It’s another Monday, and life rolls on. The calendar says its Columbus Day, and the Federal and State buildings across the street from my place are closed. It doesn’t feel like a holiday to me though. Okay, I’m lying. Everyday seems like a holiday lately. I love it when I can take my time at the gym and not rush through any part of my workout. I even got in the pool and swam some laps today. Ordinarily, I would’ve been in a hurry to check the email on my Motorola Q phone, or see how many missed calls I had. Ah, the joys of “working from home”. The company that I work for (yes, I do have a day job) which was once so promising and such an exciting place to be , epitomizing cutting edge, limps along, hardly a shell of what it once was. I’ve got to find another job, and SOON!
Meanwhile, I’m obsessing over the thing that perplexes me on a daily basis: what am I going to eat next? It’ll probably be one of those Alaskan Salmon burgers that I have in the freezer from Costco. Delicious! I’ll put it on one of those whole wheat hamburger buns from the Safeway bakery and I’ll top it off with leafy green lettuce, and the Paul Robeson heirloom tomatoes that I have in the fridge. Who knew that in addition to being a playwright, activist, and football star, that the guy got around to developing his own tomato?! I’ll add some scotch bonnet pepper sauce to give it some kick.
This is hardly sounding like an excerpt from an episode of Have Fork, Will Travel, but my journeys have been curiously devoid of exotic locales lately. However, the destinations have been no less out of the ordinary. Case in point: a couple of weeks ago, I started a week exploring the Gold Country in Coloma, California, where gold was first discovered at Sutter’s Mill back in 1848. After surviving two days of hiking, camp fire songs, sleeping in a bunk bed the size of my sock drawer (I’d like to tell you that only my feet hung off the bed, but it was more like everything below my upper calf), and being one of 2 adult chaperones in a bunkhouse with some 20 4th and 5th grade boys, I was quite eager to check into the Coronado Island Marriot Resort in San Diego, CA and make like the vitruvian man as I sprawled out on the king sized bed in my room. The following morning, I would make my way down near the border to R.J. Donovan State Correctional Facility for my work assignment of the day. While the Shawshank Redemption is one of my favorite movies, I had no desire to see anything up close. I’m perfectly content observing the stimulated pixels that form on the business end of the cathode ray tube otherwise known as my television, while seated in the comfort of my living room. Luckily, I didn’t have to visit anything but the minimum security part of the facility. There were guys in orange shirts emblazoned with CDC PRISONER casually walking around the areas where I was. Some were unsupervised in the common areas, watering plants or gardening. There was even a guy tending to some flowers, just a few feet from an open gate. This was the first guy I saw when I drove onto the site. I was later informed that these guys are very low “flight” risks since they actually have a release date. The guys in the shackles and such, over in buildings 6 and 7 were over on the other side of the complex. I would’ve had to don a bullet proof vest to work in that area. I am Jack’s inflamed sense of disappointment. (Fight Club, for those of you that got lost…). No, really…I was rather looking forward to coming face to face with Hannibal Lecter. Yeah, right.
Minimum security was quite enough for my taste. In the wireless industry, we engineers often find ourselves on the roof or on some tall structure to make sure that our antennas work effectively. Usually, we just climb on up there, conduct our business, and climb back down. Our CDC chaperone had us put on the brakes as we made our way for the ladder this time. Why? Well, he had to call the Tower. He had to tell the tower that there would be one CDC employee, and 3 contractors, for a total of 4 people on the roof of the minimum security housing. My shrug, suggested, “What’s the big deal?” Then, he explained that if we went up there, and the numbers didn’t jive with what he told them, they’d start shooting. I am Jack’s pursed lips whistling “whew!” after digesting that bit of information.
Fast forward 24 hours and to the completely other end of the universe (and wouldn’t you know, it was only 140 miles away), and you find me performing a similar task at the Vintage Club in Indian Wells, CA, home to $30 Million dollar palatial homes and a few golf courses. As I grabbed the top rung of the ladder that led to the roof of one of the luxury condos on the property, I paused, had a flashback, and then decided that I was not in danger of being shot on the roof this time.
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