When you break a dump truck, itâs a pretty traumatic experience. You definitely donât advertise it and you might even be tempted to lie about it. Or maybe itâs just me.
Yes, you read that correctly. I broke a dump truck. I didnât crash it, roll it, let it run away on a hill or back into something. In fact, it wasnât even moving at the time. But I broke it anyway. Itâs actually easier than you think.
I was 18 or 19 years old and working for the local school district maintenance department. It wasnât a particularly high skilled profession, but it paid decently and I needed money for the next school year. My days were spent cutting the grass at various schools, delivering boxes of paper, landscaping and doing other small maintenance jobs. I was one of the few that had a driverâs license suitable to drive the dump truck so from time to time I was dispatched to pick up loads of dirt or gravel. Most days I would also tow a large trailer with a loader which was used to fill the dump truck. There was a sequence of events that happened each morning. Raise the box of the truck get rid of any rainwater or debris, then lower it again. Install the heavy trailer hitch onto the truck. Back up to hitch the trailer. Drive the loader onto the trailer, then secure it with several chains. At night, everything in reverse. That was the order of the tasks that had to be used. Every time. No alternates allowed.
It was a Friday afternoon and Iâd been running late. When I arrived at the shop my body was tired but my mind had fast forwarded to the weekend. Thoughts of hanging out with friends, swimming in the lake and playing some baseball consumed my brainpower. That stuff was way more interesting than focusing on the truck and trailer âput awayâ sequence that I had successfully done several times in the past. Still thinking about the fun of the next 48 hours, I backed up the truck, drove the loader off, parked and disconnected the trailer, moved the truck to itâs parking spot then quickly used the hydraulic controls to lift the box, wanting it to be clean for the upcoming week.
I was halfway done when I heard the creaking. Assuming it was a hinge that needed some grease, I kept my hands on the controls, the box continuing its journey up. It was only when the entire vehicle shuddered that my mind snapped back into the reality of the moment. I instantly stopped the box, pulling my hand away from the controls, panic flooding me. I did a cursory scan of the unit, knowing instinctively that the problem had something to do with the box being raised. Seeing nothing obvious I ran to the back of the truck.
Which is when I saw the lower part of the box wedged against the very strong trailer hitch which was bolted directly into the frame of the truck. The hitch I had forgotten to remove because Iâd been thinking about weekend frivolity. I immediately wanted to fix it, or even better, go back in time five minutes and start over. But neither of those were options so in a fit of insanity, I decided that it was time for a good old fashioned coverup. With haste (and great difficulty) I managed to remove the trailer hitch and stow it in its rightful place, then surveyed the damage. Some paint scraped and a dent in the lower part of the box was all I could see. âOKâ I told myself, âitâs not that bad. Iâm sure no one will notice.â Apparently, my temporary insanity was being reinforced by an equally powerful state of delusion.
Monday morning. The weekend had been a wreck with fear of reprisal stalking me at every turn. Danny my boss told me Iâd be cutting a lawns at a nearby elementary school, which was fine with me. I wanted to out of the shop as soon as possible.Â
I had one foot out the door when Charlie, a perpetually early riser and normal operator of the truck poked his head into the room. âThereâs something wrong with the dump truck.â
I froze, wanting to run but unable to move.
âWhat is itâ? asked Danny.
âWell, the box is dented and I canât get the hitch attachedâ replied Charlie.
Danny turned towards me. âKeith, didnât you have the truck on Friday?â
âUh, yeah, I didâ I stammered.
âAnything wrong with it?â continued Danny.
âNopeâ I muttered.
Danny questioned Charlie. âAnyone use it on the weekend?â
âDonât think so. The gateâs been locked the whole time.â
âHmm, well thatâs weirdâ said Danny, stating the obvious. âWell, if thereâs some damage we had better get it to the repair shop and make sure itâs safe.â
âIâm on itâ Charlie said and disappeared.
Given my enduring state of terror I was shocked I was able to get the lawn tractor started let alone cut the grass with any level of professionalism. When I was dragged into the office and confronted â the truck frame was bent and it was going to cost a lot and you lied and we should fire you right now andâŚwell, I was in a strange way relieved. I deserved to be fired but at least now I didnât have to contain and perpetuate the lie. Ultimately they let me keep the job but I lived in a state of shame. Keith the liar. Keith the guy who canât follow simple directions. Keith the guy who wrecks things. They didnât say any of this. They didnât have to â I was busy defining myself that way.
It took me a surprisingly long time to figure out how to not feel that way. The answer should have been simple, but sometimes I suppose one needs to feel the full effect before the lesson gets learned. Fast forward to 1987. I was now working as a repairman in a factory that made trucks similar to the one I broken. We had all been working long hours and I was, once again but this time with complete surprise, dragged into the foremanâs office and informed that I had neglected to fill a differential with oil. For those that donât speak the language known as âtruckâ, a differential is the part where the driveshaft meets the axle â it's big and full of rotating parts and is pretty important. When it was in final testing it seized up (thatâs a bad thing). âSee, thatâs your clock number on the inspection sheet.â
I looked at the paper he held in front of me. âThatâs my number but not my writingâ I countered. And it wasnât. I couldnât recall even working on that vehicle, which had a unique custom paint job and would have been memorable. They launched an inquiry and eventually cleared me. Someone else had written my number on the sheet. On purpose? In error? Iâd never know since they didnât tell me who it was. But Iâve never forgotten how it made me feel, being accused of something I didnât do. Infuriated that I had to defend myself. Angry that somehow I now had a stain on my record. Then I recalled that day when I had done pretty much the same thing. Lied to get myself out of trouble. Set up someone else, although I didnât know who, to take the fall. There was nothing good about any of it.
It was, however, a good lesson to learn even though I was late to the party. When I was a little kid I would sometimes lie to avoid the consequences of my actions (âit must have been my sister that ate the last cookieâ) but I didnât have an adult view of the world. Now the lesson had come full circle and I truly understood the importance of honesty and how the lack of it could hurt people, especially me.
Years later, when working for a utility I had the responsibility to identify and secure suitable locations for high voltage substations and transmission lines. Part of my job included holding town hall meetings with local residents to let them know our plans and educate them on what we were building and why. It became apparent quickly that most people have huge assumptions and very little knowledge about power infrastructure and at times it would have been easy to pull the wool over their eyes. I could have let them think the facilities would look or operate in a certain benign way, then let them kick and scream once the construction was done, when they couldnât do anything about it. But thatâs not only wrong, it always backfires. Because honesty is not about facts, itâs about trust. And it you canât be trusted, you have nothing.
On occasion Iâve been honest to a fault. A few years ago I was at a social event and a dear colleague asked me to take a picture of him and his wife. Taking his phone I snapped a quick picture, just one, and handed it back. On the trip back to the hotel they looked at it and it was not her best look, eyes closed and hair awry. My co-worker remarked that my photography skills were lacking and I simply stated âthe camera doesnât lie.â He was shocked, she was hurt. My effort to deflect his comment came at the expense of his wifeâs dignity. If I knew that honesty is the best policy, I obviously had little understanding that discretion is the better part of valour.
Iâm nor professing to be an angel, that Iâm not tempted from time to time to sling a little spin as a way to make the discussion a bit easier, at least in the short term. So why am I telling you all of this? I mean, we are all supposed to know by the time we are in grade school that telling the truth is necessary. But the fact is that we live in a world of complex issues, and you undoubtedly have knowledge on some topic, whatever that might be, that others donât have and need. Every day we hear politicians, journalists, industry peers, neighbours and family members telling us things that are biased, shaded in favour of the outcome they want, even if itâs at the expense of someone else.  Or many others.  Conveniently missing facts, amped up rhetoric and poor analysis are at play in so many conversations.
We need to be better than that. If we truly want to make the world a better place or merely just treat people with respect, it starts with honesty.
We will all be better for it.