Continued from part 3:
I lead a stripped down lifestyle. Most of it was a matter of choice. Some of it was necessity. One day in February 2012…actually it was on George Washington’s Birthday…
It was just about three weeks after a week’s vacation to spend some time with my daughters in Champaign/Urbana. That is also the trip that inspired me to use Normal, IL as a setting for BECOMING THUPERMAN. Anyway, after I returned from my trip my boss demanded my presence for a series of 16 to 18-hour days. Yeah, you read that right, 16 to 18-hour days. There were actually 21 of them in a row. You see, when a company is failing, as Sears Holdings/Kmart was, they cut back on their largest single expense, hourly payroll. But the work still needs to be accomplished for the stores to function. So, they demand their salaried managers pick up the slack.
Officially, they don’t require you to work 7 days a week. I mean who would go to work for them if that was the norm? Legally, well, there are gray areas in most state labor laws. Salaried people who make hiring and firing decisions can be, and generally are, abused. Twenty-one days in a row, of course, is excessive even for Sears/Kmart. And they never really, actually came out and scheduled me to work seven days a week. But they did require tasks get done and, apart from doing everything else I normally did (per my job description), I also needed to do all the work previously accomplished by hourly employees…well, I think you see where this is going.
It is not surprising to me that Sears/Kmart is in a death spiral. They have been for a decade of more. They hired me (and people like me) who had big box retailer experience to help them learn to compete with Walmart. But when we told them what they needed to do the expense was too high and they continued with outdated methods. Toward the end a district manager (a former Marine) explained to me that I was not paid to think. I was paid to execute corporate directions. Yeah, well, sometimes the people who are in the trenches, interacting directly with the customers on a daily basis, know what needs to be done. If the company survives to the end of this year, I’ll be surprised. It may hang on as an online entity for a while. Otherwise, Rest in Peace, Sears Holdings.
The local problem for my general manager was that while I was on vacation I had done some serious soul searching about my employment. The only reason I ever started working all sorts of crazy hours was the necessity of supporting my family. By 2012, my family consisted of just me. Divorced, all the kids were out on their own, I began cutting expenses. I’d already rid myself of a car. I just needed to figure out how to cut down to the bare bone on the cost of living. I’d already decided that I was going to do what I had always wanted to do, become a full-time writer.
That adventure is ongoing and I’m always making progress.
I mention all this as background to understanding me, if such a thing is actually possible. Everything is possible, though—in the Elgon Universe, anyway. All throughout the trip to Cleveland and Chicago I was reminded of my fateful vacation in early 2012 and the decisions I made then. In the aftermath, things have not been easy but it’s been interesting. And I wouldn’t go back now, not after tasting some of what a writer’s life is like.
Anyway, in keeping with my minimalist mentality, I started riding a bike everywhere I go. Currently, I live about 4.5 miles from my present place of employment. I’m not a manager– no, nevermore. Been there and done that. Everything else I need is within 5 miles of where I live, usually less. So, a bike works for me, except for when I have to go to the airport or somewhere like that. Then I need to make other arrangements. Like getting my son to drive me to the airport for my C2E2 trip.
Complication: I needed someone to pick me up at the airport. My son and his girlfriend were going on a cruise. They wanted me to dog sit for them when I came back from my C2E2 trip. That also meant I needed to drive to work, because my son lives about 10 miles from my store. And it meant that I needed to ask George, the guy who rents the room to me where I live, to pick me up at the Orlando International Airport. At least we live on that side of town.
Further complication: I needed George to drive me to my son’s house. It was kind of weird in a way, but George is pretty cool. He’s about 18 years older than me. And, because of that fact, he has more stories to tell than I do—a lot of them set in New Orleans, where he used to live. You may see where this is going. Yeah, portions of the Fried Windows sequel are set in New Orleans and characters based on some of George’s stories. George is also a writer, having published a couple of books. But he isn’t actively pursuing that dream anymore.
Where was I in this story before the break?
Oh, yeah, at five-ish something in the morning, C drove me to the Cleveland airport. I had no idea how traumatic this part of my trip was going to be. Had I known, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was flying on a shoe string budget, after all. And now I was going to fly home on Spirit Airlines. And as stripped-down as the customer service experience was on Frontier for my flight to Cleveland, at least I could tell they had a passing acquaintance with the concept of customer satisfaction. Spirit? Not so much. Scratch that, barely at all.
This time around, I lost out on the seat assignment lottery, being assigned the window seat in my aisle. As a kid I used to like window seats, even though I didn’t like looking out the window until we were way the hell up in the air. I’m kind of afraid of heights. At 39K feet there is an air of surrealism about being up that high. I can deal with that. And the last time I could comfortably fit into a space as small as that allowed for me on my Spirit flight was when I was ten years old and had significantly shorter legs. No frills at all for sure! Pay for anything remotely accommodating. But I figured I could survive anything for a couple or three hours in the air—right? About that...let’s say that’s the last time I will ever fly on Spirit. And I’m pretty sure that a lot of other first time passengers make that decision as well.
I couldn’t wait to get off the plane. Really, I couldn’t wait to just stretch my legs out straight after being folded, spindled and nearly mutilated for over 2 hours. But we landed and I decided my ordeal was just about over. I texted George and he texted back that he was leaving the house and was on the way. I told you we live pretty close. By car it’s maybe ten minutes or so away.
When it was my turn to access the plane’s main aisle, I quickly gathered up my bag and filed down the narrow aisle between the rows and seats. Is that cramped as well. Seemed so. At least, on my way out of the plane, the pilot thanked me for flying Spirit. But, then, he was saying that to everyone. I’, kind of surprised he didn’t have a tip jar in hand.
My pressing urgency was making the requisite post flight pit stop. I found the restroom, waited my turn, and emerged with a whole new attitude about the world. I was home, almost anyway. Nothing was going to piss me off, pardon the expression.
Oops, I spoke too soon.
When I reached the tram, there were signs saying the trains were closed for repairs. They promised to make things better for the future. Frankly, I cared little about the future right then. What I cared most about was the detour signs directing everyone to an open walkway outside between the tracks. Yes, that was outside in Central Florida around noontime where here there is no air conditioning on a 90 degree, humid day.
One side of the tracks was obviously under repair, though the workers appeared to be having lunch as I walked past. Though it seemed a lot longer, honestly it took maybe four or five minutes for me to walk to the main terminal building. But that’s not the point. Orlando is expanding the airport and servicing the trains is all part of that. I guess the airport is willing to sacrifice customer comfort in the short term to achieve their overall goals. I’m figuring their thinking is about the same as many of the airlines. Screw what the customers think!
The other side of the tracks were not under repair and there was a train that was still running back and forth, though empty. I’m not sure what was all about. Of course that pissed me off and I'm sure I wasn't alone in feeling that way. Obviously, they could have been running one of the two trains if they really cared about the passengers. It would have been crowded and there would have been a line, but it might have been an option.
Along the way I passed an elderly couple. The man was struggling with two rolling carry-on bags, the kind with extending handles. I asked if I could give him a hand. He said he had it. I think he meant that both ways it could be taken, but he refused my help because, as he said, “You got your own bag.”
True. But mine was a back pack. Anyway, I had to get to the arrivals area where George would be in about seven minutes. However, as I passed some guy standing at the end of the walkways who looked official as he had a walkie-talkie and all, I kind of unloaded.
“You know— this wasn’t thought out very well at all. You’re inconveniencing a lot of people right now and especially an elderly couple who might not make it all the way here with their bags and all in this heat. I’d hate to hear on the news tonight about them dying out here from heat stroke.”
He clicked his walkie-talkie and told someone about it as I walked away. But that was his only acknowledgement. Yes, I was being sarcastic when I spoke, but an apology would have been the very least he could have done as one human to another. I didn’t even get that.
After four or so minutes in the 90-degree heat, the air conditioning in the main terminal felt pretty damned good. I even had visions of maybe cooling off, my sweaty brow and shirt drying a bit, before I reached the arrivals area. But that wasn’t going to happen either.
George pulled up to the curb about a minute after I stepped out of the terminal building. At least that went almost as planned. But then, as we departed the airport in route to my son’s house, I got him lost. All of Orlando International is expanding, including the access highways. So everything looks different. Hey, I don’t drive much anymore. Okay?
George used to be a real estate broker and used to sell houses all over Orlando, so when we got into the general vicinity of my son’s place, I told him the street name and he knew where it was.
Into the driveway, I thanked George for the ride, told him I had some pictures to show him when I got back to his house. Said my goodbyes and I used the Bluetooth Door opening application that son instructed me to download and set up on my smartphone. It unlocked the door like a charm. Gotta love modern world gadgets!
Rob’s dogs, Rocco and Terry, were extremely happy to see Grandpa. Grandpa is a soft touch and always good for a treat, right. I let them out to do their business and rewarded them for promptly coming back inside.
Rob and Jen left on their Cruise the previous Saturday. A girl from Rob’s work took care of the boys over the weekend and earlier that morning. She’d texted me when I was on the way, asking me to let her know when I got there. She wanted to make sure the dogs were fine– and they were. They had plenty of water.
If I was going to be spending a week at Rob’s place, I needed to fetch my other stuff from home. I had my Surface Pro 3, but I needed my external keyboard and mouse, as well as my external monitor. Also, I needed to get my toiletry items, the real ones not the small travel size stuff that I’d almost expended. I also needed to get my uniform for work and the like. So, I had to drive my son’s car– one that he just bought a couple of weeks before— over to my place. That was traumatic on so many levels.
Not only don’t I drive much anymore, but here I was attempting to pilot a state of the art piece of American automotive engineering, and a muscle car at that—all 485 turbocharged horsepower of it. And a manual transmission. Yes, they still make those upon request. Fortunately, I know how to use manual transmissions.
My son is sort of like I was at his age. I always preferred the control a manual. Maybe it’s not the best anymore, but it’s still fun in a way.
The true trauma came from being petrified about maybe having a mishap. And so I was driving extra carefully. And when you are in an obvious muscle car, everyone else who thinks they are driving a fast car wants to race you from every stop light. But, I was having none of that. Drive the speed limit. I knew I could blow the doors on that Toyota or Nissan. It was a matter of horsepower, after all. I had it and didn’t need to exercise it. Plus, all I needed was gaining a cop’s attention. Could you imagine it? Yeah, Rob, I wasn’t really hot-rodding or anything like that. It just looked that way to the police as I blew past.
For the ensuing week I lived out of a backpack and a couple of extra bags. I commuted to work in a car, which is something rare for me. I worried that it might make me soft, not riding my bike for that long, but in a way it was like a vacation. Really, I had no reason to go to my place for the week.
At the end, when Rob and Jen arrived home, I was glad to turn everything over to them again. Rob drove me home. I was scheduled to work a little later on. It was good to get home though, after a week and a half away. George called me a stranger. I made it back in time to pay my rent, though. So, all was forgiven.
End