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.
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.
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.
Slice of Good Ol Boy Life 
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