Business on the Border

31 07 2023

It had been quite a while since I had last seen Daniel. Four years to be exact. In our haste to leave Florida, we did not have a going-away party. Maybe that’s because, deep down, we knew we see each other again.

This was a new and improved Daniel I would come to find. Still that same confident bravado, bursting with energy, only now operating far from home. He had been hired by a chamber of commerce in southern California’s Imperial Valley — perched on the U.S.-Mexico border.

“Come on down and I’ll show you the border,” he said over the phone, making his best sales pitch. “It’s nothing like you’ve seen on TV.”

There was something else new about Daniel. He was married now — to a man — completing his journey from a closeted political aide. Daniel was excited to introduce me to his husband, Kai and I was looking forward to meeting the guy that was able to reel him in.

Flush with cash from my warehouse endeavors, I booked a flight to Los Angeles and then hopped aboard a small turboproped plane. There were nine seats inside the cabin. I was a tad nervous, particularly when the pilot appeared to be a recent college graduate. But she did a fantastic job, restoring my faith in future generations that had been so badly damaged by bratty Portland anarchists.

Our flight was smooth and the scenary was amazing. From the container ships lined up off the Long Beach port, we flew southeast into the desert, over the mountains and into Imperial Valley. El Centro, with its lush green farms, appeared like an oasis from the air. As I would learn, those farms provide a great amount of fruits and vegetables to so many households near and far during the winter.

Once on the ground, I was greeted by one of Daniel’s assistants from the chamber, who gave me a short tour around town. It was autumn and the locals were celebrating cooler temperatures.

“So Daniel tells me your a journalist,” the driver said.

“Among other things,” I coyly replied.

“Well, there are plenty of stories here,” she said in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Then her phone rang. It was Daniel and immediately their conversation turned into crisis control. This was, after all, Daniel’s purpose here. He was tasked with bringing three chamber of commerces together to operate as one entity. Not an easy assignment, by any stretch and especially difficult for the new CEO from Florida.

“He wants to speak to you,” she said handing me the phone. Daniel’s attitude instantly cheered up. I like to think I have that effect on people. “Welcome to Imperial Valley!!!,” he shouted.

“Thanks,” I said, “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes, it’s just the mayor and I are having a little disagreement, that’s all,” he said.

Oh boy, I thought, here we go again. Daniel was famous for assisting and butting heads with politicians and it seemed that was still the case in California. When we arrived at the chamber, Daniel gave me a big hug and it was like old times again as he bounced off the walls with enthusiasm. He took me into his office and in between phone calls and directions to staff, he showed me some of his favorite momentos and awards from various stints of service.

“This is me with Speaker Pelosi,” he beamed, showing me a photograph of him alongside the Queen of San Francisco.

Tired from a long day of traveling, I asked Daniel if I could get some rest and unpack so he took me to his house, where I would be staying in their guest bedroom. It was a nice sized house, two stories with a garage and big backyard in a modest neighborhood at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Staying here saved me money, but there was a catch that I didn’t fully calculate — There would be dogs.


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Categories : Business, California, Confidence

Good Grief

5 07 2023

The Oregon coast is a spectacular site. Massive jagged rocks protrude from the sea. It’s where the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean meet the rugged mainland lined with green Douglas firs. The smooth sound of the waves washing over the rocks is tranquilizing to the soul, especially for those who come here as a respite from city life.

On this day, it worked wonders for me.

Overcome by emotion, I could not stop crying on our drive out of the valley and over the mountains. It had been a hard journey out of the warehouse and into the airport and now I was back to square one, drained by the experience, with not a clue as to what lies ahead.

On the way, I sent a text to my TSA trainer, Tyler, thanking him for doing what he could for me.

“Enjoyed our time working together, John,” he replied. “I am sorry it did not work out for you. I hope your future entails new promising opportunities.”

It was a kind expression, not typical of security guards. My union representative also noted I was fortunate to have worked in Oregon and “not someplace like New Jersey” where my exit would not had been so graceful.

So here I was, staring into the ocean with tears running down my cheeks. Totally devasted.

David pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me as if to shield me from the world.

He was still with me, standing by my side despite all we had been through. The cross country move to a new life and the car accident that nearly claimed it. And then there was my very public affair with T that no doubt hurt him more than he showed.

And yet his loyalty was unyeilding. He kissed me on the forehead and squeezed tight still exhibiting a calmness that I had come to respect deeply. That’s what I have always marveled about David — his ability to stay cool and collected under intense pressure and misfortune. Lord knows, we have had our share of struggles.

We had lunch at a restaurant in Depoe Bay, where the sunlight pierced through the large windows of the dining room, shining bright on our table. It was late January and sunlight was scarce so we soaked it up and ordered more wine.

David tried to cheer me up by playing photographer with cheesy comments.

“Ok, give me that sad look again,” he said, snapping pictures from across our table. I began to grin, snapping out of my pity party with each click of the camera until eventually, I was smiling in the sunlight and releasing some of the pain from the last year.

A fresh start awaited, whatever that looked like was still a mystery. On our ride back to Portland, I got a call from a California number that I did not recognize. Were the circumstances different, I likely would not have taken it, but something told me to answer and thank God I did.

It was Daniel, my friend from the Florida political circuit. His story had changed quite significantly since we last saw each other. His passion had not.

“John, let me show you the border,” he said.


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Categories : Oregon, Relationships

A Hands Off Approach

25 06 2023

Going through all the hurdles of a security clearance is not easy. Nor should it be.

But I stayed the course and went through every step and finally secured a report for duty status at the airport. It was sort of surreal to be working for an agency most journalists outright despise. What I would come to learn is the TSA — a response to the 9/11 attacks — was the lowest paid government agency and morale was poor.

Granted COVID still had a stranglehold on the travel industry with the omicron variant just coming out. Like the warehouse and the grocery store, we were required to be masked at all times, but since this was a federal government job, only vaccinated employees were allowed to return to workplace.

I sailed through classroom training, feeling like a nerd in history class again as we studied the different terrorist attacks over the years. We watched a video on 9/11 with interviews and footage I had never seen before and it was so powerful tears welled up in my eyes. That was when I knew this job meant more than a paycheck.

“John, you are the smartest one in the class, you’ll do fine,” said Garrett, our stout, barrel-chested trainer with a ponytail and one of those Oregon accents of unremarkable note.

And while, I scored great in the classroom and navigated all the computers, websites and passwords with ease, I would struggle on checkpoint, realizing too late that the cards were stacked against me. Without revealing secrets, let’s just say it was a blessing in disguise that I was unable to get my officer certification before the training hours ran out.

I was relieved of duty after two months. It was crushing.

There was a moment of clarity during the certification process, when it hit me that if I progressed any further I would be required to perform pat-downs on passengers. This was not something I was looking forward to. Just getting them to empty their pockets, take off their shoes and xray luggage was invasive enough. For some reason it never occured to me during this entire process that pat-downs were a big part of a TSA officer’s functions.

Talk about the dog focused on catching the car. The chase was over. The fun part done. Now what?

My refusal to quit eventually forced the agency’s hand. I knew something was up one day when Garrett, normally friendly to me, would not make eye contact and avoided me in the back office. A young female supervisor, clearly sympathetic to what had become my awkward role in all of this, had me take online tactical courses for most of the day, while upper management figured out a way to get rid of me.

I knew the die had been cast, when Garrett walked behind my desk one morning as I was clicking through online tests and muttered underneath his breath, “game over.”

Thankfully, when I was relieved of duty, the agency arranged for me to go on unemployment, which for a decade or more had been unattainble for various reasons. This time the benefits came in quick and without probing questions. A small consolation prize that I would gladly take and I needed the rest.

The train ride home from the airport after getting the axe was one of the lowest feelings of my life. When your country rejects you, it’s hard to accept. And yet at my most vulnerable, a familiar face was there to lift me up. My champion came through again.

“Let’s take a drive to the coast,” David said.


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Categories : Airport, Security, Work

Back At It

11 06 2023

Maybe it was the cold that brought me in. Could it be that sleeping outside in 34 degree weather actually awakened my senses. What was I doing in this cabin — deep in the Alaskan wilderness — with no car, barely making above minimum wage and surrounded by Gen Zers who just wanted to party all the time.

Well, to answer that question we need to rewind to where we last left off…the warehouse.

Life in the tote trenches was exhausting and I had lost my will to keep up the daily drudgery of fighting the system. Don’t get me wrong, my skirmishes with management were enjoyable as I used every last COVID-19 rule and mechianical irregularity to my advantage. Still, you can only slow walk to the bathroom so many times during an 11-hour shift before you realize they just don’t give a damn anymore.

I’d won, but was still in need of an exit strategy and if the smile center had taught me anything, it was how to measure time and savor every second. The off ramp would come from an unlikely source — the TSA. Yep, the Transportation Security Administration was hiring and like most places mired in the pandemic, desperate for able-bodied Americans willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the love of their country.

So I embarked on a new journey of going through the rigorous process of applying for employment with the federal government. Tests, physicals, drug screenings, background checks and interviews. It gave me a goal that the warehouse didn’t. A purpose to pursue, if you will.

Come fly with me.


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Categories : Alaska, Security, Work

Book Published

29 07 2022

Update: At long last, I have published my first book. You can order your copy through the link below:

Meanwhile, much has changed in my world since my last post here. I escaped the warehouse with the government’s help and traveled to the southern California desert and Alaskan arctic. Currently, working on a sequel with more colorful characters, fun adventures and happy trails.

Ciao for Now,

John

Memoirs from 2009 to 2021.

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Warehouse Woes

25 11 2021

It’s late summer and my back is on the verge of giving out.

Ten months into the warehouse job and the pain is plenty. It was bound to happen.

“I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long,” my buddy Zac said over our weekly brew pub outing. Zac arrived in Portland shortly after I took the warehouse job. We worked together at Glacier. The older I get the more I recognize how great those park gigs were.

Pain began pulsing up and through my shoulders last week. Maybe I should be warming up and stretching more before engaging in the heavy push, pull, reach, bend and climbing that is this warehouse job. But who has time for stretches when you gotta make rate and stay on task?

After studying some cloud computing — on my own time mind you — I’ve come to the conclusion this site is a design to fail situation. On top of the chaos with COVID, during which management was still pushing pre-COVID lofty rates as bodies continued to drop, a construction project was launched inside the warehouse which appeared to counter the current operational methods.

Project Tornado

And then vaccine wars started. The company took a laissez-faire approach at first, so we had to go off-site in search of the vaccine. Testing continued on-site where the number of positive cases topped the state for private commercial employers.

Before COVID, this warehouse was one of the company’s leaders in injury rates.

I tried to bring dangerous situations to the attention of management but soon learned retaliation was a consequence of whistle blowing: A flat tire in the parking lot. Pallets deliberately dropped on the floor creating loud, gun shot like bangs while your back is turned. That sort of thing.

“It’s the culture here,” a process assistant told me. Likely a reflection of Portland’s failed leadership.

A culture of anarchary in the streets with strict virus protocols from the state is a deadly mix.

Those of us who got the vaccine were allowed to work unmasked, which in the swealtering summer heat was a relief, while those who refused the vaccine were required to keep masking. This policy produced division, resentment and gang-like behavior.

While waiting for station assignments one day, I turned to ask a young co-worker if he had considered getting vaccinated and his reaction was an emotional detonation.

“Don’t talk to me!,” he said. “I don’t like you!”

When I brought this up to human resources, their response was, “John, nobody is required to speak to you and you cannot ask anyone their vaccination status.” For the record, I asked if he had “considered” getting vaccinated.

People not talking to each other in this warehouse was one of the first things that struck me as odd. Workers walk around like their dog just got run over. No eye contact. The robots have more personality. Sadness permeates throughout the miles long facility, which measures the length of four football fields. Some sit on the toilet for long periods of time to escape having to go back on to the noisy and treacherous floor.

Conditions are so bad now I shudder to think what it was like before the virus hit. It’s obvious there is not enough suckers desperate enough to risk their health to keep the company’s speed driven model on a sustainable path. The average warehouse worker lasts three days on the job, I’m told. Enforce the rules too much and they quit and then no one gets their Christmas gifts. Oh vey.

When I first started I imagined that someone — David, T or even Pete Buttigieg — would walk in, sweep me up and take me outta there a la An Officer and a Gentleman. That fantasy quickly turned into the harsh reality that no writer should ever romantize this kind of work.

This has been a hard, demoralizing job. I have never watched a clock or schemed how long I could take refilling a water bottle or walking to the bathroom. We’re all back to wearing masks again and yet somehow the anti-vaxxers have managed to keep their roles as training and learning ambassadors. This is ridiculous on so many levels. A global company where vaccinations are required to travel employs people who deny science to train new hires? What is wrong with this picture?

I could reveal so much more, but I think I have found the 21st century version of Upton Sinclair’s Jungle. Now the challenge is to accept what I cannot change and muster the courage — and smile — to change the things I can.


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Categories : Oregon, Work

Forgotten No More

8 07 2021

I’m back.

Nothing like a little adversity to push you to the keyboard. Life’s been tough but I have come to expect no less. I’m still at the warehouse. How my body has endured is a mystery, but if there is a silver lining from eight months of hard labor it’s that I’m damn sure physically fit for a guy my age.

Pushing tote tanks for 10 hours is still not something I want to be doing very much longer. On my own time, I am taking cloud computing classes. Learning new technical skills is exciting and I enjoy the challenge.

Last month I returned to Florida to see my father who had suffered a series of strokes. My mother is doing an admirable job caring for him even while she continues to work. My brother helped get Dad home from the hospital and I followed a week later to provide support in any way I could.

Mostly it was getting Dad up and down the stairs. I also sat with him as he watched old westerns at extremely loud volume on television. We didn’t talk much. He is still trying to regain basic functions. It was difficult to see him this way. As soon as I entered the house, I greeted him with a kiss to his temple to let him know I came with love.

It was nice to be back in the slow pace of the Florida panhandle again. Determined to leave politics and personal frustrations behind in Portland, I approached in a humble spirit. I was surprised to see the lingering damage of Hurricane Michael and realized the region is still very much in the recovery process. My time on the west coast had also sharpened insight for planning and engineering and I keenly took note of dimensions and intersections from the airport to my parents’ front door.

The humidity didn’t bother me as much as the string of unsequenced traffic lights on the main highway into Panama City. My rental car was a Toyota Prius which stuck out like a elite green thumb among all the loud full size pick-up trucks. It was a quiet ride to Port St. Joe and it took longer than the flight from Atlanta to Panama City.

Hence the nickname “Forgotten Coast.”

Coming back to where I spent my high school and college years was an emotional rush that triggered a lot of memories. Oddly enough, I was glad to be here, but wished the circumstances were different. I was optimistic Dad would survive but knew it was time for some difficult decisions to be made about care going forward.

I helped my mother bathe and dress him. He had done the same for me many years ago. Life’s unavoidable circle.


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Categories : Family, Panama City

Taking Out The Trash

11 03 2021

Gonna go ahead and started writing again. I had hopes of hiring a literary agent and signing a book deal but no such luck. Probably have to put it all together myself and package it through Amazon. The ol’ boot strap way.

I’m still at the warehouse job. My body aches after every shift and I sleep mostly on my down time. The goal was to work backwards and starting on overnight shifts certainly fulfilled this mission. I could elaborate but why spoil the sequel. Next week I move to days having earned trust from management. This transfer, the hope is, will raise energy levels and improve mental health.

Still no communication from T but the hole in my heart remains.

In January, I took some PTO time from work and flew down to see my friend Alan in Los Angeles. A wise Chinese man, highly educated and well traveled, Alan sought to encourage me.

“Your life is filled with garbage,” he told me. “You need to take it out.”

He was right. In my slow and turtle way, I am doing this cleaning while trying to be fair and realistic. What can be recycled and donated for others to use and learn from? There are truths buried beneath the garbage. I’ll likely need a professional to explain why they are there and how to set them free.

Alan provided a nudge needed to begin the process.

He came to America on a mission with the church but has since left those antiquated institutions behind. He flows through the Holy Spirit now more than looking to God for answers. Religion, Alan says, is about following rules. Being a spiritual person is about believing in the heart.

“Pastors were the biggest hypocrites,” Alan told me, his tone direct and tinged with anger. “I got tired of the lies, cheating and fake bullshit.”

Alan said he left the church behind so he could be himself — happy and free.

My journey to see Alan came as a new President was inaugurated and southern California was under another coronavirus lockdown. The touristy places we visited — Santa Monica Pier, Griffith Observatory, Hollywood Blvd. — were nearly empty. A unique experience to remember for sure.

Alan instructed me to bring only one outfit. He gave me a bunch of clothes. It was his gift to me. They were nice clothes, reflecting a distinguished sense of style and fashion. If anything needed reviving from my time in the Oregon rainforest it was my fashion. The pandemic and overnight shift work had me surrendered to sweat pants most of the time.

In a guru like way, Alan pushed me to break out of my depression.

“You’re a winner,” he kept telling me. “Stand Up!, Speak Out!, Act Up!”

Although I have come back from the cliff of ruin — on more than one occasion — I cannot deem this latest turnaround a success just yet. I am still searching for my forever home. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to live in a place where more than one person can use the kitchen at a time and the bed is not in the living room. Solace, at its basic level, can be taken in the fact I am not on the streets in a tent as that population seems to be multiplying here in West Coast cities.

I strive to be altruistic with my new resources. I look for ways to help by increasing donations to charitable causes, lifting up friends in tangible ways and staying in closer contact with family. David and I continue to support each other in a manner partnerships were designed. We are lucky to have escaped the deadly virus.

Romantic love, meanwhile, is on hold. There needs to be time for healing.

T showed up in a dream the other day. Wearing a light colored sun dress, arms full of books and walking briskly out of a house where my brother and I were standing, talking in the front yard. I followed and tried to catch up but my movement was like slow motion and she disappeared in a crowd of people on a busy sidewalk. I came to a row of shops and looked in the windows to see if I spotted her but she was gone. Then a tiny sail boat full of happy people sailed away. Then I woke up. I wrote down all the details immediately.

I’m hoping to see a therapist soon. I want to feel that kind of love again. The next time I’m not gonna let it get away so easy.


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Categories : California, Healing, Work

Prologue

26 12 2020

In Ulysses, the great Irish writer James Joyce wrote “Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”

And so it is, I stood on the street corner that cold, rainy October day. Emotionally naked, I watched her drive away for the last time. Little did I know, though there were hints, but T would go on to ghost me. Not a word from her since. She was irritated with my stagnant life choices. My decision to take an entry level warehouse job had particularly annoyed her.

“Have you thought about starting your own company?” she asked at our last breakfast together.

Weeks later, I would find myself inside that warehouse working amid a coronavirus outbreak. Masked, gloved and trying to learn at a distance as noisy conveyor belts, alarms and honking forklifts sounded throughout the long, hard overnight shift. My world had changed drastically.

I was severely depressed and paralyzed by fear. All I did was work and sleep. My marriage was over, but unraveling its entanglements so that we could both exit without too much financial hardship was the challenge. An old bus driving buddy from Glacier moved into the area and reached out which got me out of bed on my off days.

The virus had taken its toll on the country and in the Democratically-run Pacific Northwest, restrictions were harsh. The election, thank God, is over, but a bitter divide remains. At the warehouse outside the city limits to the east, I find more diverse opinions expressed than at the hipster grocery store in the city’s affluent northwestern hills. The lack of enthusiasm here is striking and I sense a backlash brewing among some of the workers.

T — ever beautiful — still shows up in my dreams and the more I ponder our affair the more it seemed as if I had been looking in the mirror. She complained about her back hurting right before she dropped me off on that street corner. A couple months later, just days before Christmas I sat in the warehouse breakroom — its tables and chairs separated by plastic partitions with masked workers lumbering exhaustingly in and out. On the walls were words from the corporation’s list of leadership principles. This one hit home for me:

Have Backbone. Disagree and Commit.


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Categories : Marriage, Oregon, Work

Goodbye In Her Eyes

5 11 2020

It’s over.

Another obsession run its course. Like the others it hurts and I beat myself up for traveling this path yet again.

She was so kind during a time when kindness was in short supply. Beautiful in appearance: Slender, athletic, a near flawless complexion, perfect teeth and a presence much larger than her petite dimensions. There was this indigenous and playful spirit between us and we laughed often. It was nice.

“If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re a badass at work & in real life and you’ll over come this tough time,” she wrote in a letter from California after I got fired from the grocery store job.

That was where we met. I consider that job a gift from God and she came into my life at the right moment.

We went through the pandemic together, offering encouraging notes of support, sharing our struggles and pushing each other to be better. Our attitudes were reflective in a theme of fierce determination to succeed independently — To project confidence despite the world falling apart around us.

A chance for redemption. That was the hope.

I loved how she moved with purpose. She would tie that dark brown hair up into a ball on the top of her head and flash contempt at the oligarchy. Our blunt conversations reaffirmed so many of the principles we strived to achieve.

We trusted and confided in each other. We lifted each other up. That’s why it was great.

I was transparent about my situation and interest, maybe to a fault. I wanted more, but was unsure and too fearful to make a complete change. She was never far from my thoughts and when idle I would gaze into her photos and wish I was 15 years younger.

We held hands on the sidewalk and made out in the back of her car. It felt so natural. It was the affection I was starved for.

Our nascent relationship took a challenging turn last week as we ventured into the gorge for an overnight escape from the city. I sensed an awkwardness set in and soon it became clear the ideas I had for a future together were misplaced. “We’re just having fun, Johnny” she said.

My desire for more was a fantasy to her. I felt trapped by circumstances, commitments, guilt and regret. The pressure was nauseating.

The next day was tough. In the rain, she dropped me off on the street corner and in our departing embrace the disappointment in her eyes was overpowering.

“Don’t apologize,” she told me.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

Thank you T for opening my eyes.

Thank you for waking me.


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