count the number of times I had to alter my route to make it to businesses who would not wait a few minutes past 5p if I was running late.

The example in the previous post increases driver stress, and this same thing happens to every driver no less than three or four times each week. Now you know why you can hear that UPS truck coming from three blocks away; because the driver is flooring it to make up for lost time along the route.

When the driver has to wait on the customer, Part 1

Ever been surprised when a product you ordered shows up in your office and you have no clue how it got there?

If you work in any small business, it may have been the UPS driver. I know, you're thinking that UPS makes you sign for deliveries. Not always, and especially if I was your delivery driver.

The most irritating aspect of a UPS driver's day is wasted time spent waiting for a customer. Trying to get them to sign for packages or having to wait for that package the customer desperately wants to ship that day but procrastinates until the driver shows up. Then they suddenly spring to action.

Coincidentally, the day I wrote this, I was in the prison infirmary waiting to see the doctor (unlicensed, I'm sure) about a show script so I can legitimately have two pairs of running shoes (I'll explain another time). The nurse received a call from the front entrance guard asking if she has any packages for UPS. She said yes and goes about her routine.. After three or four minutes, I'm thinking to myself, did I hear her correctly; I swear she had a package for UPS. Now almost ten minutes has elapsed from the call and this gal emerges from an office carrying a UPS overnight box with what is likely a lab sample inside. She's done this routine hundreds of times I'm sure, and knows damn well that the UPS guy arrives around 3p every day.

Finally, package prepped and in hand, she leaves for the guard tower out front, which will take at least three minutes to maneuver among three electric gates that she has to be buzzed through. The dreaded time sink she's created for the UPS driver is now between 10-15 minutes.

I told the nurse in a serious, but tactful tone, that her nonchalant method of making the UPS driver wait for her package creates substantial time troubles for that driver the rest of his day. A UPS driver's job performance is judged solely on stops per hour. You can be the best customer service rep UPS could ever hope for, but if your stops per hour are off more than 2 per hour standard that UPS adheres to, then management will be riding your ass, tagging along thinking you're fluffing off while on your route.

That's the very last thing you want.

How to fuck a hooker properly

I can't believe that NY Governor Eliot Spitzer would throw away his office for a piece of ass. Lots of politicians have done the same, and lately, the Republicans have been doing the gay side. But Spitzer went to extraordinary lengths for — admittedly — an ultra hot call girl, who apparently has the most perfect pussy ever seen on a woman according to her escort reviews.

But I don't care — I'm not paying that much money for sex even if I am a billionaire, especially with some bitch who admits to being with two men a night on many nights she's working. And she admitted that all she did in between sessions was swipe a wetwipe along her snatch! Damn. I realize women can fuck anyone and get away with it, but damn, paying $4000-$6000 for an hour or two of fucking someone you don't know is crazy. Ashlee Dupre (the girl) said that most men are so hot that they cum in the first five minutes and spend the rest of their time just wanting to talk. $6000 to talk! That redefines the term "fuck you money."

Here's some advice for future politicians. Either fly out to Nevada where it's legal and the ranch will take of you discreetly (no one will ever see you going in or out or being picked up), or just drive downtown in the limosine, pick up the hottest girl on the corner, pay her double her normal, and fuck your brains out for three minutes.

Saves a lot of time and, your job.

The consequences of educational failure

A couple of weeks ago, it was reported that the largest 50 school districts and 17 large cities in the US have extremely low high school graduation rates. Some like Detroit as low as 50%. Obama won't talk about it, but I will. There are more than enough stupid, uneducated white people to go around the earth several times. But in the US, the fault of these statistics lies squarely at the door of black people. I won't call them 'African-Americans' because I've met Africans, they have dignity, intelligence, and big hearts.

When I was in college back in the late 70s and early 80s, we had African students at our university. They spoke the Queen's English and often were the top students in many classes. They weren't superior, they just did what students should do: study.

But black culture in America never valued education. Blacks have mastered and conquered everything they've set out to do in history. Look at art, music, and sports in the past century. Imagine what they could accomplish if they set education as a necessary goal for their lives!

I started school in Arkansas in the 1960s when its schools were beginning to desegregate. In prison, many, many inmates are black. And those are predominantly young, violent, and stupid — a deadly combination for any human, much less an entire race. But since the 1970s, white students have fled the cities for the suburbs, have fled public schools in favor of private schools, and have consistently moved out of neighborhoods where blacks moved in. No good ever comes from black people. The schools and their "average" test scores plummet, cities experience more crime, and housing/property values steadily drop the more blacks saturate a part of town.

Think Chris Rock's comedy routine back in 2001 where he contrasted black people with niggas. "Every time black folks want to have some fun, some nigga has always got to fuck it up!"

That's pretty much where white people have been all along, to this day. Obama doesn't address this when he talks about his 'white grandma' and the 'typical white person.' Obama don't know shit. He's never held a job in his life. He grew up in a life of wealth and privilege (in Indonesia as a kid, he lived in the US Embassy, in Africa, his family was the richest in town, and the rest of his childhood was spent in Hawaii, not Mississippi). He later went to Harvard, for which he paid in cash, and from there, straight into a law firm job, and straight into the state legislature, and immediately thereafter a Senate seat in his early 40s. Obama has not and will not address the problems that black people face and sustain in their communities. Murder, drugs, and producing out-of-wedlock children are central black life. It's as if they expect to go to jail, and until they do, they don't have credibility among their peers.

How fucked up is that?

What black people need to know is this one thing: white folks like black people, but hate niggers. You know the difference. So do we. It ain't racism, just truth.

What happened: from backstory to arrest

Honorable Kirk Johnson
Eighth Circuit Court
Miller Country, Arkansas
Case no. CR 2002-451-3

21 Feb 2008

Your Honor:
I want to inform the Court that my legal appeals have concluded. I want to fulfill my obligation to society and bring closure for my family. With utmost respect for the Court, I want to give a full account of my involvement in the death and disappearance of Roy Baskett.

I first became acquainted with Roy during the 1990s when I was delivering packages for UPS on a downtown route. One of my regular deliveries was to an insurance office where Roy was employed. He always appeared well dressed, courteous, and professional. Our encounters were pleasant and brief. I never got to know him well at that time. In 2000, I was reassigned to inter-city long-haul trucks which had me working nights, driving at different times to Little Rock, Dallas, and Shreveport.

Lisa and I were living in a duplex apartment on Locust Street when we were married in January 2002. Betty Tullis occupied the adjacent unit. Roy was her boyfriend. He visited Betty frequently and spent a fair amount of time at her duplex.

As Spring approached, the weather warmed, and we began spending more time outside. Roy and I renewed our acquaintance. He had been retired about three years. He seemed different from the professional type that I remembered him to be. He had let himself go. He appeared dirty and unkempt. He kept an ice chest full of beer in the trunk of his car and held a drink in his hand almost constantly. He carried a small loaded revolver in his pocket, and a .357 Magnum in his car.

Roy seemed delusional. I'd heard that he once spent a couple of weeks at summer training camp with the National Guard back in the 1960s. He now fancied himself as a combat veteran and American war hero. He liked to impress Lisa and the boys by making up war stories about flying reconnaissance missions from Vietnam over Laos. He had assigned himself the moniker "Captain," and was contemptuous of anyone who had not served in the military. It all seemed a bit comical.

His car was beat up and not well maintained. I took him on errands a few times when it wasn't running. One time I specifically recall was to Dr. Smith's office at Southern Clinic. Another time was when I towed his car to Wilson Tire Co. Then I took him back over there the next day to pick it up. I think Lisa may have taken him to a few places in my truck because she didn't want him in her car.

From the outset, we never had much in common with Roy or Betty. Our relationship with him would not have progressed beyond neighborly greetings but for Lisa's duplicity. Roy had an eye for younger women and he began to indulge an attraction to Lisa. She soon learned that he had money. He had taken a substantial lump sum retirement and kept it in a checking account. Roy was generous with money and gifts to any woman who would give him attention. It seemed that he would give anything just to have a girlfriend. Lisa caught on quickly and was soon batting her eyes and wagging her tail for him. She found him repugnant; nevertheless, she would tolerate his presence to take anything he offered.

At one point she thought he would loan her money to buy a house. I told her that we didn't need his money. We had adequate income and we could buy a house with legitimate bank financing. I told her that she was playing with fire, that Roy was giving her money only because he expected sexual favors in return.

By late Spring Roy and Betty had separated. Betty had moved from the Locust ST duplex to a house she had purchased on the Texas side. Due to my overnight work schedule, Roy decided that Lisa needed protection, so he bought her a gun, a small .22 caliber automatic. Lisa was afraid of guns and didn't want any part of it. Roy kept bugging her so she reluctantly took it just to pacify him.

Some time in June Lisa introduced Roy to her friend and coworker, Lisa Hickey. She was on the outs with her husband and needed money. Lisa Ridling thought Roy would help her out. He did, giving her $500 cash upon meeting her. He told her he was happy to help, and she could come stay with him at his house if she liked. The money was intended for apartment rent, but Lisa Hickey went on a small shopping spree and had her ass tattooed. She showed Roy her tattoo, but he was disappointed that she didn't move in with him. Within a few days, Lisa Hickey was back home with her husband, but continued to come by Roy's periodically to hit him up for money.

One day the phone rang while I was asleep. It was Roy. He said that Lisa Hickey had been to his house and stole his wallet. He was upset about losing his military dog tags that he kept in his wallet. I told Roy that I didn't know what he was talking about, and if he had an issue with Lisa Hickey, then he needed to take it up with her. He accused Lisa Ridling of being in on the alleged theft and wanted her to get Lisa Hickey to return his dog tags. I told him that I had to go to work later and I needed to get some sleep. I asked him not to call anymore during the day when I was asleep.

On July 23rd, Roy came to the house while I was at work. As usual, he was drunk. He had been out to the Hickey's trailer off of HWY 108 to talk to Lisa Hickey. He was obsessed with the loss of his dog tags, but the Hickeys wouldn't open the door, and threatened to call the police if he didn't leave. He put a lock on their gate as he left to agitate and piss them off.

He blamed Lisa for bringing Lisa Hickey around, and that she was now obligated to get his dog tags back. As they talked, an unusual noise caught Roy's attention. It came from around the side of the house. Earlier that day, I had borrowed an animal trap cage from the city animal control department to catch a pesky raccoon that had been getting into our trash and spreading it around the neighborhood. Roy went to see what the noise was all about, and when he saw the trapped raccoon, he flew into a rage, and using some heavy tool, demolished the cage in order to set the animal free.

I reported the incident to the police the next day because I didn't want to be charged for the cage. I had hoped they would talk to Roy about it, but the officer who came out said it wasn't serious enough to bother with.

On Saturday, August 3rd, my son Cale and I went shopping at Wal-Mart. Little League baseball would be starting soon and he needed a new bat. We selected one and took it home along with some other stuff. Upon closer examination of the bat's label, we found that it was not the right type for his league play. We decided the bat should be returned and exchanged for the right type.

Later that evening around dusk, Roy showed up at our home armed like he was expecting a gun fight. His snub nose revolver bulged in his pocket, his .357 Magnum protruded from his belt. He was drunk and agitated. He was angry and obsessed over his dog tags. He blamed Lisa Ridling for it and wanted her to confront Lisa Hickey for him. He insisted that Lisa was capable of getting his dog tags back, but she just wouldn't do it.

I told him the wallet and dog tags are probably long gone, and that if Lisa Hickey did take his wallet, she helped herself to the money and threw the rest into the nearest trash can or dumpster. Roy didn't want to hear it. He began raising his voice and cursing. I told Roy to leave. The arguing back and forth was getting loud. With all the noise and commotion, I didn't want the neighbors calling the police on us, thinking we're a bunch of hoodlum hell-raisers.

Roy wanted me to come outside and fight him. I told him that I wasn't going to fight him; that he was an old man, drunk, and packing heat. I told him to leave and get out of here before he really pissed me off. Roy, not being accustomed to being denied his demands, was so upset at us that he demanded the return of the .22 automatic pistol he had given Lisa Ridling. We gave the gun back to Roy and he finally left.

Lisa and I sat outside for a while. She was telling me that she was fed up with Roy's antics. That he kept blaming her for his dog tags being stolen. She was terrified that he would come back after I'd gone to work. She didn't want him around the kids with his guns. And she was angry with me because I wasn't taking it seriously enough. She wanted me to "do something about it." I told her that bringing Lisa Hickey to him was just begging for trouble. I asked her what exactly she expected me to do about it. She didn't know, but I would have to figure something out because she didn't want him to come there anymore.

Just before midnight, we noticed Roy's car going west on 32nd ST towards State Line. Lisa grabbed her phone and called 911 to report Roy DWI. Then she got in her car and followed him. She gave up the chase when he got close to Spring Lake Park and it was obvious he was headed for Betty's house. Apparently, the police never responded to Lisa's call. I went to bed shortly thereafter.

I awoke at about 11a Sunday morning, August 4th (2002). Lisa was all over me again. It was like she had stayed awake all night thinking about it. She wanted to know what I was going "to do about Roy." She went through everything all over again. I told her to calm down. I didn't know what I was going to do, but told her not to worry, I'll take care of it.

I showered and put on some jogging clothes. Cale's bat was next to the door, the receipt was in my billfold. I took the bat along so I'd have it the next time I was near Wal-Mart. I told Lisa I was going jogging and would return Cale's bat, and I'd meet them later. She and the kids were going to lunch at Wendy's.

As I backed out of the driveway, I tried to think of how I could keep Roy from coming back to my home. I would be going to work later that day, and I didn't want him coming back while I was gone. I decided to just go there and talk to him myself. I thought if it were just between him and me, without women around for him to impress, he might be more inclined to listen to reason.

When I got there, I turned onto 15th ST and parked at the side of his house (not on the street?). I went up to the front door and knocked. I didn't go inside. I just talked through the screen. I started to tell him that this was serious. Lisa was pissed. She didn't want him coming to the house anymore.

Roy wasn't hearing any of it. He told me that bitch wife of mine was the cause of all this when she brought Lisa Hickey around asking for money. He said that added up to me owing him a favor. He wanted to go to Lisa Hickey's to get his dog tags back. But he didn't think he could get near their place with his car because she's see him coming like last time. Roy wanted me to take him in my truck so Lisa Hickey would think it was Lisa Ridling coming to visit.

It suddenly struck me as a pretty good idea. I was losing my patience with him. I thought I might just drop him off at their gate and leave him there. We got in the truck and headed out 15th ST and then toward HWY 67.

As we went along HWY 67N near the cemetery, Roy was ranting and raving about dog tags. We started arguing. I reminded him again that he would not get them back because she most likely threw everything else away but the money. He wasn't hearing any of it. He was ranting something about "if that bitch threw away my dog tags, I'll kill that slut." I looked over and he had his gun out, saying he had just the "persuasion" here to do it. He was waving his .38 snub nose revolver around.

I told him to put it away, that I wasn't taking him over there to kill somebody. I told him one day someone was going to take that gun away from him and shoot him with it if he continued to wave it around like he was some bad ass. He told me I wasn't going to tell him what to do. He said he was "the Captain" in charge of this mission and I was to follow his orders. He said I was a damn coward that never served his country. He cocked the hammer and pointed his gun at me.

I knew I had to do something. I wasn't going to let this guy order me around, and maybe shoot me over some stupid dog tags. I thought I could snatch the gun out of his hand with a real quick move. I reached over and grabbed the barrel, trying to twist it out of his hand in one quick motion, but he surprised me with a stronger grip than I expected. I was panicking now, trying to wrestle the gun away from Roy. I knew I couldn't let go of it. I was sure he would do something stupid, like shoot me just to prove he was in charge.

I glanced in the mirror to be sure no one was behind me, and then I stomped on the brakes, throwing Roy into the dash, and at the same time the gun went off, shooting Roy in the chest. Roy was slumped forward against the dash. I reached down in front of him to pick up his gun and put it under my seat, just in case he came around.

I didn't know what to do. I was in a cold sweat panic. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't get my mind to focus on anything. I couldn't think.

Then a car came by and the guy waved at me. It snapped me out of it. I figured the next one might be a cop to see if I needed help. I couldn't just sit there and let that happen. How could I explain? Lisa didn't know I was going anywhere with Roy. The Hickeys didn't know we were headed to their place. For the moment, all I could think to do was get back on the road and keep moving. It would give me time to figure out what to do. So I raised Roy upright into the seat and fastened his seatbelt. Then I pulled onto HWY 67 and continued North.

In hindsight, I should have reported it immediately. That would have meant explaining Lisa's duplicity throughout the past six months that had brought Roy and me together that day, and that would mean all be revealed. She was my wife and I didn't want to cause her embarrassment. I didn't know if she was even back me up.

I was unable to think rationally. I was in shock and wandering aimlessly up HWY 67, trying to avoid traffic. I was trying to think of what to do with his body. I didn't have much time. I had to be at work in a few hours. I knew the wildlife area north of Hope would be deserted this time of year. I was already headed in that direction. I could get there by keeping to the backroads through Fulton, Crossroads, and Old Washington.

At the Hope WMA (Wildlife Management Area), I placed Roy in a small thicket of brush right off the road to the parking area. Time was getting away from me. I had to get back to Texarkana to avoid creating a stir with Lisa and my son. I kept to the backroads again because I didn't want to be seen. When I got to the bridge at Fulton, I threw Roy's gun into the Red River.

When I got back to town I turned off onto Arkansas Blvd and headed towards the UPS building. I wanted to see what they had scheduled for me. I also wanted to clean the truck. As I turned right onto the access road, I noticed that my left rear tire was flat. I'd never had to use the jack or change a tire on this truck before. It took me a while to put the spare on. I was so hot and sweaty when I finished, that I just wanted to get home and clean up.

I pulled off my clothes and running shoes and put them all in the washing machine. Lisa wanted to know where'd I'd been. I told her that I'd been jogging and had a flat. She wanted to know if I was going to do anything about Roy. I told her not to worry, that he wouldn't be coming around or bothering her.

When I got to the UPS building, I pulled my truck up near the wash bay. I brought out the hose and washed down the passenger seat. I parked my truck in the usual place, checked in, and started my routine.

As I drove my route that night, I thought about what was at the Hope WMA. I figured Roy's body wouldn't last long in this August heat. But his clothes would still be there long after his body was gone. So the next morning I went back up there, removed his shoes and clothes, and stuffed them in a trash bag. I piled some brush on him and started back home. I dropped the bag of clothes in a convenience store dumpster near I-30 and Hope.

On the afternoon of Wednesday, August 7th, police officers approached Lisa at her job. I never told Lisa what happened to Roy. Nevertheless, she told the police that we had not seen him in over two weeks. As they concluded their interview with her, I was at Wal-Mart returning Cale's bat when she caught with me, and told me what she had said. I couldn't believe that she had lied to them. I reminded her that the whole neighborhood knew he was at our home on the previous Saturday night, and that she had called 911 reporting him DWI later that evening.

I told her that since she had already told them that, we had better not change her story.

By the end of August, it was clear that I was the prime suspect for the "murder" of Roy Baskett. My home had been searched and my truck had been seized. On Friday, August 30th, I took the ill-conceived notion to go to Hope WMA to check on things. I brought along my ax to cut more brush, were it needed to further conceal him.

Arriving at the WMA, I encountered the State Wildlife Officer, Terry Rogers. After he left, I set about cutting brush and piling it over Roy's body. Suddenly, I thought I heard someone talking near my truck at the parking area. I caught a glimpse of what I perceived to be another truck close to mine. I dropped my ax and walked back to my truck. There was no one around, but I was paranoid and got out there quickly. When I got home I realized I'd left my ax behind.

Regarding my ax, I want to make this clear: Roy's body was not "chopped up" as prosecutors were allowed to speculate. Investigators searching the area found no evidence to support this conjecture. The jury was told that an ax had been found and sent to the State Crime Lab for examination. They were never told at trial that no report had been made of any findings regarding Roy's DNA evidence — or my own fingerprints — on the ax itself. The jury was told that a "suspicious looking stump" had been sent to the State Crime Lab for examination. Again, the jury was never told there no report of any findings.

Investigators who searched the area testified that layers of brush had been deliberately and neatly placed on top of Roy's body in an obvious attempt to conceal it. They testified that Roy's entire body completely decomposed in one place; and that it had been consumed by maggots, insects, and wild animals. The State Medical Examiner testified that this natural process, given the time elapsed in this case, would cause human remains to scatter and disappear. He testified that his examination found no evidence of blunt force trauma, and he could not rule that Roy's death was a homicide.

Not a single witness gave any testimony to support these inflammatory comments about Roy's body being "chopped up." Indeed, the evidence presented by the State clearly contradicts this hypothesis. My ax was used solely to cut brush to cover Roy's body.

A month later on Wednesday, September 25th, I was arrested for the kidnapping and capital murder or Roy. Lisa, clueless to what had happened to Roy, became the State's prime witness, offering everything she could to stay out of jail.

I remained in Miller County Jail three months before I was able to talk with a lawyer. At my trial, I chose to deny involvement in Roy's disappearance because the truth was embarrassing and incriminating. And, the State's evidence was not sufficient to sustain charges of premeditated kidnapping and murder.

Following my conviction, the appeals process got underway. It continued for four years, and during that time I was advised not to make any statements about my case.

I am deeply remorseful for what I did with Roy. Covering up his death was wrong and irresponsible. Lying to investigators and to the jury was wrong, and I am truly sorry for my actions.

— Robbin Ridling

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 9

As this blog continues, I will explain how a split decision in one moment of anger has turned into a lifetime of regret. Of how I went from a harried existence of working nights, keeping a day schedule, hardly sleeping during the week, pleasing a 31-year old nympho, who really just liked variety in her men, trying to keep the kids happy, fend off an ex-wife who was constantly at war with me to someone who is sitting in prison for the rest of my life over nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I am so disappointed in myself. How and why could I let myself get sucked into a situation like this? I can honestly say I would gladly be an unhappily married man to my unsatisfying first wife without complaint had I known what I know now.

Once I got into trouble, I realized I didn't have any friends, at least no one who had been my friend over a lifetime, nor anyone from my youth. Once you go to jail, almost everyone you've ever known abandons you. They barely have time for their own busy lives, much less your troubles. Incarceration also rips the fabric of the relationships of people you know — people take sides in the conflict and when they do, they neither forget nor forgive; small slights are magnified into great offenses. I made the further mistake of not trusting my family. When all seems lost, they're the only ones who will tell you the raw truth.

The details of what happened to land me here are astonishingly straightforward, and shocking in how it all could have been avoided. More to come.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 8

In Western medieval legend, a succubus is a demon who takes the form of a beautiful woman to seduce men in dreams to have sex. They draw energy from the men to sustain themselves, often until the point of exhaustion or death of the victim. This definition could very well describe my new life with my new wife.

She started right off by driving a wedge between me and my kids. When your boss runs off with your husband, you can imagine what your spouse is going to say about you to the kids. My ex-wife predictably trashed me to everyone who would listen. It was hard for people to treat you the same after hearing her tell the story, and that's only scratching the surface.

What's worse, my crazy new wife somehow befriended a retired insurance salesman who was a lifelong crazy, gun-toting, life-threatening drunk. This disrespectful alcoholic lunatic created situations that resulted in his own death over a fight over — of all things — military dog tags.

To skip over the details for now, I was convicted of his kidnapping and murder in 2003 and am now serving a life sentence for his death.

At only 44 years old in 2003, I'm in prison for life all because of my weak mind.

I had everything with my first wife, except she was not desirable in any way to me. Later at trial, she even got on the stand and lied about me because she hated me so much by that point. But I'm the one who threw away a good life for an unattainable dream. I succumbed to the influence of the wrong people who warped my thinking, and turned my previously clear perspective inside out.

What's funny is that, looking back, I broke one of the main tenets of Tom Leykis: Never ever move in with your girlfriend. Ever.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 7

The affair started and soon we were doing all the usual stupid things. We got caught by our spouses through some handwritten notes she left me and I didn't throw them away. What was I thinking, that I'd show them off like a trophy or something! Being caught didn't stop anything. This chick wanted what I had, and we continued the affair and even made plans for the future after we would divorce our spouses.

I tried to divorce my wife amicably, but she was stubborn and didn't want to negotiate a property settlement with me. So one day I hired movers unannounced and moved everything I wanted into storage and rented an apartment. At this point, I felt like there was no turning back. I had just walked out on my two kids and felt bad about that part of it, but I was so miserable with my wife, and I wanted better for my own selfish end. I was blinded by the wrong woman even though I felt it was the right thing to do.

In January 2002 we got married, but in no time this 31-year old turned out to be a psychotic, stalking, nymphomaniac who was insanely jealous. At first impression, she was petite and pretty, but on the inside she was a succubus; that is, a woman who sucks the very life force from you. I couldn't understand how materialism sucks the life out of you. I say materialism, but I mean the constant craving for what I didn't have, or didn't think I had. She was just another thing to possess, and once I got it, it brought nothing but trouble and pain.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 6

My wife's younger, prettier boss was ten years younger than me and had the best bedroom eyes. I noticed this married girl was stopping by our house more frequently when I was home, usually before I'd have to go to work in the late afternoon. As with any girl hotter than my wife I always wanted to bang her but didn't think I had a chance with her.

One thing led to another and this girl propositioned me. Talk about making a 41-year old guy feel good; it feels great when a 31-year old girl wants you and your body. Everything inside me was yelling, "Hell yea!"

Here I am married to a lumbering behemoth and along comes a skinny sexy thing that can make a bikini look good; you damn right I'm hooked. But this was doing nothing but reinforcing unrealistic expectations that I gained from listening to guys like Tom Leykis. Where I thought I was desirable — economically I was — but really I was only the flavor of the month for this girl. I just didn't see the truth of what was right in front of me.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 5

On my evening drives to Dallas, I was influenced by radio talkshow host Tom Leykis out of LA. His "Leykis 101" is a series of tenets aimed at giving advice male listeners how to get the most sex with minimal time, effort, and money. The men who follow this advice are referred to as "Leykis 101 Students," and Tom Leykis is referred to as "The Professor." Women are encouraged to listen to learn how men behave and think. The tenets include:

— $40 LIMIT - Never spend more than $40 on a date.
— 3 DATES RULE - Stop seeing the girl if you do not get laid after the third date.
— NO MEANS NO - If she says no then, STOP, get your stuff, and leave.
— SINGLE MOTHERS - Never date single mothers.
— TABASCO SAUCE - After having sex pour Tabasco sauce into the used condom.
— CO-WORKER RELATIONSHIPS - Never date a co-worker.
— APPROACHING WOMEN IN GROUPS - Never approach a woman in a club that's surrounded by her girlfriends.
— RELATIONSHIPS - Do not get into a serious relationship before the age of 25.
— WEEKEND DATES - Do not go out on weekend dates unless you are guaranteed sex.
— CELL PHONE DATES - If your date's cell phone rings during the date, then immediately leave.
— WOMEN IN BARS - Sit at a bar alone and do not talk to any women.
— BIRTH CONTROL - Regardless of what a woman says always use birth control.
— NO GIFTS - No gifts are ever given to booty calls and women you are dating.
— BEVERAGE CONSUMPTION - Buy Hard Alcohol over Beer.
— TYPES OF DATES - Avoid lunch and or coffee dates.
— JERKS AND ASSHOLES - If women think you are a jerk, then your doing something right.
— EATING BEFORE DATES - Have a hearty meal before a date.
— MARRIAGE CONTRACT - Never marry without a prenuptial agreement.
— YOU CHOOSE THE DATE - You choose what to do on the date.
— INCOME AND WOMEN - The amount of income you have often determines the type of women you get.
— MALE FRIENDS - All her male friends want to have sex with her.
— NO SEX AT YOUR HOUSE - Never bring a woman home for sex.
— HOLIDAYS - Break up with your woman during those money-sucking holiday seasons.
— CHANGE IS NOT INEVITABLE - Do not change who you are just for a woman.
— PREPARE YOUR IDENTITY - Be the doctor she wants or the millionaire she's looking for.
— POWER BEFORE KIDS AND MARRIAGE - Men have the most power before kids and a family.
— PATERNITY TEST - Always get a paternity test no matter how sure you are that it is your child.
— NO DNA DONATION - Never help a woman have kids that you have no intention of marrying.
— WOMEN ARE DREAM KILLERS - They want to reach their dreams and stop yours.
— ULTIMATUM, RUN - If a women gives you an ultimatum, run and don't look back.
— GIVING AND GETTING PHONE NUMBERS - Give your number out to as many women as possible.
— DON'T MOVE IN WITH GIRLFRIEND - Never ever move in with your girlfriend.
— DON'T CALL HER BACK - Don't call her back after the date.

As you can see, these are tenets created by a guy (Leykis) who's been married multiple times (4) and divorced four times. This man's been hurt, so his stance toward women is to encourage every man to take responsibility for their own self-defense, and his show spends a lot of time covering men's rights issues with humor. Ironically, most of his callers are women. I also listened to Opie and Anthony, another nationally syndicated talk show hosting team, but their schtick was more crude, jackass humor and stunts, often centered around public sexual situations and humiliation.

There were other radio personalities all beating the same drums, and I convinced myself that I should indulge, be a bad boy for a while and take on a trophy wife. Then amidst all this came my unsatisfying wife and her younger, married female boss. And this was the beginning of the end.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 4

So where was I? At age 41 I am: (1) feeling shortchanged and unfulfilled by not having a "trophy wife" others seemingly expect me to have, "others" being people who don't even know me; (2) feeling great that I had a stunningly beautiful nurse call and ask me out; and (3) the comments of my office friend/confidant, who thought I could do much better.

I fell for all of it, and from that point I was consumed with taking action, making a change in my life, to get what I deserved for once. I must be cheating myself by staying with this one undesirable woman when I could have, or at least date, a number highly attractive women that I saw everyday through my work.

This frustration only simmers for the next year. By then I had a new job within UPS, driving to Dallas, Texas every afternoon and getting back at about 2a. The drive allowed me to listen to the radio back and forth which was my biggest entertainment. I found the perfect station for my voyeuristic, self-consumed mind set, both hosted talk radio DJs. One was a Howard Stern knockoff out of Dallas and the second was the famous Tom Leykis out of Los Angeles. He was nationally syndicated and sometimes hosted his program from the Playboy Mansion. Leykis talks about "the issues you really care about." Leykis 101 — Tom’s male version of "The Rules" — offers his inimitable and original perspective on dating, relationships, and politics from a man's perspective. Tom Leykis provides his audience with an inside look at his own personal life and often provokes listeners with his opinions. In other words, he's a guy who makes you reconsider what you thought you believed about yourself, and about women.

Leykis spent many shows talking about how men should treat women and what men should expect from that treatment. His rules or tenets are listed in the next post.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 3

So there I was, early 40s, looking good, feeling good; I had a great job, a house... everything. I was setup to play the field at this point. Here's one dangerous example. I walked into a doctor's office to deliver a package and while talking to the receptionist, a nurse came from the back and called a patient's name. She was so disturbingly beautiful, I couldn't think except to tell her right there, "You're so beautiful" with a smile, but without saying anything else to her.

After she went to the back, I laid it on thick with the receptionist, telling her that lady was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, hoping she'd say something to the nurse on my behalf on the chance of talking to her someday. She did a fine job of relaying my sentiments to the nurse. When I got back to the UPS terminal, there was a note for me from the nurse! She wanted me to call her.

It was 7p by that time, so I could safely call from work (calling from home would invite guaranteed disaster between wife and kids). Even though I had flirted with her, I couldn't fathom what such a beautiful, young woman would want with me. I know what I was hoping for, but more likely it was something to do with work, perhaps she was going to take me to task, perhaps tell me I was rude or unprofessional. I called and number and damned if she didn't ask me on a date!

Another defining moment that threw a lightning rod through my consciousness.

Of course, I wanted her so badly I played along for a minute while asking myself whether I wanted to throw it all away for the hot nurse. Not just any hot nurse, a nurse that is so stunning you'd never forget the one experience with her.

But I couldn't do that to the girl. That's too much baggage to carry when starting a relationship, especially one I was suddenly cautious about now that she called my bluff. One thing is for certain: she expanded my already inflated ego to new and even more unrealistic expectations of what I could possibly get away with. My confidence soared.

But while all these not-so-innocent moments played a role in what was to come, they were like planting dynamite inside a weak mind. I didn't realize how weak at the time, but all fate would need is for some thing or someone to light the fuse.

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 2

Working a difficult downtown delivery route for UPS which meant a lot of deliveries within a few miles of city blocks kept me in top shape. I was a trim 5'10", 195-lbs., 34" waist. On the other hand, my wife was 5'7", brunette, a waist like a beer keg, and weighed well over 215-lbs., a wide-body in every sense. We had the stereotypical marriage where after the honeymoon and ten pounds a year and a kid and another kid, the picture got ugly fast. A hundred pounds later I had no idea what I'd married. Who was that person in the house with me?

My brother, Zaine, has a theory of sexuality. It's that every man in his youth has a range of what constitutes beauty in his eyes, and he looks for girls and women who fit within that range. When he finds them, he wants to be with them, to have sex with them, and maybe even marry them. Outside that range, there's no interest, no emotional connection need be made, and certainly no sexual interest. This "range" can consist of a body type (big breasts, tight little hardbody, bedroom-body, great face, etc.), an age range (older teen/young woman, hot coed, elegant natural beauty), or a personality set (fun-loving, easy-going, supportive, humorous, sensuous, adventurous, etc.). Outside these ranges — fat, old, bitchy, expensive, high-maintenance, etc. — are the last thing men want at any age, much less middle age, when he's taking stock of his life and not impressed with his accomplishments. Outside that range, the man's desire deflates, his interest shifts, and he looks elsewhere for excitement.

My brother chose chess during this time in his life. I had the opportunity, had the job, and had the body, so I chose hot girls!

A cautionary tale for every middle-aged man: part 1

Back in 2001, I had a great family for the most part; married for 17 years, great job, good home, and a little too much debt like everyone else, but then I threw it all away due to one chance but eye-opening conversation. There have been scores of books and movies written about a man's mid-life crisis, where he looks around at his life and situation, and doesn't see much to love and the routine has grown cold and stale. It's a time when man's focus naturally turns inward, filtering out others. Three come to mind off the top of my head:

American Beauty (1999) - Lester and Carolyn Burnham are on the outside, a perfect husband and wife, in a perfect house, in a perfect neighborhood. But inside, Lester is slipping deeper and deeper into a hopeless depression. He finally awakens when he becomes infatuated with one of his daughter's friends, which inadvertently leads to his ruin.

The Seven Year Itch (1955) - when a man's family goes away for the summer, he's tempted by his beautiful neighbor, who just happens to be Marilyn Monroe!

Lolita (1955) - Nabokov's 1955 novel about Humbert Humbert feasting on Dolores Haze defines the push and pull, attraction and repulsion of middle age.

I think every man eventually has a brief encounter with a woman he wished he could have a romantic fling, which develops into a strong relationship. But that's an idealized version of what really happens. The truth is that both of you know it just won't happen.

However, I did, and it happened with a woman I would see Monday through Friday while delivering packages to her office. I'll call her my "Office friend confidant," or confidant for short.

We were both unhappy in our home situations, correction: I was really unhappy in mine and disconnected from my wife both emotionally and sexually. The common thread between me and my confidant was that our bland marriages allowed us to confide in each other without normal boundaries, since we knew that our "relationship" would only be a conversational one and not a romantic one.

This confidant didn't know my wife and I'd never described her physically to her. One day while my wife and I was shopping, we ran into my office confidant. The meeting was nothing unusual, just mutual pleasantries, and then I winked at the end. That wink was the unspoken signal indicating that "I wish it were you I was with."

The next time I saw my confidant at her office, she said the most revealing, brutally honest, life-changing statement I'd ever heard in my own mind and never thought anyone else would say: "I thought you would have a petite blond trophy wife, not the one I saw you with!"

Subconsciously, that statement had the effect or rewiring my brain, of changing my entire outlook on my current state at age 42, of what I envisioned my daily life should be; that is, to be married to a petite trophy wife, not what I was married to at the time. Her statement — in response to my wink? — made me conclude right then that there's no reason why I shouldn't work toward that goal.

But one moment is all it takes to make a fateful turn in one's life.

Driving skills: Low hanging limbs

Here's a funny story about low hanging limbs. One driver was on the edge of town where city meets country and the houses were set off the road a good ways as I've noted in previous posts. This driver pulls into the driveway and immediately notices a pine tree next to the drive with a substantial 5-inch diameter limb hanging lower than he liked.

I've come across the same a hundred times and if you take it slow enough, the limb will bend up and over the truck and you can slide by, no harm, no foul. But this time, it didn't slide off for this poor driver. The limb instead stuck on top of the truck and snapped off. It looked like a giant had hurled it right through the top of the truck like a javelin. It was at least eight feet long with five feet of it sticking out of the top, and you can only imagine the looks he got when he returned to the UPS terminal. He never tried to remove it because he never thought no one would believe his story of how it got into the top of the truck.

One time I pulled into a rural house and across the drive was a cable TV wire stretched across that was about a foot lower than the top of my truck. I must have been distracted; I didn't notice the wire until it was stretched so tight, I couldn't believe it was still holding onto the house. I backed up slowly, delivered the package, and got the hell out of there.

After I backed up, I swear the cable wire was hanging two feet lower than before: it was now lower than eye-level in the truck! The people weren't home and I never heard any complaints, so it must not have been the first time it's happened.

Customer complaints of that type were common against some drivers. But low hanging wires and limbs make for stressful driving because UPS is quick to fire you for little things like that. Still, even with the risks, I'd rather ride than walk!

Driving skills: why walk when you can ride?

One of the golden rules of UPS driving in residential areas is to avoid backing out of a driveway onto a street. Avoid driveways at all costs is the best motto. I agree with UPS on this because they have extensive accident statistics to confirm its perils. However, staying out of driveways is more difficult in rural areas where the house is often set back 75-100 yards (or more) from the road.

With a city route I was rarely in a driveway unless it was a very large house with deep circular drives. In these exceptionally wealthy areas, if there were not any visible lines or limbs hanging below my truck height, I drove up to the door instead or parking and walking.

I had always been a very good driver, but in a UPS truck, I was a great driver! Confident in my abilities, given two inches of clearance on either side of me and I could thread the needle without a scratch every time. I could also backup better than anyone I'd ever come across.

Every three months a supervisor would ride with you for most of the day to satisfy company safety standards and document how well you're driving and following UPS rules. One day I got a supervisor I went to high school with, but since then he had become a first-class prick, thinking his job was to be an asshole instead of a manager. We were delivering one late afternoon on the outskirts of town and I passed a house I had a delivery for. I stopped on a dime about 20 yards past the driveway which on the right side of the road; I was going to back in on the blind side which is not UPS policy.

This uptight supervisor insisted I go down the road, turn around, and come back. Hell no, I thought. What a waste of time. I put the truck in reverse and backed into the driveway like Mario Andretti making a pit stop. The reason few people can backup accurately is because they don't know how to use their mirrors. Mirrors on trucks are essential to getting around and if you use the whole mirror, they're your lifeline, saving you time throughout your day. I could judge both distance and height in them, but I noticed other drivers often pointed their mirrors toward the ground so they could always see the curb, or worse, they were maladjusted and virtually useless to them.

Dogs and delivery men: part 9

Linden, Texas was the setting for a potentially embarrassing scene with a small mixed breed dog. I was trying to deliver a package to the carport door of this house, but while the owners had tied the dog up, it was on a really long leash; long enough to cover the entire carport area. I didn't want to use the front door, since it was obvious it was never used and I wanted them to find the package. What to do?

I had to distract, coerce, or deceive the dog, but this mangy, violent mutt looked like it would sacrifice life and limb to protect its precious carport area. By god, I was gonna deliver that package, come hell or high water because I didn't want to come back the next day.

Solution spotted. There was a short iron pipe lying close to the driveway. I could whop the shit out of this dog, leave the package, and be on my way. With the pipe raised high, ready to rain down a blow on the little bastard's head, suddenly someone from inside the house is opening the carport door! I didn't think anyone was home, and had they seen me about to clobber their dog, what was I going to say, "Sorry about caving in your dog's skull, here's your package; good day!"

It was a young teen girl who took the package and didn't say anything. I quickly got the hell out of there, hoping no one else would come out of the house before I peeled out.

As you can see, my encounters with dogs were more comical than terrorizing, but I'm sure you can relate.

Dogs and delivery men: part 8

In Naples, Texas, one German shepherd lived outside of a house where teens obviously lived, since there were basketballs, baseball bats, a volleyball net, trampoline, and skateboards around. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the German shepherd get up from his resting spot in the backyard and start running toward the truck. At first, the dog appeared happy to have some company since no one was home. But once I got out of the truck and started toward the front door, he became guard dog extraordinaire.

He was not going to allow me on his territory, which was anywhere near the front porch. I wasn't in the mood that day and picked up an aluminum bat and slung it straight at him, hitting him in the head; the blow knocked him down. But he backed down and was quiet the whole time I was there.

Fate must have looked kindly on me that week, because a few days later I was back at the same house. As I pulled in the driveway, the dog meekly stood up, didn't bother to bark or come near me. German shepherds are fast learners when it comes to baseball bats.

Dogs and delivery men: part 7

I had the opportunity to train a few aggressive dogs over the years. The results were mixed. In the rural area of Dekalb, Texas, I pulled up to a house that had a driveway that was about 50 yards long. The owner, along with three pure white chow dogs were outside and all three came running straight toward the truck as soon as I pulled in. I drove slowly up the drive and the smallest of the three dogs was biting at the left front tire of the truck. I figured the man would run out and scream for me to stop to keep from running over the dog, but he had a casual look about him, so I kept going.

Dog owners are unpredictable that way. Some are overly sensitive while others couldn't give a damn what happens to the dog. I'm looking forward up the driveway, wondering where I'll park when all the sudden I felt a speedbump on my left front tire. The howl of an injured dog is unmistakable. I had run over the dog, and while it wasn't dead, it ran off under a brush and howled like I'd killed it.

I was more concerned over the reaction of the owner. What was I going to say when I handed him the package: "That'll teach the little sumbitch to bite my tires," or "Sorry about your retarded dog!"

I was lucky the owner was witness to the whole thing, and he was rational. I left thinking that whole scene could have gotten ugly. I made sure to tell the regular route driver what happened. A few days later the next driver ran into the dog's owner in town and yes, and damn dog had died from his injury!

Evolution works.

Dogs and delivery men: part 6

On another occasion I had the bad fortune of being bitten by a blind 15-year old poodle! The dog's owner also owned one of Texarkana's oldest and best cafeterias. How she put up with this psychotic, spastic, uncontrollable poodle is beyond me.

She came to the door with the blind poodle in her arms, and as I entered the doorway to set the package down, the dog lunged down and bit me right on my left nipple. I set the package down without showing much emotion, but by the time I stand up I'm already feeling it. I backed out of the doorway as if I were a Cirque de Soleil performer bending away from the dog to prevent a second bite from this crazy dog.

Just like the previous poodle owner, this lady never acknowledge the dog had bitten me; she remained oblivious. Fortunately, it left a red mark which was sore, but nothing more, no blood. But that kind of horse shit makes you want to grab the dog and chunk it in the middle of a busy street. Even if they don't hurt at the time, a dog always seems to hit the tender spots and they hurt like hell afterward.

Dogs and delivery men: part 5

I was bitten only once in the fifteen years of delivery work. Both times were small poodles! The first time was in my favorite small town of Atlanta, Texas.

Delivering a package to a lady who had a poodle who barked and ran around excitedly, barked like crazy, but wasn't aggressive. Hard to be scared around a 4-lb. poodle. The lady of the house stood inside the door waiting for me to hand her the package, and I was doing everything I could to ignore the door going nuts at her feet.

As I handed her the package, I felt a quick, sharp, snake-like bit on the back of right ankle just above my shoe. I'm three feet away from her but then I jolted forward as if I'd been tazed. She must have thought I was having a seizure for a split second. I turned to look at what had bitten me and there was the poodle retreating to safe quarters behind the owner, shying away like a little kid who knew he had just done something wrong and was about to be punished for it.

Damn lady never said a word. The bite wound was superficial and barely broke the skin, so I left as if nothing had happened.

Dogs and delivery men: part 4

It's well known that dogs have acute hearing, and the delivery truck's metallic sounds of the axle, doors, and the distinctive sound of their exhaust are easily distinguishable for dogs. In one of the gated communities, one particularly smart dog would meet me early inside the gate and follow me from house to house. Even if I turned and went onto another street, he would cut through yards and meet me on the other side and escort me as I delivered those packages!

Even funnier, this dog would sit in front of the truck, facing the the truck, waiting for you while you delivered. He didn't really pay the driver any attention, but he was raring to go once I started the truck. It was one big game for him every day and I enjoyed him, too.

Dogs and delivery men: part 3

One of the funniest stories with dogs was at a Ballet Supply dance shop in Texarkana. I had known the owner since we were kids. Her small store was in an older, mixed residential/commercial section that had a few homeless folks that would wander, begging for handouts. The store owner had a Dalmatian as a first impression of protection. However, the dog would go wild over anyone in uniform, or any black person he saw. I said "wild," but he was actually extremely excited.

The dog wasn't an attack dog because I played rough with it whenever I went in and the dog seemed to relish the attention. He would run and get a tug rope whenever I entered the store, and he knew when I came in, it was play time. Sometimes I could hardly get the packages in the door without this 125-lb. Dalmatian jumping on me wanting to play. I'd wrestle the tug rope from him and throw it toward the back room. He would bowl over everything in his path to retrieve it, and then the tug of war would start.

Dalmatians are amazingly strong for being so skinny. If I was in the store with the Dalmatian running loose and a customer came in, the dog wouldn't obey the owner and I'd have to corral the dog for her and lock it in the back room! One of the FedEx drivers would sound his horn and have the owner meet him in the parking lot after she'd locked the door in the back.

Dogs and delivery men: part 2

One day I'm at a small business in a residential neighborhood unloading packages from the truck when I heard a dog yelping and come running like something was chasing it. Not a minute later, a mailman drives up and asked if I saw the dog running down the street. He triumphantly tells me that he sprayed the dog because he was running alongside his truck. Takes a lot more than that to piss me off over a dog, and his reaction seemed like an overreaction. My opinion of this mailman was cautious whenever I was around him at lunch.

Being a cover driver my first five years at UPS and constantly being different routes, I was continuously warned about various, aggressive dogs. Surprisingly, I'd go to these same houses and never encounter these "mean dogs" everyone always talked about. One or two might watch me closely, but I didn't have any problems. And that's just the thing with dogs, they are keen to body language, fear, nervousness, apprehension: they sense it quickly. I always walked up to a house as if I owned it. I would usually give the dog commands that the owner might use, such as "Come here!" patting my chest; "Where's your food?" all while maintaining eye contact with it.

Some dogs are coy and sneaky. They won't be aggressive, but when you're not watching, they'll come up behind and nip you. Calihoula dogs are real bad about this, and you know what I mean if you've been around them. One of the best ways to tell the difference between aggression and excitement is to notice what their tails are doing. If the dog isn't snarling its teeth or jumping at you, then the tail tells all. A sideways tail wag is a good sign, meaning the dog is only bluffing and not in kill mode. However, if the dog begins to tuck the tail, then beware, it's wanting to pounce.

Dogs and delivery men: part 1

Everyone has come across a mean dog that made them want to retreat out of fear of being mauled. Over fifteen years as UPS driver has given me several encounters with dogs worth sharing. Postal workers suffer more than anyone else from dog attacks, and if your dog attacks a postal carrier, new rules allow them never to deliver to your home again, forcing you to come to the post office to pick up your mail, even after you get rid of the dog.

I ate lunch regularly with a group of eight guys, two of whom were postal carriers, and they always had a new story about some dog. Few know that the majority of postal carriers never leave home without mace (or pepper spray) while on the job — no to ward off people attacks, but to spray dogs they perceived as aggressive. More likely, the dogs were barking to announce their presence to the visitor, but to hear postal carriers tell their stories, every dog became an attack dog. This was totally strange to me since I rarely had problems even with the meanest dogs.

Nude sunbather number 2

One residential area I delivered to was a rich part of town. The 1990s ushered in giant homes. Four thousand square feet gave way to six thousand which by the turn of the century ran away into a few homes hitting 15,000 square feet! But in this neighborhood, even the older, larger homes were well preserved. One house was owned by a married couple in their 40s with no kids. It had a 6' tall red brick fence surrounding the entire backyard. It included a substantial pool and tennis court. Both were likely constructed during the pool-building, tennis court construction phase of American homebuilding. Now, no one plays tennis except kids in high school on public courts. The leisure game of the 90s was golf for the masses and nouveau riche.

Mail order, which included internet retail, was king in the 90s for the affluent in Texarkana that could jump in the car and run into Nieman-Marcus, Talbot's, or Lord & Taylor's at will in Dallas, which was 200 miles away.

The woman who lived there was a Rachel Ray lookalike, only with full D-cup tits. The husband owned an Automotive Retail/Repair shop which precluded him from being home during the week. I was a frequent visitor to her house, usually once or twice a week. One day during the summer I couldn't get her to the front door, but as a UPS driver, I had developed a sixth sense on whether anyone was home. So I did the next best thing by walking around to the only gate that led to the fully-fenced in backyard which you couldn't see into unless you were 7' tall.

I walked through the gate that was on the right side of the swimming pool, and just inside the gate, I heard a small dog barking from the back door of the house. I'll be damned if I had not noticed my Rachel Ray twin stretched out on a lounge chair. Thanks to the dog, I did now! She wasn't startled by my presence; in fact, she casually stood up at a profiled angle, picked up her bikini top and put it on as easily as tipping a hat. Those D-cups stopped me in my tracks. Hell, all time and space stopped as I took in those glorious boobs.

Told her I was sorry, that I could get her at the front door. But since we were acquainted, she wasn't angry or nervous. She walked over, signed for the package and said, "Don't worry. I'm sure you've seen your share of naked women before."

My first two comeback thoughts were: (a) "Not really. Why not get butt-naked and we'll see!" and (b) "Next time I'll expect complete nudity." But fortunately I didn't verbalize those thoughts.

After that, I only saw her sunbathing one other time, and she was completely nude, laying on a beach towel. However, she covered up quickly when she heard someone come through the back gate, unaware it was old UPS buddy. I was certain she had spotted me at other times looking at her when I drove by in the truck, looking through the gate. I had to stand up in the seat and stretch out to see if anyone was in the yard, but each time she was either clothed or in her bikini doing various tasks in the yard.

I chalked it up to new modesty on her part and not a naturally voyeuristic UPS driver!

Jogging during work

A lot of people exercise during their workday, right? Lunchtime walks are probably the most common. But I always felt inclined to stay in shape, and jogging was half my workout routine. One summer I was assigned to one of the rural northwest Texas routes in the western parts of Bowie and Red River counties. There were naturally fewer deliveries in the summer as schools were out and many businesses shifted outside.

While there may have been fewer deliveries, there was more ground to cover throughout the day. Out there, I could make up small amounts of time by driving like a bat out of hell! I was paid by the hour and many days I could be be back at the UPS terminal by 5p if I skipped lunch and rushed all day. But who in their right mind sets out to limit their pay when they have the American dream to pay for? Wife, kids, mortgage, unnecessary luxury items you don't need don't come cheap. Being in no hurry to get back to the terminal, I came up with a novel idea to kill time and help myself — jog!

There was a long, fairly straight, blacktop road that had very little traffic on it at 4p every day. I was done for the day anyway, so I'd take off my UPS shirt, and in my brown pants and black shoes would jog up and down this 3/4 mile stretch of country road for about 30-45 minutes.

A few days later a man from a business I delivered to in the area came upon me jogging down the road and he stopped, thinking the truck had broken down and perhaps I'd lost it and went crazy. A quick explanation and he was off. I got my exercise in and had people wondering about my sanity.

That summer was the only time I ever exercised on the job, and it didn't last for long. Funny how you get into odd and quirky moods that motivate you to step outside all normal activity. Any other time, I would hole up in an air-conditioned convenience store with a good magazine rack and read up on the latest, courtesy of UPS!

School buses and narrow dirt roads

The small town of Dekalb, Texas sits within Bowie County, whose claim to fame is the burial place of Bonanza star Dan Blocker, who played Hoss Cartwright. Dan died in 1972 of a pulmonary embolism at age 44, but not before starting the Bonanza steak house restaurant chain. County roads out that way are mainly dirt and gravel, and not much gravel at that. Winters are always rainy, and drivers cut a path down the center of these roads, forming 2-wheel rather than 3-wheel lanes the rest of the year.

They're really 1.5 lanes, because when you meet someone coming the opposite direction, one of you has to ride one wheel off in the ditch to get by. The roads are graded by big road graders that crown the road in the center so water will run off to its ditches carved on each side. It sounds better than the reality, where it's difficult to get over far enough and not ditch your own vehicle.


It's late afternoon and I'm out in rural Bowie County delivering on these sloppy dirt roads when I met a school bus coming my way. Looking ahead, there are no driveways between him and me and we're 100 yards apart. Being cautious, I'm barely moving forward, trying to figure how we're going to get past one another without swapping paint and mirrors.

I noticed the jackass in the school bus wasn't slowing down, instead, barreling down on me like we were on a state highway. I inched over as far as I could without sliding into the ditch and stopped the truck. I figured this bus driver goes down this road every day, so maybe he knows more than I do on judging the width of the road. Yet instead of slowing as he approached, he's going no less than 20mph as he comes upon me. This SOB must be crazy! He had a kamikaze damned-if-I'm-stopping-now look in his eyes whose idea of safe driving is get the hell out of his way.

I see the dozen or so kids on board as he goes by and unable to correct his steering ever so slightly, he slides in the ditch just past me. That doesn't slow him down; this guy starts flooring it, throwing mud like big truck contest, and not making any progress, his right wheels grind to a halt in the mud. The bus is leaning so far to the right, he can't open the door, so the kids exit through the back door. I ran back to offer assistance, but the driver must have been a Mennonite. He ignored me completely and barked at the students, "Who's got a tractor close by?" One of the students spoke up and jumped out the back door, heading up the road in the direction the bus was going getting stuck.

The driver didn't want my help, so I continued on. To this day, I've never understood the guy's thinking how barreling down a muddy, narrow country dirt road as if no one was there wasn't a stupid thing to do. I wonder how many other times he had slid off into the ditch and got stuck? Idiots.

Nude sunbather number 1

One summer day I was delivering on the outskirts of Texarkana, right outside the city limits where the lots are bigger and the houses sit off the road considerably further than city lots. I came to my next delivery point and it was a residential home with a gravel driveway, which was sloped upward from the main road for about 20 yards. I couldn't even see the house at first when pulling in.

If you've ever been around a UPS truck for any length of time, you know that they have a distinct sound and shape. I got up the driveway where it leveled off to the house, about approximately 75 yards off the road.

I immediately noticed a figure or body of someone going into the house. I thought, now why are they going into the house when I'm coming to them to deliver a package I'm sure someone is waiting for? They must have heard the truck drive up and noticed it was UPS before I spotted them.

Once I got out of the truck, I noticed a chaise lounge chair sitting in the yard, just a little ways from the door where the person went through. At first glance, nothing was unusual: it was early afternoon, about 12.30p, no cars around, so probably no one home... except I had seen someone dart into the house out of the side of my eye. There was a towel on the chair, and on the ground next to the chair lay a tiny, two-piece bikini!

Now I'm entertaining all kinds of wild thoughts, filling in the blanks of this situation. Likely it was some lonely, young 20-something girl with a hot bod that might want to get busy — at least that's what I wanted to be the situation. I knocked on the door and as it slowly opened from the other side, there's someone standing in a beach towel. Now it's time to get busy, right?

Uh, no, as in hell no.

Standing in front of me was a girl of no more than 11 or 12 years old! That was the girl who ran into the house as I drove up. And she wasn't a normal-sized preteen or a bigger one, she was not only petite, but shaped like a beanpole. You can imagine how my perspective on "the situation" I was dreaming up was instantly turned inside-out in my head. I didn't say a word; just handed her the package and said, 'See ya later!" and got the hell out of there.

Kids alone and an male adult is a deadly mix. I can imagine someone driving up, seeing me standing there — even with a truck and a package — with a naked kid and they would jump to all the worst conclusions. Next thing you know, the kid is lying to keep from getting in trouble, the cops are taking her statement that I attempted to barge into the house and assault her, and I'd be left with the truth no one believed. Best course of action? Get the hell out as fast as possible.

After I was a safe distance from the house, I laughed so hard, thinking here is this small sunbathing nude in her parents' front yard (couldn't do this in the back yard?). Who was she trying to impress with a full tan! Ah, it takes all kinds.

Teen in a towel

I was delivering in Atlanta, Texas during the late 1980s, a town of 10,000 residents that possessed an abnormally high percentage of hot babes. For example, there was a blond high school senior girl I enjoyed seeing who worked part-time at a pharmacy who looked like Jessica Simpson's twin, but even hotter!

Delivering in small towns like Atlanta had its advantages, such as getting to know people at the local businesses as well as where these people lived. It was doubly convenient, because if they lived five miles outside of town, I could often leave the package with them at work in town, saving time, mileage, and the customer always appreciated having their package in hand rather than sitting outside all day. This also left me more time to socialize with all the pretty women in that town while they were working.

As it happened, one guy for whom I had a package was not at work. However, I knew his daughter, a hot 16-17 year old babe that could pass for 22 anyday, complete with a tight little Playboy hardbody. I arrived after 5p and noticed that only the daughter's car was there. I go to the side door which everyone in the family uses, knock and wait a couple of minutes when suddenly the door swung open all the way and standing there is the daughter.

My damn jaw must have hit the ground, since the door was a good 18 inches higher than the stoop, so I'm looking up at this knockout teenaged girl standing in the doorway, hair dripping into a towel, obviously having just got out of the shower. The towel she had around her body wasn't covering all the goods, as both her tits and bush were partially exposed and she knew it. Ha, ha, an exhibitionist in the making, I thought. With the height of my head being at her crotch, there I stood staring straight into pussy heaven — fresh, clean bush, puffy labia, tan marks, the works.

I know she knew that that the towel was purposefully short, because it barely covered the taut nips on her heavy C-cup breasts. She was at that age where her tits were bursting out of her chest and had not yet settled into the fuller, adult shape. I tried to get her to take the package from me and risk dropping the towel, but she still retained a small bit of modesty, smiling and acting happy to see me. Damn, she didn't take it, but motioned for me to set it inside the door.

I took a chance and told her, "Damn you look good wet and just in a towel!" Smiling like a beauty contestant, she brushed aside the compliment with the reason of being late for the country club if she didn't show up in 30 minutes. The sight was divine, and to this day I'll never forget her stunning teen beauty. Unfortunately, I only saw her one more time before my route changed to a regular everyday route back in Texarkana.

You should be dead, Part 2

To my amazement, the woman inside the car, a woman in her 60s, was still sitting in the driver's seat like nothing had happened, looking straight ahead, trying to gather her senses with no signs of injuries — not even a scratch from all the shattered glass glittering her hair. I helped her stand upright in the now topless car, and with a slight high-step, she walked out, a little dazed but quite coherent. I grabbed her purse and escorted her to the side of the road. I made sure there wasn't anything else in the car the lady needed and asked if I could call someone for her. She said her daughter.

When the wreck first happened, there were only three vehicles in the area — the truck, the car, and my UPS truck. Now with the lady on the shoulder, there were no less than a dozen people out of nowhere.

The truck driver pulling the chemical trailer (containing powdered portland cement) was as drunk as could be. An ambulance was en route and onlookers insisted she go to the hospital for observation just to be safe. The entire incident took less than 15 minutes. I contacted her daughter, and then continued on my delivery route, as if nothing was different.

Just another day on the road.

You should be dead, Part 1

What started out on a clear and sunny day as a typical UPS delivery day suddenly changed on HWY 59, ten miles south of Texarkana. I came upon the rural traffic light at the Domino, Texas community intersecting to turn left to go to the International Paper Mill, my first and largest delivery stop of the day.

While waiting for the traffic light to turn green, I noticed the only other car, which was heading north, opposite my way. Coming up behind the car and gaining my full attention was a tractor-trailer big rig pulling a chemical tanker directly in front of the car. I'm thinking for a split second that this guy in the tractor-trailer rig is going to run this red light in a rural area on a divided 4-land highway with a 55mph limit at that time.

That big truck kept coming closer and closer, and within 20 feet of the car, the tractor-trailer driver tries to make an avoidance maneuver to keep from plowing into the back of that car. The truck's left-swerve wasn't enough, and he clipped the rear left of the car, punching it into the intersection. The truck's right front wheel so easily ran over the back left side of the car, it seemed no more than hitting a speedbump for him.

It crushed the car like you would stomp an aluminum can with your foot. The truck driver instinctively hit the brakes, locking up the trailer's tires, sending the tanker trailer into a jackknife, sliding on its own momentum to the right, hitting the car squarely, running up the back and over the top. The base of the car peeled from the top, and was dragged another 50 feet down the highway.

The truck itself further slid into a grassy area off the right shoulder of the north-bound lane, coming to a full stop and luckily remaining upright, and avoiding a chemical spill. But then my eyes went back to the car and what had to be a macabre scene.

Country driveways, Part 2

The first thing that tips you on what kind of people and place you're dealing with is the makeshift barbed-wire gate across the dirt road leading to the trailer. Its construction was typical: tree limbs about 5' long and no more than 2" diameter. Three of these limbs were spaced equally apart, standing vertically with three strands of wire strung across horizontally, connecting all three limbs to make a gate.

Now that type of gate is the poor man's answer for keeping their prized horse or cow penned in — all of which poor rural folks couldn't afford the feed for the animal, but hey, they've got to start somewhere if they're trying to live the fictional western TV family (Cartwright dreamers) type of life. That's the people, now the challenge to deliver to the home comes.

I'm sitting there shining my lights on this "driveway," which is guaranteed to get me stuck up to my axles. Whether I gun it or take it slow doesn't seem to matter. Hell has to be paid. I decided to go for faster is better, and damn if the mud wasn't flying everywhere, truck bouncing and flailing away, tires trying to grip anything solid — do these people perform these daredevil dirt stunts just to get in and out of their own damn driveway twice a day?! The Ford-branded U-Haul sounded like a jet taking off since I've got it floored and probably doing 30mph in that short space.

After taking the package to the house, you figure it'd be easier to get out. Wrong again. Now I'll admit that on the occasion these people weren't home, leaving the driveway was play time. I would put the U-Haul in drive and floor it turning the wheel just enough and throwing mud and water like a water skier behind a boat. They call it mudding in those parts of the woods, but I call it fun — especially when you're using someone else's truck, and getting paid all the while!

Country driveways, Part 1

While I was a cover driver for UPS during the peak of Christmas season, they would created a route for me, usually a NE Texas rural route. Lucky me, I got to use a U-Haul truck again that year for the five week peak season. The far western part of Rural Bowie County Texas is nothing but dirt roads save for a few state highways. The dirt roads were bad enough, but I never understood rural folks and their dirt driveways.

Seldom would any of them put any effort into constructing a solid base for a driveway like gravel more than mere cover, which was absorbed into the mud after the first rain. I swear most just had a dirt path from the house to the road and when that path got too rough or muddy, these rural bumpkins would start a new path next to the old one! Some even had summer and winter driveways.

This particular winter, one couple living in a trailer house set back off the road about 200 yds. was mail ordering quite regularly 2-3 times a week. Being a rainy December, every time I arrived at their trailer toward the end of my route, it was always nightfall, and that's when the fun (not) would begin.

Delivering UPS packages out of U-Haul truck, part 3

The only kind of trooper I like.

Bitch can pull me over any day.

Delivering UPS packages out of U-Haul truck, part 2

While delivering in one of these U-Haul trucks on a NE Texas route toward the end of the day, I was trying to find a house on the major highway in the area surrounding the Texas State Troopers Commercial Truck Inspection Station. One of the troopers noticed me coming toward them and I pulled into the driveway of a house. Luckily, there was someone outside that house who told me where to find the address I was looking for. I had already passed it, so I turned around and went the other direction on the highway, away from the inspection station.

You can guess what comes next. I pull up at the correct house and even before I can clearly get out of the U-Haul, a state trooper is right on the rear bumper, jumping out of his car, hand on his gun, thinking I'm probably a drug trafficker trying to avoid the inspection station.

Once the trooper sees me in my UPS uniform, he will figure out that I'm just delivering packages and trying to find a house. Hell naw, this guy was obviously overexcited since he had run me down from the inspection station, asking why I was trying to avoid the station. Told him I wasn't trying to avoid anything, but was trying to find the right house. I asked him what the hell he thought I was doing anyway!

That really got him going, and this would not be the last time I would be "greeted" by the Texas State Troopers while driving a U-Haul truck for UPS.

One day, I was fortunate to get one of the few U-Haul trucks that was not governed. It would run 90-95 topped out, and during Christmas time every UPS driver is stressed for time amidst increased traffic and extreme package volumes. Normally during non-holidays, deliveries would total about 100-110/day, but would double throughout December. Almost everyday I was pushing against the time limit for returning to the UPS building by 7:30p. Predictably, I'd see the FedEx truck about 20 miles outside of Texarkana and I would run 80-90mph all the way back.

Only once did a Texas State Trooper catch me running 77 on his radar. I was more likely doing 85 when I saw him. That mistake cost me over $100 in the late '80s, which ruined a day's pay.

Delivering UPS packages out of U-Haul truck, part 1

Yes this happens sometimes, especially when more families sent Christmas packages and mail order was king before the internet split parcel delivery among many parcel services. (When I started, FedEx was still up and coming.) In the early and mid-1980s, UPS truck availability was limited. UPS would rent U-Haul trucks to get the packages out on time. It was a love-hate relationship with those trucks.

First, there were no shelves to keep packages from sliding or to put them in sequence for delivery. Imagine moving everything in your garage to one corner, and then needing a pair of pliers. Not fun.

The trick is to load as many packages as possible on the passenger side, deliver them, and then sort again. I hated doing this because it was a time sink — most of the day was spent shifting and sorting packages rather than delivering them. Getting them all there during business hours during holidays made it more difficult. However, the good part of driving a U-Haul truck was its automatic transmission, air-conditioner/heater, and AM/FM radio — three amenities that were never available in UPS's brown trucks.

Hello Holiday Inn — Damn, that was a close call!

At the beginning of my days at UPS, a supervisor was riding along and training me on a delivery route. We were also covering that route for the driver who was on vacation. Holiday Inn turned out to be the first commercial delivery of the day, and at the time, many of these motels had awnings or covered driveways around the front door. I'm nervous as hell trying to remember all the stuff he was throwing at me, and while driving up I'm trying to determine how to park as close to the front door I'll use when delivering the package — "the UPS way."



As I approach the front door, which appeared to have a newly constructed covered driveway that read, "12'2" Clearance." And the UPS truck is 12'6" tall, so you can see the catastrophe unfolding before me.

The supervisor starts screaming, "Stop, stop, you're going to hit the overhead awning!"

I recognized the problem before he'd finished the first "stop" and slammed the brakes, bringing the truck to a dead stop. I thought the supervisor almost cut his skull in half considering how hard he hit the window and flat dash on the passenger side. But at least I didn't get fired. There are no second chances with UPS. One "preventable" accident and you're gone, period.

For the next seventeen years I did not forget about vehicle height, and kept myself off the front page, off of sites like Fark.com, and clear from the police blotter.

Robbin Ridling authors this blog

Before I go further with this blog, I wanted to make it clear that Robbin Ridling writes this blog. I relay the contents to another and he inputs the posts. In fact, to establish a broader google presence, I'll sign each post with my name, 'Robbin Ridling.'

- Robbin Ridling

Trying to learn unfamiliar areas, part 4

How would I know which house the package went to when there are four houses close by and all four mailboxes were unnamed and on one post? This is where a driver's instincts kick in, and when that fails, deductive reasoning and when that fails, an educated guess.


For example, 90% of the time, delivery drivers know what's inside a package. Knowing that, it's a matter of sizing up the house it should go to, and when you think about it, is not hard to figure out.

Say John Jones lives at Route 2 Bx 44, which is among a cluster of house on a hill. John's package is coming from Bass Pro Shops from Springfield, Missouri. Such a package would most likely go to the house with the bass boat sitting in the garage or at the side of the house in plain view from the road.

When you're on the job, the task of finding, verifying, and then delivering the parcel is never too difficult... or too easy.

Trying to learn unfamiliar areas, part 3

I would consistently run into people in public, such as the mall, a sporting event, Wal-Mart, etc., who would say hello to me as if they'd known me all my life. Problem was, I couldn't remember their name for the life of me, so as they greeted me I'd quickly try to remember the address and work backward to their name, hoping to remember. Rarely did that work, although I could remember what their house or business looked like.

Many times when tracing box numbers along an unfamiliar rural route, I would follow the rural mail carrier's route, since they had originally assigned those numbers. I would search for an address only to arrive in a fork in the road or a 4-way stop. Now which way do I go! One of the best tricks is to get out of the delivery truck, and already knowing the tire print of the rural mail carrier (it's there every day at almost every box), and see which way the mail carrier went.

Never underestimate the amount of evidence that can be left on a dirt or desert road. Lots of crimes have been solved in the desert by a truck pulling off the road and into the desert to discard or bury a body. Paved roads give you nothing, unless it's a dirty tire track leading or leaving it.

Trying to learn unfamiliar areas, part 2

I was a cover driver for the first five years; that is, I covered other drivers' routes when they were not on that day or week due to illness or vacation. I went to work every day not knowing exactly whether I'd be working in or out of town, often another county away. I covered much of the rural area of Northeast Texas and some of southwest Arkansas, numbering around 16-20 different routes.

I was lost for the first couple of months, but once I got an accurate county map of the two Texas counties I covered regularly and started plugging in route addresses on different county roads, everything become clear. Some drivers memorized the customers' names but a name is secondary to the address information. Memorizing names would be a waste of time, since the address would remain the same, but the name changes regularly among rental properties, for example. Still, some drivers prided themselves on being able to remember customers' names, but thirty seconds after the package left my hand, I had already forgot your name, but never your address!