1964 while with Wimco Steel my life was a non stop excitement. Something new and different would come up every trip. Never while working for Izzy was it ever boring. We were also known in the industry as Izzy’s Gypsies.

This one trip in particular, I had taken a rush load of steel plate to Sydney, Nova Scotia practically non stop. I headed back to Fredericton, New Brunswick to pick up a load of scrap automotive batteries for Izzy’s recycling yard in Toronto. The truck I was driving was a B-61 Mack conventional cab; no sleeper. Sydney was about 1,300 miles one way. I slept over the steering wheel or cramped up on the seat. By the time I had returned to the Quebec / Ontario border at my regular fuel stop, I was totally beat out, exhausted. There were no log books in Canada at this time. You ran until you could not stay awake, flaked out for a couple hours and then carried on.

There was a small gas station in the village of St. Zotique, Quebec. It had 2 gas pumps, and 1 diesel pump, on the corner of the small building. When fuelling up, the property was so small that my tractor and 36 foot trailer covered 2/3 rd’s of the front of the building. The owner had come here with his wife and kids to start a business. He only had enough money for a load of fuel, and a week’s supply of food, for the whole family who moved into the gas station.

He was a great mechanic and progressed at a steady pace. Izzy had set up a fuel account with him, and we just pulled in fuelled and signed out.

On this particular trip, I pulled in and was ready to fuel up when Real (French pronunciation) said that I could not fuel up today. Why? What’s wrong? Well Izzy owes me about 3 thousand dollars for fuel and I cannot carry him any more, I’m going broke, and will lose everything if I don’t get my money.

Well I did not have enough fuel to get home, and I was tired and dispositionally ugly.  I asked Real, would it be worth a steak dinner and a bed at the local hotel if I got his money for him. He said he would add all the beer I wanted with the steak if I could pull it off. You got a deal.

I asked if he knew of a local Sheriff or Bailiff that he could call. He said yes, he was a friend of the family. Well I told Real to give him a call and to get him over here right now. He did so, and the bailiff was here in 30 minutes. It was really good because the bailiff had a real heavy French accent and spoke broken English. I told Real that I was calling Izzy and demanding him to pay his fuel bill to keep me and the truck from being impounded. It’s not like Izzy was struggling financially, because he had money coming out of his ears, and just liked playing games with all the creditors.

I advised the Bailiff and Real that they were going to impound the truck and load, and that it would not leave the province of Quebec until they received full payment on the account. Will you back me up on this? Yes was their answer.

I called Izzy collect, and started talking fast and in a very angry mood. What the hells going on? You did not pay your fuel bill here. The Bailiff showed up and put the clamps on the truck. They seized and put a lien on it for failure to pay. If you think that for one minute that I am going to jail for you, you are crazy. If I do, and when I get out, you will see me as you have never seen me before. Now get me out of this. His response was that; they can’t do that. I responded with what are you talking about? They already have. Here talk to him yourself, the bailiff got on the phone in his heavy French accent and corroborated what I said. I grabbed the phone back and screamed at Izzy; you have 30 minutes to get me out of here, and then hung up.

Real and the bailiff were visibly shaken at the proceedings. I on the other hand was too tired to be upset. I told them to relax, that I think that Izzy knows me and my temper enough that he will come through on time. Fortunately, just around the corner from Izzy’s yard was a Canadian Pacific Telegraph office, and it was only 20 minutes later a call came in that Real’s money was in. They could not believe it.

I told him to call ahead to the St Zotique Hotel and tell them that I am coming and want a beer, steak and a bed in that order. It was a regular truckers hangout, and was only a 1/4 mile down the road. By the time I pulled into the lot, parked ran up the front stairs, and into the bar, a quart of my favourite beer was sitting at the table waiting for me. As I grabbed my first sip Leo (the owner) yelled out; how do you want this porterhouse steak cooked? Your room is ready when you are. No charge.

I was really beat. I downed a couple quarts of beer had a great steak and then flaked out till the next morning.

In the end, Real got his money; I got a well deserved meal and rest, and Izzy’s credit carried on. When I got home Izzy asked if all was OK with me. I said yes for now, and then all was forgotten.

That was his way of operating. He also respected me and valued my work, and was quite aware of my explosive temper at times. Work wise, I always gave him my best, and he always made money by me, and in return he pretty well looked after whatever I asked for. He would scream allot, but eventually he gave in.

  ---------------- William (Diesel Gypsy) Weatherstone.                          RETURN TO STORY MENU