Chapter The First
Motivated self-starter wanted for exciting opportunity in law enforcement field. No experience necessary, will train. All applicants will be subject to a drug test. Apply in person.
My biannual job search was dragging into its third month. Normally a dispiriting undertaking, it had taken a sharp downward turn with the arrival of today’s mail. Hidden amidst the Gold Credit Card teases, the Platinum Credit Card taunts, the Cobalt-Iridium Alloy Credit Card come-ons, was a plain white business envelope. The return address read simply “GE, Pittsfield, MA”. Curious, I opened the envelope and removed a single thin sheet of folded paper. I unfolded it and read: ”Dear Sir: We regret that we are unable to offer you a position at this time………” . I stared at the letter in amazement. Not because of what it said. The “F. Off and Die” letter was all part of the joy of job hunting. Rather, because of who had sent it. I had never applied to General Electric for anything, anytime, anywhere. This was obviously a pre-emptive strike. The human resources jungle drums were beating loud, sending warnings down the line that I was out there, looking.
Human Resources. Was there ever a more de-humanizing phrase? “Among our company’s diverse resources are substantial working capitol, the latest computer technology and assorted humans.” You could tell a lot about a company by whether they featured a Human Resources Group or if they kept the old Personnel Department. A personnel department indicated that the company was interested in the welfare of the employees, that it was benevolently paternalistic, managing benefits and policies in a fair and even-handed manner. Personnel Administrators would advocate for the individual employee when disputes arose with management. Personnel Administrators gather every resume they receive and forward them to the appropriate department head, with sticky notes pointing out the applicant’s strengths.
Human Resource Groups infect companies run by MBA’s. MBA’s believe that every item has a piece part value, and every action can be billed in quarter hour increments. They are wrong and leave a wake of shattered and destroyed businesses as proof. Fortunately, they rape the company coffers as they go so they only ruin two or three companies before they can retire and leave us alone. Human Resource Directors view employees as expenses, to be minimized at every opportunity. Human Resource Groups stand between employees and management, waving a thick policy book explaining why they have no right to complain as covered in chapter 5, section 23, paragraph t through dd. Human Resource Managers scrutinize every resume received, looking for the barely qualified candidate who will accept a low wage and not try to negotiate vacation time or benefits. Human Resource people eat their own kind, creating the “Human Resource Generalist” so that they can give out meaningless titles instead of decent wages. Human Resource Departments send out F.O.A.D. letters to people who haven’t even written to their company.
I never respond to help wanted ads listing which required submitting my application to Human Resources Departments.
With each foray into the employment arena I was forced up against a mirror and made to reflect upon my own particular skills and abilities. It was not a pretty sight. My right cheek splayed against the glass, my right arm twisted up behind my back. Looking deep into my own eyes I saw a long ago university degree in out of date technology, followed by a decade of hopping from one unfulfilling job to another, skipping out one step ahead of the liquidators. Fifteen years out of college, and with the end of the Cold War, I was highly skilled in a field that didn’t exist any more. The best buggy whip maker in town. I had lost interest in anything resembling a career, I was after simple work to put food on the table. But, my past haunted me wherever I went. I have no work references, every company that I ever worked for is defunct, not always my doing, and the people I worked with are scattered across at least two continents. When I apply for menial jobs, they look at my work history and dismiss me as being too likely to be unstable, to leave on a whim, easily bored. I can’t even get an interview to stock shelves at the Big Box. When I apply for a job more in keeping with my past responsibilities they want to talk to my old supervisors. Some are dead, some are missing, all are beyond my reach. Like the snake eating its tail, I was going nowhere, and not particularly enjoying it.
Sitting in my breakfast nook, I was dawdling over a third cup of coffee as I polished off the last bite of a toast with orange marmalade. Cooper’s Coarse Cut Original Oxford Seville Orange Marmalade, not that sticky sweet confection made in this country. The secret to great marmalade is the Seville Orange. It is tart, and blends with the sugar so that the sweet and sour battle on your tongue. Big chunks of sour Seville orange peel float amidst the jellied fruit juices to create a taste sensation second to none. Like the finest Beluga Caviar, Cooper’s Coarse Cut Original Oxford Seville Orange Marmalade is best enjoyed on a bland vehicle which neither adds or detracts from the subject. I chose plain white bread, Wonder Bread if available, lightly toasted. Marmalade is spooned onto a piece of toast, with sips of strong, black coffee between bites. A little bit of heaven to start each morning. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, and carousing with loose women is not really an option for an unemployed guy living in a church. Cooper’s Marmalade is my only vice, but it is a cruel one. I can buy pot on any downtown street corner, but just try to find imported English marmalade. I prowl the small downtown gift shops that close almost as quickly as they open, hoping that they will have accidentally acquired a few jars in some buying frenzy at the New York Gift Show. Sometimes, I could find a jar in the specialty section of the local Super-Duper Mart, but that is not a reliable source. The marmalade sneaks into a shipment , like a tarantula in a case of bananas. I long ago gave up asking friends traveling to Boston or New York to bring some back. I was not in a position to return a favor that big. Therefore, I am always on the hunt. When I find Cooper’s Coarse Cut I buy every jar in the store and hoard it away, confident that nothing with that much sugar in it will turn bad. This very day I have just opened a new jar of marmalade acquired via mail order. If I could find sufficient employment to pay for a full case at a time, then this could be a truly satisfactory state of affairs, indeed.
The daily paper was opened to the classified section. A typical small city newspaper, with out of town owners who only cared about advertising revenue, even the editors didn’t read it. The headlines often did not match the story, the same article would appear several times in the same issue, the unsupervised reporters peppered their accounts with regional idioms that befuddled everyone outside their immediate family. On any given morning you could open the paper and see the headline “Germany Invades Poland”. It turns out that was 1939, but it doesn’t matter. Anything to fill the spaces between the advertisements.
The want ads were no better, with entries offering “Laboratory Retriever puppies” and “Appaloosa Hose, 15 hands high”. I could apply to be a proof reader for the paper, but I was certain that they really didn’t care. I turned to the help wanted section. Pass the Medical Help Wanted. Just the thought sends shivers up my spine. No blood, no infirmity, I can’t face it. You may call me shallow, I prefer to think of myself as sensitive. Quick review of the Professional Section. Accountant, accountant, accountant, software engineer, teacher, web designer, web designer, web designer. Nothing that strikes my fancy. Sales Help. Auto sales, auto sales, auto sales, frozen foods, twenty telemarketing opportunities. Not my cup of tea. General help. This was my section.
I leaned forward over the table that held the paper. The table was a five by ten foot walnut monstrosity blackened by a hundred years of paste wax. Oh, yeah, my breakfast nook is the apse of an old Presbyterian Church. I was enjoying free room in return for looking after the building until it could be sold. The realtor charged with disposing of this white elephant is a friend of mine. As part of the listing agreement he was required to provide a caretaker to guard against vandalism, natural disasters, vermin and squatters. That is how I came to live there. I paid for electricity. The parish that owned the church paid for heat. You can not leave a building unheated, it will deteriorate from the cold and damp. And no individual could afford to heat this barn. Mostly, I live in the basement. The church has a full kitchen, bigger than any apartment kitchen, bigger than many apartments. There are his and hers bathrooms, in case I am feeling wild, and a small, but adequate shower. A lounge came equipped with a wall bracket for the TV, pre-wired for cable. Down the hall is my office. It is a nice little arrangement, and given the market for used churches, I could see being here awhile.
Part of the deal was that the church would be fully inspected each day. I began this with breakfast in the apse. The apse is on the north side of the church. There is a stained glass window, easily twenty feet in diameter, framed in sandstone, facing dead east, on the wall of the nave. It was like a Presbyterian Notre Dame. The rising sun illuminated this enormous jewel and cast its pattern across the church. As I ate breakfast I could watch the dust motes dance in the sunbeams, and the image of the window move slowly down the west wall and over the floor towards me.
When breakfast was finished I would carry my final cup of coffee of the morning with me as I began a walking tour of the entire church. Out of the apse, always choosing the westernmost of the two curving staircases that flanked the pulpit, past the dingy pipes of an enormous three manual organ. I resisted the temptation to begin polishing the pipes, knowing it was a never-ending task. Better to let the old girl grow decrepit gracefully, than to make a vain attempt to tart her up. Sometimes, when the mood struck, I would fire up the great blower that fed air into the beast, and pound away on the keys just to hear the terrible noise.. “Smoke on the Water” never sounded so good. Besides, it kept the mice from nesting in the works.
Yes, there are mice. And rats. And bats. In the belfry. Pigeons, sparrows, starlings. Cockroaches, silverfish, earwigs, ants. We co-existed in an uneasy war. I stalked them with modest vigilance, not peering too intently into darkened corners, not climbing too high into the bell towers. The easily detected vermin were eradicated, the more clever, or lucky, were rewarded with their lives. They, of course, did me no harm whatsoever, but that is not the point. They were pests, and pests must be killed. It’s a rule.
Out onto the floor of the nave, along the west wall, I passed through the brilliant image that the oreil cast on the west wall. Even at this time of year, the direct sun was warming. I paused to bask a while before continuing. I was looking for anything out of the ordinary, as I gazed down each row of hard wooden pews. The pews were every bit as uncomfortable as they looked. Directly beneath the book racks attached to the back of each pew, was a kneeling rail, padded and upholstered in red velveteen. The padding was a canard, the kneeling rails were even more uncomfortable than the pews. Good Christians apparently sought comfort elsewhere. A quick glance down each row, looking for the tell-tale mound of sawdust that would indicate beetles in the wood. Scan the floor under each of the enormous stained glass windows for the shards that would let me know one of the neighborhood urchins was pitching stones through the panes. The image of St. Stephen was the favorite target. It was good to know the little hoodlums had some religious training. If it was raining I would examine the wall-ceiling intersection for water stains, but not today. Moving along, into the vestibule where I kept a mouse-trap. The bait was gone, the trap was sprung, but no mouse in sight. Fresh droppings lead to a crack in the wainscoting. In the local vernacular mouse droppings were called “jimmies” after the chocolate sprinkles pored over ice cream cones. There is no good reason to label excrement after a food product, and I have been put off sprinkles ever since. Back into the nave, along the east wall and around to the pulpit. I performed a recessional up the aisle and out the main doors.
Outside, I stopped to fill my lungs with the crisp morning air. There was some frost where the azaleas shaded the ground from the rising sun. The inspection continued.
I like living in a church. I have not attended a formal Sunday service in over thirty years, and strive to avoid weddings and funerals; my own as well as others’. But there was a sense of security in this building that I had never found in conventional housing. . The foundation was gray granite block. Rising above, the church was made of red granite with pink sandstone lintels, sills, and cornices. The roof was blue-gray slate. This truly was a rock. Twin bell towers rose on the east face, flanking the great stained glass eye. Near the top of the towers, projecting from each corner of the tower, were gargoyles. Real gargoyles. When it rained, water gushed from their open mouths onto the roof below.
The outside inspection went quickly at this time of year. I picked up a discarded burger wrapper, and kicked the remains of a broken beer bottle into the gutter. A cursory check of each doorway, and I was back inside. Straight to the kitchen to refill my coffee mug, and then back to the apse to continue.
I turned all of my attention to the task at hand. Auto mechanic, truck driver, towel folder. Towel folder? I looked again. There it was, a real job; towel folder. I guess they don’t fold themselves. Then I saw it; “Assistant Wanted - Law Enforcement Field”.
I figured the only way I was going to gain a quick source of revenue to quell the lupine pest sniffing at my door was to take a job where the employer was a desperate as I was. Something no reasonable person, with any hope at all, would choose to do. This ad seemed to fit the bill. “Motivated self-starter”- Aren’t we all? “Law enforcement field” Not “Law Enforcement”, so not a police job. Not even a security guard, because they would admit to that. So, less than security guard. I shuddered to think. However, “No experience necessary” was good, because, whatever it was, I had no experience. And the drug test. It had been a few years since I had had any involvement with drugs, but I was sure that I could remember enough to pass the test. Anyway, I had to try. The Lord hates a coward.
My biannual job search was dragging into its third month. Normally a dispiriting undertaking, it had taken a sharp downward turn with the arrival of today’s mail. Hidden amidst the Gold Credit Card teases, the Platinum Credit Card taunts, the Cobalt-Iridium Alloy Credit Card come-ons, was a plain white business envelope. The return address read simply “GE, Pittsfield, MA”. Curious, I opened the envelope and removed a single thin sheet of folded paper. I unfolded it and read: ”Dear Sir: We regret that we are unable to offer you a position at this time………” . I stared at the letter in amazement. Not because of what it said. The “F. Off and Die” letter was all part of the joy of job hunting. Rather, because of who had sent it. I had never applied to General Electric for anything, anytime, anywhere. This was obviously a pre-emptive strike. The human resources jungle drums were beating loud, sending warnings down the line that I was out there, looking.
Human Resources. Was there ever a more de-humanizing phrase? “Among our company’s diverse resources are substantial working capitol, the latest computer technology and assorted humans.” You could tell a lot about a company by whether they featured a Human Resources Group or if they kept the old Personnel Department. A personnel department indicated that the company was interested in the welfare of the employees, that it was benevolently paternalistic, managing benefits and policies in a fair and even-handed manner. Personnel Administrators would advocate for the individual employee when disputes arose with management. Personnel Administrators gather every resume they receive and forward them to the appropriate department head, with sticky notes pointing out the applicant’s strengths.
Human Resource Groups infect companies run by MBA’s. MBA’s believe that every item has a piece part value, and every action can be billed in quarter hour increments. They are wrong and leave a wake of shattered and destroyed businesses as proof. Fortunately, they rape the company coffers as they go so they only ruin two or three companies before they can retire and leave us alone. Human Resource Directors view employees as expenses, to be minimized at every opportunity. Human Resource Groups stand between employees and management, waving a thick policy book explaining why they have no right to complain as covered in chapter 5, section 23, paragraph t through dd. Human Resource Managers scrutinize every resume received, looking for the barely qualified candidate who will accept a low wage and not try to negotiate vacation time or benefits. Human Resource people eat their own kind, creating the “Human Resource Generalist” so that they can give out meaningless titles instead of decent wages. Human Resource Departments send out F.O.A.D. letters to people who haven’t even written to their company.
I never respond to help wanted ads listing which required submitting my application to Human Resources Departments.
With each foray into the employment arena I was forced up against a mirror and made to reflect upon my own particular skills and abilities. It was not a pretty sight. My right cheek splayed against the glass, my right arm twisted up behind my back. Looking deep into my own eyes I saw a long ago university degree in out of date technology, followed by a decade of hopping from one unfulfilling job to another, skipping out one step ahead of the liquidators. Fifteen years out of college, and with the end of the Cold War, I was highly skilled in a field that didn’t exist any more. The best buggy whip maker in town. I had lost interest in anything resembling a career, I was after simple work to put food on the table. But, my past haunted me wherever I went. I have no work references, every company that I ever worked for is defunct, not always my doing, and the people I worked with are scattered across at least two continents. When I apply for menial jobs, they look at my work history and dismiss me as being too likely to be unstable, to leave on a whim, easily bored. I can’t even get an interview to stock shelves at the Big Box. When I apply for a job more in keeping with my past responsibilities they want to talk to my old supervisors. Some are dead, some are missing, all are beyond my reach. Like the snake eating its tail, I was going nowhere, and not particularly enjoying it.
Sitting in my breakfast nook, I was dawdling over a third cup of coffee as I polished off the last bite of a toast with orange marmalade. Cooper’s Coarse Cut Original Oxford Seville Orange Marmalade, not that sticky sweet confection made in this country. The secret to great marmalade is the Seville Orange. It is tart, and blends with the sugar so that the sweet and sour battle on your tongue. Big chunks of sour Seville orange peel float amidst the jellied fruit juices to create a taste sensation second to none. Like the finest Beluga Caviar, Cooper’s Coarse Cut Original Oxford Seville Orange Marmalade is best enjoyed on a bland vehicle which neither adds or detracts from the subject. I chose plain white bread, Wonder Bread if available, lightly toasted. Marmalade is spooned onto a piece of toast, with sips of strong, black coffee between bites. A little bit of heaven to start each morning. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, and carousing with loose women is not really an option for an unemployed guy living in a church. Cooper’s Marmalade is my only vice, but it is a cruel one. I can buy pot on any downtown street corner, but just try to find imported English marmalade. I prowl the small downtown gift shops that close almost as quickly as they open, hoping that they will have accidentally acquired a few jars in some buying frenzy at the New York Gift Show. Sometimes, I could find a jar in the specialty section of the local Super-Duper Mart, but that is not a reliable source. The marmalade sneaks into a shipment , like a tarantula in a case of bananas. I long ago gave up asking friends traveling to Boston or New York to bring some back. I was not in a position to return a favor that big. Therefore, I am always on the hunt. When I find Cooper’s Coarse Cut I buy every jar in the store and hoard it away, confident that nothing with that much sugar in it will turn bad. This very day I have just opened a new jar of marmalade acquired via mail order. If I could find sufficient employment to pay for a full case at a time, then this could be a truly satisfactory state of affairs, indeed.
The daily paper was opened to the classified section. A typical small city newspaper, with out of town owners who only cared about advertising revenue, even the editors didn’t read it. The headlines often did not match the story, the same article would appear several times in the same issue, the unsupervised reporters peppered their accounts with regional idioms that befuddled everyone outside their immediate family. On any given morning you could open the paper and see the headline “Germany Invades Poland”. It turns out that was 1939, but it doesn’t matter. Anything to fill the spaces between the advertisements.
The want ads were no better, with entries offering “Laboratory Retriever puppies” and “Appaloosa Hose, 15 hands high”. I could apply to be a proof reader for the paper, but I was certain that they really didn’t care. I turned to the help wanted section. Pass the Medical Help Wanted. Just the thought sends shivers up my spine. No blood, no infirmity, I can’t face it. You may call me shallow, I prefer to think of myself as sensitive. Quick review of the Professional Section. Accountant, accountant, accountant, software engineer, teacher, web designer, web designer, web designer. Nothing that strikes my fancy. Sales Help. Auto sales, auto sales, auto sales, frozen foods, twenty telemarketing opportunities. Not my cup of tea. General help. This was my section.
I leaned forward over the table that held the paper. The table was a five by ten foot walnut monstrosity blackened by a hundred years of paste wax. Oh, yeah, my breakfast nook is the apse of an old Presbyterian Church. I was enjoying free room in return for looking after the building until it could be sold. The realtor charged with disposing of this white elephant is a friend of mine. As part of the listing agreement he was required to provide a caretaker to guard against vandalism, natural disasters, vermin and squatters. That is how I came to live there. I paid for electricity. The parish that owned the church paid for heat. You can not leave a building unheated, it will deteriorate from the cold and damp. And no individual could afford to heat this barn. Mostly, I live in the basement. The church has a full kitchen, bigger than any apartment kitchen, bigger than many apartments. There are his and hers bathrooms, in case I am feeling wild, and a small, but adequate shower. A lounge came equipped with a wall bracket for the TV, pre-wired for cable. Down the hall is my office. It is a nice little arrangement, and given the market for used churches, I could see being here awhile.
Part of the deal was that the church would be fully inspected each day. I began this with breakfast in the apse. The apse is on the north side of the church. There is a stained glass window, easily twenty feet in diameter, framed in sandstone, facing dead east, on the wall of the nave. It was like a Presbyterian Notre Dame. The rising sun illuminated this enormous jewel and cast its pattern across the church. As I ate breakfast I could watch the dust motes dance in the sunbeams, and the image of the window move slowly down the west wall and over the floor towards me.
When breakfast was finished I would carry my final cup of coffee of the morning with me as I began a walking tour of the entire church. Out of the apse, always choosing the westernmost of the two curving staircases that flanked the pulpit, past the dingy pipes of an enormous three manual organ. I resisted the temptation to begin polishing the pipes, knowing it was a never-ending task. Better to let the old girl grow decrepit gracefully, than to make a vain attempt to tart her up. Sometimes, when the mood struck, I would fire up the great blower that fed air into the beast, and pound away on the keys just to hear the terrible noise.. “Smoke on the Water” never sounded so good. Besides, it kept the mice from nesting in the works.
Yes, there are mice. And rats. And bats. In the belfry. Pigeons, sparrows, starlings. Cockroaches, silverfish, earwigs, ants. We co-existed in an uneasy war. I stalked them with modest vigilance, not peering too intently into darkened corners, not climbing too high into the bell towers. The easily detected vermin were eradicated, the more clever, or lucky, were rewarded with their lives. They, of course, did me no harm whatsoever, but that is not the point. They were pests, and pests must be killed. It’s a rule.
Out onto the floor of the nave, along the west wall, I passed through the brilliant image that the oreil cast on the west wall. Even at this time of year, the direct sun was warming. I paused to bask a while before continuing. I was looking for anything out of the ordinary, as I gazed down each row of hard wooden pews. The pews were every bit as uncomfortable as they looked. Directly beneath the book racks attached to the back of each pew, was a kneeling rail, padded and upholstered in red velveteen. The padding was a canard, the kneeling rails were even more uncomfortable than the pews. Good Christians apparently sought comfort elsewhere. A quick glance down each row, looking for the tell-tale mound of sawdust that would indicate beetles in the wood. Scan the floor under each of the enormous stained glass windows for the shards that would let me know one of the neighborhood urchins was pitching stones through the panes. The image of St. Stephen was the favorite target. It was good to know the little hoodlums had some religious training. If it was raining I would examine the wall-ceiling intersection for water stains, but not today. Moving along, into the vestibule where I kept a mouse-trap. The bait was gone, the trap was sprung, but no mouse in sight. Fresh droppings lead to a crack in the wainscoting. In the local vernacular mouse droppings were called “jimmies” after the chocolate sprinkles pored over ice cream cones. There is no good reason to label excrement after a food product, and I have been put off sprinkles ever since. Back into the nave, along the east wall and around to the pulpit. I performed a recessional up the aisle and out the main doors.
Outside, I stopped to fill my lungs with the crisp morning air. There was some frost where the azaleas shaded the ground from the rising sun. The inspection continued.
I like living in a church. I have not attended a formal Sunday service in over thirty years, and strive to avoid weddings and funerals; my own as well as others’. But there was a sense of security in this building that I had never found in conventional housing. . The foundation was gray granite block. Rising above, the church was made of red granite with pink sandstone lintels, sills, and cornices. The roof was blue-gray slate. This truly was a rock. Twin bell towers rose on the east face, flanking the great stained glass eye. Near the top of the towers, projecting from each corner of the tower, were gargoyles. Real gargoyles. When it rained, water gushed from their open mouths onto the roof below.
The outside inspection went quickly at this time of year. I picked up a discarded burger wrapper, and kicked the remains of a broken beer bottle into the gutter. A cursory check of each doorway, and I was back inside. Straight to the kitchen to refill my coffee mug, and then back to the apse to continue.
I turned all of my attention to the task at hand. Auto mechanic, truck driver, towel folder. Towel folder? I looked again. There it was, a real job; towel folder. I guess they don’t fold themselves. Then I saw it; “Assistant Wanted - Law Enforcement Field”.
I figured the only way I was going to gain a quick source of revenue to quell the lupine pest sniffing at my door was to take a job where the employer was a desperate as I was. Something no reasonable person, with any hope at all, would choose to do. This ad seemed to fit the bill. “Motivated self-starter”- Aren’t we all? “Law enforcement field” Not “Law Enforcement”, so not a police job. Not even a security guard, because they would admit to that. So, less than security guard. I shuddered to think. However, “No experience necessary” was good, because, whatever it was, I had no experience. And the drug test. It had been a few years since I had had any involvement with drugs, but I was sure that I could remember enough to pass the test. Anyway, I had to try. The Lord hates a coward.
