Once upon a time...

Maybe I never noticed the sly manipulations of temp agencies before. More likely, it was in Los Angeles where everyone is a professional actor, that I was first introduced to them, so the almost stunning women who followed their dream from Iowa to Santa Monica and were deciding my daily fate actually didn't care if they manipulated me or not. They were temporary themselves so it made no difference if they led me on to think I was either important or else munificently unimportant...and should beg for their good favors. I genuinely liked some of the dispatchers, locked in a climate controlled lobby for five days a week, sending people like me to exotic places in the Valley or Orange County. We were all chasing a dream that was just on the other side of a traffic light, if only...oops, the light turned red. Maybe we'll catch it one day. So I grew up with these folks and we almost became human beings to one another. I gave one of them a plant for Christmas. Not because I wanted more work (that's insane) but because it was Christmas in a city without a soul and I thought...well, who knows what I thought. It was silly.

That was Los Angeles, where everyone is hedging their bets that they'll be touched by the gold finger and their lives would change. The lies ran deep. Here in New Hampshire I finally met the professional ball buster, the hired hatcheman, the trained filter for the corporations. I was confused that the good humor I remembered from California was absent in my conversations. Did they actually take their jobs seriously? Impossible. But could they take the jobs they were offering me seriously? Aluminum fin assembler. Cable trimmer. Auto Detailer. Light bulb changer. They dangled these jobs in front of me like a tempting fisherman and I kept thinking, "You forgot to put the worm on the hook."
The tone of their voices is so grave, like demanding my birth certificate without even explaining if there is a job opportunity available is a reasonable request. You want a reference to make sure I can operate a spray bottle? Their tone, the same in every agency, is too similar, like a trainer has been doing his job too well. Let me guess what a few of the chapters in orientation are:
1: Keep the client guessing.
2: Sound superior.
3: Never volunteer any information.

I always liked the way the dispatchers would ask me to go somewhere and then pause when I asked how much I was going to get paid.
"Let me check."
"Take your time."
"It changes every time."
"Give me a ballpark figure."

Two recent experiences have left me cold. The attitude I got over at Seacoast associates was like I was the scum of the earth who was wasting their time. Save your breath if you want to tell me to swallow my pride. There comes a point where a company policy of breaking your spirit (so you will be deemed worthy of their corporations) is sadistic. Not because of a single loose nut asking the questions, but sadistic because you must pass the tests you'll later face when you work in an aluminum mill. I see the point. If you can't take the attitude from the temp agency then you won't get far in the workplace. That might've been the problem up in Laconia. The temp agency treated me casually. I felt welcome, like I had an opinion that mattered. I see this was misleading because the workplace was the exact opposite. I was dirt, an expense, that either justified itself or was dismissed. The Portsmouth area has truly embraced temp agency work models. There are about 8 local agencies and several more that operate from Mass. Temp agencies are the number one employer in America and always growing. It's allowed companies to close human resources and accounting departments. They outsource these tasks to the Leddy Group, Manpower, Apple One, Wilson, Labor Ready, John Galt Group, Seacoast Associates and others.
I remember working for a temp agency in the early '90s and it was a friend of mine doing the dispatching. She was friendly, asked the minimal number of questions, tried to match certain skills with certain jobs. That was where I got a job alphebetizing videos for a new store. They were mostly VHS tapes to give you an idea of when that was. The corporate paradigm took almost 20 years to develop the teeth I'm seeing now. They're tired of slackers coming and going and since half the state is on welfare they figure they are in charge. They not only can pick and choose who they assign work, they can treat you like dirt from the moment you are on the phone. I can tell by the tone of their voice that they have been trained to talk that way. They are the gatekeepers and now the gatekeepers have a training manual. The screening process doesn't start at the interview, it starts when they answer the phone like you've just interrupted them during a shower.

No moral to this story. I just wanted to send out a heads up to any temp agencies that I'm the guy your trainer warned you about. I've got a manual too. Yes, I'll call you and yes, I'll come to your interviews, but I know your game and it's not going to work. In fact, you know that frustrated, bitter, sick feeling you have after meeting me? It's no accident.
When I'm in Labrador this is something I won't be missing.

A bedtime story

I'm chuckling about a humorous tale from Junior High school. I was basically chased off school property by two future convicts and when they caught me they threw my bookbag in the millpond and then one of them picked me up (WWF was big then) and bodyslammed me. I'm glad I can laugh about this now because it wasn't funny at the time. I may have expanded on this incident in my book but I can't remember. I'm sure I called one or both of their mothers a whore to deserve this beating.
"Hey Kevin, I fucked your mom last night. She is such a disgusting slut!"
"Why you...you know my mom is dead."
"I don't care. I still fucked her. That whore!"
"Get him! Get Oggy!"

I would estimate that 97% of my time at PJHS was wasted. I would've been better off panning for gold in North Conway all winter. I wouldn't wish Junior High School on my worst enemy. And whatever I learned during tennis class wasn't enough to keep me from hitting the ball over the backboard. Will someone please come over and give me some competition. Take a day off from work. It won't kill you!
good night

Knives and Hippies

“Bring the blade through the carrot. Don’t chop. Slice.”
Kim demonstrates Food Not Bombs approved cutting techniques to Oggy, who watches mesmerized with a long knife in his hand and a pile of potatoes and carrots in front of him, seated on a box of community supported propaganda.
“I got it,” says Oggy. He wants to please these sophisticated organizers. They radiate an aura of togetherness that he has never encountered. They are actually working for no money, no reward, with no leader or schedule or funds. It feels improbable that these men and women would voluntarily choose to dig through dumpsters and flee the police not for a better meal for themselves, but a better meal for others. The little slice of their lives that Oggy has seen has touched him deeply. Robert, Kim, Gar, Bob and others were proving that an unconventional community could be grown, intentionally, consensually, peacefully without the benefit of electricity or a car or even the blessings of the state. Abe always cautioned Oggy against defining these conflicts with sports terminology, but he can’t help it. These Food Not Bombs volunteers are fighting a battle against all odds, all ideology, financial, cultural, emotional, legal and metaphysical odds…and they’re prevailing here at the corner of River Street and Levee Spur Road on a patch of browned grass with half blind homeless cripples carrying buckets of water from the river to the wilting community garden. They are prevailing over the state police and the local judges who blockade their efforts and the Mayor’s henchmen of assassins disguised as city council members. They’re winning and Oggy has not been part of a winning team since Middle School cross country track. For the first time in many years he is proud of his company, these revolutionaries, these iconoclasts, especially Robert with his quiet demeanor and soft, unobtrusive humor, never bullying another, merely pointing out his observations. Robert, a walking St. Francis of Assisi, healing the sick and oppressed, carrying buckets of soup across town to the hungry street denizens of Santa Cruz, And Kim compliments her lover Robert because she is assertive, direct, not afraid to offend, never backing down, loud, emotional, slightly embarrassed by her crooked teeth, an anomaly in California, a woman who spends no time on her appearance. He admires this first couple of grassroots organization. He loves them, especially Kim who is slender and gentle and recycles glass and plastic automatically, and washes out plastic bags to reuse, and always composts food.

10 Serving 40

Martin didn't show up today so it was me against the backboard. I think the backboard won. The junior high school kids stole two of my tennis balls. Does anyone remember when it was funny to say, "Give me back my balls."
"Mr. Henderson! Tommy is touching my balls!"

I get to overhear the conversations and I'm not as horrified as I expected. The kids are children, raised by overwhelmed parents and clueless teachers and administrators who now make growing up a legal matter, like bullying. With a few recent suicides that were related to harassment the schools have taken a proactive approach. Man, I wish there were an easy answer but there isn't. I bring this up because I could tell by some of the comments yelled across the court that the middle school has some kind of zero tolerance policy. Basically, if you can prove a kid was intimidated by another kid then the bully is getting suspended. Now, this is a serious thing for a 13 year old to absorb. In fact, the middle school has grades 6-8 and that means kids who are 12 or 11 with kids who are 14 or 15. One of the kids at the tennis court sort of freaked out and started hiding behind gates and squeaking like a dog caught in a trap. He was about 4 feet tall. The racket was like half as big as him. I'd say he was 11 years old.
What's my point? I think it's up to all of us to make public schools tolerable. I'm sure they serve some useful function, though I'm not sure what that function is, but they shouldn't also be a place of torment and fear, in my opinion. A school-wide bullying policy is a start, but it's like expecting the police to prevent crime. The only thing they prevent is repeat offenders, which doesn't help the first victim much. It's important to be positive role models. Most kids just ape the actions of their parents. Some have loose screws, like me, and can't be helped. This will all be sorted out in the next million years I'm sure.

Martin

I reached a new stage in life today as I attempted to get some exercise. Regular exercise is the key, an older gentleman told me recently. Intermittent exercise, especially on cold days, is the way to give yourself a heart attack. So, since I'm financially covered this week because of two job interviews and the dog coming over for a stay I have to make health a priority. Even though it is windy and cold I biked down to the park with my tennis racket and basketball. The plan is to hit the practice wall until I lose all four balls over the fence. Then play basketball. It didn't take long to lose all 4 balls and just then an old old shuffling man wandered up with a basket full of tennis balls and a racket as old as time. I ran over to get the balls I'd lost and he said in an accent I hardly recognized, "Do you want to hit some?"
Well, dear reader, this man is easily 75 years old. Hell, his shoes were probably 40 years old. And when I say he is shuffling, I mean both feet are on the ground at the same time at all times. My 99 year old grandfather moved about as fast. Maybe the guy is 80 years old. 80! And playing tennis on a Monday. I admit I was really torn between feeling totally useless because I'm like a kid playing hooky from life, and also honored because I get to play tennis with this man and that would never ever happen if I lived a conventional life. I might be the first person to play tennis with him in 20 years. If there was a way to combine my love for impromptu tennis matches with octogenarians and money then I'd be all set.
"Let me get my racket," I said.
Now, until last week I hadn't swung a tennis racket in probably 18 years. No lie. I renounced all athletic pursuits when they became commercialized. I tried to incorporate athletics into my life and did a pretty good job with the merchant marines, tree planting, bicycle commuting and community gardening. There were dark periods of crippling pain and more than one doctor told me I'd never walk or run again and my knees and back remind me every day that I'm no teenager but if I can play some tennis then I'm going to play tennis.

Martin took the side so he would be hitting with the wind and we began my first volley in 18 years, me on the lip of 40, Martin on the edge of oblivion, stiffer than a board, hearing aid, coke bottle glasses, windbreaker jacket from 1988. If I can live long enough to play my equivalent in 2050 I'll be happy. And if I can refrain, like Martin, from talking about my glory days then I'll be happier still. I could tell by Martin's hands that he was once a fury on the tennis court. His hands were the only thing that worked fast anymore and if I didn't hit the ball exactly within arms length of him then it rolled past him. This proved to be difficult in the wind and since I haven't hit a ball in years I had to work to get a volley going. Fortunately, Martin had brought 30 tennis balls with him and we managed to use everyone of them. Balls were everywhere. As soon as one got past him or I hit it into the net I got another and we tried again.
Then the junior high school P.E. class showed up, which is always a bizarre moment for me because I definitely was in that same Junior High P.E. class in 1984, walking on a mini field trip from school to the nearby courts to learn the basics of 30-love, duece, foul, serve, etc. So, here I am, 26 years later, on the same court AT THE SAME TIME as the exact same class I was in plays tennis around me and a guy who is 80 years old. Moments like this have a kind of altered-time feeling to them. Exactly which person am I? Skinny jeans were popular in 1984 and, look, the lanky girls are wearing them again. I'm wearing my standard brown parachute pants and wool sweater. Or am I? Am I actually Martin in his windbreaker, shuffling to the ball. It's a complete overlap of three or four generations and I could easily be any one of them. the boys goof off and hit the ball over the fence on purpose. A fat kid hits a kid in the ass with his racket. Am I the kid he hit? The teacher says "Hey!" I yell, "Nice return!" to Martin who managed to reach a ball on the first bounce. Martin yells, "You're running me into the ground."
And he's only half kidding as I monitor his left arm for signs of trouble.
But I'm thinking we both need exercise. I mean none of us are long for this world so what the hell? Either one of us could have a Myocardial Infarction and drop dead right now. The kids are running on skinny, pale legs, short shorts and black denim pants, t-shirts with pizza sauce stains on them.

No, this story doesn't end with me calling an ambulance. If we were keeping score Martin might've pushed himself to death. But we were just volleying so he called it quits before he died. (I should point out that even though we were only volleying, Martin tried to switch hands to swing lefty at a ball that was going to get by him. I can tell you only someone who has played a lot of tennis would do this. Mentally, he knew what he had to do but physically the joints didn't work anymore. This is a guy who will miss a day of exercise only when he's dead.) I was sort of sweating. I almost told him he must've been a great player in his day but settled on "That was fun." He agreed.
He lives in Kittery and was kind enough not to ask why I'm down at the playground on a Monday morning playing basketball by myself. My answer would be that I am committed to exercise this spring and summer. This is not a moral issue, though you can make that argument. No, it's imperative that I exercise in order to retain some mobility and clear the hamburger plaque from my arteries. I can get a job building wire harnesses and I can die in July, or I can shirk all my responsibilities and play tennis all summer but still be here in August. I know which choice Martin wants me to make. He said he's there every day it's not raining. I think I'll interview him before I lose the chance.
Dollars earned today=$0
Dollars spent today = $0
Humanity points earned today = 100

On the way home my parachute pants got caught in the sprocket of my bike and I almost crashed into a fence.