Jumping Into The Past

Because of my elongated unemployment, we -- as a family unit -- have been finding inexpensive things to do to keep us entertained over the last fourteen months. The Boy, Woodrow, and I have been to Coal Creek Armory and The Oak Ridge Sportsman Association for the blasting of various types of targets (including an Osama zombie), with an entertaining variety of firearms, into recyclable waste. As a group, before my elder child moved halfway across the universe, we spent a couple of days in and around Helen, Georgia; hiking, swimming and touring. While there, we acquired a clay butter bell that will contain better than 3/4 of a stick.

Lately, we have visited a few of the nearby Tennessee waterways that are available to the public for the purpose of making certain that the fourth dimension meets its well-deserved demise.

One afternoon, we went to the Ocoee Whitewater Center and ventured into the area called "Blue Hole," a popular swimming spot in the river. We took with us: two vehicles, five camp chairs, two coolers, swimsuits, changes of clothing, the dog -- Doris Daylily -- one sink with two faucets... well, you get the idea. We also dragged along Emily's significant other, Jeremy, who now co-resides in a suburb of Denver with my first-born offspring.

The chairs remained in the back of my truck, due to the fact that the parking area for the Whitewater Center extends to about four miles down-river. We had a decent day there, though it was crowded for a Wednesday, and we picnicked very well in the designated area below the Center, on the opposite side of the river.

On the next trip in which I was a participant, we went to the Tellico River, at the site known as Camping Area 1, just above Baby Falls (that's the place in the photograph above). That time we only had three people, corresponding camp chairs, clothing changes, two coolers, still, etc. Oh, and the dog, who always goes with us, now. We splashed about in the river, but declined to go to the falls that day because it was Friday afternoon, and overpopulated. We did munch on myriad types of food, and we drank whatever we pleased (except beer, which is wrongly banned in national park areas). I also enjoyed a fine product of Nicaragua while drying out for the drive home.

All in all, that was a very pleasant and relaxed day.

Our next waterway visit was to the Little River in Townsend. You folks who are near the half-century mark remember Townsend as a bump in the road on the way to the snaking path through the Smoky Mountains. It has grown in the last couple of decades, and not in a particularly positive way. It's mostly cheap tourist traps, convenience stores and only-okay eateries. But on the north end of town, there's a small picnic area that is nowhere near any of the madcap rafting companies, and -- on a week-day -- can be low-key and enjoyable. The water, in places, is deep enough to actually swim, and the current is negligible. We visited a small railroad museum, which told the story of of the Little River Railroad. It's a small place, but it survives on donations only, and is worth a look, especially compared to most things around town.

While we were picnicking (we're now down to one cooler and three chairs), we hobnobbed some with a Florida family who, apparently, reside in the Orlando area, but originally hail from Indiana. Because of this, my young bride and one of the Florida-Folks' teen-aged daughters waxed poetic about the Colts and Precious, moon-hanging Peyton. The girl was using whatever excuse necessary to hang near The Boy, who is six feet tall, and weighs somewhere between nothing and 150, but has no discernible fat on his body -- making him, pretty much, solid muscle.

We spent a Wednesday gadding about in Polk County around the Hiwassee River. That was only an OK trip, as the river level was high, and the current prohibitive for swimming purposes. But the food was good, the atmosphere relaxed, and the product of Nicaragua enjoyable. One of the oddities we observed was a group of Amish women, who had driven the buggies down to the river to go swimming. I had no idea we even had an Amish community in the area, but it was nice to see some young girls who weren't glued to cell phones, staring at tiny digital screens, texting and adjusting their headsets, while ignoring the world around them. And no, I don't believe that an old cell phone that only makes and receives calls would qualify as "plain."

Our last trip was another jaunt to the Tellico River and Camping Area 1. The photographs at the top of this post are from that sojourn. The fat guy in the middle of his jump is me (I had not been off the falls since 1987), and The Boy is in the gray trunks, waiting his turn. I posted that photo on my Facebook wall, and there were several happy comments from people about days-gone-by. My buddy Winnie, on the other hand, pointed out repeatedly that drowning at Baby Falls was a distinct possibility. Now, we all know that, but we all also know that driving across railroad tracks while a train is bearing down is a poor choice -- a fact that had to be reinforced with Winnie a few years back.

The food was outstanding that day, because we purchased sandwiches from the Tellico Grains Bakery down in "town." The Boy and I both had roasted pecan chicken salad sandwiches, with grapes tossed in for fun. The Boss had a BBLT, which has smoked bacon on it, and the bite I wheedled out of her was good. For those who haven't visited Tellico Plains in years, there's also a Harley-Davidson dealer in a building that used to be a "Mom & Pop" grocery.

So far, the Tellico River has been our favorite spot. The water is cold, but not freezing. The numbers of bodies have been low-to-medium, the food has been outstanding, and Doris Daylily can walk around in the water without an unexpected sploosh.

Of course, I now have a job (temp-to-hire, through the Aerotek staffing company) that is straight days, in an actual laboratory, so we may have to adjust the way we do things. But employment is good, and I will adapt.

Dealing

Currently, I am dealing with a few issues that have far-reaching implications -- well, in my life, anyway. I'll begin with my employment troubles.

I was "downsized" on 5/25/09 by Company A, exactly 27 years after I was hired by a previous incarnation of said company. I had begun in the receiving and warehouse department, moved on to one of the processes, then the lab, then back to another process, helped the company put down a union uprising in 1993 (an effort for which I will forever feel an enigmatic guilt), wrote the operation manual for one of the processes, went back to the lab several years ago, then got axed last year.

I have since worked off and on as a temp at Company B in Knoxville, where I have done a little of everything, including teaching some of the employees how to better watch after themselves (safety issues, or the lack thereof). I have also learned from the employees there, especially Jeff, Jerry and Mikey, the 13-year-old welder. But Company B is never going to hire me, because I cost too much.

Company C, for whom I would really like to work (it's only a 25-minute drive, and the pay is better than most, hereabouts), has -- thus far -- put me through their idiot testing and their group exercises, and I feel I did very well in both. My problem with Company C started when the Operations Coordinator called me for a telephone interview. I don't feel that the interview went well. Honestly, I was totally off my game, and was dealing with the fact that my first-born had moved out of my house only two days before, which tossed me for a bigger loop than I had expected. But I'm dealing with it.

I still have not received a rejection from Company C, so I hold out hope.

Company D granted me an interview after I had invested 36 hours and countless road mileage taking their "classes" (pronounced "indoctrination"). I felt that the interviews went fairly well, and believed that Company D would offer me a job, but was unsure of the money, as their pay scale is fairly low. My, how stupid I can be, sometimes.

I learned through a third party that one of the interviewers at Company D completely misinterpreted one of my attempts at humor. When she requested that I tell her a little about myself, I said "I have been married for 23 years to my 'trophy wife,' and we have two children." What the interviewer heard was, "I married my first wife, she produced me some kids, then I dumped her for a bracelet charm."

Let's get this cleared up, now. A looooong time ago, I was married for about four years. That union produced no children. I have not seen my first wife (for whom I have no negative energy) since 1986. My "trophy wife" and I have been married forever, and she is well aware that my first wife and I correspond on Facebook. She is fine with it, because there is no negative energy being produced.

I imagine that the interviewer for Company D may be the victim of an ugly split for a bracelet charm, and after the term "trophy wife" was introduced, she stopped listening. I probably can't afford to drive the distance for the remunerative compensation, but I want them to want to hire me. It's a principle thing.

Which brings me to Company E. Last week, I got a call from yet another temp agency, which provides labor with a certain degree of technical expertise for companies in the area. Company E needs an analytical chemist who has experience with liquid and gas chromatographs. Now, I did not attend an institute of higher learning for long enough to attain any kind of degree. But I have between eight and nine years of QA lab experience, and I was the only person in my lab who did not have a degree; yet I did the same work.

I believe I have convinced Company Es manager to give me a shot at this position through e-mail. And, apparently, I am much more eloquent with written words than with spoken ones, as I have demonstrated in the above text.

I always believed that I was as smooth with verbal communication as I was with written, but I am being forced to re-evaluate that judgment. Honestly, I have held my own in conversations with people of various backgrounds -- be they ditch-diggers or Doctors of Philosophy -- and I normally felt that I did okay. However, my recent struggles say otherwise, and I must learn to relax more, and think before I speak.

Let me also say this: I have been without a full-time job for nearly fourteen months, now -- but I'm dealing with it. It has been a struggle and we have adjusted things right, left, and up and down. Everyone in my house has done without many luxuries that we had learned to consider "normal." And yet, here is my trophy wife, who blames anyone but me for all of the problems we have experienced. She is hardly a simple bracelet charm, and I would challenge many life-mates to be as supportive as she has been for me in the last year.

Take that and grind it for brewing, Company D.

Contraband

Back in February, my young bride took a cruise into the western Caribbean. This was arranged and remunerated by her sister, Amy, who wanted to take a vacation, but not alone. I have since pointed out to Amy that she has vacationed with her sister -- my wife -- several times over the years. She has also hosted both of my house apes at her home in Las Vegas, and arranged age-appropriate sight-seeing tours. At this writing, she is on Cozumel with her husband, who was unavailable for duty in February.

My point being that Amy has never offered to take me on vacation, and I'm waiting. Still waiting. I even suggested to her that the island of Tahiti sounds like a decent spot for relaxation and tropical beverages, because that's the type of helpful, informative person I am.

Anyway, the two girls departed from Miami on a Norwegian Cruise Lines ship -- the Dawn -- headed toward the islands in the Gulf Of Mexico. My young bride, a prolific writer of all things travel, when she but rarely is able, has -- no doubt -- penned a detailed account of her trip and stored it on our home computer. But, as I was unable to see and enjoy the western Caribbean, the details are unimportant to me, at best. I know that they ate well, swam with dolphins on Cozumel, shopped prolifically, and The Boss took a wine tasting class, where she learned that she really likes champagne; good information to have, if one is ever stuck in Paris with nothing to do.

The two important events from their trip through the "Pre-Horizon Disaster" Gulf are -- A. They returned safely; and 2. My young bride brought me a (contraband), from the Grand Caymans, as a souvenir.

Now, (contrabands) have been illegal in the United States to own and operate since 1963, although many a politician and wealthy businessman have both owned and operated them with impunity. I, personally, have been an operator of (non-contrabands) for about the last twelve years or so. This began when I discovered that a (non-contraband) shop had opened in Loudon, and it was in my path between work and home. I would stop in from time to time and select a (non-contraband) for enjoyment on my porch. I never operate a (contraband) in the house, due to the smelly left-overs.

Anyway, this continued until I discovered the Thompson (non-contraband) company, who sell legally obtained (non-contrabands) from Central America, storage units, and humidity-control paraphernalia. Since that time, I became a regular customer and get regular shipments of (non-contrabands).

However, I have had a couple of actual (contrabands) before, thanks to Amy's penchant for travel. She and her husband, Paul, vacationed a number of years ago in England, where (contrabands) are not illegal. She brought a couple of them home for me to try. One of them was a big ol' disappointment, but the other was the best (contraband) I had ever operated, at the time.

That, of course, is before my young bride took a trip to the western Caribbean, arranged and remunerated by... well, you understand. I suppose I owe half the thanks for my souvenir to Amy, without whom I would never have been able to try a (contraband), at all, in the first place.

Now, as I stated, the girls took their trip in February, which is still a cold month in Tennessee, despite the efforts of the human race to eliminate the ozone layer and Tropicalize the planet. Thus, my (contraband) went into my humidity-controlled storage unit, for use at a later date. That later date came last week.

It was the last week of May, and the weather was perfect for sitting on the porch, conversing with one's spouse (the one who had taken a cruise to the western Caribbean, arranged and... okay, I'll stop now), and operating a (contraband) for the pure enjoyment of it. As of now, this is the best (contraband) I have ever operated. Sleek, smooth and even in its aroma and overall flavor, it was a good experience from the time I began operating it, until I threw the leftover nub into the front yard (biodegradable, don't you know?)

Someday, perhaps, I will be gainfully employed again, and will be able to afford my own trip into the Caribbean islands, where I will purchase a (contraband) and enjoy it right on the spot. Someday.

Until then, Amy, the planes normally land in Papeété, and one can rent a car and drive anywhere on the island. The climate is temperate year 'round, and, barring monsoon season, I hear it's a great place to visit.

Stupid Advertising -- II

Ever since the Hardee's folks got back to basics and started making Thickburgers, I have been an advocate of their products. When I grill burgers at home, they are never less than 0.5 pounds, unless requested, because I'm American, and I like to go overboard on food. The Hardee's ad geniuses, however, have started to lose me with a couple of their more recent campaigns, and I'm torn about continuing to support them verbally and monetarily.

Late last year, there was a TV ad that emerged, depicting a bunch of guys gathering to watch what was obviously meant to be a NASCAR race. These manly men sat about an apartment, studying the race on television and gigging each other about their favorite drivers. Toward the end of the ad, the apartment dweller exits his kitchen with a cookie sheet in hand and asks, "Anybody want a fresh-baked biscuit?"

Whereupon the other "real men" only study him as if he were a giant insect who had just stepped from a worm-hole in the space-time continuum, spouting the famous soliloquy from Macbeth. The omnipotent commercial-voice then says, "Guys don't bake," and they encourage everyone to rush to Hardee's for their delicious breakfast foods.

They lost me here. "Guys don't bake?" Since when? I bake! I bake biscuits! Then I make sausage gravy to slather over them and sit down to enjoy a fine breakfast, while many millions of folks make do with dry toast and tasteless coffee! My mother taught me to make drop biscuits (no measuring cups, mind you) when I was hanging out in the kitchen on summer mornings years ago, and the lesson took. It was years, and many times of failing before I finally was able to perfect the formula for sausage gravy. I consider this one of my great culinary triumphs. "Guys don't bake," indeed! And I could rant further, but let's move on to the second irritating advertisement.

This one depicts four "regular guys" sitting in a diner. Three of them have giant American sandwiches of one kind or another, while the fourth -- the odd man out -- has ordered the grilled cheese sandwich from the kids' menu. The hot waitress brings him a coloring book and crayons, and the ad makes a big deal of him drinking his juice from a tiny box while he munches his tiny sandwich. And his compatriots -- again -- study him with ludicrous curiosity, while the other hot chicks in the diner roll their eyes.

Then they push the new "grilled cheese" sandwich from Hardee's, which features a thick slab of beef, as well as a couple of slices of bacon. This sounds delicious, don't get me wrong; I have no problem with the product. But it's a bacon cheeseburger, not a grilled cheese sandwich. Am I missing something?

The point of these ads, of course, is to appeal to the testosterone-poisoning to which all men are prone. Their target-range, however, must not include guys in my age bracket, and this I do not understand. In general, we 50-ish guys have more money to burn than all those young, image-conscious types.

I was there once, you understand. In the early to mid-'80s, I owned and wore a white cotton sport coat with colorful T-shirts and khaki slacks. I had a pair of shades for which I had paid way too much to go with this ensemble, and I shaved infrequently at best. All of this in the ridiculous pursuit of trying to imitate Sonny Crockett, because I thought he was cool. So, yeah, I get it. But now I'm too old, grumpy and impatient to care. I also have an ugly tendency to do my own thinking.

If I were one of those "real men," sitting about the apartment and watching cars travel in a continuous left-turn circle, I would be on those biscuits like slime on a slug, asking, "Where's the butter and jelly? Got any honey?" If I were out with three friends (as if I had three friends who would bother to go eat with me), the last thing on my mind would be how they perceive my menu choices. I don't care what they think, which is what constitutes real man-ism, in my mind. If I wanted something to eat, but wasn't terribly hungry, a grilled cheese sandwich is a good option. I like grilled cheese sandwiches. If I want a bacon cheeseburger, that's what I'll get, but for God's sake call it what it is! Also, if the waitress were to bring me a coloring book and crayons, I would write, "Here's your tip," on the cover next to the nickel I left. I'm kind-a snarky that way.

When I'm hungry, image and cool will not fill my (larger than it used to be) stomach. And I want what I want; not what you want me to have. I'm odd and demanding that way, also.

An Ode To Confidentiality

In late February, I believe it was the 22nd, my phone rang. That would be my archaic, touch-tone, caller-ID-infused, non-digital land line. The ID said that the pursuant party was from Company X, for whom I had worked last autumn as a temp. The person on the other end of the line was Steve, the facility manager. He asked me what I was up to, and I replied that I was currently out of work, and still seeking employment. The gist of his text was that James, one of the regulars, was going to be on jury duty for a couple of weeks, and they needed someone to be there to help Clint, his partner-in-crime. It was only a couple of weeks, but it was work -- that pays. Thus, on February 23rd, at 7:00 AM, I was back on the job for " a couple of weeks."

The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.

So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.

In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.

For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.

But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.

One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.

Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.

And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.

Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.

Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.

Anybody need a date?

Stupid Advertising -- I

Before I begin, let me state that this will be my second effort at this post, as my fingers got twitchy yesterday and I deleted the original. That's what happens when a T-rex and his tiny upper appendages attempt to utilize modern technology. We also have real trouble with shoulder massages. However, let the reanimation commence.

My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.

A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.

Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.

Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.

First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.

Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.

Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.

After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.

"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."

At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"

Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.

Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.

Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.

Meeting New People

One day last week, I was returning from my continuing job as a temp at the Emerachem company, and I got off I-75 at Sugar Limb Road so that I could stop by the Loudon County Justice Center. My goal was to obtain a burn permit, so that I can turn some dead, lackluster brush that is lying about into ash -- legally.

Several years ago, when Clint Davis lived next door, he was burning some residual brush when a Sheriff's deputy showed up and demanded that he cease and desist. Clint was somewhat perturbed -- but, having not obtained the proper permission from the proper authorities -- he was forced to comply. I do not want to get myself into that kind of situation. This comes from the gift of learning from the mistakes of others that I was completely without in my youth. Now, as a curmudgeonly Old Guy, I pay better attention and apply -- with malice aforethought -- what I have learned.

Thus, I walked blindly into the Justice Center. I first strolled to the bullet-resistant window at the General Sessions Court office, where there was a line of rather young women in front of me who all seemed to be acquainted. One of them would exchange words with the woman behind the glass. They would form a gridiron huddle to make a decision, then the designated representative would announce said decision to the county employee, who would tell them something else. It was like watching Peyton Manning argue with a referee, with his teammates providing cannon fodder. This went on for a few minutes, so I strolled to the other side of the building, and walked into another office, whose name I have forgotten, 'cuz I'm a Guy, and it was unimportant to me.

In the other office, a woman at a desk asked if she could help me. I replied that I hoped she could, and told her of my need for a burn permit. She informed me that I could not get that from anyone there, but that the person with whom she was speaking (sitting there in front of me) worked in the General Sessions Court office, and SHE could provide me with the appropriate phone number of the folks in control of that sort of thing.

So back to the General Sessions office I went, where the young woman wrote two numbers on a Post-It (TM) note and gave it to me. I thanked her for her aid, and headed back outside to my truck, where I SHOULD have gotten in and headed home (foreshadowing, don't you know).

As I inserted my key to unlock my door (yes, Ol' Red is THAT old), I heard a voice that had a distressed intonation attached. I turned, and saw yet another young woman -- across the parking lot -- standing next to a car. She looked straight at me and screamed, "Somebody please help me!"

I looked back into Ol' Red, with his comfortable gray, unraveling vinyl upholstery, sighed heavily, removed my key and began walking toward the girl, the entire time saying to myself, "You're about to get into some shit from which you may not be able to extricate yourself."

As I approached the car in question, the girl inserted herself into the rear seat and disappeared. When I arrived, she was lying face-down, obviously crying. Again, at this point, I could have exited, but my paternal instincts are ugly and strong. My thoughts were along the lines of, "What if this were one of my progeny, and no one stopped to help?" So, I tapped on the glass. She looked, sat up, and opened the door. I asked, "Is there something I can do to help you?"

And she started to talk. Words and sentences tumbled out of her mouth one over another, as if she were completely incapable of stopping, which is a possibility. Some things made a semblance of sense, some, not so much. I'm thinking, "She's high as a kite, and I'm the only person with a semi-clear head within reach." From her long jumble of words, I gathered the following:

She had left her car in the Justice Center parking lot. She got a ride from the person whose car she was currently in to recover said vehicle. Said vehicle was no longer in the Justice Center parking lot. She believed she knew who had it. She had provided sex for said car-thief. She lived in Tellico Village, and she was better than this. She wanted to know if I would take her to find her car.

The answer to that last question -- for those of you who don't really know me well -- was "No." In my head, I saw all of the ugly possibilities: she screams rape; we find her car and the gang of meth freaks around it; she pulls a (gun/knife), which I then have to shove down her throat, then justify said action to the authorities; she rubs all over me and I wreck my truck, then have to explain this to my young bride; etc. She repeatedly announced that she needed someone to help her, so I arrived at what I believed to be a workable solution. I ordered her to look at me; I pointed at the door only forty yards away, and said, "There is the Sheriff's Department. They can help you."

At this point, she started spewing random material again, the gist of which was, no one at the Sheriff's Department could help. She then shut the car door again. I was off the hook. I started back toward my good old, comfortable truck. Then the door opened again, and she said, "Maybe they can help me." So I went back, I positioned her toward the door, and said, "Go there."

She asked, "Will you go with me?"

Holy Jesus on a bicycle, riding backward down an interstate highway! What did I have to do to get away? But I said, "Yes," and she grabbed onto my right arm as if gravity had somehow doubled where she was standing. We walked, and she talked, non-stop.

I got her inside the door, where Sheriff Tim Guider was on his digital phone. The girl was still talking, and now gesticulating wildly. A woman who apparently works for the department came from behind her bullet-resistant glass to see is she could help. I explained as well as I could that I had found the damsel in the parking lot, and she was in some kind of distress. By the time I finished, Sheriff Guider had excused himself from his phone conversation to supervise the proceedings, thank God!

I got the girl into a seat, where she continued to talk, repeating herself vociferously. Sheriff Guider attempted to ask her a couple of questions, from which he received nothing of note or aid. At one point she said something that indicated that I was somehow involved in the trouble. For the record, I don't believe this was purposeful, it was simply more random talk bouncing from the inside of her head onto the walls around us.

The Sheriff turned to me and asked my name, which I provided, clearly and concisely. He then asked how I was involved. I explained that I was not involved; that I had found the young lady in question in his parking lot, clearly under some kind of strain. I was very careful not to imply or suggest any drug use; he's the Sheriff, it's likely he could figure that out without my help. He then turned to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "Young lady, do you know this gentleman?"

She, thank goodness, looked at me and said, "No." Whereupon Sheriff Guider turned to me; I said, "If you need my help, I'll stay and try to help. If you don't need my help, I'd be just as happy to leave." Good ol' Tim expressed his questionable thanks for my aid and said I could go, which was what I had been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes.

Ol' Red was waiting faithfully, with my iPod ready, and my cigar awaiting a re-light. Jackson Browne and I started up and headed for home.

Sometimes meeting new people isn't as productive, or as much fun as it should be.