Wow. Keeping the outside world up-to-date is surprisingly difficult, once one considers the small amount of time it takes to jot out some communication (as opposed to art). So here's the friggin' scoop: I got the job, I'm packing my apartment, and I leave on-or-around the tenth of July.
At that time I, along with my one hundred pounds or less of collapsible luggage, will travel via commercial airline(s) to Baltimore, Maryland. There I will be met by an individual in a black suit and shades whom I know only by the codename of Egbert. After having a black back tied over my head, I will then travel via unmarked black A-Team van to the undisclosed location of Piney Point, Maryland. In Piney Point is a Coast Guard base where I will enter merchant mariner boot camp in pursuit of a document that says, "Yes! I'm an asset and no longer a liability!"
In essence, Piney Point is where I learn to defend not only myself but also others from the unpredictable rages and mere oversights of our Lord and Master, Neptune. I will re-learn to swim, float, and keep tourists' heads above the water. I will also learn to use water as a friend, flinging from a high-pressure hose Neptune's torrents in eternal battle against Vulcan's pithy flames. There will also be CPR, first-aid bandage stuff, and a further indoctrination into the shadowy underworld of the Red Cross.
I don't know where I'll sleeping, in a barracks or a Red Lion, or where I'll be eating, mess hall or Howard Johnson's, or where I'll be dropping the soap, not at all or the Embassy Suites.
At the end, I have to put on some slacks and a nice shirt and go through 'graduation'. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure that no-one gets mylar ballons reading "Egads! You're a Grad!" and no-one throws a hat into the air as a performance of jubilation. But I do get handed my ship assignment at that point. So I got that going for me.
From there I fly via super-sonic stealth spy plane to the kingdom of Hawai'i, merchant mariner front lines, where my Piney Point training will kick in, becoming more instinctual than those which regulate breathing, digestion, and self-preservation. I will at that point be an unstoppable killing machine, inflating rafts without hesitation, performing CPR without fear of cooties, and eating the staff mess hall food with only a slight trembling. In my off-hours, I will be a junior waiter and I still don't know what that means. I wait on tables of only children? I can smile at diners, but not speak? I wear a button-down shirt, but no tie? Whatever. I'll be in the Tropic of Cancer and it might actually be worth it to wait on tables of kids.
Anyway, here's the beef of what I want to say: my internet connection is not going to be as friendly as it is now. There is an internet cafe on the crew level, but it's a galling 10-cents/minute!! That stuff better be the fastest internet outside of Area 51. Like, so fast it opens wormholes and I can cruise the net for three hours and finish eight minutes before I started... and earn five bucks.
Point being, Dr. Frank is not going to be American Mir'ing for a good six months. What I've devised instead is the following plan of .pdf action.
I'll be bringing my laptop and my memory stick. I have a sweet-ass program called InDesign that is primarily for newsletters and fliers and stuff, but in the right hands it can pump out the New York Times. With my digital camera and my impeccable choice of words, I will turn out an American Mir-ish bit of whatever. After converting it to .pdf, I'll put it on the memory stick and cram it into a computer in the internet cafe. Then anybody who wants it will receive an e-mail with a .pdf attachment. As the recipient of my merchant mariner communiques, you have the option of either opening it with your reader or deleting it without further thought. Keep in mind though, gentle reader, that the fate of the free world trade is in your hands.
Anyhow, if you want to be a part of this, just e-mail me. I'll put your address in my special file of special people. As this posting has gone out complete within the notification e-mail, just respond to it. I'll send you a quick "okie dokie" to let you know I got it. Until then, fare thee well, Mirians.
It's funny how long it can take to write a single page of text. It's funny, too, how much longer it can take to write that same page when the recipient of it is an organization much larger than myself. It must be clear and concise, yet with a nod to bureacratic verbosity. It must display integrity, intelligence and, when it stands in opposition to the organization, an acidic wit to show that its author is not one with which to trifle. I believe I have just completed such a text in the announcement of my imminent removal from my current quarters. My primary reason for this move is because this place blows. Secondarily, I'm hoping to receive a phone call offering me residence in a more tropical climate.
Just to get it out of the way, the Notice of Intent to Vacate which I have just completed, and will soon deliver, is as follows:
Abstract Property Holder:
I, Adam Franklin, current resident of apartment I-206, hereby tender my resignation from this coveted position. It is my intent to vacate this honorable residence by the 1st of July of this year.
Though the Abstract Property Holder has refrained from conscription in regards to the Sunday night Open-Mic, the ice-cream socials, and the walking group, its confiscatory taxation policy, constituting an astounding 14.4% increase over the last 18 months, is deemed by myself and my colleagues to be unacceptable. My personal and individual liberty has been compromised on only this count and on no other; however, the Abstract Property Holder’s allowance for others' liberty does not grant it license for taxation. As a man of liberty and of responsibility, it becomes my duty to terminate the contract which binds us.
Let me perfectly clear: the increase(s) in rents charged do not accord with shifts in value. Neither has the view improved nor the parking expanded nor the amenities of the city grown any closer. Had the local taxes of city or county been at fault for the increase(s), it would be expected that nearby properties, being under the same jurisdiction, would act similarly in deciding rent increases. This I have found to not be the case. As a result of the rent increase(s), I hereby deny the Abstract Property Holder the right to collect any money beyond that which I am already contractually obligated to provide.
It is not my wish to offend any persons who may read this, nor do I desire to enter into a contest of wills with the Abstract Property Holder or the people whose labor keeps it functioning. My desire is, instead, to have nothing more to do with Quatama Crossing or its environs after the month of June.
Cordially,
(Dr. Frank)
629 NW Autumncreek Way
Apt. I-206
Beaverton, OR 97006
Ok, so the wit isn't really evident, but the acidity is fairly plain. And my point about the rent increases is true: if I re-sign for a six-month lease, my rent increases by $100. Even if I opted for the 12-month lease, my rent would increase $15 over what I'm currently paying on a 6-month. That's just good old fashioned fucked up. Aside from the rent, I don't think I could stomach living on the cusp of Hillsboro/Beaverton much longer than I already have. To the east is a one- and two-storey sprawl of national chainstores and restaurants. To the west is a one-storey sprawl of dead and dying Mom-and-Pops. I have already seen one wildwood fall prey to the yellow tractors and I don't think I could stomach the demise of the pines and meadow across the street. For the sake my soul and mind, I need out of this cancerous borderland.
On the brighter side of running away from things that bother me, I am awaiting a telephone call in which I will hopefully be offered a chance to live and work below the Tropic of Cancer (yes, I see the humor of leaving a cancer to live below Cancer). On the 9th of May, I officially applied for the Junior Waiter position aboard Norwegian Cruise Line's Hawai'ian fleet. On the 16th of May, I had my telephone interview with Ms. Melissa, at the end of which I was tentatively offered the position. The next steps then, aside from faxing around a small handful of paperwork, were a medical examination and a background check.
I had my appointment for the medical on the 23rd of May. I've never had one of these before, but I assume all was normal. "Pee in this cup. Read me the eyechart. Listen to these beeping tones. Give me some of your blood. Put on these paper shorts and wait a cold, nervous lifetime for the doctor. Ok, then, squat. Jump. Touch your toes. Turn your head and cough. Get dressed, but forget to buckle your belt so that when you return to the lobby you look a perfect idiot. Sign here." And I think I did pretty well. I didn't even blush while buckling my belt in the lobby.
I'm a little more worried about the background check. It's not that I've been convicted of any crimes, or found delinquent on any loans, or ever had a documented brush with the law. My biggest concern is my recent employment history.
Since returning to the Portland area, I've held three jobs. The first one, McMenamins, "mailed me my check", which means that my boss couldn't straighten his spine enough to say, "You're fired." The second job, The Ultimate Espresso, got fired by me with less than 24-hours notice. Needless to say, the word "ultimate" has become the most sarcastic of my vocabulary. The third and current job, Coffee People, I have held since October 8th of last year. I've done alright there and I do what many people are incapable of: my job. I show up, I'm friendly, I do my duties, I go home. I do not bring my life to work, and I prefer no recognition over reprimands. I have made no enemies at Coffee People and no friends. My co-workers are happy to see me arrive and don't give a crap when I'm gone. I thought I'd get a pretty decent referral from them. However, when my boss got the phonecall from the background checker, she fed them the officially inexplicable line that "we will verify his employment, but we cannot comment on his performance." BAH!
I figure that McMenamins will tell them I am not re-hireable (as well they should; they did after all fire me), and I don't know what to think of The "Ultimate", as it is now under the management of people I got along with well.
I hope to God, Lucifer, and the Almighty Dollar that they call the four people I listed as personal and professional references: they'll do me a good turn if they get a chance. I know they will.
I want this opportunity so badly it feels like need. I crave the ridiculous work hours (10+ hours a day, split shifts, seven days a week), the cramped quarters, the as-yet-unrrated shipboard food, the tropical sun, the smell of salt winds, the three weeks of training in Maryland, the airplane rides, the cream suit I'm gonna buy for the planes, the elimination of my debt, that savings that follow that, and then the motorcycle, the trip to Peru, the growing old and... ok, so my imagination is making plans I can't live up to. I'll stop with the motorcycle for now. That'll take me, as far as I can tell, a year and a half.
When I told one of my brothers that I'd chucked school and was trying to get this job-of-jobs, he asked me what my goals were, why I was doing this.
"You mean, like, long-term goals?"
"Yeah."
"I got asked that in the interview, and I made up a bunch of crap on the spot. But you're family, so I'll put it plainly. I don't have any."
I don't think he liked that answer, because within a minute I was explaining that when I come back, I won't have a wife or kids or a house.
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't."
"Then don't discount it. Start planning."
"As far as anybody knows anything about the future, I won't have a wife or kids."
If the future is unwritten, then the present is all that is. This means that we are writing our future. And I'm not writing a wife or kids or a house. I'm writing a bigass boat, an elimination of debt, experience enough to test and swell my soul, an all-expense paid trip out of Oregon, a motorcycle, a trip to Peru, growing old and some other stuff that I'll make up along the way. In essence, the goal is to get the job, and then find a goal. And then another. And another.
Someone else, a friend of mine, keeps reminding me of how arduous the work will be. He tells me that "those people" work seven days a week, 10+ hours a day ("In split shifts," I always offer, to help him make his case), for five months straight. He says he knows I want to do this, but he wants to make sure I know what I'm in for. What I'm in for? Good god, man! This isn't a prison I've signed up for; I'm not doing time. I can get off the boat any time we're in port and stay off. I won't, but I'm allowed. And besides, I've nothing and no-one to stay for. Nobody will be the worse for my going. You're all strong people and it's not like I'm leaving civilization. It's a bigass cruiseliner! It's civilization in its most aquatic form. I'll have e-mail, snail-mail, a cellphone, and a fax. That I'm not at someone's beckoned call does not constitute a disappearance.
Ah, but here we see my nerves at work. I've done all I can do to get this job, and now I'm just waiting with idle hands. I have flashes of severe irritability, pangs of fear and apprehension, moments of ecstatic anticipation, and hours of uninformed, contradictory daydreams. I am sorry to those who surround me these days for my unpredictability and the violence of my moods and words. I understand why people say the things they do, either to dissuade me or strengthen my resolve, but I understand too that my reactions are varied and often unreasonable. I am sorry.
I am also very tired. It is now a quarter past 4 in the morning and I have run through so many feelings while writing here that I am freaking exhausted.
There will be no conclusion to tonight's entry. There will only be follow-up over the coming weeks.