Rip.
I should have said something else. When I was sitting there at the bar, looking at my friend and told her that there was a moment between us that I had recalled in my mind, I told her it was comforting. I probably should have said something else. There had to have been something else I could have said, but just didn't.
It was true. An image, a feeling did reoccur in my head after a previous moment took place. But that moment was mine and I let it loose, giving it words, and sharing the thought. When it was mine the cushion was softer. Shared, the feeling faded and becomes less intimate. Blown: the memory is less memorable. And not just mine.
So, what do I do? Keep it all in and share nothing? No. Maybe it's best to share things with people that don't know the other. Bring in an independent third party for feeling interpretation. It might mean something else. Or nothing at all. I'm clueless when it comes to this. Result: the only girl in my life is a four-year old, four legged, fur friend.
F-i-g-u-r-e-s:
F
L
O
P
Growth process
The garage door was open to Rudy's, the the barber shop up the street from my house. This, my day off, seemed like a good day for a haircut.
Judging from haircuts I've been in Portland for sometime, close to a year. As you may or may not recall -- see A haircut buzzed if not -- I've paid for cuts before here. I've paid for several haircuts (3) and I'm not just saying that to make you think I'm not a deadbeat. My last haircut, however, was given to me by a friend, alcohol induced. Me first, then him, in my garage after a barroom discussion.
"Sean, shave my head," I get out as beer runs down my chin.
It was free, and left me feeling loads lighter, ready to become something different. A friend shaving your head when you are drunk is a completely different from visiting a shop. It's cleaner, feels like change is about to occur in your life, and satisfyingly so. You want to change, and are ready for new beginnings. It's a birth with experience to come.
I tell Lindsay, my clipper today, that, "I'm recovering from a shaved head incident." She smiles and goes to work.
What feels good about a haircut, when you're getting one, is the way a female touches, holds, and trims with gentleness. It helps if her smell is intoxicating, and smile sweet. A paid cut, a scalp sculpture, is the experience. You don't walk away wanting to change, ready to be reborn. The experience seeps into your scalp and leaves you changed.
"Some curls back there," I say to Lindsay.
"Yeah," she says with a that smile. "It's a funny growth process."
A few more snips and she was done. "That was nice," I say, referring to the time in the chair rather than the final outcome. My hair looks good; I feel good, it's as if the haircut cleaned up the inside of my head as well as the outside.
I've been here almost a year, and have had four haircuts. I'm different now, sure. From experiences. Because of haircuts.
Life: "It's a funny growth process," Lindsay voice re-peats in my head.
Judging from haircuts I've been in Portland for sometime, close to a year. As you may or may not recall -- see A haircut buzzed if not -- I've paid for cuts before here. I've paid for several haircuts (3) and I'm not just saying that to make you think I'm not a deadbeat. My last haircut, however, was given to me by a friend, alcohol induced. Me first, then him, in my garage after a barroom discussion.
"Sean, shave my head," I get out as beer runs down my chin.
It was free, and left me feeling loads lighter, ready to become something different. A friend shaving your head when you are drunk is a completely different from visiting a shop. It's cleaner, feels like change is about to occur in your life, and satisfyingly so. You want to change, and are ready for new beginnings. It's a birth with experience to come.
I tell Lindsay, my clipper today, that, "I'm recovering from a shaved head incident." She smiles and goes to work.
What feels good about a haircut, when you're getting one, is the way a female touches, holds, and trims with gentleness. It helps if her smell is intoxicating, and smile sweet. A paid cut, a scalp sculpture, is the experience. You don't walk away wanting to change, ready to be reborn. The experience seeps into your scalp and leaves you changed.
"Some curls back there," I say to Lindsay.
"Yeah," she says with a that smile. "It's a funny growth process."
A few more snips and she was done. "That was nice," I say, referring to the time in the chair rather than the final outcome. My hair looks good; I feel good, it's as if the haircut cleaned up the inside of my head as well as the outside.
I've been here almost a year, and have had four haircuts. I'm different now, sure. From experiences. Because of haircuts.
Life: "It's a funny growth process," Lindsay voice re-peats in my head.
two lists to twelve
Too many know. Don't ask me what. The problem is too many know each other, of each other. This isn't going to work. It couldn't possibly. Unless...
Here's what to do:
1. Run.
2. Change name, facial hair.
3. Be somewhere where girl falls in love with you.
4. Make matters worse, by faking a feeling.
4. Become annoyed.
5. Frustrated.
6. Change mind a bunch.
7. Fall in love with others by looks alone.
8. Make a fool out of yourself in front of them.
9. Piss off the former.
10. Scare the latter.
11. Run back to where you came from.
12. Rest up for the next outing.
Feel free to follow these steps and re-peat if necessary. They'll start to get to know eachother if you don't move fast enough. There's no chance in capturing when you do. Stick around and rick lives. Better yet...
Sip your coffee. Smoke your cigarette. What ever it takes. With the live business: take care of it. Make sure you know where you are. Know who they are and don't get caught up in surreal surroundings. Not when you've had too much to drink. OK good. Now we're getting somewhere. This could be it...
1. Stay where you're at.
2. Let life continue.
3. Watch it carefully at first to prevent sillover.
4. Stir constantly to prevent sticky situations.
5. Breathe deepley, oxygen is best, marijuana substitute in cool climates, alone or with those most comfortable.
6. Think about it.
7. Act upon it.
8. Don't look back.
9. Say what you're thinking.
10. Fa-la-la-la
11. La
12. And be gone.
Good. We've got something here. Maybe not a code. Perhaps a cure. A curse? Shutch jor mouff.
And I'm out.
Here's what to do:
1. Run.
2. Change name, facial hair.
3. Be somewhere where girl falls in love with you.
4. Make matters worse, by faking a feeling.
4. Become annoyed.
5. Frustrated.
6. Change mind a bunch.
7. Fall in love with others by looks alone.
8. Make a fool out of yourself in front of them.
9. Piss off the former.
10. Scare the latter.
11. Run back to where you came from.
12. Rest up for the next outing.
Feel free to follow these steps and re-peat if necessary. They'll start to get to know eachother if you don't move fast enough. There's no chance in capturing when you do. Stick around and rick lives. Better yet...
Sip your coffee. Smoke your cigarette. What ever it takes. With the live business: take care of it. Make sure you know where you are. Know who they are and don't get caught up in surreal surroundings. Not when you've had too much to drink. OK good. Now we're getting somewhere. This could be it...
1. Stay where you're at.
2. Let life continue.
3. Watch it carefully at first to prevent sillover.
4. Stir constantly to prevent sticky situations.
5. Breathe deepley, oxygen is best, marijuana substitute in cool climates, alone or with those most comfortable.
6. Think about it.
7. Act upon it.
8. Don't look back.
9. Say what you're thinking.
10. Fa-la-la-la
11. La
12. And be gone.
Good. We've got something here. Maybe not a code. Perhaps a cure. A curse? Shutch jor mouff.
And I'm out.
The devil's a liar
Heres me: I think I have to throw up. Theres a topless girl next to me. And when I say girl I don't mean 12 year old you sick fuck. She's more like 20. She doesn't make me ill. She's good looking. But I think: I'm ill. I run to the bathroom where I'm met by the devil. The smell in the bathroom alone is enough to set me off. Huhhhghh. Followed by other, less productive heaves. Here's the devil: God hates you. Me: Liar. My eyes are red, teary and my skinny, naked chest trembles. I'm not afraid of you, Devil, I think. And I'm not. My throat hurts. The devil has some power, I'm convinced. I'm ill, aren't I? And I am. My throat kills and I can't tell if it's from my short stints with smoking or from hacking up last nights beverages. Either way, the Devil, convinces me that neither could possibly be good from me. Except he places the blame on God. Liar, Devil, I tell him as I flush the toilet and watch him whirl counter-clockwise down the whole. Me, to myself in the mirror: What was I thinking?
There's a girl in my bed, and I'm both glad I wasn't thinking clearly (how else could she have gotten there), and glad I was thinking well enough (I didn't have sex with her). See, here's the deal. I knew her. It wasn't like I just met her at a party and clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to my cave to snuggle up next to her. I'd seen her at my house before. She had slept with my roommate Steve. I liked her, however, he had stopped talking to her. She liked me too, I think, she offered to talk me to the coast. Too bad I just flushed the devil, too bad I felt like I got the death blow.
Yeah, it's strange. But not that surprising. We went to the coast. After another encounter with the devil in the bathroom, I recovered from the death blow and we took off to the coast. Heidi came and kept us sane. We had a great time. It was perhaps my best day on the beach. We enjoyed each other's company. But it was too good to go one again. She's moving; she slept with my roommate. Shit. It'd never work out. Well, maybe. She texts: Are you busy? I'd love to borrow you and Heidi for a little while?...
Here's me to my roommate: Does it make you feel uncomfortable that I want to spend time with girl mentioned above? He says: Kind of. And that's all that really needs to be said. I feel bad for her. I liked spending time with here, but roommate was just going to make her uncomfortable. No, I was never going to sleep with her -- he had done that. We were never going to get married -- she was leaving. But Heidi and I could use some other company right about now. And that doesn't seem like it's going to happen with this one.
Girls: there coming into my life as quickly as they are leaving from it. Awaiting the next.
There's a girl in my bed, and I'm both glad I wasn't thinking clearly (how else could she have gotten there), and glad I was thinking well enough (I didn't have sex with her). See, here's the deal. I knew her. It wasn't like I just met her at a party and clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to my cave to snuggle up next to her. I'd seen her at my house before. She had slept with my roommate Steve. I liked her, however, he had stopped talking to her. She liked me too, I think, she offered to talk me to the coast. Too bad I just flushed the devil, too bad I felt like I got the death blow.
Yeah, it's strange. But not that surprising. We went to the coast. After another encounter with the devil in the bathroom, I recovered from the death blow and we took off to the coast. Heidi came and kept us sane. We had a great time. It was perhaps my best day on the beach. We enjoyed each other's company. But it was too good to go one again. She's moving; she slept with my roommate. Shit. It'd never work out. Well, maybe. She texts: Are you busy? I'd love to borrow you and Heidi for a little while?...
Here's me to my roommate: Does it make you feel uncomfortable that I want to spend time with girl mentioned above? He says: Kind of. And that's all that really needs to be said. I feel bad for her. I liked spending time with here, but roommate was just going to make her uncomfortable. No, I was never going to sleep with her -- he had done that. We were never going to get married -- she was leaving. But Heidi and I could use some other company right about now. And that doesn't seem like it's going to happen with this one.
Girls: there coming into my life as quickly as they are leaving from it. Awaiting the next.
"you can't see tits on the radio"
This is a conversation I had in my head with Linda Carter .
"Hi, Linda," I pretend say. "I don't want to come across pushy..."
"But you are pushing," Ms Carter responds. And I removed my imaginary hands from the made-up her.
"OK. This may seem a little psycho."
"This is all psychological," Ms Carter says in my head.
"And I'm not meaning to be desperate."
"But you are," Ms Carter says, stepping back.
"Can we go out," I say, and put towards the end, "sometime."
Ms Carter sort of snorts in my head, but not in a way I hear, in a way that I see and feel.
"I can't stand that you believe I'm wrong for you."
Ms Carter shakes her head. Still no.
"It's you that's right," and I seem to know this.
"Your not ready to impress me," Wonderwoman confesses, and I know better than she that it's true.
"I can't help to think that you've realized I'm..."
"Living in fiction," Ms Carter wonderfully finishes for me.
"Fiction is the only part of me I can look at with conviction," is all I'm saying in no way arguing with her, which in a sense would be myself. I'm just saying.
"Sure. It's sad but true," gift-giving Ms Carter goes.
"I know you," I quickly add.
"Now," Ms Carter says losing patience.
"Love you." I tell this to everyone who comes into my head.
"Not the real me," not-the real Ms Carter says.
"Miss you." I'm down to two-word sentences.
"TV me," she too it seems, with less letters.
"Still want you, but can't have you," I conclude.
"Shouldn't." And I think she's serious.
"But where are you going today?" I say as she goes around the corner and out my ear.
She'll always be Wonderwoman to me.
"Hi, Linda," I pretend say. "I don't want to come across pushy..."
"But you are pushing," Ms Carter responds. And I removed my imaginary hands from the made-up her.
"OK. This may seem a little psycho."
"This is all psychological," Ms Carter says in my head.
"And I'm not meaning to be desperate."
"But you are," Ms Carter says, stepping back.
"Can we go out," I say, and put towards the end, "sometime."
Ms Carter sort of snorts in my head, but not in a way I hear, in a way that I see and feel.
"I can't stand that you believe I'm wrong for you."
Ms Carter shakes her head. Still no.
"It's you that's right," and I seem to know this.
"Your not ready to impress me," Wonderwoman confesses, and I know better than she that it's true.
"I can't help to think that you've realized I'm..."
"Living in fiction," Ms Carter wonderfully finishes for me.
"Fiction is the only part of me I can look at with conviction," is all I'm saying in no way arguing with her, which in a sense would be myself. I'm just saying.
"Sure. It's sad but true," gift-giving Ms Carter goes.
"I know you," I quickly add.
"Now," Ms Carter says losing patience.
"Love you." I tell this to everyone who comes into my head.
"Not the real me," not-the real Ms Carter says.
"Miss you." I'm down to two-word sentences.
"TV me," she too it seems, with less letters.
"Still want you, but can't have you," I conclude.
"Shouldn't." And I think she's serious.
"But where are you going today?" I say as she goes around the corner and out my ear.
She'll always be Wonderwoman to me.
According to those familiar with the situation
There are millions of Smiths out there. There are pages and pages of Smith very close to you, in your local telephone book. Can a Smith date a Smith? A certain surname?
It's a common name, says someone who'd like me to be happy. It's almost as bad a dating a co-worker, though. It sits in your mind every time you see, think, say something to her.
No. It's strange, says someone familiar with the situation. That's true. But is that the only reason? No. An excuse. It's something you say to yourself. She's four years younger. Age doesn't matter, according to someone familiar with the situation. So I think of other reasons. Can I kiss someone that I know has kissed someone that I know? I'm almost disgusted by it. Yes. But this isn't the real reason either.
You can't be with anyone right now because they are not on your mind at the time, say sources close to home. They don't have your attention. They aren't talking to me, but to someone staring off, looking out the window, contemplating the madness of the world. Or worse. This is unfair to others, assures someone who's been there before. You put yourself in these situations. Sometimes on purpose, I'm told by a by-stander. You make matters worse by making matters that don't really matter matter. I trust this person because of his proximity to me at this time.
Or maybe I'm just not attracted to this girl. Wouldn't come up with excuses, wouldn't look out the window if I was. But how do you tell someone that? Direct them to your blog, an immediate family member mentions.
It's a common name, says someone who'd like me to be happy. It's almost as bad a dating a co-worker, though. It sits in your mind every time you see, think, say something to her.
No. It's strange, says someone familiar with the situation. That's true. But is that the only reason? No. An excuse. It's something you say to yourself. She's four years younger. Age doesn't matter, according to someone familiar with the situation. So I think of other reasons. Can I kiss someone that I know has kissed someone that I know? I'm almost disgusted by it. Yes. But this isn't the real reason either.
You can't be with anyone right now because they are not on your mind at the time, say sources close to home. They don't have your attention. They aren't talking to me, but to someone staring off, looking out the window, contemplating the madness of the world. Or worse. This is unfair to others, assures someone who's been there before. You put yourself in these situations. Sometimes on purpose, I'm told by a by-stander. You make matters worse by making matters that don't really matter matter. I trust this person because of his proximity to me at this time.
Or maybe I'm just not attracted to this girl. Wouldn't come up with excuses, wouldn't look out the window if I was. But how do you tell someone that? Direct them to your blog, an immediate family member mentions.
Just let me know where
There's a ways to go yet.
Way to go, Champ.
There's still a way to go.
The Way? Which way? Stay.
Stay?
That's something.
If anything says, 'do nothing,' it's stay.
So say, nothing does happen? As of today, which way?
I know. Which is what I'm doing.
Then go. If you say you're staying just to stay, go.
I can go. There are placenames.
Place a name: (here).
Yeah, I could do that.
Map 'em.
Well, we covered stay. That's here.
Plotted that point.
There's go...
Direction?
North. To an Alaskan adventure.
Alaska, huh? End of the roads?
No. Anchorage. To live with a Keil.
O.K. Where else?
Home. I could always go home.
To Albuquerque? Already?
Yeah. Home is where I reset.
Regret is more like it. Regress. Retire.
There are more places. That's just an option. A point.
Other directions from here?
Not so far north, but north still, there is a Love.
I thought it was over? You said, 'It's over.'
We say a lot of things. It's what you feel.
Can we get on with this list?
Here's where the map goes gray. Denver's on the map... Some place in Cali... Idaho makes her mark... Santa Fe, maybe?
Gray? More like a light black.
There's no light black. There's Portland.
I see no difference.
There is. I'm looking on the map and see: Stay, Seattle, Anchorage, or Albuquerque.
You need a compass. And a geography refreshment course.
And there's a countdown.
And a clock.
I'll have to think. And work.
Time is of the Menace.
Yes.
So, when will I know? You know, where you go?
As soon as I do.
Just let me know where.
Way to go, Champ.
There's still a way to go.
The Way? Which way? Stay.
Stay?
That's something.
If anything says, 'do nothing,' it's stay.
So say, nothing does happen? As of today, which way?
I know. Which is what I'm doing.
Then go. If you say you're staying just to stay, go.
I can go. There are placenames.
Place a name: (here).
Yeah, I could do that.
Map 'em.
Well, we covered stay. That's here.
Plotted that point.
There's go...
Direction?
North. To an Alaskan adventure.
Alaska, huh? End of the roads?
No. Anchorage. To live with a Keil.
O.K. Where else?
Home. I could always go home.
To Albuquerque? Already?
Yeah. Home is where I reset.
Regret is more like it. Regress. Retire.
There are more places. That's just an option. A point.
Other directions from here?
Not so far north, but north still, there is a Love.
I thought it was over? You said, 'It's over.'
We say a lot of things. It's what you feel.
Can we get on with this list?
Here's where the map goes gray. Denver's on the map... Some place in Cali... Idaho makes her mark... Santa Fe, maybe?
Gray? More like a light black.
There's no light black. There's Portland.
I see no difference.
There is. I'm looking on the map and see: Stay, Seattle, Anchorage, or Albuquerque.
You need a compass. And a geography refreshment course.
And there's a countdown.
And a clock.
I'll have to think. And work.
Time is of the Menace.
Yes.
So, when will I know? You know, where you go?
As soon as I do.
Just let me know where.
I'll have some coffee and a potato please
Even when I'm in need of sleep -- well, after some coffee -- I get these sentences. Ideas. Lines. Sparks of light. Then, that's it. It's no idea, really. Nothing that would changes my life. Nothing big enough to form a story around. A spark that goes back to black. I can't complain. Their fun things usually. I Keep 'em for a while. Dwell. Spill. I forget them but not before thinking about what it all means. I guess, then, that they do mean something. They are little moments that change my life. When added up. When compiled into a log, I'll have something.
When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.
I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:
My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.
There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:
These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.
When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.
I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:
My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.
There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:
These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.
Why separate knob?
Why did I think I could make it to Seattle and back in my 1989 VW Jetta when I couldn't even ride my roommate's bike back from a bar four blocks? The day I left for Alaska -- Wednesday, the 16th -- I spilled a bike all over the a street near my house and got some on a trailer that was parked in my way. I came away from that with a black eye and a fucked up shoulder. The bike crash was only the beginning.
So, that morning I drove to Sea/Tac airport with fewproblems. A problem was finding a place to park in the 8+ story parking garage. I managed but was having trouble shifting by the time I found spot 7F-92 (Floor 7, Row F, space 92). I thought my car just needed to restp; I didn't worry about it or the cost of the parking ticket as I boarded my flight.
Alaska was great. I saw my brother for the first time in nearly a year run a marathon in less than four hours. My folks came and we all toured in an RV just like a family should, with little argument. We saw family in Anchorage, friends in Wasilla and Fairbanks, and scenery along the way (Denali National Park). I separated from the fam to come back to work. In Fairbanks, I was to fly to Anchorage to catch a connecting flight to Seattle, but the plane was late and I arrived in Anchorage ten minutes after my flight took off. The airline worked with me, rescheduling me to leave seven hours later. Instead of arriving in Seattle at 9:52 that night, I was to red-eye it and get there at five the next morning. I was on the schedule to work this particular day, so I called my manager the latest and told her my latest. She said try to make it in by the afternoon. I said Fuck after we were cut off.
The trouble with drinking to pass the time in the airport is that eventually you have to get on your plane. To sober up after two beers and three El Presidente margs, I had a coffee. When I should have avoided alcohol and caffeine, I didn't and consumed both. On the red-eye to Seattle I sat next to a redneck with a crying puppy, and seated behind us was his fussing family. Things couldn't have been worse.
Things get worse before they get better. At the airport, now five a.m, with no sleep, I'm on deadline to work in 11 hours. I called Lacey before I left Anchorage and she told me she'd meet me for a coffee. I was tired and a coffee would do me good. Seeing and spending time with her would be good to. Make things better.
Unfortunately, my car wouldn't start. I was on that seventh floor unsure that I would make it through the day. I sat and tried to start it. No luck. Things could be better, I guess.
I found valet, and paid theArab ten bucks to jump the bastard. And guess what? It worked. The battery kicked into action and the engine turned over. I was humming. Still, the shifter wasn't moving around the way I would have liked it to. I got out of the garage for $105 in third gear. I couldn't get it out of it, however, and wouldn't stop moving until I was in Seattle. Picture me: third gear, fifty miles per hour, left lane, five thrity in the morning, knowing that the next time I stop my car would be the last time I'd stop my care. Exits go by. I get greedy. Next one. Next one. Once I get close enogh to City Center, I get it into a spot, put the car to rest, and I called Lacey.
It remains in Seattle. I, back from my extended vacation, returned to work to see newfaces. One new guy in particular concerns me for my job security. He works the same hours and, no shit here, goes by the name Carlson. Are they replacing me? Is that possible? I get called in to a informal meeting, told that there were other options out there for me, specific examples provided, contact names and numbers given. Should managers do that?
A funny thing is, one opportunity I have is for an airline in Portland. I could be working at PDX, an airport I should have flown out of in the first place.
So, that morning I drove to Sea/Tac airport with fewproblems. A problem was finding a place to park in the 8+ story parking garage. I managed but was having trouble shifting by the time I found spot 7F-92 (Floor 7, Row F, space 92). I thought my car just needed to restp; I didn't worry about it or the cost of the parking ticket as I boarded my flight.
Alaska was great. I saw my brother for the first time in nearly a year run a marathon in less than four hours. My folks came and we all toured in an RV just like a family should, with little argument. We saw family in Anchorage, friends in Wasilla and Fairbanks, and scenery along the way (Denali National Park). I separated from the fam to come back to work. In Fairbanks, I was to fly to Anchorage to catch a connecting flight to Seattle, but the plane was late and I arrived in Anchorage ten minutes after my flight took off. The airline worked with me, rescheduling me to leave seven hours later. Instead of arriving in Seattle at 9:52 that night, I was to red-eye it and get there at five the next morning. I was on the schedule to work this particular day, so I called my manager the latest and told her my latest. She said try to make it in by the afternoon. I said Fuck after we were cut off.
The trouble with drinking to pass the time in the airport is that eventually you have to get on your plane. To sober up after two beers and three El Presidente margs, I had a coffee. When I should have avoided alcohol and caffeine, I didn't and consumed both. On the red-eye to Seattle I sat next to a redneck with a crying puppy, and seated behind us was his fussing family. Things couldn't have been worse.
Things get worse before they get better. At the airport, now five a.m, with no sleep, I'm on deadline to work in 11 hours. I called Lacey before I left Anchorage and she told me she'd meet me for a coffee. I was tired and a coffee would do me good. Seeing and spending time with her would be good to. Make things better.
Unfortunately, my car wouldn't start. I was on that seventh floor unsure that I would make it through the day. I sat and tried to start it. No luck. Things could be better, I guess.
I found valet, and paid theArab ten bucks to jump the bastard. And guess what? It worked. The battery kicked into action and the engine turned over. I was humming. Still, the shifter wasn't moving around the way I would have liked it to. I got out of the garage for $105 in third gear. I couldn't get it out of it, however, and wouldn't stop moving until I was in Seattle. Picture me: third gear, fifty miles per hour, left lane, five thrity in the morning, knowing that the next time I stop my car would be the last time I'd stop my care. Exits go by. I get greedy. Next one. Next one. Once I get close enogh to City Center, I get it into a spot, put the car to rest, and I called Lacey.
It remains in Seattle. I, back from my extended vacation, returned to work to see newfaces. One new guy in particular concerns me for my job security. He works the same hours and, no shit here, goes by the name Carlson. Are they replacing me? Is that possible? I get called in to a informal meeting, told that there were other options out there for me, specific examples provided, contact names and numbers given. Should managers do that?
A funny thing is, one opportunity I have is for an airline in Portland. I could be working at PDX, an airport I should have flown out of in the first place.
An Adams Hall Survivor
Skip Perterkin had been in the dorms at New Mexico A&M only a week, but for Skip it seemed like longer. He was already missing his family and his home. Skip had never been away from home longer than six days when he went to Cloud Country, a summer camp fifty miles from his home town of Lovington. Now, he was living in Las Cruces, a city eight times the size of Lovington. And despite all the extra people Skip felt more alone that he ever had in his life.
He was a freshman and boarding in Adams Hall, a three floor prison like dorm. In fact, he heard that Adams Hall was designed by a dead white guy, who designed a prison in El Paso, some forty miles away.
Skip’s roommate, Chad Parker, who Skip both envied and despised, was sitting on the bed next to his. Chad was reading the latest Sports Illustrated with Randy Moss on the cover which he thieved from the New Mexico State library. Chad told Skip that he had played sports in high school, but when Skip asked him if he was going to go out for any of the sports teams this year, Chad snorted and shook it off. “I’ll probably join a frat,” Chad said thumbing through the SI. “I’ve got a buddy who’s going to rush me into Lamda Chi Alpha.”
Skip was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get a bid from any of the eight fraternities on campus. On Saturday he went to a Lamda Chi party with Chad. He didn’t understand it and didn’t have the money to learn about it.
“How bout you,” Chad said, “you gonna pledge?”
Chad didn’t want, and didn’t have to wait for an answer from Skip. He knew Skip wasn’t going to get a bid. Skip was shy and only talked to one of the girls at the party, one he recognized from his Econ class. Mostly he paced the party looking down when guys asked him the same questions: Where you from? What’s your major?
Chad went on flipping through the pages of his magazine. The phone rang, like it did when Chad was in the room. It was for him, of course, but he motioned for Skip to pick it up, which he did only because he was sitting at his desk, where he had wired a second phone.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, Chad. What the in the hell ya doing?” the voice said for Chad to hear.
“Hold on a second … Chad,” Skip said looking at his roommate who was pretending to read an article.”
“Yeah?” he said finally looking up. “Who is it?”
Skip didn’t answer and the two looked at each other for a moment. He finally closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows to show the sign that he didn’t care and he wasn’t going to bother to ask. Chad picked up the phone that was hanging on the wall above his head before Skip hung up.
Skip pulled out some papers from a binder he had in his backpack. He pulled out his Economics book and looked at the reading he was supposed to do by tomorrow. “Macroeconomics, an Introduction into the world of Economics.” Suddenly, he lost interest, but he didn’t have anything else to do, so he’d read it. He didn’t want to appear like a nerd in front of Chad, who was busy making plans for the evening, but he was here to go to school.
Chad hung up the phone. He put the Sports Illustrated on his nightstand, turned off the light above the bed and said, “I’m going to Shap’s.” He slammed the door shut, which rattled Skip’s CD’s and then left a silence. Skip didn’t like Shap, Tom Shap, from the first time he met him. Tom Shap was a slimy guy and reminded Skip of a guy in a movie he had seen. He was a real shit weasel who wore a white Notre Dame cap and always walked around with a wife-beater on. Skip knew he had money and didn’t understand why anyone with money would dress this way. One day, he saw Shap pull out of the dorm parking lot in a new Toyota truck.
Skip looked at his Macroeconomics book. He flipped through the pages and began comprehending the boring text. Skip liked reading, but not textbooks. Not economics text. He read and understood. He was a fast reader and it didn’t take him long to bust through the 15 pages of text called the Introduction. He didn’t think college was as hard as he thought it would be. Skip was a good student in high school, but hadn’t done well on the standardized tests. He couldn’t get into the schools of his choice, and it wouldn’t matter that he did, his parents couldn’t afford to send him out of state. So, he got a scholarship to NMSU, a school he had visited only once in his life, nine years ago. It wasn’t far from his home, and he didn’t have to go home every weekend, but he could if he wanted to. Lately, he didn’t want to go home, even though he was lonely. He missed his family but he didn’t want it to seem like he didn’t have any friends.
His real friends were in Lovington. They weren’t students like he was and they decided not to go to college. His best friend, Jimmy, enlisted in the army and was shipping out in November. Skip knew the army would be good for Jimmy, who lacked discipline and sometimes got them into trouble. One occasion Jimmy and Skip got caught setting off fireworks around the house of Old Man Marion, who lived down the street from Skip. He liked the old man but sometimes his grumpiness got the best of Jimmy and Jimmy convinced Skip one day to piss off the old timer. The Old Man came out as the two mid-schoolers were running from the smoking firecrackers and followed them down the street. They didn’t run from Marion but walked briskly and walked to Skip’s house. They looked out the window to see disappointed Old Man look at the house, shake his head and return to his home. They thought it was over when they were laughing in Skip’s room that afternoon, but Old Man Marion returned in the evening to pay Skip’s dad a visit.
Skip wasn’t grounded because his parents understood it was Jimmy who was responsible. But; from there on out, they were always suspicious when Skip said he was heading over to Jimmy’s. For the most part Jimmy was a good kid, a good friend. He wasn’t the best student, but that didn’t bother Skip. He wanted the best for Jimmy, whose parents always told him he was an accident.
He was a freshman and boarding in Adams Hall, a three floor prison like dorm. In fact, he heard that Adams Hall was designed by a dead white guy, who designed a prison in El Paso, some forty miles away.
Skip’s roommate, Chad Parker, who Skip both envied and despised, was sitting on the bed next to his. Chad was reading the latest Sports Illustrated with Randy Moss on the cover which he thieved from the New Mexico State library. Chad told Skip that he had played sports in high school, but when Skip asked him if he was going to go out for any of the sports teams this year, Chad snorted and shook it off. “I’ll probably join a frat,” Chad said thumbing through the SI. “I’ve got a buddy who’s going to rush me into Lamda Chi Alpha.”
Skip was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get a bid from any of the eight fraternities on campus. On Saturday he went to a Lamda Chi party with Chad. He didn’t understand it and didn’t have the money to learn about it.
“How bout you,” Chad said, “you gonna pledge?”
Chad didn’t want, and didn’t have to wait for an answer from Skip. He knew Skip wasn’t going to get a bid. Skip was shy and only talked to one of the girls at the party, one he recognized from his Econ class. Mostly he paced the party looking down when guys asked him the same questions: Where you from? What’s your major?
Chad went on flipping through the pages of his magazine. The phone rang, like it did when Chad was in the room. It was for him, of course, but he motioned for Skip to pick it up, which he did only because he was sitting at his desk, where he had wired a second phone.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, Chad. What the in the hell ya doing?” the voice said for Chad to hear.
“Hold on a second … Chad,” Skip said looking at his roommate who was pretending to read an article.”
“Yeah?” he said finally looking up. “Who is it?”
Skip didn’t answer and the two looked at each other for a moment. He finally closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows to show the sign that he didn’t care and he wasn’t going to bother to ask. Chad picked up the phone that was hanging on the wall above his head before Skip hung up.
Skip pulled out some papers from a binder he had in his backpack. He pulled out his Economics book and looked at the reading he was supposed to do by tomorrow. “Macroeconomics, an Introduction into the world of Economics.” Suddenly, he lost interest, but he didn’t have anything else to do, so he’d read it. He didn’t want to appear like a nerd in front of Chad, who was busy making plans for the evening, but he was here to go to school.
Chad hung up the phone. He put the Sports Illustrated on his nightstand, turned off the light above the bed and said, “I’m going to Shap’s.” He slammed the door shut, which rattled Skip’s CD’s and then left a silence. Skip didn’t like Shap, Tom Shap, from the first time he met him. Tom Shap was a slimy guy and reminded Skip of a guy in a movie he had seen. He was a real shit weasel who wore a white Notre Dame cap and always walked around with a wife-beater on. Skip knew he had money and didn’t understand why anyone with money would dress this way. One day, he saw Shap pull out of the dorm parking lot in a new Toyota truck.
Skip looked at his Macroeconomics book. He flipped through the pages and began comprehending the boring text. Skip liked reading, but not textbooks. Not economics text. He read and understood. He was a fast reader and it didn’t take him long to bust through the 15 pages of text called the Introduction. He didn’t think college was as hard as he thought it would be. Skip was a good student in high school, but hadn’t done well on the standardized tests. He couldn’t get into the schools of his choice, and it wouldn’t matter that he did, his parents couldn’t afford to send him out of state. So, he got a scholarship to NMSU, a school he had visited only once in his life, nine years ago. It wasn’t far from his home, and he didn’t have to go home every weekend, but he could if he wanted to. Lately, he didn’t want to go home, even though he was lonely. He missed his family but he didn’t want it to seem like he didn’t have any friends.
His real friends were in Lovington. They weren’t students like he was and they decided not to go to college. His best friend, Jimmy, enlisted in the army and was shipping out in November. Skip knew the army would be good for Jimmy, who lacked discipline and sometimes got them into trouble. One occasion Jimmy and Skip got caught setting off fireworks around the house of Old Man Marion, who lived down the street from Skip. He liked the old man but sometimes his grumpiness got the best of Jimmy and Jimmy convinced Skip one day to piss off the old timer. The Old Man came out as the two mid-schoolers were running from the smoking firecrackers and followed them down the street. They didn’t run from Marion but walked briskly and walked to Skip’s house. They looked out the window to see disappointed Old Man look at the house, shake his head and return to his home. They thought it was over when they were laughing in Skip’s room that afternoon, but Old Man Marion returned in the evening to pay Skip’s dad a visit.
Skip wasn’t grounded because his parents understood it was Jimmy who was responsible. But; from there on out, they were always suspicious when Skip said he was heading over to Jimmy’s. For the most part Jimmy was a good kid, a good friend. He wasn’t the best student, but that didn’t bother Skip. He wanted the best for Jimmy, whose parents always told him he was an accident.
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