The following entries are based upon true events, sometimes mingled with a "little" fiction.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Exit Strategies

It’s an unavoidable fact: whenever you enter, one way or another, you will exit.

During a rare pensive moment I asked Jan about the ultimate exit.

“What would you do if you knew you would die tomorrow?”

I could tell the question concerned her by the furrowed brow and sharp stare.

I tried to ease her anxiety, “Oh, no, I’m not going to do anything to you. I mean, I don’t know what could happen tomorrow. It’s just a question, not a plan.”

She thought for a moment then responded, “I would spend time with family, probably go to the temple.”

“Well, now I feel bad.”

“Why?’

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “Well, I was thinking more about Red Robin and eating all the burgers and fries I could stuff in.”

As you can tell- we think a little differently.

I guess I’m a little paranoid. Wherever I go I think about how to exit if something were to go horribly wrong. If I was at work and a crazed ex-employee burst through the door and started to shout obscenities while making threatening gestures I know exactly how to handle the situation. I’m no hero. I wouldn’t tackle and subdue the intruder. My plan is to crouch low and sneak out the back door.

Even when I go to a restaurant I like to face the entrance door so I have a clear view if something goes horribly wrong. I also look for the exits so I can make an escape. It may be dashing through the kitchen and out the service door. Or, breaking a window and climbing through the glass shards.

While others are talking or reading, relaxed and snuggling into their seats prior to the plane taking off, I listen intently to the stewardess’ emergency exit presentation. I follow along on the card while tracing my finger of the path to the nearest exit. I recently read that one former airline safety director said she counts the rows to the exit in case the cabin fills with smoke. I like that idea.

The greatest exit strategy I’ve ever seen came from an almost three year old. Due to my church assignments Kevin had missed the opportunity to attend nursery. When we finally moved into a family ward Jan and I gently took Kevin by the hand and led him to the nursery. We introduced him to the nursery leader who assured us he’d be just fine.

Kevin, obviously afraid he’d lose his jacket, asked if he could hang it on one of the knobs just outside the room. That seemed like a harmless request and walked with him out the door to the coat rack. He took off his coat, placed it on the hook; then he applied his exit strategy.

Kevin took off down the hall as fast as an almost three year old could run. Zig-zagging and dodging through adults and children he scurried like a munchkin fullback breaking through the defensive lines. Following through the crowded hallway I caught up with the escapee and applied a firm hand on his shoulder. Marching him back to the nursery we signed papers that the nursery leader was not responsible if he escaped again

I learned a little from Kevin’s abrupt exit attempt.

There have been several layoffs at the Mail Tribune. It seems no one’s job is secure and a call to the office could come at any moment. I’ve thought about how I’d feel about that final interview. I’ve also thought deeply about what I would do.

Here’s my scenario: My manager would ask if he could speak to me in his office. He would explain that times are hard and the company needs to lighten the staff. He’d explain how corporate is forcing a smaller workforce and I was to be the latest victim. Nodding my head with understanding I’d take my key card out of my pocket to humbly hand it over and prepare to be escorted out the building. It’s then I would apply my exit strategy.

Snatching my key card back I’d leap from the chair and burst out the manager’s office door. As I ran through the building, ducking and dodging through cubicle canyons, fellow employees would leap onto their desks, shouting with glee, cheering me on while waving their arms in excitement.

Their chant would start as a low rumble then peak in a supersonic crescendo,

“Run, Gregory! Run!”

The braces that restricted promotions and creativity would shatter and fall to the ground as I picked up speed.

Managers would stand stunned, jaws slack, eyes wide in unbelief. I’d bound up the stairs to the newsroom. By then texts and tweets would have alerted the journalists of my breakaway. Photographers would position themselves, cameras held steady, waiting to digitally catch the perfect moment of a newly laid off worker's dash.

Reporters would call out my name, firing off questions like Gatling guns as I sprinted by. Flying downstairs I’d break through the crowd who had gathered in amazement. I’d then dart out the side door, car brakes squealing and drivers cursing as I shot across the street to Distribution. Doing a jig around the press, I’d thrust my hands into a bucket of slimy ink, rubbing it beneath my eyes like war paint. Slapping my black stained palms against my white shirt and on the top of my bald head I’d run through the freight gate, circling back across the street and bowl through the front lobby door. Hurdling over the counter I’d continue my lap until I reached my desk. Quickly snapping up all my mementos, photos and history I’d throw my entry key card into the air and give a shout that would rock the white bastioned building. As the whine of sirens came closer, I’d strut out the back door, pausing to take a deep breath then exhale slowly. Straightening my tie, I’d calmly walk across the parking lot to my car.

I will never be escorted out of the building; because I have the ideal exit plan…

Saturday, August 8, 2009

I Scream

As I opened the back door of the Mail Tribune’s advertising department the late afternoon summer heat walloped me like a shovel in the gut. The sun felt like high intensity heat lamps in an interrogation room, trying to sweat a confession from an accused criminal. I moved slowly across the parking lot, attempting to conserve the loss of body fluids that could cause instant mummification.


Reaching the sidewalk a faint tune surfing on the waves of heat tickled my ears, causing me to stop in mid-step. I turned my head toward the direction of the sound in an effort to distinguish the source and nearness of the playful organ circus chords. For a few moments I didn’t recognize the music the plinking calliope played. However, as the strain drew closer, the jingle became familiar and I discovered the source of the cheerful ditty. “Old McDonald’s Farm” blared from speakers on the roof of a red and white ice cream truck, echoing off downtown cement and stucco buildings, creating a feedback harmony that beckoned all to come relieve their summer fevers with cold frozen goodness. Closing my eyes I was carried through time by the hypnotic musical pulse.


My mother had just carried the last plate from dinner to the sink when I detected through the open kitchen window a faint tune that seemed to creep closer and closer. I began to shake with excitement and struggled to unlock the screen door. I stumbled onto the porch and leaned over the metal ornamental railing. The breeze from the nearby bay ruffled my wavy hair as I swiveled my head and aligned my radar like ears toward the sound. The jingle announcing the truck's arrival drew children out their front doors like a magnet in a pile of iron shavings. “Pop Goes the Weasel” blared from the two roof top megaphones fastened to the top of the ice cream truck clunking through its daily rounds. I ran back inside to plead for spare change from Mom.


Children ran from their homes and followed the truck with nickels, dimes and quarters in their clenched fists. No torture or trauma could be worse than to drop and lose ice cream money into storm drains, sidewalk cracks or tall grass. Waving arms and jumping children brought the truck to a stop. The line would form and each child scanned the life-like pictures of the frosty treats posted on the side of this wonderful vehicle from the Arctic.


The choices seemed endless to salivating, panting youngsters. There were multi-flavored Popsicles and Ice Cream Sandwiches where the layer of soft chocolate wafer stuck to little fingers. There were chocolate and peanut crusted Drumsticks in sugar cones, and sherbet flavored Push-ups. Coins changed hands and smiling children did victory jigs on their way back to their homes while smacking lips and licking tongues lapped up the icy treasures.


I was aroused from my time traveling trance when "Old McDonald" stopped in mid chorus. Instinctively, I frantically searched for loose coins and started to wave down the treat filled truck as it turned a corner and drove away. I felt like a kid who had just lost his ice cream money through a hole in his pocket. Wistfully, I put the dimes and quarters away as the music faded from ear shot.


I had previously wished for a tune from a mournful bagpipe at the end of my graveside gathering to help carry me home. But now, when loved ones gather around my place of rest, they may hear a distant familiar tune that once drew little ones with clenched coins running toward the truck that brought smiles and life to children of the neighborhood. After all, Ice Cream Truck music is happy music.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

Blow Hard

Warning: This experience has been re-imagined..

Last week I participated with thousands of fellow members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints in celebrating Pioneer Day and Oregon’s Sesquicentennial by doing service in our communities. The Central Point and Medford Stakes worked with county administrators in being able to beautify the pathway known as the Bear Creek Greenway. The Greenway spans miles along Bear Creek. Locals know not to swim, wade or splash in the creek, due to health warnings of bacteria caused by runoff from storm drains.

Thankfully our work was not in the toxic water but consisted of pulling weeds, fighting back blackberry bushes and sweeping dirt and leaves from the path.

This sounds like dull work. However, sometimes you just never know when the stars line up in your favor, the traffic lights are all green and you find a chocolate iced cake donut on the ground without a bite taken. Yes, this was my lucky day. I had the chance to do something I’ve never done. No, it wasn’t work. I got my hands on a leaf blower! And, I just didn’t touch it with admiration, I actually used it!

As the long nosed machine was placed in my grasp, cold steely fingers wrapped around the handle, fitting into the grooves like it had been customized just for me. I carried the power tool down to the pathway with determination and courage, my chest muscles taut with rippling sinews, biceps bursting with power and my gut wiggling with each strutting step.

I finally arrived at the dirt and leaf strewn battlefield. The world would cower as I held the blood red air scepter. Raising the blower with one hand, the other hand clutched the starter cord, ready to let rip the most furious tsunami earth has seen. In one smooth but mighty motion I pulled the cord, waiting for the sound of whooshing wind. Nothing happened. Again I pulled to unleash the terror. Silence. I was sure the backyard hurricane maker was set on stealth mode.

Lowering the blower from over my head I flipped it over and back, looking for the cause of the malfunction. It was then I had to confess I had no clue how to turn on or operate the thing.

I glanced around to see if anyone were watching then popped behind a cement block to read the instructions on the side of the blower. After several minutes of cerebral intake I again yanked the cord. The blower snorted and sputtered but then, pulling the throttle, the blower purred to life. I thrust the blower into the air in an act of defiance. I soon realized I needed to stop the thrusting because this piece of hardware was heavy.

I lowered the beast and began to wreak havoc beneath the roads overpass. I grinned with glee as dirt and leaves instantly scattered like mice on hot tin, revealing the cleansed cement pathway beneath.

Blowing the refuse wherever I pointed gave me a sense of power. I controlled the elements.

I moved to some steps that had collected debris from falling leaves and sifting dirt. Pointing the blower toward the steps, refuse disappeared into oblivion. Shifting the throttle to rabbit run fast, the debris flew into the air causing an updraft that sent the rubbish flying toward the sky, twirling like a whirlwind, engulfing me in a dirt storm that settled on my perspiring arms, face, and eyes.

Temporarily blinded I staggered in a circle, rubbing the dust from my eyes not knowing I had pointed the blower directly at a passing bicyclist, swooshing him off his bike, sending him and his bike tumbling to the pathway.

Through blurry eyes I quickly turned the blower away from the now angry cyclist. Blowing dirt in every direction walkers and joggers gasped for breath, coughing and wheezing through the polluted air.

Through all the commotion I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder. I’d now lost control. Whirling around I inadvertently aimed the powerful stream of air directly into the face of an irate jogger. His cheeks filled with air like balloons and his lips flapped like paper in a cyclone. The jogger’s eyelids receded, causing eyes to look like marbles glued in his sockets while his hair blew straight like porcupine quills.

The jogger quickly dived to the ground, rolling away as if he’d been set on fire.

Pointing the blower into the sky I fumbled to find the throttle. More loosened leaves fell from the trees and birds tried to hold on with all their strength, digging their clawed feet deep into the branches.

Struggling in my state of panic I was tackled from behind and the blower was wrestled from my strangle hold. The owner quickly shut down the revving engine and shook his head as he hovered over my weakened body that was lying in the middle of the pathway. As he started to walk away I slowly reached out toward the machine that had caused so much havoc, hoping to stroke its scarlet side one more time.

For a few brief minutes I had been an all powerful mighty man who could move mountains, dispatch trees from their roots and cause ocean waters to recede.