Jason S. Harry

Warning: In order for this tragic story to make sense, it’s required that you have already read my previous story, “ Struggling With a new Policy ”. If you have not read it, please click here and do so. If you have read it, you have my permission to continue on. This time, friends: I have really done it. I had just completed a nine-stop mostly-Pittsburgh trip and I was happy to be heading home, even though I wouldn’t be making it back until the next morning. Just making it back from Pittsburgh is acceptable enough, but not having any symptoms of post-traumatic Pittsburgh stress syndrome left me feeling downright happy. Like most days on the road, there is always some strange story to tell. Today was no different; I thought about the morning’s incident on Route 376 heading into the evil empire of Pittsburgh. I wanted to tell the story of how traffic was backed up for miles and no one seemed to know why. I wanted to tell the story of how I finally found out why the traffic was so night...

I think it was me who said, “To be so opinionated on everything I see is my curse. To be able to express those opinions through writing is my gift.” Yes, I am sure it was me because I just checked my Facebook Fan Page and it’s written right there on the wall. By the way, I noticed I’m up to a whooping nine fans (eight if I don’t count myself), which furthers my belief that my opinions are wildly popular, and millions of people surely must be waiting patiently for my next opinion piece. To be fair, I should mention that I never really did anything with my Facebook page (including updating it), mostly because I’m not real comfortable editing a page that contains my name and people who “like” it. I’m simply not that narcissistic in real life. My website’s statistics, however, suggest people do enjoy what I have to say, and I thank my loyal readers for returning yet again. I also just noticed that my truck recently started her very own Facebook page, which you can visit by clicking here . ...

I’m an easily distracted writer. Six years into my chosen career of truck driving and I finally have enough thoughts assembled to complete my first book. That is, if I ever can find the time. It can be frustrating, to have the mind of a writer dwelling in the body of a truck driver, but until writing pays more than trucking, this is the arrangement I am stuck with. I hold confidence that one day; with a little luck and a lot of effort on my part, a balance shall be struck. It wouldn’t bring a single tear to my eyes if I became a writer and truck driving was a thing of the past. As much as I’m committed to spending the dark and dreary days of winter finishing the book, things (namely, life) keep getting in the way. Take for instance that angry Policeman in Framingham, Massachusetts that I wrote about in my previous story . I didn’t need, or want, a story to just come about like that. I guess I could have sat in a smoky bar and told some friends about a mean Police Officer I ran into, bu...

If there is anyone (outside of perhaps, Hunter S. Thompson ) more qualified to write about client-customer relations with the police, it might just be me. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but I can say with certainty that most (but not all) of our encounters occurred during my reckless youth that I prefer to think of as “good times gone bad because men with badges showed up.” I’ve never been charged, or cited for anything terrible like assault against another, or even worse, singing along to a love song authored by a nineties teenage boy band. As crazy and out of hand as I’ve let situations become over the years, even I know when to draw the line. I recently had an encounter with a Policeman in the lovely little hamlet of Framingham, Massachusetts that somehow led me to reminisce about some of the times I’ve had the luck (or lack thereof) to find myself face-to-face with someone well informed on the law and whose job it is to enforce it. I should mention that I don’t believe there ...

I was driving my car home from work the other night, reflecting on all the humor that transpired over the past week of my working life when a song came on the radio: Rhythm of the night by Corona. I laughed when I thought that given the events of the last week, the rhythm of my life is comedy. That’s okay with me; after all, comedic things make me smile and laugh. I also feel blessed that my life is not marred in tragedy or sadness. While some of the week’s events were pure comedy, other parts were so frustrating that I had to laugh. I’m also blessed with an amazing ability to stare down the anguish of frustration with a smile on my face. I can’t help it though. I love to smile. Heck, even when I’m getting yelled at, sometimes the person yelling is acting so outrageous that I can’t help but smile. The yellers always hate when I do that, just ask any of my teachers from Kindergarten on up through high school. Or even the occasional Cop. The laugh-fest started on Sunday afternoon. A beau...