Good morning Boys and Girls.

A memory from long ago…

I walk along a busy road in the dark as rain falls. I pass through an underpass, with water gathered in a wide puddle at its bottom. There is a sidewalk along there and its raised just enough to be above water, but it’s too close to the road for me to avoid being sprayed by every car that passes. I curse seven cars during the twenty seconds it takes me to pass by the temporary lake.

My car sits a mile back. I turn to check, and yes, I can still see the flashing lights sparking; tiny fireflies in the rain. I see the service station ahead. It seems to grow no closer, but its not more than a mile ahead. I know this because I know this area; the business route off the highway leading into Michigan’s Capitol. Had I run out of gas just three more miles ahead, there would have been a gas station every hundred yards for a couple of miles, but no. I didn’t quite make it.

This is no emergency situation. I am in no danger. I am angry at the world, but I’m not scared. I am, however, very wet and tired and at least part of me has murder in my heart.

This is Thursday evening in November about eight. I’ve been away from home since 5:00  Monday morning. I am on my way home from a job on the west side of the state about eighty miles north of Grand Rapids where I’ve worked sixteen hours a day to meet a deadline at four p.m. earlier today. I got the job done; a job that would normally have taken at least two weeks, and usually three. The owner of the company begged me to take on the project after having turned down my initial solicitation a couple of months earlier. Finally, last week. after “praying extensively” about his problem, he decided that he did need help, and he called me last Thursday evening - almost exactly one week ago now, to the minute.

I spent last weekend doing as much as I could on the preliminaries, canceling an evening out with my wife on Saturday so I could keep working. By Monday morning, I was confident that I could get the job done this week, in time for the owner to meet the State imposed deadline - the third deadline he’d been given. He’d completely ignored the first two warnings. Now, it had become very serious. He simply had to address some serious health and safety violalations that had resulted in three injuries to his workers within a ninety day period. Not that they were always terribly efficient, but the inspectors had taken notice of this - the pattern being so glaringly obvious.

I told the guy that I’d have to drop everything else I was working on in order to get his project completed on time. I told him what my hourly rate was, that I required a retainer and full payment upon completion, which was my standard policy. He assured me that he’d have my retainer check waiting for me when I arrived, and that, of course, he’d pay me in full upon completion.

When I’d arrived, during the hour long meeting with the owner in which I told him exactly what I’d be doing, the order in which I’d be completing the dozen-odd tasks, and what information I needed access to and why, he asked me if I’d mind foregoing the retainer since he was going to pay me so soon anyway; that getting checks cut was a pain in the neck for him unless they were done during the normal cycle. I said that was fine, though I didn’t like it - mostly because he’d said it would be ready and waiting.

During the four days I worked on-site, I heard many tales of management’s callous disregard for worker safety from employees, and I saw evidence of it everywhere I turned. Safety guards were completely removed from almost all machinery. Safety switches had been overidden; stops on presses specifically designed to keep the damn things from crushing hands and limbs had been rigged so as to be inoperative, putting anyone who used them at severe risk.

One of my tasks was creating lockout procedures to ensure that machines could not be turned on by one person while someone else was in the process of doing maintenance or repair on them - a set of procedures so basic and necessary that I’d never seen a place of this size - there were over a hundred employees - without them in twelve years. It was shocking.

Meanwhile, each morning I met with the owner to brief him on my previous day’s work, and to inform him one the things he needed to acquire to make the work I was doing worthwhile and meaningful. During these meetings, the man repeatedly worked his faith into the conversation - as well as his disdain for any sort of government intervention into his business. He felt strongly that, not only should he be free to run his business any way he saw fit - as guaranteed by the constitution, he claimed - but also that the real problem these days were the trial lawyers.

I bit my tongue each day.

It was too obvious. He didn’t give a crap about his workers, and if they didn’t like the way he did things, they were welcome to leave and find work elsewhere. They certainly shouldn’t have the right to sue him if the way he ran his business caused them injury, nor should he be subject to oversight by anyone. He and Jesus seemed to have an arrangement. If he had faith, anything he did was fine, and no mere human should have the right to intervene in any way whatsoever.

Of course, when I finished the job, with three hours to spare - than you very much - the girl who cut the checks was off for the day, and she was the ONLY person who knew the check-writing system. He’d mail me a check.

Now I walk to the the gas station. I had been so angry for the last few hours that I hadn’t paid attention to my fuel indicator.

I borrow a gas can from the station owner, buy a couple gallons of gas and start to walk back, dreading sloshing back through that underpass and sprays that would soon drench me.

Before I get out of the parking lot, a fellow who’d just purchased gas himself asks me if I’d like a ride back to my car. I thank him profusely and accept the ride.

One hundred and twenty days later, after sending off a certified letter threatening legal action, I receive a check for half my invoice along with a promise of payment of the other half next month. Sixty days later, I call about the other half of my fee.

The number is no longer in service.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

In what’s been a strange confluence of computer purchases and sales over the past month, I added one Saturday simply because it was too great a bargain to ignore, and as a result, I learned - again -  how true it is that men and women just plain think differently.

Friday was SweetLady’s birthday. My job, being the loving, caring, gentle suitor I am, has been to continue telling her how great she looks - for a fifty-year-old. (She’s far, far younger than that, and in truth, looks even younger than she is.) Regardless, my teasing means, of course, that my upper right arm is now full of bruises - bruises I’m quite sure I could use as evidence against her should I decide to go to the police. I might, in fact, except I’m afraid I’d end up talking to a female officer, who, once hearing both sides, would probably render my left arm black and blue as well - just as a matter of principle.

So it was that Friday evening, SweetLady, the kids and I had a nice dinner at one of the ubiquitous Italian chain restaurants where, after the meal, she was serenaded by a huge baritone who sang Happy Birthday in Italian before the complimentary cake and ice cream. I’m not a big fan of all these chains, but I must say, it was nice.

We were under the gun a bit at the end of the meal because the kids’ father was to pick them up at eight-thirty at her house for his weekend with them. We made it back just a minute or so before he pulled up, and he wasn’t at all pleased that he had to wait an extra two minutes for the kids to grab their things. Nothing new there; the man is mad at all of humanity.

I’d been driving all day to get there in time for dinner, and was pretty pooped out afterward - so I wasn’t the greatest company in the world after the kids left and was in bed by about ten-thirty where I slept soundly through the night - a rarity.

Saturday morning, SweetLady slept in, having stayed up later than me by a couple of hours. I was up early, since, not only had I gone to bed so early, but, this was my first morning here and it always takes a day or two for my body to adjust to Central Time. I had coffee on the glider, then a walk. Eventually I decided to go to a garage sale I’d seen a sign for where a fellow was selling a nice little iMac G4 with plenty of memory, some very nice - and expensive - graphics software, and good speakers - all for 50 bucks. Because I’ve been watching the used mac market so closely the last few weeks, I knew this puter would easily bring $150 - 300 with a quick ad on Craig’s List, so I powered it up, checked it out, and bought it.

The rather elderly man who sold it to me, explained it had been his nephew’s computer, who bought it for another young relative to use for a while. The nephew had moved west, bought a newer and more powerful mac, and didn’t want this one back when the other relative was done with it.

I got it back home and decided to wipe as much stuff off the hard drive as I thought prudent before making a decisions about (a.) how much to ask for it, (b.) whether there were any programs I might want, or (c.) maybe keeping it for myself.

Alas, the Administrator password, was not, “administrator” or “12345” or ‘imac” or any of the obvious passwords people usually set when they’re selling a computer, plus, since there were far more documents left on the computer than is sensible, I realized that no one had done anything to erase any of what had been on the thing since it had been used as someone’s everyday machine. After trying a half-dozen passwords, the hint “nails” appeared, but “hammer”, “screws”, “staples” and any number of other words suggested by the hint failed to gain me access. Not, “tacks”, nor “spikes”, or “fasteners”, or “pound”. Nothing.

-Another half-hour of messing with it did no good.

SweetLady and I had to go downtown just before noon, and I stopped by the garage sale again to ask the man who’d sold me the computer if he’d call his nephew to try to get the password when he had time. He said he’d try, and I gave him my number.

Then, on the way downtown, I told SweetLady about the predicament, and then told her about the hint-word, “nails”.

She thought for about a half-second, and said “manicure”.

Duh.

She was right, of course.

Men and women do think differently.


Be good to everyone.