Five #4
It was hard to walk and think at the same time.
Keeping my right leg from dragging on the floor took as much concentration as negotiating a hairpin turn with a flatbed trailer.
Talking, on top of thinking and walking, was too much and as I started to answer his question my foot didn’t rise far enough and caught on the industrial gray carpet.
I stumbled into a shuffle but caught myself with one hand on the door frame turning into Mr. Naser’s office.
“Careful now,” he said, glancing at the floor with a furrowed brow. Yeah, it’s not your carpet it’s just me.
Easing into the gratefully firm chair, with arms, thank god, I finally could answer.
“I’m looking for another driving job, but on pavement.
I’ve been driving logging roads a long time and I’m looking for something different.
Casper is different.” I guess that was a fancy way of saying it’s me not you.
“Okay, tell me about that, what did you like about driving logging trucks?”
I almost began telling him about driving through the fresh air, the smell of cut wood, or the knowledge that the wood was destined for homes or furniture.
Almost, because Kathy’s instructions were every answer should be about why I am good for the job I’m interviewing for.
Kathy told me that, not my vocational counselor.
That should have been something the state trained professional brought up, not my sister.
“It’s technical. You have to always be on your toes, the road conditions change all the time, and it demands a high degree of skill.
When you get down the mountain you know you’ve accomplished something impressive.
” That sounded pretty good. I probably should have said something about problem solving but the hard chair was beginning to make my already spasming butt sore and it was distracting.
Mr. Nassar asked me about my endorsements.
I had my doubles, but not my triples, but I also had hazmat and forklift, and I was a fair diesel mechanic.
“Had to be,” I emphasized. “If something happened on the way down it might just be you, and radio and cell coverage can be spotty.” He asked some small talk questions and we talked about Casper itself.
Things were going well despite the twinges tickling the bottom of my foot.
Then he asked the question I knew he would, but dreaded.
“So, you last worked for Venture’s Timber Products about eighteen months ago. What have you been doing since then?”
I’d practiced three different answers. There was the “I had some personal things I needed to deal with,” response, or the “I’ve been taking some time looking for change,” but what I’d planned to say was “I made a move to Spokane to be close to family and I wasn’t settled until recently.
” All of that went out the window when my back cramped and a spasm shot down my right leg.
I jerked as my leg flew out stiffly. If that had happened while I was in the cab of a truck, I’d have buried the accelerator into the floor.
AJ Nassar glanced down at the motion. My leg wasn’t visible behind his desk but I’m sure he saw the grimace on my face. I may have even groaned a little.
The voc‐counselor said they can’t ask you about your health, or if you had an injury. All they can ask is can you do the job duties. Can I drive a multi-ton truck safely and on time, in traffic.
“I had some personal things I needed to deal with,” I finally got out in response.
He nodded and wrote something down on the paper at his desk. He hadn’t written anything else the whole time we’d been talking.
“Well Casper’s is mostly highway and city driving. We don’t handle any unimproved roads. Would it be interesting enough for you? Would our work be boring?”
Probably. Building to building and dealing with crazy drivers in SUVs who act like they are operating a sedan. I’d hate it. But if they paid me, I’d learn to like it.
“No. I told you I’m looking for a change. And I think Casper is it. I have the skills to get your client’s products where they need to be without fuss.”
He nodded again and wrote something else down. “Well thank you for coming in.” He stood up, extending his hand again.
Pushing up against the chair’s arms I reached out and gave him a good handshake, no more limp fishing it, even though my right hip wanted to fold in on me. Mr. Nassar kept talking as he showed me the door, “We’ll call your references and let you know.”
We walked together back to the front foyer and he pushed the front door open.
As I thanked him and stepped out into the now blinding late afternoon sunlight he made one last comment.
“My family came to the U.S. when Saddam was bombing his own people in Iraq. Our house fell on my dad. They dug him out but his back was never the same. Take care of yourself.”
Until that point I thought I still had a shot.
Sure, I had something in my closet, what driver didn’t?
But put me in a cab and I’d be where I said I’d be, when I said I’d be there.
I could do the job if they gave me a chance.
But I’d been kidding myself. If I had that spasm in a truck instead of a conference room, I’d slam into a tree, miss a turn, or rear–end a car at a stop light.
Managing a soft smile, I gave Mr. Nasser a nod, thanked him for his time, and made my way, carefully, to my pickup. I needed to find something else.