Really?

Tuesday, February 28^th, 2011

      It could have been a lot worse. It started with a simple question of precision then ballooned from there. Where am I supposed to go exactly? The directions weren't very clear. This is how slasher films start. You get lost and ask for directions somewhere then you're inside having a meal when some nutter jumps out and eviscerates you. While there were no knives involved in this particular incident, or any other lethal weapons for that matter, the day turned out to be a bit of a cluster f*ck anyway, but all is well that ends well.

      Having gotten a semblance of directions from the phone number given, I ambled off into the fog, figuring that I'd get there a bit early and get all set up, seeing as I've never delivered to a military base before. I found the gate on Rambo road (yeah, I giggled too) and proceeded to pull up to a fairly ordinary inspection building. They pull vehicles in and have the bomb sniffing dog give them a once over. That part went well enough. I just needed a pass to get in. Simple, right? Not really. I needed a sponsor to get past the gate. I have no idea how the military bureaucracy works, but I know that it works well.

      Meanwhile, there are a bunch of us hanging out in this little waiting room, maybe 7' by 7' with 2 drinking fountains on one wall, and a restroom door affixed to another. There are a few of us in there, maybe 4, and some have come and gone already. Tragically, it seems that someone blew up the bathroom either right as I got there (I have my suspicions tat these two southern truckers brought in a bad load with them... one of them anyway). No matter how many times the door into the inspection bays opened, the stench lingered tenaciously. I forgot about it after a while (acclimated more like it) then a Pepsi delivery guy came in and his eyes almost popped out of his head for the stench. By that time there were 8 of us in that tiny room, many of us waiting for a sponsor.

      It turns out that 6 of the guys in that room were waiting for the same guy I was. A moving crew. They had been here a bunch of times, and were to offload my trailer and put all the furniture in the dorms. They were a motley crew, of varying shapes and sizes but with similar dispositions. Two of them were already getting other jobs. Another two seemed doomed to a life of manual labor but had this intense interest in farming. The last pair seemed more into doing what they were doing, but as little as possible. Of the last pair, one gentleman was running around with his I-phone snapping pictures and taking video of some antics and “blackmail” opportunities. He would make a good photojournalist, I swear.

      So after a couple of hours, the truck is about ¼ of the way unloaded. Lots left to do. I rapidly conclude that my day is more or less shot, especially since I noticed that I had a nail sticking into one of my tires causing air to make an undesired egress. Then its lunch time. So I spend all sorts of time pulling the truck back and forth, moving from one set of stairs to another, then playing banjo in the meanwhile. I also spent some time hanging out with the crew much to my amusement.

      In the end, I made $90 for just sitting around playing banjo and having a laugh. I got my tire repaired and I am down for the night. I found an interesting coincidence in finding one guy so very interested in organic farming. I learned that I can be worth as much as I want to be (or believe that I am). I got to laugh and reel at some strange cover-up (all the furniture was made in Malaysia but was repackaged to say made in USA; per military contract all goods must be made in the USA.) All-in-all a fascinating day. One I do not wish to have happen again honestly, but fascinating to be sure.