Five #3
Dinner was busy and while Lukas brought up my interview tomorrow, most of the conversation was on Darren’s history report.
Fourth grade was about state history and he was unenthusiastic about writing about the spotted owl’s effect on the state of Washington.
I thought it was way too heavy of a topic for a fourth grader but I wasn’t the teacher.
Most forest product companies talk about before and after the owl.
All my work was post-owl, and I wasn’t hauling trees anymore, so I really didn’t have a dog in the fight.
But it was a flashpoint that just made people mad.
No one could have a civil conversation about the owl.
There are just some things you don’t bring up.
You don’t talk about why a Ram pickup will leave you stranded, or ask your cousin about her juice drink multi–level marketing program, or how vinyl really doesn’t sound different from CD.
If you poke a hibernating bear, he is going to eat you.
The owl was like that, bring it up and the only one who benefits is the argument itself, neither person flapping their jaws about the topic ends up with anything good, just angry feelings. So don’t bring it up, it’s only polite.
Maybe writing about it in school is different, but I’d already avoided the owl for a long time, so I concentrated on the chicken and noodles on my plate.
They were good and deserved attention. I even told Kathy they were good which earned me a thank you from her and a dirty look from Lukas who then felt obligated to say the same thing.
Clearing my plate I carefully put it in the dishwasher while they were still talking about the owl.
Leaving the argument, I stared at the mirror in my room, well Jackie’s room, and practiced answering potential interview questions.
It felt really dumb and I kept sliding into worry about the questions Coach Horner might ask.
It was easier to keep my thoughts away from the dream when I called her Coach Horner instead of Rilee.
Somewhere along the way I just got fed up with the waiting stress and returned to the front room where Cami was watching some cable TV cartoon.
You can tell its cable because everything looks like it’s been drawn by a six-year-old and every character was grotesque and made fart noises.
No way that would have flown in our house growing up.
It wasn’t TV that rotted kid's brains, Kathy and I turned out just fine.
It was cable TV that twisted kids, which explained Lukas.
His parents had cable. Eventually Cami had to go to bed and I lost my excuse to watch crappy TV so I turned in.
The dream was there but unclear. Foggy, and cut into bits, starting and stopping in strange places.
Us already seated. Me seated and Rilee walking towards me.
Both of us standing at once. Us talking, her hand in mine.
I tossed and turned all night, I could tell because my hip was sore.
The doctors say it’s not really my hip, that it’s my back, but the deep ache was in my hip.
I laid flat on the bed listening to the family go about their morning routine.
It probably would have felt better to lie on the floor but I might not have been able to get up without help.
I say might because usually I can, though it’s an ordeal, but there a the first time for everything and you don’t travel a mountain road without your spare tire, jack, chains, and winch to pull yourself out when you fall in a ditch.
So, I laid in bed until the house fell quiet and everyone had gone off to their daily responsibilities.
Leaving me, the unemployed homeless guy, alone.
The house was so still the loudest sound was the creak and pop of the walls and roof expanding in the heat of the morning sunlight.
The ticking and groans reminded me of the sound of a truck’s engine as it cooled.
Time to get up. If I took too long I’d be late, and it takes me a while to get going, like a diesel.
You can’t expect a diesel to just turn over on a cold morning.
It requires some coaxing, but once it’s rolling it’s more dependable and capable than a gas guzzler.
Taking things slow, I turned on the kitchen and bedroom radios, just to have something to drive away the stillness. I needed to be ready to talk. To be a human and not a hermit crab stuck in its shell.
Sorting through my nice clothes I laid out a pair of khakis and a light blue button up.
No tie. A tie around your neck is just waiting to wrap itself in a flywheel.
They are death traps. If Casper Logistics didn’t hire me because I didn't have a tie, we wouldn’t have worked out anyway.
After breakfast and some ibuprofen, I showered and shaved.
I tried to sing in the shower just to get my voice working but it came out as a low grumble.
Shirt was ironed, shoes were on, brace under my pants, and I brushed my teeth a second time just to be sure my breath wasn’t questionable. At least I thought it was a second time, this no schedule lifestyle was really getting to me.
Ready to go, I looked at the clock. 11:00am.
Three crapping hours. What was I going to do with myself?
I thought about changing back out of my clothes.
I really didn’t want to eat lunch and get anything on them, but knowing the effort, that would make me late.
Instead, I returned to the mirror and talked at myself until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I carefully ate a sliced apple and some crackers and then returned to the mirror until I was comfortable with being early, but not horrifically early.
Then I got in my truck and drove out to Casper Logistics.
The place was exactly what you would think a trucking company would look like.
There was a small parking lot in front of a big box style warehouse front with a clean undecorated entrance with the Casper Logistics logo on the glass door itself.
Around back was a wide fenced parking lot and a bunch of other stuff, trucks, trailers, forklifts and other machinery.
The small front lot was a blessing because it meant I could leave my cane in the truck without worrying I would pitch over while crossing the two rows of parking stalls.
Watching my feet I crossed the asphalt, stepped up on the curb, and pulled open the front door.
“Can I help you,” the young but indeterminably aged perky receptionist asked.
“I’m Craig Green, I have a two o’clock interview.” I wished I could inject more confidence into my voice, but I wasn’t an actor.
Clicking through her keyboard she nodded, then with a raised eyebrow said, “You’re early. Take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Nasser know you are here.” She waved me toward a sofa against the wall.
Nodding a thanks I didn’t feel, I took the four steps to the sofa and sat down. And down and down. The sofa was soft and sucked me into itself like a mudhole. Down so far that when I finally settled my knees were higher than my pelvis. The angle pulled ever so much on my back.
It was pain. I couldn’t have placed it on that stupid grinning grimacing face scale on the doctor’s wall, but it was there.
A long stretching pull from the back of my knee up behind my thigh and just beside the bumpy part of my spine.
Trying to lean my shoulders back into the sofa to take the weight off my hips, my eyes caught the wall clock behind the receptionist. 1:43.
I hoped Mr. Nasser was running early because a half hour in this sofa would kill me.
The minutes clicked by and I really wished the sweat on my palms and the sweat threatening to break out across my forehead was from nervousness, but it wasn’t. It’s surprising how exhausting it is to control the balance of your own body even if you aren’t moving.
“Mr. Green.” The voice caught me unaware as I’d stopped watching the clock which now read 2:03. Approaching me with an outstretched hand was a fine featured brown skinned man in an expensive suit. Panic rushed through me, I couldn’t stand up to shake his hand!
When I put strength into my legs to stand, I couldn’t lift out of the sofa.
The angle of my high knees didn’t allow the leverage to stand up unless I leaned forward to load my back which would set a spasm off in the weakened muscles along the metal in my spine.
They’d squeeze that nerve running down my back into my leg.
But if I wanted the job I couldn’t remain here.
Leaning my palms against the front edge of the couch I pushed with my arms as much as I could, sending force through my feet into the ground, rocking forward but at the last-minute rising instead of somersaulting over.
It was enough to get up right but as I straightened to take the man’s hand my back clenched, like a grade school forearm arm burn.
Instinctively I took the offered hand and gripped it.
Fighting to keep the crushing tension out of the handshake I over compensated giving a pitiful deadfish grip instead.
“Craig Green,” I mustered through almost clenched teeth, forcing my body to hold still while the burning spasm trickled down to my feet. I sincerely hoped it was nerve pain I felt and I hadn’t peed myself.
“AJ Nassar,” the man said with a subtle accent and a smile that poorly concealed the concern growing in his eyes. “Come on back and we can talk about the job.” I started with a lurch, trying to keep up with Mr. Nassar’s fluid steps.
Talking while he walked, Mr. Nassar asked, “So why are you interested in Casper Logistics?”