One never knows what's on the other side when selling door-to-door. Spin the bottle and knock. A gray bearded spook answers.
"Hello, I'm with _____ vacuum company, and I'm in a contest to see how many floors I can sweep this week. You'll get a free carpet cleaning and a set of steak knives (I shove a box of them in his grimy hand) just for looking. I'll be right back."
I'm gone before he can answer. Anything to get in the door and make a potential sale. I return with a boxed vacuum on my shoulder, not even slowing as I slide through the still open door.
Despite my fluidity, I'm always a bit surprised to be let in. Especially this time. The eccentric hillbilly has no real carpet! His floor is literally covered with a hodge podge collage of various free floating carpet sample swatches, about the size of a welcome mat, an inch or two apart. It's as if he's turned his home into a carpet sample store. It looks hideous, but hey, it's carpet.
I've been in a lot or weird places, but I've never seen this. A vacuum salesman's dream...(or nightmare?)
"Don't know what kind of carpet I want," he explains, observing my observations.
By the looks of the unopened boxes and piles of dissaray everywhere, it appears the eccentric can't decide if he wants to move in at all.
"How long ago did you move in?" I querie, making small talk as I set up the vacuum.
He cackles, revealing more gaps than teeth. "Been here 10 years."
(Not the quickest decision maker here. Hope he can find his checkbook for me well before the twighlight of the next decade!)
My sample filter is visible through the clear plastic demonstration device attached to the vacuum. I first ask if Mr. Carpet Swatch has a vacuum of his own. He hollers at his wife, who has emerged from the clutter to stare at my intrusion in dismay. Nope, she makes an effort, but can't seem to find a vacuum either.
Normally, the customer gets his vacuum out and I run it over a small area dozens of times, until he is thoroughly convinced the old vacuum cannot possibly pick up any more dirt in that one spot. Then, presto! I unleash my gleaming beauty and fill the micron filter pad in seconds with hidden filth. It's a powerful visual, and I'm confident today's swatches will reveal the crud superbly.
I am not disappointed as I fill filter after filter with black filth, leaving a dirt sample on each carpet sample. It's simultaneously poetic and pathetic.
"No matter what type of carpet you decide to get," I say, the hum of my vacuum silenced, "you see it will need a deep cleaning vacuum."
He's impressed, but defaults to his backup resistance plan, insisting he won't need a vacuum until he gets permanent carpet.
"Oh, but you've already had carpet for 10 years," I say, trying to mask potential mockery. "You may not know what carpet you want, but you really know what you DON'T want... dirt like this!"
My demonstration proves lethal. He asks his wife what she thinks. I wait. Any jabbering during decision time can spoil the deal.
She lingers. A good sign. They collaborate. They turn back to me. "Uh, I don't have that much money," he confesses. (He's a terrible liar, and he knows I know it.)
"We have a payment plan," I say, smiling.
Mr. Filthy Carpet Swatch won't hear of it. "I pay for things all at once. I'll make you an offer, take it or leave it."
He makes an offer, well within my range of profitability. I act like it may be too low, so I ask for his phone. I call our office.
"Mr. Van Lieu, I'm not sure if I can help this nice couple out or not," I say, for their benefit. "They really love the vacuum, but they just don't want to get involved in financing. They've made an offer, and, frankly, I'm not sure if we can accept it."
I lower my voice and almost whisper the ridiculously low offer that Mr. Van Lieu and I both know will make me $200 commission.
I nod my head, acting as if Mr. Van Lieu is making an exception here. I act somewhat apprehensive, as I continue. "Well, you see, that's the problem. They don't have a trade in."
I look at them, shaking my head. Mr. and Mrs. Filthy Carpet Swatch squirm, hoping their ridiculously low offer will stick.
Guilt trip complete, my eyes light up. "I hadn't thought of that. Wow, thank you, Mr. Van Lieu, for being so flexible. I'll tell them the good news!"
I put my hand over the receiver and announce, "He said you can have this demo model for that price, rather than an unused one in our van." (They were gonna get it anyway! No way I'm packing it up if I don't have to!)
They sigh a sigh of reflief. Before they can find their senses or lose their checkbook, I pump each of their hands, welcoming them to the family of proud new vacuum owners. We fill out the paperwork and I prepare to leave.
But Mr. Filthy Carpet Swatch has another eccentricity to unveil. "I want you to put the box and the vacuum you just sold me out on the lawn, as if I've thrown it at you and tossed you out," he says, cackling at his cleverness. "When you're boss shows up, he'll think the deal went South."
(Surely you jest, carpet swatch collector man? I mean, of all the cheesy...)
The things I have to do for a sale! Humiliated, I follow through with his hairbrained scheme, placing the box and vacuum in the yard, and looking chigrined as Mr. French pulls up in the wonder van.
Mr. French feigns shock at the scenario, as he perfectly reads my desperate look to get out of here ASAP. He nervously chuckles off the joke as the bearded wacko "comes clean", telling Mr. French what a wonderful sales job I did.
Armed with his precious check and paperwork, Mr. French and I get back in the van and look for more dirty carpet.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Guard dog
Years ago, I got a job selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. Having someone to generate leads was considered for wimps. My die hard band of dirt sucker sales hounds hopped in a van every morning after our motivational rah-rah session, ready to find our own targets. Armed with our gleaming destroyers of carpet crud, we cruised lonely stretches for unsuspecting customers. We drove hours into far corners of each rural county, hunting for folks who'd never seen a salesman. Towns had more doors, but people in populated areas had little patience for someone tying up a couple hours unannounced. The good rural souls proved better fodder.
Our lead man, Mr. French, a portly 30ish fellow with an Ichabod Crane nose and fluffly hair, looked more uncomfortable in his tie than the rest of us put together. But, he'd been in the game since age 17. Door-to-door vacuum sales was all he knew.
The back roads got too bumpy to read motivational books, so as Mr. French drove the winding gravel paths, we stared out the windows, cherry picking our daily bait. Rob, a highly talented salesman, had an eye for the "check slingin' blue hairs", as he referred to our elderly, more susceptible, clientele. He specilized in spotting handicap license plates, especially if they were attached to Cadillacs. "Cash deal," he'd announce. Other doors we passed he'd brag, "Sold it!" and tell of an earlier success. Though Rob could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo, he also wanted to knock off early for a brew every afternoon. Talent vs. work ethic.
Another member of our van crew, Kevin, was a reformed drug addict who'd driven a propane truck into a bar trying to kill a man once upon a time. Now a Christian, he only listened to Southern Gospel music in his car and quoted from the King James Bible. Kevin was relentless and could practically sell to anyone. One day we were in a grocery store and Kevin noticed some kids at the entrance trying to sell candy bars for a fundraiser. The kids got a Kevin style crash course in sales. "Don't ask people if they want to buy a candy bar," he said. "Let me show you what I mean."
He smiled at the next person coming in, an elderly woman. "Hello, ma'am, I'm sure you don't need a candy bar, but we're just asking you to make a donation for a good cause and help the kids. How many would you like to get today?" She handed him a $5 bill and told the kids to keep the money and sell the candy bars to someone else. The kids were wide eyed and their parents were thankful.
Another member of our team, Riki, was a skinny half Japanese kid with duel citizenship. He was sharp as a tack, bi lingual, duel citizen, and an entrepreneur with his own real estate business. He cursed like a sailor, but we all liked him because he could take a lot of crap from the guys without losing his cool.
I was the rookie, fast making a name for myself for "knockin' doors and sweepin' floors."
One particular day as our white Chevy Lumina van rumbled along the gravel, we noticed a BEWARE OF GUARD DOG sign. Mr. French, our supervisor and driver, quipped, "OK, who wants it?"
Nobody said a word.
"I'll take it," I said.
"I was just kidding," Mr. French conceded.
Arrogance had superseded caution for me that day, and I thought I'd show the boys a thing or two. I whipped open the sliding door and waltzed up to the house. To my terror, a huge Rottweiler type mongrel rounded the corner at full throttle, teeth bared and growl erupting like a tornado's wind. The beast took a lunge at my face, but I didn't flinch, completely ignoring him. He turned away in mid-lunge, trained not to attack someone who didn't instinctively throw up his hands in protective mode. The angry dog returned his charge a second time, with a little less conviction. Ignored again, he flipped his body in mid air and regrouped. He charged a third time, but the third ignore button was the final one. He retreated, ashamed and confused that he'd miscalculated a possible friend for an intruder.
I was on the porch now. The owner, a younger woman, ran to the door. "Are you all right?" her face was ashen.
"I'm fine; your dog's a little humiliated, but I'm fine," I lied, feeling light headed.
"What do you want?" she said, incredulous.
"I'm out selling vaccuums, but I'm sure you don't need one today, do you?" I said, having lost all interest in a potential sale. She shook her head. "You're the first person I've ever seen make it to the door."
I knew I didn't try the sale, but the looks of awe and admiration on the guys' faces was worth it all.
Our lead man, Mr. French, a portly 30ish fellow with an Ichabod Crane nose and fluffly hair, looked more uncomfortable in his tie than the rest of us put together. But, he'd been in the game since age 17. Door-to-door vacuum sales was all he knew.
The back roads got too bumpy to read motivational books, so as Mr. French drove the winding gravel paths, we stared out the windows, cherry picking our daily bait. Rob, a highly talented salesman, had an eye for the "check slingin' blue hairs", as he referred to our elderly, more susceptible, clientele. He specilized in spotting handicap license plates, especially if they were attached to Cadillacs. "Cash deal," he'd announce. Other doors we passed he'd brag, "Sold it!" and tell of an earlier success. Though Rob could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo, he also wanted to knock off early for a brew every afternoon. Talent vs. work ethic.
Another member of our van crew, Kevin, was a reformed drug addict who'd driven a propane truck into a bar trying to kill a man once upon a time. Now a Christian, he only listened to Southern Gospel music in his car and quoted from the King James Bible. Kevin was relentless and could practically sell to anyone. One day we were in a grocery store and Kevin noticed some kids at the entrance trying to sell candy bars for a fundraiser. The kids got a Kevin style crash course in sales. "Don't ask people if they want to buy a candy bar," he said. "Let me show you what I mean."
He smiled at the next person coming in, an elderly woman. "Hello, ma'am, I'm sure you don't need a candy bar, but we're just asking you to make a donation for a good cause and help the kids. How many would you like to get today?" She handed him a $5 bill and told the kids to keep the money and sell the candy bars to someone else. The kids were wide eyed and their parents were thankful.
Another member of our team, Riki, was a skinny half Japanese kid with duel citizenship. He was sharp as a tack, bi lingual, duel citizen, and an entrepreneur with his own real estate business. He cursed like a sailor, but we all liked him because he could take a lot of crap from the guys without losing his cool.
I was the rookie, fast making a name for myself for "knockin' doors and sweepin' floors."
One particular day as our white Chevy Lumina van rumbled along the gravel, we noticed a BEWARE OF GUARD DOG sign. Mr. French, our supervisor and driver, quipped, "OK, who wants it?"
Nobody said a word.
"I'll take it," I said.
"I was just kidding," Mr. French conceded.
Arrogance had superseded caution for me that day, and I thought I'd show the boys a thing or two. I whipped open the sliding door and waltzed up to the house. To my terror, a huge Rottweiler type mongrel rounded the corner at full throttle, teeth bared and growl erupting like a tornado's wind. The beast took a lunge at my face, but I didn't flinch, completely ignoring him. He turned away in mid-lunge, trained not to attack someone who didn't instinctively throw up his hands in protective mode. The angry dog returned his charge a second time, with a little less conviction. Ignored again, he flipped his body in mid air and regrouped. He charged a third time, but the third ignore button was the final one. He retreated, ashamed and confused that he'd miscalculated a possible friend for an intruder.
I was on the porch now. The owner, a younger woman, ran to the door. "Are you all right?" her face was ashen.
"I'm fine; your dog's a little humiliated, but I'm fine," I lied, feeling light headed.
"What do you want?" she said, incredulous.
"I'm out selling vaccuums, but I'm sure you don't need one today, do you?" I said, having lost all interest in a potential sale. She shook her head. "You're the first person I've ever seen make it to the door."
I knew I didn't try the sale, but the looks of awe and admiration on the guys' faces was worth it all.
Water bottle thief
My unemployment marathon had ended. In sheer desperation, I had set my credentials and preferences aside and called security companies out of the phone book. You know, those companies who hire unarmed security guards to patrol properties all night so owners can get an insurance premium break? Those guys are always hiring, right?
My phone book search mission landed on a private security company that didn't force me to wade through a lengthy online application that tells me I've made an error if I don't fill in the exact month and date of my high school degree, despite the fact I have your college degree information intact. (Seriously, who considers a "high school course of study" relevant to a 40something with 20something years of work experience?)
The small time private security company guy personally answers the phone. He wants to meet me that same day. A man of action, to the point. My kinda guy.
I go in, and he sits at the back of his shop near a file cabinet bearing four different business names. He's got a pizza place, a tobacco shop, an insurance company, and, of course, a private security company. Not bad for a guy moving here only five years ago. (Red flag, anyone?)
But, he likes me, and I'm desperate. As I fill out the app in front of him, he dismisses the formalities, such as reference phone numbers, etc.
"I liked you on the phone," he says, firing up a cigarette.
"Do you want any coffee?"
I decline, admitting I'm caffeine free. "More for me," he says, chuckling. "Can you start tonight?"
Thank you, Lord!
Let me check my calendar... "Uh, tonight? Sure, um, that would be fine."
"Don't worry about a uniform. Just bring a photocopy of your drivers' license and social security card sometime in the next few days and I'll set that up. You'll be training with an older guy named Leroy. I pay every Monday, but I can only pay 8 bucks an hour."
He gives the time and location and I eagerly await my new tour of night duty. Fortunately, I can ease into overnight work at two hours a pop. I train with Leroy at a car lot tonight and tomorrow for two hours per night, then with Moses at a rundown apartment complex for the next two nights. The eight and 12 hour shifts start later.
I find Leroy, a dedicated retired contractor in a modest pickup truck. He's easy to spot in his blue uniform and badge.Plus, he's the only one in the parking lot at this hour. Leroy shows me the ins and outs of securing property and equipment on the site. We're working under the glaring lights of a large car dealership. He walks the premises, checking building and car doors. Any unlocked car door gets written down in Leroy's notepad. Each car has a special number in the windshield. If the car is locked, lock it. But first, check for keys. If any is found, turn the keys in to the night car lot supervisor. Got it.
"The boss wants me to learn the computer," white-haired Leroy admits. "But I just drop off my written report on the way home every morning."
Nothing like the older generation making the younger one do double the work.
The second night, I check the doors as Leroy watches. So far, so good. My new career seems to be budding nicely. I'll have a steady hour of work each shift, then seven more trying to stay awake watching a parking lot and trying not to freeze in the night air. Leroy has encouraged me to get a small flashlight to see the Vehicle Inspecition Numbers in case I need to. I proudly show him my new light attached to my key chain. I even have my own notebook.
It's time to get to work. I check the new cars and RVs, writing down unlocked vehicles in my notebook and finding a set or two of keys to turn in. I make my way to the service area. One of the new cars being serviced has an almost empty water bottle sitting in it. Instinctively, being a dad, I retrieve the bottle to toss in the trash and lock the door.
Louie doesn't see me do this, so I tell him I'm throwing away a bottle I found. He says, "That's considered stealing if we take anything from a vehicle."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know. I'll remember that," I say, but the door is already locked and Leroy instructs me to toss the plastic bottle in the trash.
"How did I do?" I ask, rounds complete.
"You should be fine," Leroy says. "Here's my number if you need anything. I'm going on vacation in a week, but don't hesitate to call if you have questions."
He wishes me well, and before long, I'm off the clock.
The next day, I call my new boss, who was so impressed after my first shift he assigned me to Leroy's 12 hour shift at a craft festival coming up the same time the old man will be on vacation. I want to see when I should bring in copies of my drivers' license and social security card.
"Yeah, I wanna talk to you about that," the boss man says, gruffly.
"OK," I say, a nagging sense of impending calamity rising within.
"What's up with the water bottle?"
(Is this a trick question?) "I threw away an item of trash, sorry. Didn't know."
"If you'd steal a water bottle, you'd steal a laptop," he says curtly. "I'll cut you a check, but don't bother coming back in."
And so, after four long hours of training at an undisclosed security company, my unemployment marathon continues. But so does peace of mind, knowing I'm NOT working for a man who can't distinguish theft from tidiness.
My phone book search mission landed on a private security company that didn't force me to wade through a lengthy online application that tells me I've made an error if I don't fill in the exact month and date of my high school degree, despite the fact I have your college degree information intact. (Seriously, who considers a "high school course of study" relevant to a 40something with 20something years of work experience?)
The small time private security company guy personally answers the phone. He wants to meet me that same day. A man of action, to the point. My kinda guy.
I go in, and he sits at the back of his shop near a file cabinet bearing four different business names. He's got a pizza place, a tobacco shop, an insurance company, and, of course, a private security company. Not bad for a guy moving here only five years ago. (Red flag, anyone?)
But, he likes me, and I'm desperate. As I fill out the app in front of him, he dismisses the formalities, such as reference phone numbers, etc.
"I liked you on the phone," he says, firing up a cigarette.
I decline, admitting I'm caffeine free. "More for me," he says, chuckling. "Can you start tonight?"
Thank you, Lord!
Let me check my calendar... "Uh, tonight? Sure, um, that would be fine."
"Don't worry about a uniform. Just bring a photocopy of your drivers' license and social security card sometime in the next few days and I'll set that up. You'll be training with an older guy named Leroy. I pay every Monday, but I can only pay 8 bucks an hour."
He gives the time and location and I eagerly await my new tour of night duty. Fortunately, I can ease into overnight work at two hours a pop. I train with Leroy at a car lot tonight and tomorrow for two hours per night, then with Moses at a rundown apartment complex for the next two nights. The eight and 12 hour shifts start later.
I find Leroy, a dedicated retired contractor in a modest pickup truck. He's easy to spot in his blue uniform and badge.Plus, he's the only one in the parking lot at this hour. Leroy shows me the ins and outs of securing property and equipment on the site. We're working under the glaring lights of a large car dealership. He walks the premises, checking building and car doors. Any unlocked car door gets written down in Leroy's notepad. Each car has a special number in the windshield. If the car is locked, lock it. But first, check for keys. If any is found, turn the keys in to the night car lot supervisor. Got it.
"The boss wants me to learn the computer," white-haired Leroy admits. "But I just drop off my written report on the way home every morning."
Nothing like the older generation making the younger one do double the work.
The second night, I check the doors as Leroy watches. So far, so good. My new career seems to be budding nicely. I'll have a steady hour of work each shift, then seven more trying to stay awake watching a parking lot and trying not to freeze in the night air. Leroy has encouraged me to get a small flashlight to see the Vehicle Inspecition Numbers in case I need to. I proudly show him my new light attached to my key chain. I even have my own notebook.
It's time to get to work. I check the new cars and RVs, writing down unlocked vehicles in my notebook and finding a set or two of keys to turn in. I make my way to the service area. One of the new cars being serviced has an almost empty water bottle sitting in it. Instinctively, being a dad, I retrieve the bottle to toss in the trash and lock the door.
Louie doesn't see me do this, so I tell him I'm throwing away a bottle I found. He says, "That's considered stealing if we take anything from a vehicle."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know. I'll remember that," I say, but the door is already locked and Leroy instructs me to toss the plastic bottle in the trash.
"How did I do?" I ask, rounds complete.
"You should be fine," Leroy says. "Here's my number if you need anything. I'm going on vacation in a week, but don't hesitate to call if you have questions."
He wishes me well, and before long, I'm off the clock.
The next day, I call my new boss, who was so impressed after my first shift he assigned me to Leroy's 12 hour shift at a craft festival coming up the same time the old man will be on vacation. I want to see when I should bring in copies of my drivers' license and social security card.
"Yeah, I wanna talk to you about that," the boss man says, gruffly.
"OK," I say, a nagging sense of impending calamity rising within.
"What's up with the water bottle?"
(Is this a trick question?) "I threw away an item of trash, sorry. Didn't know."
"If you'd steal a water bottle, you'd steal a laptop," he says curtly. "I'll cut you a check, but don't bother coming back in."
And so, after four long hours of training at an undisclosed security company, my unemployment marathon continues. But so does peace of mind, knowing I'm NOT working for a man who can't distinguish theft from tidiness.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Fired from the unfireable job
The souring of the economy had collared me as well. I was out of work, looking, looking, looking. I'm the guy who had seven or eight apps filled out by the time I got home at 8 p.m. on a Friday night five years ago after getting canned at 4 p.m.
But this ain't no five years ago market.
The classified section of the paper has turned from "help wanted" to "how can I help?" No longer are employers looking for employees; employee hopefuls are looking for employers.
I saw a shopper with gray empty boxes staring off the page stating YOUR AD HERE but nobody's got enough business, or not enough money, to advertise.
So... I'm swimming in the icky soup of unemployment longer than I've ever swam. Weeks drag by. Now it's months. I've networked, looked in person, door to door, online, asked, begged... I'm either overqualified with my college and writing career or not showing required experience in a certain field.
So, out of sheer desperation, and a need for gas in the tank to look more, I stop by the blood plasma donor place. It's a Friday, at 7:05 a.m. The place is packed. A lobby full of freaks, geeks and weirdos.
I look too clean cut; perhaps my college educated blood is too rich for them. But I decide 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
I bring a long book anticipating a long wait. I stand along the wall with others who don't have a seat, only to realize I'm in the line for the database. Plasma groupies know the drill. You go in, line up and download your information into the database so you can get called to one of eight checkpoints before they stick you. When I get the glare from the groupie behind me I sit down in the back row, wedged between a fatty and a woman with a few remaining teeth and in bad need of a bath.
I open my book, but feel like I'm insulting the illiterate next to me.
One by one, names are called out as we all sit facing the front of the room. An attendant barks each name, and each person belonging to that name stands as if struck, then enters a room to be briefed before giving plasma.
After an hour or so, I realize I'm not getting called. "Are there any other first time donors?" the barker woman barks.
A guy that came in after me steps forward. I try to cut him off, and they push me to the side. I stand and wait again. From the front of the room, the motley crew hasn't seemed to change. If anything, there are more people than ever. Eventually I get another seat, read, then go to the bathroom. I've been drinking nearly a gallon of water in the last 12 hours, since they recommend being hydrated. I can't keep out of the bathroom.
Back and forth from book to bathroom. Hours tick by. I overhear loud, vulgar conversations. I interject with a guy in my age bracket once in awhile. Then, as if by magic, my name is barked and I'm being briefed without the preliminary reading. Oh, well, I'll wing it. I fly through the briefing in a mere 30 more minutes. It's now 1 p.m. I'm starving. I get to the big donor room, and people are lying around with needles in their arms.
I get settled in my recliner, book in hand. The phlebotomist looks at me. She takes an arm, studies it, then drops it like a piece of trash. She looks at the other arm, as if to say, "Are these the only arms you have?"
"Your veins are too small," she says. "I'm really sorry."
A second look by a second phlebotomist. My veins are still too small.
They dismiss me with an apology and a card for $20.
Six hours. $20. Hmmm... back to the classifieds...
But this ain't no five years ago market.
The classified section of the paper has turned from "help wanted" to "how can I help?" No longer are employers looking for employees; employee hopefuls are looking for employers.
I saw a shopper with gray empty boxes staring off the page stating YOUR AD HERE but nobody's got enough business, or not enough money, to advertise.
So... I'm swimming in the icky soup of unemployment longer than I've ever swam. Weeks drag by. Now it's months. I've networked, looked in person, door to door, online, asked, begged... I'm either overqualified with my college and writing career or not showing required experience in a certain field.
So, out of sheer desperation, and a need for gas in the tank to look more, I stop by the blood plasma donor place. It's a Friday, at 7:05 a.m. The place is packed. A lobby full of freaks, geeks and weirdos.
I look too clean cut; perhaps my college educated blood is too rich for them. But I decide 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
I bring a long book anticipating a long wait. I stand along the wall with others who don't have a seat, only to realize I'm in the line for the database. Plasma groupies know the drill. You go in, line up and download your information into the database so you can get called to one of eight checkpoints before they stick you. When I get the glare from the groupie behind me I sit down in the back row, wedged between a fatty and a woman with a few remaining teeth and in bad need of a bath.
I open my book, but feel like I'm insulting the illiterate next to me.
One by one, names are called out as we all sit facing the front of the room. An attendant barks each name, and each person belonging to that name stands as if struck, then enters a room to be briefed before giving plasma.
After an hour or so, I realize I'm not getting called. "Are there any other first time donors?" the barker woman barks.
A guy that came in after me steps forward. I try to cut him off, and they push me to the side. I stand and wait again. From the front of the room, the motley crew hasn't seemed to change. If anything, there are more people than ever. Eventually I get another seat, read, then go to the bathroom. I've been drinking nearly a gallon of water in the last 12 hours, since they recommend being hydrated. I can't keep out of the bathroom.
Back and forth from book to bathroom. Hours tick by. I overhear loud, vulgar conversations. I interject with a guy in my age bracket once in awhile. Then, as if by magic, my name is barked and I'm being briefed without the preliminary reading. Oh, well, I'll wing it. I fly through the briefing in a mere 30 more minutes. It's now 1 p.m. I'm starving. I get to the big donor room, and people are lying around with needles in their arms.
I get settled in my recliner, book in hand. The phlebotomist looks at me. She takes an arm, studies it, then drops it like a piece of trash. She looks at the other arm, as if to say, "Are these the only arms you have?"
"Your veins are too small," she says. "I'm really sorry."
A second look by a second phlebotomist. My veins are still too small.
They dismiss me with an apology and a card for $20.
Six hours. $20. Hmmm... back to the classifieds...
Monday, October 11, 2010
txt msg
im gonna post this blog entry in txt msg
cuz too many ppl are short cutting the english lang
w their stupid txt msgs and lack of punct and correct speling
btw, i mispelled speling on purpose to make a point
lol
but seriously its so dum how ppl txt an dont talk anymore
i no lots of ppl who will answer a txt but not a phone call
i mean how stupid r we gettin if we cant ans a phone
n we have to use it to txt not talk
omg i mean its crazy
if the world reduces itself to this level of comm
then we r all in real trble n i dont mean mabe
n then ppl r upset that ppl txt n drive well its
sad ppl txt so much n the 1st place
well g2g so ttyl k
cuz too many ppl are short cutting the english lang
w their stupid txt msgs and lack of punct and correct speling
btw, i mispelled speling on purpose to make a point
lol
but seriously its so dum how ppl txt an dont talk anymore
i no lots of ppl who will answer a txt but not a phone call
i mean how stupid r we gettin if we cant ans a phone
n we have to use it to txt not talk
omg i mean its crazy
if the world reduces itself to this level of comm
then we r all in real trble n i dont mean mabe
n then ppl r upset that ppl txt n drive well its
sad ppl txt so much n the 1st place
well g2g so ttyl k
Sleeping Ticket?
A spotlight stabs through my rear window, nearly blinding my weary eyes. The all too familiar light bar flashing blue and red tells me my car slumber is about to be interrupted by a street soldier in a navy blue uniform.
My seat comes up and my window comes down. Officer friendly shines his mag light in my face.
"Why didn't I see you when I first shined my light in your car?"
"I was sleeping," I answer, truthfully. "My seat was reclined."
"What are you doing out here at this hour?"
I wonder if he's deaf or stupid, or perhaps both.
"Um... sleeping?" (I hope I don't come across TOO sarcastic!)
"Why are you sleeping in your car?" (Nosey, ain't cha?)
"It's really late, and I'm tired."
He doesn't like the answer, but has no comeback, so he goes back into his usual script.
"I need to see your driver's license and registration, please."
I hand them over, fumbling more than normal through the glovebox for my insurance papers. It's after 1 a.m., and was just getting into a heavy sleep cycle.
"This expired," he says blandly looking at my insurance papers.
"Oh, hang on," I say, remembering my new insurance card is in my wallet. I fish through it, as his flashlight picks up on family photos, debit card, library card, business cards, conservation card, ah... here it is...
I hand it to him, triumphantly. He looks disappointed that it's valid.
"This your current address?"
Dang. I've moved since that driver's license was issued. "Nope," I say.
"Where do you live now?"
I tell him.
"Whatcha doin' out here sleepin' in the park?"
"I got community service at the recycle center just across the street in the morning," I confess. The truth is sounding worse than a lie. I've been pulled over plenty for speeding, hence the community service, but never for sleeping.
Surely he won't issue a "sleeping ticket"...
"I'll be right back," he says, retreating to his bright flashing lighted car with my license.
I rub my eyes and reach for my pocket recorder and press "record" while keeping the recorder out of sight as he returns.
"Do you mind if I search your car?" his flashlight is already searching front and back seats.
I freeze. Of course, I mind. It's a matter of principle. He's supposed to have reasonable suspicion, or just cause, to search my vehicle.
"I don't know how to answer that," I say.
"It's a simple 'yes' or 'no'," he says, irritated and suspicious.
"Okay," I reply. "I guess not, then."
He's flipping out now. "Why not?"
"I just don't want you to search my vehicle."
"Why not?"
"I don't have to say why not," I say, glad I'm recording this joker.
"What's in your car?"
"A bunch of junk, as usual," I say, truthfully.
"What's that on the floor," he says, aiming his beam on a piece of thin metal.
"Looks like a tent stake from my camping tent."
"What about those leaves?"
"Kids tracked 'em in. We live around a lot of trees."
(Is he searching my car without permission? What a jerk! What about my constitutional rights? I'm not under arrest.)
"You aren't allowed to park overnight here in the city park," he says, trying a different tack. "If I see you back here, I'll arrest you for trespassing."
(I'll bet you will, you face saving savage. Have your macho tough guy spiel and be gone!)
He stomps back to his car and waits for me to drive away first. I click off the recorder and decide to spend the rest of the night in the Wal-Mart parking lot with the RVers and truckers.
My seat comes up and my window comes down. Officer friendly shines his mag light in my face.
"Why didn't I see you when I first shined my light in your car?"
"I was sleeping," I answer, truthfully. "My seat was reclined."
"What are you doing out here at this hour?"
I wonder if he's deaf or stupid, or perhaps both.
"Um... sleeping?" (I hope I don't come across TOO sarcastic!)
"Why are you sleeping in your car?" (Nosey, ain't cha?)
"It's really late, and I'm tired."
He doesn't like the answer, but has no comeback, so he goes back into his usual script.
"I need to see your driver's license and registration, please."
"This expired," he says blandly looking at my insurance papers.
"Oh, hang on," I say, remembering my new insurance card is in my wallet. I fish through it, as his flashlight picks up on family photos, debit card, library card, business cards, conservation card, ah... here it is...
I hand it to him, triumphantly. He looks disappointed that it's valid.
"This your current address?"
Dang. I've moved since that driver's license was issued. "Nope," I say.
"Where do you live now?"
I tell him.
"Whatcha doin' out here sleepin' in the park?"
"I got community service at the recycle center just across the street in the morning," I confess. The truth is sounding worse than a lie. I've been pulled over plenty for speeding, hence the community service, but never for sleeping.
Surely he won't issue a "sleeping ticket"...
"I'll be right back," he says, retreating to his bright flashing lighted car with my license.
I rub my eyes and reach for my pocket recorder and press "record" while keeping the recorder out of sight as he returns.
"Do you mind if I search your car?" his flashlight is already searching front and back seats.
I freeze. Of course, I mind. It's a matter of principle. He's supposed to have reasonable suspicion, or just cause, to search my vehicle.
"I don't know how to answer that," I say.
"It's a simple 'yes' or 'no'," he says, irritated and suspicious.
"Okay," I reply. "I guess not, then."
He's flipping out now. "Why not?"
"I just don't want you to search my vehicle."
"Why not?"
"I don't have to say why not," I say, glad I'm recording this joker.
"What's in your car?"
"A bunch of junk, as usual," I say, truthfully.
"What's that on the floor," he says, aiming his beam on a piece of thin metal.
"Looks like a tent stake from my camping tent."
"What about those leaves?"
"Kids tracked 'em in. We live around a lot of trees."
(Is he searching my car without permission? What a jerk! What about my constitutional rights? I'm not under arrest.)
"You aren't allowed to park overnight here in the city park," he says, trying a different tack. "If I see you back here, I'll arrest you for trespassing."
(I'll bet you will, you face saving savage. Have your macho tough guy spiel and be gone!)
He stomps back to his car and waits for me to drive away first. I click off the recorder and decide to spend the rest of the night in the Wal-Mart parking lot with the RVers and truckers.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Hairdude
My heroic effort to dodge him in the between Sunday school and church rush is thwarted. Sister Sensible corners me to ask about the twins, whom I haven't seen in a month.
So, here he comes, catching me like a wounded turtle on a backwoods blacktop. His hair jets skyward, an idiotic holy grin marring his otherwise static face.
A gust of Grecian Formula emits from the hairdude's hairdo. "Heeey, brother," he begins, louder than anyone need be at his close proximity to my delicate ears.
"So... how's the fam?"
"Family" isn't a big word. It's OK to use all syllables on that one.
"Everybody's fine," I stammer eloquently, walking toward the sanctuary to shake the holy hemorrhoid. "Kids are growing up so fast."
He feigns interest before plunging into his message. "Pray for me, brother," he says, slinging an arm around my now tensed shoulders. Space invader alert!
"My dog's got the runs, and I had to lend my second car to the neighbor since their daughter Officia needed to borrow theirs, and Quinton is staying this weekend because his dad's campaign is heating up and Quinton needs a place to stay..."
The rest of the runon sentence prayer request marathon is lost as I greet the usher like an old friend, trying to pry the hairdude away at the main sanctuary entrance.
"I will definitely be praying," I reply in my holiest voice. "Indeed you've got many issues to consider."
I enter the sanctuary, safe from hairdude and his hairbrained prayer requests, wondering what he'd do if he actually heard about the divorce papers, foreclosure notice and job loss I've suffered this week?
My issues might sabotage his ability to bolster sympathy over his poor mutt's squirts, or Officia's car borrowing tactics or Quinton's 48 hour homelessness...
But I digress.
So, here he comes, catching me like a wounded turtle on a backwoods blacktop. His hair jets skyward, an idiotic holy grin marring his otherwise static face.
A gust of Grecian Formula emits from the hairdude's hairdo. "Heeey, brother," he begins, louder than anyone need be at his close proximity to my delicate ears.
"Family" isn't a big word. It's OK to use all syllables on that one.
"Everybody's fine," I stammer eloquently, walking toward the sanctuary to shake the holy hemorrhoid. "Kids are growing up so fast."
He feigns interest before plunging into his message. "Pray for me, brother," he says, slinging an arm around my now tensed shoulders. Space invader alert!
"My dog's got the runs, and I had to lend my second car to the neighbor since their daughter Officia needed to borrow theirs, and Quinton is staying this weekend because his dad's campaign is heating up and Quinton needs a place to stay..."
The rest of the runon sentence prayer request marathon is lost as I greet the usher like an old friend, trying to pry the hairdude away at the main sanctuary entrance.
"I will definitely be praying," I reply in my holiest voice. "Indeed you've got many issues to consider."
I enter the sanctuary, safe from hairdude and his hairbrained prayer requests, wondering what he'd do if he actually heard about the divorce papers, foreclosure notice and job loss I've suffered this week?
My issues might sabotage his ability to bolster sympathy over his poor mutt's squirts, or Officia's car borrowing tactics or Quinton's 48 hour homelessness...
But I digress.
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