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Climb aboard! It's a Bi-Polar field day! Vacillating between ZuZu-Zombieland and Zipadee-Doo-Dah. It's what multimiles and work will get you. I probably haven't explained my work world situation... I call myself "Migrant Worker to Ground Zero," which means I am in self-imposed exile from my home and what is familiar for the 3-12's that I signed up for... a slave to the printed word. Since before marriage. To make things a bit less horrid, I stay over for two nights. I love to drive, but commuting is death to that. Remember this part. That said, like some Gallic wise-ass has said, "the only constant is change." Well, yeah. I've been lucky to find reasonable places to stay over, until recently. Plus, �a change, bee-otch Fran�aise! Things began in the Googie-esque "Anchorage Motel," brought to you by that peculiar era of roadside architecture that put a nautical fa�ade on paper-thin walls and dodgy neighbors (complete with second-story "wheelhouse" above the lobby, dripping with neon throughout) . Way cool place... hopefully, still there. ...evolving to the kindness of co-workers (who happen to like the cash that I front for the convenience), who allow me to bunk over. Since the company moved to Logan's Run (not the real name, but I swear there is no-one over fifty in the vicinity... almost exclusively white and thirty-ish, and CREEPY), it's been different. Seven different locations for disoriented awakenings in four years. Which brings me to "Ewok's" house. He's been a co-worker since I got here. Distinctly hippie-ish overtones. Ex-photog. Likes to hear himself talk. OK, really. Married, with two thirty-ish step children. One responsible and married... his stepson, "Dude," twice-married with three left-behind children. Presently living in the house with his girlfriend since his last divorce and expulsion from Texas. Often employed. Too jiggly not to be doing pharmaceuticals and many beers. The meat of the matter is... I find out where I'll be sleeping, if there's room, after I've gotten myself back to work. No advance notice, usually found out by chance overheard conversations he has with other co-workers. Sometimes I'll say "screw it'' and drive back home, to return when there's room the next night. Like last night. And tonight. Except there is no room at the inn, this time 'round. Surprise! I must be turning into an old bastid. Ungrateful? Hardly. Well, the clock on the wall says, "Time to roll." Tune in, tomorrow. If I survive the trip through the asphalt tunnel... populated by trucks, cops, deer and fog drifting like lost congregated souls, I'll make some sense out of this... if there is any. Let's wait and see what another 170 miles can do to a disjointed mind. |
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