(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
I was visiting this morning with one of the bank’s young loan collectors. Like many collectors, this fellow accepted his position only as a springboard to a more gratifying and rewarding job. Having spent my share of time as a loan collector myself, I was able to empathize, and we soon began to swap collection stories.
One of my more humorous experiences occurred while I was working for a finance company in Oklahoma City. Finance companies are a great training ground for consumer lenders as their training programs involve every aspect of lending and their accepted methodology is “trial by fire.” One of the techniques of this training methodology was to assign the trainees a group of accounts that needed collection work. Most of the time, the collection efforts were comprised of endless hours of telephone calls, but every few days, we would gather up accounts that required personal visits. On this particular day, I was teamed up with another trainee by the name of Bill.
Bill was in his early twenties, like myself. As much as I was cool, cautious, and diplomatic, Bill was spontaneous, impulsive, and utterly hilarious. We made a great team. Anyway, we had been out knocking on doors for a couple of hours when we came to an account that we had both worked. The loan had been made to a young, single guy for the purchase of a satellite dish. For those youngsters out there, in the eighties, these things were springing up like huge, ugly mushrooms in yards across America. Replaced by pizza-sized, eave-hung platters, these things are now as archaic as an eight-track tape, but in their day, they were THE sign of high tech. Believe it or not, we actually had occasion to repossess a few of these beasts, but the goal to a door visit was to walk away with a payment, not the collateral. So, it was with the intent of getting a payment that Bill and I set out to find the rural address.
I was driving, and Bill was giving directions as we pulled up the long, dirt lane, marked only by a beat-up, crudely personalized metal, mailbox. I slipped the car in park at the end of the road. An old, weathered mobile home sat before us. A big, black dog walked out from under the trailer. Only a few sections of bent metal skirting remained, but shadows and long weeds concealed the underside of the house. I looked at Bill.
“You think this is it?” I asked him. I desperately wanted to turn around.
“It’s gotta be the place,” he said. “It’s his name on the mailbox and look at what is in the front yard.” I looked at the new satellite dish, mounted like a trophy just twenty paces from the trailer. I rolled my eyes in Bill’s direction.
“So, what about the dog?” I asked.
“Do you see a chain?”
“No.”
“Can you tell what kind of dog it is?”
“A big one.”
“He doesn’t look mean.”
“But does he look hungry?” I asked with my normal, controlled caution. Bill looked at me and chuckled, and then opened the door.
“Come on,” he said. “He can’t be too mean. He hasn’t even barked at us.” I got out of the car and walked in mock confidence toward the front door. Bill joined me as we both watched to make sure our friendly Fido stayed in his place.
“You want to knock on this one?” I asked Bill as we reached the bottom of the stepped porch.
“No, you go for it. I had the last one.”
“Okay, but watch the dog.” I knocked on the door and rehearsed my speech as I waited. An old gentleman pulled the door open and stared at me. His thinning, gray hair was pushed around in random directions on his head. His face was deeply etched and beard stubble covered his leathery skin.
“Hello, sir,” I said with a smile. “Does Tommy Roe live here?” The old man squinted as he looked down at Bill and then back to me.
“Who wants to know?” he asked. The old man tossed a handful of shelled peanuts into his mouth and leaned against the doorframe to await an answer. I pulled a business card from my shirt pocket.
“Excuse me,” I said, maintaining my friendly grin. “I’m D.B. Sweet, and this is my associate, Bill Thermon. We just wanted to visit with Tommy for a minute.” I knew the credit privacy laws and wanted to steer the conversation away from the purpose of the visit. “Are you Tommy’s father?” The old man looked at the card, ignoring my question. I heard Bill shuffle his feet, but I maintained my fake smile.
“USA Credit?” the old man said without looking up. “You two boys bill collectors?” It was at this point that I realized this man had no intention of being cooperative. My fear was that he had no intention of even being friendly.
“We just wanted to chat with Tommy for a minute,” I repeated. The old man looked up and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he stepped out on the landing, and I took a step to the side. I glanced down at Bill and saw his eyes were glued on our friendly Fido who was standing near the edge of the trailer. I turned back around to see the old man holding his hand up and looking to the opposite end of the trailer.
“Jim,… Bob!” he shouted. I turned and looked with alarm at another dog, that could have been Fido’s twin, running from the other end of the trailer. I took a step down, and Bill took a step up, so that we were side by side on the steps as both dogs ran toward us. They stopped just to the side of the steps and looked past us toward the old man. I turned and watched as the old man grinned. Small bits of chewed peanuts clung to his yellowed teeth. His words seemed to slow as he called out to the dogs. “Jim, Bob, how'd you boys like some leg?” As both dogs began to growl, all I could think of was how my predicament reminded me of the “squeal like a pig” scene in “Deliverance.” The only trouble was that I was not Burt Reynolds, and I did not have a crossbow. In all my years, I had been able to talk myself out of trouble, so I instinctively tried the only response I could think of.
“Those are great looking dogs. What breed are they?” I asked, amazing myself at being able to maintain my composure.
“Pit bulls,” he answered, looking bewildered by my question. “They hate bill collectors.”
“Oh,” I said. “I can’t stand them myself.” The dogs stopped growling, and I stepped backwards down the stairs with Bill glued to my side. “If you see Tommy, can you tell him D.B. stopped by?” The old man remained by his door, looking at us as if we had just asked him to explain quantum physics. I prayed and tried to still my urge to run as we walked casually toward the car. I turned back to see both dog’s heads cock to the side. “Have a good day, now,” I added, as I opened the door and slipped safely inside the car. Bill almost shut his foot in the door as I forced a shaking key into the ignition.
The car fishtailed onto the main road as I pushed the gas pedal to the floor. Bill screamed and hit the dash with his fist. He turned to me with wide eyes.
“Do you know how close we came to being dog food?” he asked. I took a deep breath and wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
“Yeah, I know. What do we do now?”
“Find a bathroom,” Bill answered.
As I told the story of Jim and Bob, the young collector sat and listened. After I had finished, he raised his eyebrows.
“So, what did you learn?” he asked with genuine curiosity. I paused.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“First I learned I wanted to find a new job. Second, I learned that collecting and full bladders do not mix.”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
El Curo Taco Day
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
Friday is taco day here at the bank. Now, like anywhere else in the country, tacos are a common fast food fair, usually served for a quick lunch or dinner. But, here in Texas, tacos have migrated to a breakfast food. I’m really not sure how widespread this phenomenon is, so I feel I should explain. A breakfast taco is a soft flour tortilla wrapped around any number of breakfast ingredients, including eggs, cheese, sausage, and bacon. In keeping with our Tex-Mex heritage, many people favor liberal sprinklings of onions, jalopenos and chorizo (Mexican sausage). The condiment of choice is picante sauce. Quite honestly, I have long enjoyed breakfast tacos and have sampled selections from various restaurants. I have even been known to make a pretty mean breakfast taco in my very own kitchen.
What makes the bank’s taco day a rather odd affair is how we obtain our little tortilla wrapped breakfasts. You see, Friday at about 8:30 a.m., an e-mail message is sent around announcing that tacos have arrived. Upon this notification I, along with dozens of other employees, begin rushing out of our cubicles and offices with dollar bills in hand. We hurry out the front door to get a good place in the line that forms behind the open trunk of a late model Chevrolet. One by one, we step forward and announce our order to a young man while we hand our dollar bills over to a young lady standing nearby. Fishing around in any number of labeled paper bags, the young man retrieves the appropriate taco and hands it to the customer, along with a small container of homemade picante sauce. And so the pattern repeats, until all employees have been waited on or until the supply of breakfast tacos is depleted.
Maybe it is only because I am new here, but I cannot help but be amused by this whole process. Where else, but in a small town in Texas, can you buy your goods out of a car trunk and not worry about getting arrested?
Friday is taco day here at the bank. Now, like anywhere else in the country, tacos are a common fast food fair, usually served for a quick lunch or dinner. But, here in Texas, tacos have migrated to a breakfast food. I’m really not sure how widespread this phenomenon is, so I feel I should explain. A breakfast taco is a soft flour tortilla wrapped around any number of breakfast ingredients, including eggs, cheese, sausage, and bacon. In keeping with our Tex-Mex heritage, many people favor liberal sprinklings of onions, jalopenos and chorizo (Mexican sausage). The condiment of choice is picante sauce. Quite honestly, I have long enjoyed breakfast tacos and have sampled selections from various restaurants. I have even been known to make a pretty mean breakfast taco in my very own kitchen.
What makes the bank’s taco day a rather odd affair is how we obtain our little tortilla wrapped breakfasts. You see, Friday at about 8:30 a.m., an e-mail message is sent around announcing that tacos have arrived. Upon this notification I, along with dozens of other employees, begin rushing out of our cubicles and offices with dollar bills in hand. We hurry out the front door to get a good place in the line that forms behind the open trunk of a late model Chevrolet. One by one, we step forward and announce our order to a young man while we hand our dollar bills over to a young lady standing nearby. Fishing around in any number of labeled paper bags, the young man retrieves the appropriate taco and hands it to the customer, along with a small container of homemade picante sauce. And so the pattern repeats, until all employees have been waited on or until the supply of breakfast tacos is depleted.
Maybe it is only because I am new here, but I cannot help but be amused by this whole process. Where else, but in a small town in Texas, can you buy your goods out of a car trunk and not worry about getting arrested?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Casually Yours
(Reposted from a previously published diary)
Well, the entire office was all buzzing with the latest news. Just this morning, a memo came, direct from the owner of the bank, announcing that casual business attire would be acceptable daily dress until further notice. I hadn’t yet opened the e-mail memo when I began to hear whoops and hollers from all points of the floor on which I work. I stuck my head out of my door and asked one of the revelers if I had missed something.
"Haven’t you read your e-mail?” he inquired with a countenance that reminded me of my son on Christmas morning.
“What e-mail?”
“The one about casual dress. Starting Monday, we go to business casual full-time, with jeans allowed on Fridays.”
“That’s cool,” I said, trying earnestly to match his enthusiasm.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Despite my profession as a banker, I really don’t feel comfortable in business dress attire. I tie my tie in the parking lot in the morning and can barely wait to get to the car after work to pull it off. I guess I was just taken aback by how much this move to business casual meant to everyone. From all of the talk, this was the best news the employees had received in quite some time. Everyone seemed to like it.
It got me thinking that if so many people seem to dislike dress business attire, why in the world has it taken this long for the casual movement to take hold? But then, it hit me. My Dad always wore a tie to work, and he seemed to like it. He even dressed up to relax at home. I don’t even own a pair of slippers, yet my dad, and all the men portrayed in the sixties sit-coms, wore full leather slippers to compliment their bathrobes and pajamas. They didn’t take off their dress slippers until they were getting ready for bed.
Do you think, just maybe, that all of this movement toward casual dress started with the tennis shoe craze? I mean, it all seemed connected in an odd sort of way. I remember the day my dad got his first “tennis” shoes for everyday wear. They were a Christmas present from my mom, and Dad held them up with pride. I remember thinking how dumb it was to have tan-colored, leather tennis shoes. They didn’t remotely resemble the Converse All Star sneakers that I was sporting in those days, but Dad was pleased, and so I did my best to look enthused. I think I said something like, “that’s cool.”
Anyway, I think that was the start of my own dad’s movement away from traditional dress attire. From that day forward, when he came home, he would remove his suit, put on pressed trousers, a button-up sport shirt, and those tan, leather “tennis” shoes. This became his after-work attire. I believe it was the following Father’s Day when mom decided that the shoes were just not blending well with the pressed trousers, and so it was off to the department store to find a new look. I remember Mom saying that she thought it best for my brother and I to put our name on Dad’s new jeans, while she claimed the Old Spruce after-shave and talc powder as her gift. Shoot, it was her money in the first place, so it’s not like we had any choice. I think she just wanted to avoid being tied too closely to such a strong fashion suggestion.
I can’t really remember Dad opening the jeans, but I do remember him wearing them. Soon, the pressed trousers migrated to the back of his closet, and we were buying another pair of jeans. Dad seemed to be getting into this movement, and I had to admit, the tan tennis shoes looked better with jeans.
I’m not sure of the year, but I do remember it was Christmas when Dad opened one of a matched pair of presents from Mom. They were name-brand athletic shoes. “They’re specially constructed for walking”, my mom proudly announced. My dad beamed and took off his slippers to try them on. They looked a bit funny with his pajamas, but I had to admit, they were trendy. But, it was the gift in the matching box that I remember most vividly. Dad opened the box and pulled out a dark blue, jogging outfit complete with accenting white stripes. He held them up and smiled. “I thought this would be great for our afternoon walks at the mall,” Mom said with excitement. “And guess what?” she added. “I have a matching suit to wear with you.” At this point, my jaw dropped. This was going too far. I mean, my friends knew who my parents were. They had been seen with me at my school sports functions.
“Gee,” I said. “Don’t you think that is a bit too casual for the mall?”
“Nonsense,” my mom chided. “Everyone is wearing them. And they even have zipper pockets to carry a wallet and cash.”
“I suppose that means that you are actually planning to enter stores dressed like that?” I asked. Mom’s expression and the roll of her eyes was a clear message for me to hush.
Well, as best I can remember, the whole thing started with those tan shoes. I talked to Dad the other day, and he mentioned his office had gone to business casual attire. It was in the same phone call that he mentioned a wind suit as a gift idea. “How are you doing on footwear?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t need shoes,” he responded quickly. “I have a pair of loafers for the office and for after work I have my walkers, my joggers and my cross-trainers.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool.”
Well, the entire office was all buzzing with the latest news. Just this morning, a memo came, direct from the owner of the bank, announcing that casual business attire would be acceptable daily dress until further notice. I hadn’t yet opened the e-mail memo when I began to hear whoops and hollers from all points of the floor on which I work. I stuck my head out of my door and asked one of the revelers if I had missed something.
"Haven’t you read your e-mail?” he inquired with a countenance that reminded me of my son on Christmas morning.
“What e-mail?”
“The one about casual dress. Starting Monday, we go to business casual full-time, with jeans allowed on Fridays.”
“That’s cool,” I said, trying earnestly to match his enthusiasm.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Despite my profession as a banker, I really don’t feel comfortable in business dress attire. I tie my tie in the parking lot in the morning and can barely wait to get to the car after work to pull it off. I guess I was just taken aback by how much this move to business casual meant to everyone. From all of the talk, this was the best news the employees had received in quite some time. Everyone seemed to like it.
It got me thinking that if so many people seem to dislike dress business attire, why in the world has it taken this long for the casual movement to take hold? But then, it hit me. My Dad always wore a tie to work, and he seemed to like it. He even dressed up to relax at home. I don’t even own a pair of slippers, yet my dad, and all the men portrayed in the sixties sit-coms, wore full leather slippers to compliment their bathrobes and pajamas. They didn’t take off their dress slippers until they were getting ready for bed.
Do you think, just maybe, that all of this movement toward casual dress started with the tennis shoe craze? I mean, it all seemed connected in an odd sort of way. I remember the day my dad got his first “tennis” shoes for everyday wear. They were a Christmas present from my mom, and Dad held them up with pride. I remember thinking how dumb it was to have tan-colored, leather tennis shoes. They didn’t remotely resemble the Converse All Star sneakers that I was sporting in those days, but Dad was pleased, and so I did my best to look enthused. I think I said something like, “that’s cool.”
Anyway, I think that was the start of my own dad’s movement away from traditional dress attire. From that day forward, when he came home, he would remove his suit, put on pressed trousers, a button-up sport shirt, and those tan, leather “tennis” shoes. This became his after-work attire. I believe it was the following Father’s Day when mom decided that the shoes were just not blending well with the pressed trousers, and so it was off to the department store to find a new look. I remember Mom saying that she thought it best for my brother and I to put our name on Dad’s new jeans, while she claimed the Old Spruce after-shave and talc powder as her gift. Shoot, it was her money in the first place, so it’s not like we had any choice. I think she just wanted to avoid being tied too closely to such a strong fashion suggestion.
I can’t really remember Dad opening the jeans, but I do remember him wearing them. Soon, the pressed trousers migrated to the back of his closet, and we were buying another pair of jeans. Dad seemed to be getting into this movement, and I had to admit, the tan tennis shoes looked better with jeans.
I’m not sure of the year, but I do remember it was Christmas when Dad opened one of a matched pair of presents from Mom. They were name-brand athletic shoes. “They’re specially constructed for walking”, my mom proudly announced. My dad beamed and took off his slippers to try them on. They looked a bit funny with his pajamas, but I had to admit, they were trendy. But, it was the gift in the matching box that I remember most vividly. Dad opened the box and pulled out a dark blue, jogging outfit complete with accenting white stripes. He held them up and smiled. “I thought this would be great for our afternoon walks at the mall,” Mom said with excitement. “And guess what?” she added. “I have a matching suit to wear with you.” At this point, my jaw dropped. This was going too far. I mean, my friends knew who my parents were. They had been seen with me at my school sports functions.
“Gee,” I said. “Don’t you think that is a bit too casual for the mall?”
“Nonsense,” my mom chided. “Everyone is wearing them. And they even have zipper pockets to carry a wallet and cash.”
“I suppose that means that you are actually planning to enter stores dressed like that?” I asked. Mom’s expression and the roll of her eyes was a clear message for me to hush.
Well, as best I can remember, the whole thing started with those tan shoes. I talked to Dad the other day, and he mentioned his office had gone to business casual attire. It was in the same phone call that he mentioned a wind suit as a gift idea. “How are you doing on footwear?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t need shoes,” he responded quickly. “I have a pair of loafers for the office and for after work I have my walkers, my joggers and my cross-trainers.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool.”
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Day Harv Came Out of the Closet
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
I met the head of building maintenance today. I was getting my usual cup of coffee when a nearby door opened. I turned to see a small man walking my direction. His blue work trousers and a logo-emblazoned shirt set him apart from the normal office crew. "Hello, I'm D.B. Sweet," I said, thrusting out my hand and taking his.
"Nice to meet you," he said in a reserved tone. "I'm Harv."
"Oh yes, Harv. You're the man that keeps this place running."
"I suppose I do. At least I try to." Harv turned around and opened up a pair of closet doors. I returned to finish pouring my coffee.
One thing I have found interesting in our building is that most of the interior doors are very difficult to open. They are regular sized doors, but the automatic closing mechanisms seemed to have been adjusted by a gorilla. As a result, most people tend to hit the doors with their shoulders and use their body weight to get the beastly things open. Anyway, the closet in which Harv was rummaging was positioned directly in the swinging path of one of these gorilla-adjusted doors.
I had just put my cup down to wipe up the counter when I heard a squeak, followed by a bang, and accented with a muffled groan. I turned to see Bob, the credit analyst, standing next to the half-open door, and I realized that Harv was nowhere to be seen. Bob looked at me questioningly, but before I could say anything, he pushed once again against the seemingly blocked door. Another groan was followed by what sounded vaguely like a curse word, and Bob finally peered around the edge of the door. I heard Bob gasp, and then, he slowly backed up, allowing the door to close. There was poor Harv. Obviously, he had been standing in front of the closet when Bob tried to make his entrance. The first door struck the closet door which hit Harv and sent him flying into the closet. Harv was picking himself up as calmly as he could, given the fact that he had just become intimate with a mop bucket and was now wearing what looked like a bank banner from years gone by.
"Harv?" I asked with genuine concern. "Are you okay?" Harv grumbled and threw the banner off to the side. Bob cracked the door open.
"Do I need to call someone?" he asked, his face red with embarrassment.
"Just don't open the &*^% door for a second." Harv seemed to be moving well, and I was sure any further offer of assistance would not be well received. Harv crawled out of the closet and headed out the opposite door muttering a string of uncomplimentary adjectives. I opened the door and told Bob that the coast was clear.
I just got back from getting my last cup of coffee for the day. I couldn't help but laugh as I read the hand-scrawled note taped on the door, "Open SLOWLY."
I met the head of building maintenance today. I was getting my usual cup of coffee when a nearby door opened. I turned to see a small man walking my direction. His blue work trousers and a logo-emblazoned shirt set him apart from the normal office crew. "Hello, I'm D.B. Sweet," I said, thrusting out my hand and taking his.
"Nice to meet you," he said in a reserved tone. "I'm Harv."
"Oh yes, Harv. You're the man that keeps this place running."
"I suppose I do. At least I try to." Harv turned around and opened up a pair of closet doors. I returned to finish pouring my coffee.
One thing I have found interesting in our building is that most of the interior doors are very difficult to open. They are regular sized doors, but the automatic closing mechanisms seemed to have been adjusted by a gorilla. As a result, most people tend to hit the doors with their shoulders and use their body weight to get the beastly things open. Anyway, the closet in which Harv was rummaging was positioned directly in the swinging path of one of these gorilla-adjusted doors.
I had just put my cup down to wipe up the counter when I heard a squeak, followed by a bang, and accented with a muffled groan. I turned to see Bob, the credit analyst, standing next to the half-open door, and I realized that Harv was nowhere to be seen. Bob looked at me questioningly, but before I could say anything, he pushed once again against the seemingly blocked door. Another groan was followed by what sounded vaguely like a curse word, and Bob finally peered around the edge of the door. I heard Bob gasp, and then, he slowly backed up, allowing the door to close. There was poor Harv. Obviously, he had been standing in front of the closet when Bob tried to make his entrance. The first door struck the closet door which hit Harv and sent him flying into the closet. Harv was picking himself up as calmly as he could, given the fact that he had just become intimate with a mop bucket and was now wearing what looked like a bank banner from years gone by.
"Harv?" I asked with genuine concern. "Are you okay?" Harv grumbled and threw the banner off to the side. Bob cracked the door open.
"Do I need to call someone?" he asked, his face red with embarrassment.
"Just don't open the &*^% door for a second." Harv seemed to be moving well, and I was sure any further offer of assistance would not be well received. Harv crawled out of the closet and headed out the opposite door muttering a string of uncomplimentary adjectives. I opened the door and told Bob that the coast was clear.
I just got back from getting my last cup of coffee for the day. I couldn't help but laugh as I read the hand-scrawled note taped on the door, "Open SLOWLY."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Underdressed in Amarillo
(Reprinted from a previously published diary)
Yesterday, I had to make a last minute flight to Amarillo. Fortunately, the company-owned business plane was already scheduled to go that direction, so I just had to show up at the local airport by 7:00 a.m. and step on board. The plane is a twin engine turboprop, a KingAir by name. Despite the fact that the price tag on a craft like this would make your jaw drop, most people classify this as a small plane. Since I am somewhat of an aviation buff, I was excited to make my maiden voyage. The morning air was crisp, but I was comfortable in my suit jacket as I made my way from the hangar to the steps of the KingAir. As I put my jacket into the wardrobe, I pushed aside a number of large overcoats without a thought.
The takeoff was smooth, and soon, we were cruising at just under 30,000 feet. I settled back, not really sure how long the flight would take. For those of you unfamiliar with Texas geography, suffice it to say that it can take a lot of lead to draw a pencil line from a town on one side of Texas to a town on the other side. Two and a half hours and over 450 miles later, we touched down in Amarillo. I stood and stretched as the pilot walked by on his way to open the door. “You want to be careful on the walk to the terminal,” he said as he donned a fur-lined parka. “We have an ice storm out there, and the pavement is going to be slick,” he added as he reached to unlatch the door. The door opened, and the cabin was immediately filled with a biting, chilling wind that made us all shiver. I stood in what must have been stunned amazement as I peered out the open door. My coworkers suited up with their heavy overcoats and hats and scarves. As one of the men handed me my suit jacket, he asked where I had put my overcoat. Sheepishly, I admitted that I did not have a coat.
Have you ever uttered a sentence that seemed to stop time? Everyone in the plane stopped and turned to look at me. Their expressions ranged from abject pity to stifled amusement, and I just stood there feeling a bit like I had forgotten not just an overcoat, but every other stitch of clothing. I stayed in the plane until all others had disembarked, and then, I stepped slowly toward the door. As soon as my foot hit the stairs, the gusty wind turned into an icy, steady force. I flipped up the collar of my suit jacket in a meager attempt to shield myself from the frozen precipitation that scratched against my cheeks. “Be very careful,” the parka-shorn pilot cautioned from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s an ice rink out here.”
I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket and hugged myself to contain my warmth. I scuffled along toward the terminal, my leather soles feeling like ball bearings on oil. I tucked my chin against my chest, relying on the boot-covered feet in front of me to guide me safely forward. Finally, I made it to the terminal. One of my coworkers opened the door for me, and I stepped into the relative warmth of the building. I glanced behind the service counter to see my reflection in a decorative mirror. I was fully covered by a blanket of ice crystals. Even my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes shone with a winter sparkle. My nose and ears glowed bright red, and my cheeks shined from the wind-burn. Suddenly, I realized that, despite the fact that dozens of people were crowding the terminal, no one was speaking. Off in the distance, I heard a stifled chuckle, and the woman behind the counter smiled. She reached under the counter and produced a box of tissues. She held back her laugh just long enough to ask, “Is this your first time in Amarillo?”
Yesterday, I had to make a last minute flight to Amarillo. Fortunately, the company-owned business plane was already scheduled to go that direction, so I just had to show up at the local airport by 7:00 a.m. and step on board. The plane is a twin engine turboprop, a KingAir by name. Despite the fact that the price tag on a craft like this would make your jaw drop, most people classify this as a small plane. Since I am somewhat of an aviation buff, I was excited to make my maiden voyage. The morning air was crisp, but I was comfortable in my suit jacket as I made my way from the hangar to the steps of the KingAir. As I put my jacket into the wardrobe, I pushed aside a number of large overcoats without a thought.
The takeoff was smooth, and soon, we were cruising at just under 30,000 feet. I settled back, not really sure how long the flight would take. For those of you unfamiliar with Texas geography, suffice it to say that it can take a lot of lead to draw a pencil line from a town on one side of Texas to a town on the other side. Two and a half hours and over 450 miles later, we touched down in Amarillo. I stood and stretched as the pilot walked by on his way to open the door. “You want to be careful on the walk to the terminal,” he said as he donned a fur-lined parka. “We have an ice storm out there, and the pavement is going to be slick,” he added as he reached to unlatch the door. The door opened, and the cabin was immediately filled with a biting, chilling wind that made us all shiver. I stood in what must have been stunned amazement as I peered out the open door. My coworkers suited up with their heavy overcoats and hats and scarves. As one of the men handed me my suit jacket, he asked where I had put my overcoat. Sheepishly, I admitted that I did not have a coat.
Have you ever uttered a sentence that seemed to stop time? Everyone in the plane stopped and turned to look at me. Their expressions ranged from abject pity to stifled amusement, and I just stood there feeling a bit like I had forgotten not just an overcoat, but every other stitch of clothing. I stayed in the plane until all others had disembarked, and then, I stepped slowly toward the door. As soon as my foot hit the stairs, the gusty wind turned into an icy, steady force. I flipped up the collar of my suit jacket in a meager attempt to shield myself from the frozen precipitation that scratched against my cheeks. “Be very careful,” the parka-shorn pilot cautioned from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s an ice rink out here.”
I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket and hugged myself to contain my warmth. I scuffled along toward the terminal, my leather soles feeling like ball bearings on oil. I tucked my chin against my chest, relying on the boot-covered feet in front of me to guide me safely forward. Finally, I made it to the terminal. One of my coworkers opened the door for me, and I stepped into the relative warmth of the building. I glanced behind the service counter to see my reflection in a decorative mirror. I was fully covered by a blanket of ice crystals. Even my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes shone with a winter sparkle. My nose and ears glowed bright red, and my cheeks shined from the wind-burn. Suddenly, I realized that, despite the fact that dozens of people were crowding the terminal, no one was speaking. Off in the distance, I heard a stifled chuckle, and the woman behind the counter smiled. She reached under the counter and produced a box of tissues. She held back her laugh just long enough to ask, “Is this your first time in Amarillo?”
Monday, January 25, 2010
Car Wars
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
Commuting is just not the same anymore. I now live in a college town and my commute is an eight-mile drive down a four-lane road passing right by the campus. Naturally, we have the occasional fender benders, usually caused by a distracted or daredevil student, but normally my commute is blissfully calm. I call this routine blissful because I can remember my days on the Dallas motor speedways and the nightmares that were commonly referred to as car wars.
On one such day, I was headed home along a north Dallas beltway known as I-635. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on this hot summer day and I was hoping my luck would hold. I-635 is an eight to ten lane divided highway, complete with a high-occupancy vehicle lane. The speed limit is posted at 65, but any Dallas native knows that you either fly along at 75 mph in tightly bunched packs or you sit still as one of the hundreds in a solid, stagnant ribbon of metal on asphalt. It was on this fly and die or sit and spit freeway that I found myself everyday at this time.
I was just topping a hill as I saw the string of a thousand brake lights in front of me. Luckily, I hit my brakes and my little Nissan began to slow. I liked my little maneuverable car. My personal theory on car wars survivability is based on the fight or flight theory. A 1-ton pickup with a plate-metal and tubular steel brushguard is the only way to fight. A small little car with enough "go" power to match your fear is the only way to flee.
Anyway, I came to a stop with room to spare and I craned my neck to see as far ahead as possible. Of course, I could only see the backs of a hundred other craning necks. I reached down and flipped my lazy boy seat lever and leaned back as far as possible without dropping below the steering wheel. I learned long ago that the only good that can come from a traffic jam is a little shut-eye. I had just taken a nice, deep, cleansing breath when I heard a sound that, to this day, is etched in my memory.
Having never been in the military, my only experience with automatic weapons was as an audience member in front of a screen, but it did not take real life experience for me to recognize the sound of machinegun fire. The staccato banging buffeted my ears as I tucked my head down as far as possible below the windows. The rapid pops continued as I leaned over into the vacant passenger seat. My left foot came off the clutch and the car died with my right foot jammed against the brake. I could only presume that I was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and I covered my head with my arms in the hopes that I could shield myself from the glass that would inevitable be shattering around me.
The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began leaving me still face down in my seats. I could feel the center console pressing into my ribs but I dared not sit up. I could only reason that the gang members were reloading and I was in no hurry to test my theory.
An eerie quiet calm seemed to wash over my senses as I listened to my commuter world. The radio still played and the fan still hummed but no horns blew and no screams reached my ears. Perhaps everyone was huddled in fear as I was. Perhaps worse yet, everyone was dead. What was I saying? You can’t kill hundreds of motorists with a five-second blast of automatic weapons fire. And where was the return fire? After all, Texas leads the nation in concealed weapons and gun racked deer rifles.
I ducked lower at the sound of a blowing horn. Again it blew, but this time it repeated in a rhythm that communicated not fear, but annoyance. Slowly I sat up and looked out of my back window. The man behind me was now hammering his steering wheel with one hand and pointing in my direction with the other. I turned my head and, to my amazement, saw a 200-foot space between my car and the back bumper in front of me. I slowly scanned the area for hostiles but saw none. I wiped my brow and took a breath. My hands were still shaking. I started my car and pulled ahead, still amazed at the apathy that seemed to pervade the masses of commuters.
I pushed across the lanes to reach an exit, knowing I had to check my car for damage. I pulled into a gas station and drove up to the sign that read “Mechanic On Duty.” I let the car idle and got out as a guy wearing the name of Joey came out from under an Oldsmobile. “Water is on the side,” he said. I looked at him without having any idea what he had said. “Water for your radiator," he said with a bit of patronization in his voice. "You look like your overheating.”
I was fighting to find the words to describe my incredible experience when my ears rang from the familiar and terrifying popping that had sent me ducking for cover only moments before. I jumped, but the mechanic remained calm. “That would be your air-conditioning pressure relief valve,” he said as he wiped off the wrench in his hand. “Man, I’d hate to be you. No air-conditioning on a day like today will kill ya.”
Commuting is just not the same anymore. I now live in a college town and my commute is an eight-mile drive down a four-lane road passing right by the campus. Naturally, we have the occasional fender benders, usually caused by a distracted or daredevil student, but normally my commute is blissfully calm. I call this routine blissful because I can remember my days on the Dallas motor speedways and the nightmares that were commonly referred to as car wars.
On one such day, I was headed home along a north Dallas beltway known as I-635. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on this hot summer day and I was hoping my luck would hold. I-635 is an eight to ten lane divided highway, complete with a high-occupancy vehicle lane. The speed limit is posted at 65, but any Dallas native knows that you either fly along at 75 mph in tightly bunched packs or you sit still as one of the hundreds in a solid, stagnant ribbon of metal on asphalt. It was on this fly and die or sit and spit freeway that I found myself everyday at this time.
I was just topping a hill as I saw the string of a thousand brake lights in front of me. Luckily, I hit my brakes and my little Nissan began to slow. I liked my little maneuverable car. My personal theory on car wars survivability is based on the fight or flight theory. A 1-ton pickup with a plate-metal and tubular steel brushguard is the only way to fight. A small little car with enough "go" power to match your fear is the only way to flee.
Anyway, I came to a stop with room to spare and I craned my neck to see as far ahead as possible. Of course, I could only see the backs of a hundred other craning necks. I reached down and flipped my lazy boy seat lever and leaned back as far as possible without dropping below the steering wheel. I learned long ago that the only good that can come from a traffic jam is a little shut-eye. I had just taken a nice, deep, cleansing breath when I heard a sound that, to this day, is etched in my memory.
Having never been in the military, my only experience with automatic weapons was as an audience member in front of a screen, but it did not take real life experience for me to recognize the sound of machinegun fire. The staccato banging buffeted my ears as I tucked my head down as far as possible below the windows. The rapid pops continued as I leaned over into the vacant passenger seat. My left foot came off the clutch and the car died with my right foot jammed against the brake. I could only presume that I was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and I covered my head with my arms in the hopes that I could shield myself from the glass that would inevitable be shattering around me.
The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began leaving me still face down in my seats. I could feel the center console pressing into my ribs but I dared not sit up. I could only reason that the gang members were reloading and I was in no hurry to test my theory.
An eerie quiet calm seemed to wash over my senses as I listened to my commuter world. The radio still played and the fan still hummed but no horns blew and no screams reached my ears. Perhaps everyone was huddled in fear as I was. Perhaps worse yet, everyone was dead. What was I saying? You can’t kill hundreds of motorists with a five-second blast of automatic weapons fire. And where was the return fire? After all, Texas leads the nation in concealed weapons and gun racked deer rifles.
I ducked lower at the sound of a blowing horn. Again it blew, but this time it repeated in a rhythm that communicated not fear, but annoyance. Slowly I sat up and looked out of my back window. The man behind me was now hammering his steering wheel with one hand and pointing in my direction with the other. I turned my head and, to my amazement, saw a 200-foot space between my car and the back bumper in front of me. I slowly scanned the area for hostiles but saw none. I wiped my brow and took a breath. My hands were still shaking. I started my car and pulled ahead, still amazed at the apathy that seemed to pervade the masses of commuters.
I pushed across the lanes to reach an exit, knowing I had to check my car for damage. I pulled into a gas station and drove up to the sign that read “Mechanic On Duty.” I let the car idle and got out as a guy wearing the name of Joey came out from under an Oldsmobile. “Water is on the side,” he said. I looked at him without having any idea what he had said. “Water for your radiator," he said with a bit of patronization in his voice. "You look like your overheating.”
I was fighting to find the words to describe my incredible experience when my ears rang from the familiar and terrifying popping that had sent me ducking for cover only moments before. I jumped, but the mechanic remained calm. “That would be your air-conditioning pressure relief valve,” he said as he wiped off the wrench in his hand. “Man, I’d hate to be you. No air-conditioning on a day like today will kill ya.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Power Lunch
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
I had a staff lunch yesterday. Kind of a "get to know the new boss" deal for my staff. I don’t have a lot of staff, but I do manage a few people and I think they appreciate getting to know me in a neutral environment. I don’t know the town too well yet, but I thought the Mr. Goodies Pizza and Party Emporium might just fit the bill for a neutral and laid-back location.
The food was fair, but little Donnie’s three-year birthday party at the next table made business conversation kind of tough. Marie, my assistant, did enjoy getting a balloon giraffe, but I felt the balloon hat I had to wear was a little distracting. Overall, I think the meeting went well, at least as far as getting to know one another.
I found out that one of my analysts is an air-hockey hustler. (I owe her a free Annual Performance Review upgrade.) I also found out that putting my entire staff in bumper cars is not a good thing so early in our relationship. It’s not that they lack a strong team spirit, it’s just that they are not yet convinced I am on the same team. At least the neck brace gives me an excuse not to wear a tie for a couple of weeks.
I had a staff lunch yesterday. Kind of a "get to know the new boss" deal for my staff. I don’t have a lot of staff, but I do manage a few people and I think they appreciate getting to know me in a neutral environment. I don’t know the town too well yet, but I thought the Mr. Goodies Pizza and Party Emporium might just fit the bill for a neutral and laid-back location.
The food was fair, but little Donnie’s three-year birthday party at the next table made business conversation kind of tough. Marie, my assistant, did enjoy getting a balloon giraffe, but I felt the balloon hat I had to wear was a little distracting. Overall, I think the meeting went well, at least as far as getting to know one another.
I found out that one of my analysts is an air-hockey hustler. (I owe her a free Annual Performance Review upgrade.) I also found out that putting my entire staff in bumper cars is not a good thing so early in our relationship. It’s not that they lack a strong team spirit, it’s just that they are not yet convinced I am on the same team. At least the neck brace gives me an excuse not to wear a tie for a couple of weeks.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Nice to Meet you Bob?
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
My manager took me around the bank today to meet my new “work family.” It seems that I have a few odd cousins hanging around, but everyone was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in being helpful. One of the bad things about being new is learning all of the names. I personally am very bad with names. I have read up on all of the tricks and techniques, but none of them seem to work.
My wife likes to associate people with other folks that she knows well, and then, when she sees the new person, she just recalls the old friend and the name is there. Naturally, when I try it, it doesn’t work. My experience usually goes something like this.
“Nice to meet you, Dave,” I might say as I shake the hand of a new acquaintance. At that point I think to myself, one of my best friends was named Dave, and I walk off, confident that I have employed a proven memory trick.
The next day I see the same fellow, and I’ll be danged if I can’t think of the person with whom I had associated them. It seems odd that all the memory tips that are given rely on memory to work. If I had a good memory in the first place, I wouldn’t need to use tricks to recall a name. The only real trick that seems to work is keeping a list of frequently used names handy. It works pretty well, but some people think it strange that I am always looking at the palm of my hand just prior to greeting them by name.
My manager took me around the bank today to meet my new “work family.” It seems that I have a few odd cousins hanging around, but everyone was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in being helpful. One of the bad things about being new is learning all of the names. I personally am very bad with names. I have read up on all of the tricks and techniques, but none of them seem to work.
My wife likes to associate people with other folks that she knows well, and then, when she sees the new person, she just recalls the old friend and the name is there. Naturally, when I try it, it doesn’t work. My experience usually goes something like this.
“Nice to meet you, Dave,” I might say as I shake the hand of a new acquaintance. At that point I think to myself, one of my best friends was named Dave, and I walk off, confident that I have employed a proven memory trick.
The next day I see the same fellow, and I’ll be danged if I can’t think of the person with whom I had associated them. It seems odd that all the memory tips that are given rely on memory to work. If I had a good memory in the first place, I wouldn’t need to use tricks to recall a name. The only real trick that seems to work is keeping a list of frequently used names handy. It works pretty well, but some people think it strange that I am always looking at the palm of my hand just prior to greeting them by name.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I Used to Think 8 to 5 was a Fable
(Reposted from an earlier published diary)
I just completed my first day at a brand new job. In retrospect, it was not a bad day as first days go. I took this job primarily to get out of the rat-race that I had endured in Dallas. It only took a few years in the Dallas traffic for me to realize that road rage was simply a tactic to dispel intense, mind-numbing boredom. It was kind of like license plate bingo and demolition derby put together. My car became my life. Each afternoon, I would greet my wife hello by kissing her picture that was mounted to my dash right next to the kids’ most recent school mug shot. I would call home on the cell phone before I even started the car. My daughter, Taryn usually answered. “Hi, Daddy,” she would say.
“Hi, Hon. Is your mother nearby?”
“She is trying to find her keys. Jacob is trying to help her find them.”
“Honey, Jacob is a boy. He inherited my male pattern blindness. You need to help your mother find her keys, but let me talk to her while you do that.”
“Okay, here she is. Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Hon. Say hi to Jacob.”
This conversation, or one very similar to it, would take place each afternoon. The subsequent conversation with my wife would be just as harried as she rushed out the door in route to one of the plethora of activities. Dinner was usually in the oven when I got home, but my dining room was normally back in my car. Eating on a table was a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to be on time to whatever obligation I had.
Well, today I called home at five o-clock. Taryn answered the phone. “Hi, Hon. Let me talk to Mom.”
“Oh, hi Daddy. Sure thing. Are you having a good first day?”
“Yes, I am, and I don’t even have to work late.”
“Wow, so when will you be home?”
“Well, I’m on my way out, and I’m not sure what rush hour is like, but I’m guessing I should be home by 5:20.” Silence fell over our conversation until I heard my daughter yell, “Jacob, put a plate on for Dad!”
The real recognition that things were changing was when I heard Jacob ask from a distance, “A plate for who?”
Yes, indeed, things will be different in this new job, in this new town, in this new life. As I got in my car this evening to go home, I looked at the pictures of my family still stuck to my dash. I said a quick prayer of thanks as I took them off and stuck them into my wallet.
With head upon my pillow I think about my day.
The day floats like a leaf into my memory,
falling into place, interlocking with the past.
Memories of days gone by push away sleep.
I pick out pieces and study their hues.
Some are bright and happy
Some are dark and full of shadows.
Stepping away from my picture
The lines between the individual days blend
And my perspective changes.
My picture is not random shadows and light.
Each piece is but a part of a larger work.
The work is not complete
I know not the finished size
But now I see that the shadows serve to give texture to the subject which is my life.
I think each experience in life is like a puzzle piece. Each day a new piece falls into place moving one step closer to the complete picture that is our life. Each piece is either a small part of good or a small part of bad. It is up to us to decide which type of piece forms the foreground and which type forms the background. And the missing piece, the one that has fallen out of the box? Spend a little search time on your knees. You might find the most beautiful piece of all.
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