Trouble on the Doorstep

Leaving Alaska wasn’t as hard as it could have been. I made sure to bow out gracefully, thanking everyone I worked with and letting those who treated me with respect know how much that meant.

Challenges laid in wait in Oregon, but like so many times before, I would have the support of my loving partner.

David picked me up at the airport in Seattle, where frozen boxes of fish rolled off the luggage carousel along with my jam-packed suitcase. Zac agreed to mail the rest of my belongings back. He’s been a good friend over the years and while likely disappointed in my early exit, something tells me, our paths will cross again in the future.

Meanwhile, my joy in seeing David again was cut short by the reality waiting on our doorstep back in Portland. During my time away, a homeless camp had moved in and taken over the block. These were not your down on your luck folks, trying to get back on their feet, either.

These were the junkies and criminals taking advantage of the city’s laissez faire attitude. They did their drugs openly on the sidewalk with no regard for children, families or tourists passing by.

Fights between them erupted almost nightly, usually resulting in the cops showing up, but never hauling anyone away. There were no consequences for their pathetic behavior.

Not once in my formative years could I have imagined living in these circumstances — shouting out the window in the early morning hours for peace on the street. Sadder still, this situation was being played out all across a city suffering the painful after effects from a prolonged pandemic following a volatile election.

To keep our heads above water, I quickly took a job at the Rose Quarter, working concerts, special events and Trail Blazers games. It was fun and easy work and vastly improved my knowledge of the music industry, while reigniting a longtime passion for basketball.

It was a part-time gig with seldom a shift stretching past five hours. I continued to write about gay issues for the paper in South Florida, but knew I had to land a good paying job soon.

The Alaskan experience got me thinking about transportation and I soon realized that the pandemic coupled with Portland’s drug culture had shrunk the qualified applicant pool for government jobs. With the odds I my favor, I set my sights on the local transit agency.

But first, we had to get out of our horrible living situation. We had been at that studio apartment for four years. It was a far different scene when we moved in. Now, every day I stepped out of the building I was likely to encounter unstable behavior by people in various stages of deterioration.

Verbal abuse like “faggot!” and “retard!” were routinely hurled my way, with the occasional “nigger!” added for good measure. And again, the children heard every word.

Life was at an inflection point. I couldn’t go on this way anymore. Just because they had chosen to live in squalor, didn’t mean we had to. I had to take action. And take action I did.

The End of the Road

As the days got longer in the land of the midnight sun, so to did my resolve to cut this adventure short and come home to my loving and devoted husband.

I was being micromanaged in a way that felt a bit over the top and it was obvious that because I didn’t party every night most of the younger employees in camp had little interest in engaging with me.

There were a few exceptions. DL was a young midshipman fresh out of the Navy. He was a tall Black man with a cheerful disposition. DL always had a warm greeting and a funny comment.

“I’m just here to clean toilets,” he often said, a humbling reference to his job as a housekeeper at the lodge.

Sandy was another bright spot. She was about my age and a mother of two college educated daughters. I wasn’t sure what her relationship status was, but Sandy was up here in Alaska by herself. In fact, she drove all the way from Jacksonville, Florida. Quite the commute.

Sandy provided the intelligent conversation from a place of caring and understanding that I found refreshing amid a camp full of privileged millennials and Gen Zers trying to find their footing on the Alaskan tundra.

The cold definitely bothered Sandy. She was always bundled up at breakfast every morning. When I found out she was a Clemson graduate, I sung the school’s fight song — “Hold That Tiger” — one day that put a smile on her face.

Sometime around late June, the three of us embarked on a memorable day trip to Homer, Alaska. The end of the road.

I had heard Homer was a funky, artsy town and it didn’t disappoint. There was a seafaring feel to Homer, complemented by cute shops, thoughtful galleries and hipster thrift stores all juxtaposed by nature’s beauty.

Driving a long a section called The Spit revealed majestic mountains rising from the water. Purple flowers lined the road as we traveled to where restaurants and bars were grouped together on a harbor.

From here, tour operators helicoptered wealthy tourists to nearby wildlife sanctuaries to watch brown bears gorge themselves on salmon. Unfortunately, our budget would not accommodate that adventure.

On this trip, DL had been peppering me with questions about journalism. In particular, he was after sources and methods.

“So tell me, John, how do you know if someone is corrupt?,” he asked.

I wasn’t sure if DL was playing dumb or genuinely curious, so I explained the public records process, “sunshine laws” and ethical principles and practices, the best I could.

On the way to Homer, we stopped in the small town of Ninilchik, where I photographed a huge golden eagle perched atop a buoy along the foggy coastline. The mood in Ninilchik was quite suspicious. Rumors of a sizable Russian ex-pat population had proceeded our visit.

A Russian Orthodox Church confirmed there was a presence and when we stepped inside the local convenience store, it became clear we were the outsiders.

“You’ll find a lot of the old ways still in practice here,” the shop keeper said when Sandy asked about life in Ninilchik.

That comment stayed with DL for the rest of our trip. “The old ways,” he repeated in a slow bass tone. It was an oblique reference to a time that was probably not the most welcoming to a Black man, independent woman or gay guy.

I gained tremendous respect for DL that summer. There were probably just a handful of African Americans on the Kenai Peninsula. If he felt out of place, you wouldn’t have known it, but if there was a party, DL was typically the life of it.

Meanwhile, I missed David more and more each day. The advice Alan had told me in Los Angeles began to make sense. The garbage had to go. It was time to return home and take it out.

DL adding wood to the bonfire in Homer, AK.

Communal Living Defined

What does communal living mean to you?

Seems like a simple enough question. Everyone pitches in, does their part and gets a long. Right? Well, it doesn’t always work out like that. We are humans after all.

To be fair, it was an interview question during the hiring process: Have you lived and worked in a community environment before and are you comfortable with this lifestyle?

Of course, I had worked in these settings before in the national parks and understood very well that you would be seeing the same people every day for months. Best make friends real quick and learn to cooperate with those who may have a different world view.

But that was 10 years ago and a lot has changed in American society since then, thanks largely to the coronavirus pandemic. Here in Alaska, I was working for a very progressive company that promoted values of diversity, equity and inclusion. The company had also been in existence for many years, developing trust throughout the Anchorage area and establishing itself as a leading lodging and touring operator.

There were a lot of different personalities in our camp and I was one of the elders of the group. Looking back, this was an adjustment that I was not quite ready to handle. Seeing younger generations take charge and make decisions was a change and there were times where I felt ignored or invisible.

In previous gigs in Portland, I was able to neutralize the age gap with my work ethic. Out hustling the so-called smartest folks in the room. That wasn’t so much the case here. There were more people than opportunities, which created a competitive nature, particularly when it came to driving assignments.

The first few weeks we practiced backing up the rafting trailer with the van. It would be my job to drive the trailer to a pickup spot downstream, back the trailer into the river, hop out and pull a raft full of people to shore. When I was first informed of this duty, I thought they were kidding.

Wading In

“What size waders do you wear, John?” the base camp supervisor asked.

Nope, they weren’t kidding.

Thankfully, a nice young man from Arkansas rode along with me to make sure it all went off without a hitch. Patrick had a full head of long light brown hair that grew down well past his shoulders and a voice as deep as Johnny Cash. He was one of the caretakers of the lodge, staying up here year-round and braving the harsh winter conditions with his loyal husky Chaga.

“You got this, John,” he said as we meandered the gravel road to the boat launch site.

Sure enough, I backed up the trailer, pulled the raft to shore and drove a van full of tired tourists back to the lodge. Not something I ever envisioned myself to be doing at the age of 49, but here I was. I don’t think I could have done it without Patrick’s encouragement and confidence. He was definitely one of my favorites from the camp. A true Southern gentleman.

On my days off, I looked for hiking trails and nearby points of interest to explore. I closely studied the trees, plants, flowers and wildlife. Moose were plentiful here and unfortunately routine roadkill on the Sterling Hwy. On the ride back from picking up rafters we usually saw bears and I would slow the van to a crawl so the tourists could snap some pictures. Bald eagles were abundant, perched on tree branches overlooking the river.

In was late May and the salmon had yet to make their run upstream. They would be here soon and so would every high flying sports angler from near and far. Guests, especially those who came year-after-year, were a big part of this communal living. They paid big bucks to live amongst us. Our staff carried their luggage, cleaned their cabins and took them on guided excursions from Denail to Kenai.

The crew you worked closely with would become a big part of your experience and typically activitites were planned around your RDOs (regular days off) and whoever shared those days. Only two people in camp had Wednesdays and Thursdays as RDOs — me and DL, a young Black dude, fresh out of the Navy.

Neither of us had a car or very much money, but together, we would put this communal living to the test.

Into The Alaskan Wild

“Cool story buddy, but I think you got it backwards.”

Zac had made the trek across the border too — the other way.

“Plenty of older Americans do too…my folks included,” he told me. “Prices for medications in the States is ridiculous.”

The scene had shifted north to Alaska as Zac and I shared stories of our adventures prior to arriving in the land of the midnight sun. We were bunkmates inside a canvas-walled cabin nestled along the banks of the Kenai River. It was early May and there was still patches of snow clumped along the roadside and atop the mountains.

We were there to help open a fishing lodge, both serving as base camp drivers. With David’s blessing, I signed a four-month contract to work the summer season in the tiny town of Cooper Landing on the Kenai Peninsula, about a two hour drive south of Anchorage.

I was excited about the gig, recalling how much fun the summers in the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone had been. Previously, Zac and I worked together in Glacier National Park and he recently spent some time driving big tanker trucks around Oregon and northern California, while I toiled away in the warehouse of smiles.

Zac prepared me for Alaska’s cold conditions, advising I invest in a good insulated sleeping bag. That recommendation turned into a life saver as the temperature dropped to 33 degrees on our first night in the cabin.

“How’d you sleep, John?” one of the guys asked the next morning at the employee mess hall. “Nice and toasty,” I replied. Yes, I was pretty much the meat of a sleeping bag sandwich. Sort of like a nice toasty BLT…or was it LGBT? Heh. All jokes aside, I’m not quite sure I understood the living arrangements when signing up for this gig. Housing was indeed free — but it was outside.

Most of the workers were college aged or recent graduates. Some came here to study the environment, others to celebrate their freedom far away from home. The story of Christopher McCandless — from the nonfiction book and film, Into the Wild, was bandied about from time to time. Ironically, my resemblence to McCandless was one of the last messages I got from Will, a former editor and loyal friend from my days at the Panama City newspaper.

“It’s remarkable how much you look like that guy,” he wrote in one of his last Facebook messages to me. Will died a few years ago from brain cancer. Taken way too early. His death shook me and I miss him a lot.

In some ways, my story was similar to McCandless in that I did not have a clear exit strategy. There were a lot of “returnees” at the lodge. Alaska needs workers for its busy summer season when tourists arrive en mass to gasp at the glaciers, hook a salmon and bask in the long daylight hours of this beautiful state.

Zac had been up here before, working out of Denali. While he didn’t let on, I’m pretty sure he was amused at my naivete of the Alaskan experience.

“Let’s go see Nome,” I gleefully proposed.

“That’ll be a long drive,” he said.

Little did I know, Nome was not accessible by car — only by air, sea or dogsled.

That’s the great thing about traveling and learning new customs, cultures and ways of living. In Alaska, I would come to find out, in order to survive year-round here, one must adapt to communal — dare I say, tribal — living. That lifestyle, not the cold, would be my biggest challenge.

Borderline Docs

Just try to understand, I’ve given all I can. ‘Cause you got the best of me….Madonna, Borderline.

It was at the Mexican border where I began to fully grasp self-awareness.

My previous adventures always carried a sense of fantasy and escapism. In my mind, I had fancied myself this intrepid journalist, a swashbuckling Indiana Jones-like character, who traveled to far off lands to experience sensitory pleasure, diverse cultures and new customs.

This trip was different. I was playing with the grown-ups now.

So here we were, Daniel and I, motoring down to the border to meet with the mayor of Calexico and learn the truth behind one of the most hot button issues in America today. I felt confident, bolstered by enduring a pandemic inside that miserable warehouse, the political turmoil of the 2020 election and my recent service with the TSA.

It also helped to have Daniel by my side. His moxy was in full force.

“You’re going to walk from the medical center to city hall with the mayor,” he instructed.

It was a beautiful late autumn day in Imperial Valley. Full sun with a light breeze in the crisp air. I wore a short sleeved blue Panama Jack styled shirt and tan jeans. Daniel was in a suit. He had already established a relationship with the mayor through his work with the chamber.

“Just be yourself and you’ll be fine,” Daniel told me.

We met the mayor at a health clinic where a long line of people, primarily Mexicans, waited to be seen by a doctor, free of charge. The mayor was a tall man, handsome, in shape and likely around my age.

“Welcome to Calexico,” he said, smiling while extending his hand. I returned a firm grip and maintained eye contact, renewing a diplomatic ritual robbed by the pandemic.

“Let’s meet the doctor,” he said. We went inside the clinic and the mayor greeted everyone, making small talk and gushing over the babies. The overwelming majority were women and children. Come to find out, the men rarely seek out medical attention for fear of losing work time. This reminded me of a comment a TSA colleague had uttered on checkpoint: “You can’t get COVID if you don’t get tested.”

I felt guilty as we butted to the front of the line and into the doctor’s office. “Have a seat gentleman,” he said. The doctor was a bald, portly older white fellow who seemed to be in need of sleep. He explained to us that most of the patients were living in abject poverty and needed basic antibiotics to combat their various ailments. More resources were needed, the doctor said, and the mayor pledged to deliver.

After reassuring the doc, the mayor and I did the walk from the clinic to city hall as Daniel had directed. Along the way, several SUVs with dark tinted windows slowly rode by us. The mayor asked me about the Pacific Northwest and attitudes towards drugs. He said he had friends in southwest Washington state who were concerned the cartels were gaining a foothold in the region. Fentanyl, he warned, was having a devasting effect in Los Angeles and Phoenix.

We had lunch at a little mom and pop restaurant planted near the border crossing. Over enchiladas and chile rellenos, the mayor informed us of the power dynamics on the city council. Daniel proded him to seek a promotion and run for Congress, a proposal that drew a hearty chuckle. He was flattered, but not stupid. I got a sense, he had it good here and wanted to keep it that way. Everywhere we went, people nodded their respect.

Daniel picked up the bill and we walked the mayor out to his vehicle, a modest mid-sized SUV that was dusty and had seen some miles. “John, I want you to have something,” he said, opening the back door and digging into a brief case to pull out an evergreen colored folder with a thick set of papers inside. “Some reading for your return trip.”

I opened the folder and there on the first page was a government timestamp that read: Declassified, December 2, 1993.

Puzzled, I looked up only to see the mayor wink and drive away.

A Dog Gone Mistake

First, let me begin this post by affirming my love for dogs. I have owned dogs and they have been a fixture in my family for generations.

My all-time favorite was a little black lab mix named Mabel. She was such a sweet girl.

So sweet, in fact, that she provided comfort to some thieves that broke into my brother’s apartment when he was in college. As the story goes, they loaded up the television and electronics, while Mabel gleefully stood by during the heist.

Not long after that, Mabel came to live with me. I took her to Texas where she would show off her adorable pointer pose at the park whenever a squirrel or bird was nearby.

I have so many Mabel stories. She was the best.

My parents eventually adopted her after I moved back to Florida and she enhanced the quality of their lives for many years. After all, that is what a good pet is supposed to do.

Now, back to our story. I’m in El Centro, California visiting my good friend Daniel on a business trip. Daniel had graciously offered to quarter me at his house and as we pulled into the driveway you could hear the sound of barking coming from inside the house.

“I’m going to unlock the door and get the dogs, John, so you just run past them and into the house,” Daniel instructed.

For the life of me, I don’t know why I didn’t immediately refuse to do this.

It was a big mistake.

Daniel opened the door and instead of running to him, they chased after me. The golden retriever clawed me in the leg and the tiny mutt leaped and took a painful bite into the back of my upper thigh.

Ouch!

Daniel quickly scooped up the mutt before any more damage was done as I raced up the stairs and into the bathroom. There, behind a closed door, I nursed my wounds.

It was a traumatizing incident. My leg hurt for days and it would be a month before the bite mark disappeared. Daniel apologized profusely and assured me the dogs had all of their shots and there was no chance of catching rabies.

The little mutt was named GG, after a former congresswoman from North Florida, who I had helped elect before heading west to work in the national parks. Was this the universe’s way of getting back at me for leaving, I wondered.

After everything calmed down, I finally met Kai, Daniel’s husband. That night we toured the food bank with business leaders from the Imperial Valley.

A soft-spoken, tall and muscular young man, Kai emigrated to the States from Taiwan. He met Daniel in South Florida through a dating app and they quickly fell in love and were married in a very public ceremony inside the Florida Capitol. It was quite the statement, given the political climate at the time.

Kai liked living in California and hoped they would eventually find their way to Los Angeles or San Francisco. I quickly got the feeling, Imperial Valley was not the place they would be settling down longterm. For my safety, Kai kept GG locked away in their bedroom for the remainder of my stay.

At the food bank, Daniel worked the crowd with ease. He introduced me to the Commander of the Naval air facility, which serves as the winter home of the famous Blue Angels flight demonstration squadron. The Commander and I had a intelligent conversation about military readiness and the beauty of the Florida panhandle. I kept the dog bite story to myself.

The following morning, I would limp down to the border to finally set eyes on what had become a much ballyhooed issue. Daniel had lined us up a meeting with the mayor of Calexico.

“Get some rest, John,” Daniel advised as we left the chamber soiree. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

Business on the Border

It had been quite a while since I had last seen Daniel. Four years to be exact. In our haste to leave Florida, we did not have a going-away party. Maybe that’s because, deep down, we knew we see each other again.

This was a new and improved Daniel I would come to find. Still that same confident bravado, bursting with energy, only now operating far from home. He had been hired by a chamber of commerce in southern California’s Imperial Valley — perched on the U.S.-Mexico border.

“Come on down and I’ll show you the border,” he said over the phone, making his best sales pitch. “It’s nothing like you’ve seen on TV.”

There was something else new about Daniel. He was married now — to a man — completing his journey from a closeted political aide. Daniel was excited to introduce me to his husband, Kai and I was looking forward to meeting the guy that was able to reel him in.

Flush with cash from my warehouse endeavors, I booked a flight to Los Angeles and then hopped aboard a small turboproped plane. There were nine seats inside the cabin. I was a tad nervous, particularly when the pilot appeared to be a recent college graduate. But she did a fantastic job, restoring my faith in future generations that had been so badly damaged by bratty Portland anarchists.

Our flight was smooth and the scenary was amazing. From the container ships lined up off the Long Beach port, we flew southeast into the desert, over the mountains and into Imperial Valley. El Centro, with its lush green farms, appeared like an oasis from the air. As I would learn, those farms provide a great amount of fruits and vegetables to so many households near and far during the winter.

Once on the ground, I was greeted by one of Daniel’s assistants from the chamber, who gave me a short tour around town. It was autumn and the locals were celebrating cooler temperatures.

“So Daniel tells me your a journalist,” the driver said.

“Among other things,” I coyly replied.

“Well, there are plenty of stories here,” she said in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Then her phone rang. It was Daniel and immediately their conversation turned into crisis control. This was, after all, Daniel’s purpose here. He was tasked with bringing three chamber of commerces together to operate as one entity. Not an easy assignment, by any stretch and especially difficult for the new CEO from Florida.

“He wants to speak to you,” she said handing me the phone. Daniel’s attitude instantly cheered up. I like to think I have that effect on people. “Welcome to Imperial Valley!!!,” he shouted.

“Thanks,” I said, “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes, it’s just the mayor and I are having a little disagreement, that’s all,” he said.

Oh boy, I thought, here we go again. Daniel was famous for assisting and butting heads with politicians and it seemed that was still the case in California. When we arrived at the chamber, Daniel gave me a big hug and it was like old times again as he bounced off the walls with enthusiasm. He took me into his office and in between phone calls and directions to staff, he showed me some of his favorite momentos and awards from various stints of service.

“This is me with Speaker Pelosi,” he beamed, showing me a photograph of him alongside the Queen of San Francisco.

Tired from a long day of traveling, I asked Daniel if I could get some rest and unpack so he took me to his house, where I would be staying in their guest bedroom. It was a nice sized house, two stories with a garage and big backyard in a modest neighborhood at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Staying here saved me money, but there was a catch that I didn’t fully calculate — There would be dogs.

Good Grief

The Oregon coast is a spectacular site. Massive jagged rocks protrude from the sea. It’s where the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean meet the rugged mainland lined with green Douglas firs. The smooth sound of the waves washing over the rocks is tranquilizing to the soul, especially for those who come here as a respite from city life.

On this day, it worked wonders for me.

Overcome by emotion, I could not stop crying on our drive out of the valley and over the mountains. It had been a hard journey out of the warehouse and into the airport and now I was back to square one, drained by the experience, with not a clue as to what lies ahead.

On the way, I sent a text to my TSA trainer, Tyler, thanking him for doing what he could for me.

“Enjoyed our time working together, John,” he replied. “I am sorry it did not work out for you. I hope your future entails new promising opportunities.”

It was a kind expression, not typical of security guards. My union representative also noted I was fortunate to have worked in Oregon and “not someplace like New Jersey” where my exit would not had been so graceful.

So here I was, staring into the ocean with tears running down my cheeks. Totally devasted.

David pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me as if to shield me from the world.

He was still with me, standing by my side despite all we had been through. The cross country move to a new life and the car accident that nearly claimed it. And then there was my very public affair with T that no doubt hurt him more than he showed.

And yet his loyalty was unyeilding. He kissed me on the forehead and squeezed tight still exhibiting a calmness that I had come to respect deeply. That’s what I have always marveled about David — his ability to stay cool and collected under intense pressure and misfortune. Lord knows, we have had our share of struggles.

We had lunch at a restaurant in Depoe Bay, where the sunlight pierced through the large windows of the dining room, shining bright on our table. It was late January and sunlight was scarce so we soaked it up and ordered more wine.

David tried to cheer me up by playing photographer with cheesy comments.

“Ok, give me that sad look again,” he said, snapping pictures from across our table. I began to grin, snapping out of my pity party with each click of the camera until eventually, I was smiling in the sunlight and releasing some of the pain from the last year.

A fresh start awaited, whatever that looked like was still a mystery. On our ride back to Portland, I got a call from a California number that I did not recognize. Were the circumstances different, I likely would not have taken it, but something told me to answer and thank God I did.

It was Daniel, my friend from the Florida political circuit. His story had changed quite significantly since we last saw each other. His passion had not.

“John, let me show you the border,” he said.

A Hands Off Approach

Going through all the hurdles of a security clearance is not easy. Nor should it be.

But I stayed the course and went through every step and finally secured a report for duty status at the airport. It was sort of surreal to be working for an agency most journalists outright despise. What I would come to learn is the TSA — a response to the 9/11 attacks — was the lowest paid government agency and morale was poor.

Granted COVID still had a stranglehold on the travel industry with the omicron variant just coming out. Like the warehouse and the grocery store, we were required to be masked at all times, but since this was a federal government job, only vaccinated employees were allowed to return to workplace.

I sailed through classroom training, feeling like a nerd in history class again as we studied the different terrorist attacks over the years. We watched a video on 9/11 with interviews and footage I had never seen before and it was so powerful tears welled up in my eyes. That was when I knew this job meant more than a paycheck.

“John, you are the smartest one in the class, you’ll do fine,” said Garrett, our stout, barrel-chested trainer with a ponytail and one of those Oregon accents of unremarkable note.

And while, I scored great in the classroom and navigated all the computers, websites and passwords with ease, I would struggle on checkpoint, realizing too late that the cards were stacked against me. Without revealing secrets, let’s just say it was a blessing in disguise that I was unable to get my officer certification before the training hours ran out.

I was relieved of duty after two months. It was crushing.

There was a moment of clarity during the certification process, when it hit me that if I progressed any further I would be required to perform pat-downs on passengers. This was not something I was looking forward to. Just getting them to empty their pockets, take off their shoes and xray luggage was invasive enough. For some reason it never occured to me during this entire process that pat-downs were a big part of a TSA officer’s functions.

Talk about the dog focused on catching the car. The chase was over. The fun part done. Now what?

My refusal to quit eventually forced the agency’s hand. I knew something was up one day when Garrett, normally friendly to me, would not make eye contact and avoided me in the back office. A young female supervisor, clearly sympathetic to what had become my awkward role in all of this, had me take online tactical courses for most of the day, while upper management figured out a way to get rid of me.

I knew the die had been cast, when Garrett walked behind my desk one morning as I was clicking through online tests and muttered underneath his breath, “game over.”

Thankfully, when I was relieved of duty, the agency arranged for me to go on unemployment, which for a decade or more had been unattainble for various reasons. This time the benefits came in quick and without probing questions. A small consolation prize that I would gladly take and I needed the rest.

The train ride home from the airport after getting the axe was one of the lowest feelings of my life. When your country rejects you, it’s hard to accept. And yet at my most vulnerable, a familiar face was there to lift me up. My champion came through again.

“Let’s take a drive to the coast,” David said.

Back At It

Maybe it was the cold that brought me in. Could it be that sleeping outside in 34 degree weather actually awakened my senses. What was I doing in this cabin — deep in the Alaskan wilderness — with no car, barely making above minimum wage and surrounded by Gen Zers who just wanted to party all the time.

Well, to answer that question we need to rewind to where we last left off…the warehouse.

Life in the tote trenches was exhausting and I had lost my will to keep up the daily drudgery of fighting the system. Don’t get me wrong, my skirmishes with management were enjoyable as I used every last COVID-19 rule and mechianical irregularity to my advantage. Still, you can only slow walk to the bathroom so many times during an 11-hour shift before you realize they just don’t give a damn anymore.

I’d won, but was still in need of an exit strategy and if the smile center had taught me anything, it was how to measure time and savor every second. The off ramp would come from an unlikely source — the TSA. Yep, the Transportation Security Administration was hiring and like most places mired in the pandemic, desperate for able-bodied Americans willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the love of their country.

So I embarked on a new journey of going through the rigorous process of applying for employment with the federal government. Tests, physicals, drug screenings, background checks and interviews. It gave me a goal that the warehouse didn’t. A purpose to pursue, if you will.

Come fly with me.