Tolling for Dollars

Among the handful of constants in this life – death, taxes, overcooked asparagus – one such constant bears investigating. I speak of tolls, that unavoidable fact drivers in America face day after day after day. But what’s inside that booth? Who’s collecting our money, and why do we thank them for taking our cash? These and many more questions await me as I spend a day in Hooksett as a toll operator.

I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.

I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”

Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.

From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.

Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.

Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”

I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.

There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.

“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.

Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.

Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.

A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.

A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.

One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.

My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”

“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.

“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.

This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.

One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”

This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.

Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.

One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.