DAY 118:  Wedesday, February 3, 2010:  You always point out that “thin” is a four-letter word.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 117 . . .

5:18 pm:  It was not a good day for Uncle Fiddles, who could care less after scoring a fresh case of Budweiser and nips of Southern Comfort, circling around back of the decrepit brick packy store to check on his special little dancers.

Working with Randy was never a good time, the bandy legged foreman micromanaging from the very first second Fiddles stepped into that van, asking if supplies were replenished and onboard; how all the drafting jobs were getting along; slamming the living shit out of everyone else just like he slammed Uncle Fids, when time and distance allowed.

And Randy’s control of the van radio; nonstop sports talk out of Boston or New York, boring the living hell out of Fiddles with averages and statistics and predictions of games and seasons to come, with call-ins from drunks and freaks and unemployed Monday morning armchair quarterbacks who didn’t know jack shit and never would.  Frustrated losers who spent high school gym classes hanging from metal locker room doors, or maybe getting gagged by stretched jock straps.  Fiddles envisioned them all as the pencil-necked, round bellied geeks in Engineering, tossing nerf footballs at lunch to try and reclaim a little missing manhood.

Uncle Fiddles didn’t give a shit about sports.  He wanted Howard Stern and the drugged-out posse playing anal ring toss with angry dwarfs, or nasty hookers taking their tops off.  He wanted to hear that crazy studio crew hassling some auto mechanic with a foreign accent and the New York patience of a rabid pit bull.  Fiddles was in heaven when they tormented mentally handicapped people or chronic alcoholics.  It was right up there with his DVD collection of bum fights and Jerry Springer shows, but not quite as good as those Bangkok web sites late at night, before his wife intercepted a five-hundred dollar viewing bill.

Woops.

Damn fine print is even finer on a computer screen, but those young Asian boys were rockin’ hard, before the home bitch came down on his little pants party.

But even Bangkok couldn’t compare with that special dance studio, where he was heading right now.

He had spotted the big picture window during a torturous overtime gig in October, packing up tripods and Leica GPS equipment in the lot of a decrepit Bristol packy store, walking around back to freeze at the sight of twelve-year-old ballet students stretching at a long, mounted bar.

The twenty-year-old teacher was nothing to scoff at but way too old for Fiddles, who nearly dropped a small, ribbed radio unit while watching that dancing cornucopia, his mouth hanging open as a young boy struggled to get his long, thin leg up, while a pre-pubescent girl scratched at bright white tights.

The other surveyor helping Fiddles would tell everyone later that week, describing how his perverted crew chief stuttered and stammered, saying how he thought the teacher looked pretty familiar – but he wasn’t quite sure – and everyone hearing the story knew different:

Uncle Fiddles was fucked in the head.

It was bad enough he almost blew their account with a nearby university, getting himself banned for staring at students and asking weird questions, but when he willingly started telling people about some of the bizarre things he had done in life, it was nothing short of complete social suicide.

The most popular involved his time in the National Guard, playing a game where everyone masturbated on a biscuit and tried to answer questions relating to Guard regulations; loser eating the biscuit.

Everyone in Survey knew the story, but also wondered why he admitted to such a thing, before they finally discovered his sick and demented reason by comparing notes:

He was trolling for a very special friend.

Why else would Uncle Fiddles say the same damn thing when working way out in deep woods with other surveyors:

“If I blew you right now, nobody would ever know.”

And then of course the creepy stare and quick swipe to his lap, which duly earned Fiddles his present nickname, often changed to something less subtle.

He wasn’t completely idiotic, however, and refrained from ever asking Ferg, out in the woods where the wrong question could get him beaten to within an inch of his perverted life.   He knew Ferg was kind of funny that way.  The man had shown violent tendencies more than once, and Mark never has fully recovered from that snapping turtle incident, picking up a nasal twang that almost approached Fiddles’ in the “nerve grating” category.    

On the other hand, there was that very fateful day when fucked Uncle Fiddles finally spoke before thinking to Randy, pausing beside a bubbling brook with tripods and a shiny chrome prism rod, spring bursting into full bloom with birds chirping and tree frogs peeping when Randy came alive, dropping trou to pump into that bald, hook-nosed head like Elvis dancing stupid. 

Randy kind of snapped out of it later and swore Fiddles to secrecy, so the waddling stalker kept on trolling and tried a quick change-up, going through what many called his “ass pat” phase.  That’s when fears about Ferg were strongly confirmed.

Uncle Fiddles was even less aware of sports protocol than the armchair dweebs in Engineering, having never experienced the quick pat coaches often gave athletes in appreciation of performing outstanding feats.   In his usual demented manner, Fiddles misread the entire protocol and innocent intentions, believing the gesture universally accepted like Visa – MasterCard, offering a special door to quick, cheap thrills.  He wasn’t a complete idiot, but he usually came pretty damn close.

He started patting other men’s asses in the office – lightly at first – quickly graduating to what some regarded as copping a feel, with crews soon alerted and comparing notes once again.

Enter Fergus, leaning over a drafting table to check plans when Fiddles made his move like most cowardly bullies of creepy intensions, banking on a busy office to keep his deft patting move safe from a violent response, but that stupid assumption were greatly misguided.

Fergus spun with the trained grace of a man fully prepared, punching Fiddles so hard in the face that the waddling freak went horizontal before anyone knew what happened; his long, angular nose spouting blood like water at Ceaesar’s Palace, sporting a weird new beak hooking to the south, when shattered bone finally healed.

Ferg was secretly cheered behind closed doors for that one, but like most genetically twisted pedophiles, it didn’t do a damn thing to change Uncle Fiddles’ sexual hang-ups, just curbing ass pats while moving him on to something new and exciting.

The dance studio. 

Children were something else, and even fucked-up Randy tried to distance himself after the gay love episode, blaming Percocet for his “weird” explosion of passion, prescribed for a severe rugby injury sustained over the past weekend, including all weekends before and after.  If Randy came in with miles of white tape wrapped around his baby fat extremities, people were supposed to ask him about rugby.  They rarely did.

Meanwhile, Fiddles was disappointed by Randy’s quick retreat, still working an inside angle to get better treatment, and Randy backed off a little on bully tactics.  Not that Fiddles got hurt much anyway; his brain wasn’t wired that way.  His entire creepy life had been spent adapting to one disappointment after another, while chasing cheap thrills in a sexually structured world. 

First there was the biscuit episodes, which were very popular with certain troop members till Fiddles finally suspected how odds were stacked against him, like, every single time.

“What was the name of our first president?” someone would ask of a soldier, passing him the semen biscuit.

“George Washington.”

The biscuit would be passed along.

“Where’s the White House?” came the next question.

“Washington D.C.”

The biscuit would come to Uncle Fiddles.

“What’s the average number of babies for a Buffy-tufted Marmoset?”

Fiddles would study the biscuit intently.

“Loser jerks on the next one, right in front of us,” someone would say, sparking laughter but total commitment.

Fiddles would kind of smile, creeping them all out.  “Three.  The Buddy Whatever has three babies.”

“Close, Fiddles.  It’s usually gonna be twins.”

Smile.

Groans and covered faces.

Crunch . . .

Then there was his first wife. 

Fiddles knew she was bisexual when they married at a swap group, eagerly anticipating kinky group sex to last for the rest of their twisted and unnatural lives.  Her pregnancy changed all that, and after deciding how Uncle Fiddles was far too creepy as a potential father figure, she divorced him for one of her girlfriends, proving his scary side in a court of law to gain full custody of their little baby boy.

Lots of people breathed a sigh of relief on that one.

Then there was Mark of snapping turtle fame, the rich kid buddy who once woke up next to Fiddles with a tube hooked into one side of his open mouth; leading over to a small nitrous tank, nestled in a pair of sweatpants pulled down around hairy ankles.

Fiddle’s ankles.

The big freak had struck again, and Mark was easily scared into pretending friendship, even at the workplace.

To be continued . . .

 DAY 108: Sunday, January 24, 2010:  You won the big lottery once, and spent it all on food.

Continued from Day 107 . . .

Monday Morning:

A man alone with his thoughts.

A new window hidden by plastic blinds and flowing blue drapes, closing him off from a hostile world as the phone rings again, beckoning from a yawning black abyss; hungry wolves scratching at the door; hellfire blazing from swirling skies . . .

Rrrrrrrring!

A shadow appears at tinted office door windows, hesitating and unsure, its shape altered by thick, grainy glass, appearing as something frightening and inhuman.

Rrrrrrrring!

Suck it up, he thinks . . . you handled Kodiak like a tropic island getaway; you handled the Airborne Ranger Whatevers like Johnny fucking Wayne . . .

Rrrrrrring!

. . . okay – so you made it all up for these clowns – but you could’ve done that shit standing on your head . . .

-   -   -

“All rise!”

The courtroom stood as Carlton E. Potts III strolled into view, looking at the ceiling like he always did, trying to avoid the weekend’s sorrowful gathering of slouched and drooling defendants, with a visiting crowd that didn’t look much better.

“Please be seated.”

A massive, toothless girl wearing some kind of crude wedding dress and sporting a bright pink eye patch sat alone in the front row of spectator seats, working sour candy in and out of barren gums, drawing disgusted looks from a huge black bailiff off to one side.  He was focused entirely on the woman now, trying desperately to see where that candy was coming from.

There was absolutely no sharp contours on the woman, and a cattle scale brought her close to 450 pounds at the last official weigh-in, duly recorded at a pig roast in October during the annual “Guess Vera’s Weight” contest.  With winter just around the corner, her summer diet was long over, and Vera was packing it back on again, going for the gold.

 The bailiff was perched and ready when a small glass flask appeared out of her tent-like wedding dress.

She popped the cork and swilled before he got there, suddenly in a furious tug of war when the gavel came down hard, Judge Potts staring skyward to give his brain a moment to gather thoughts, apparently plucked from suspended ceiling tiles.

“Ma’m,” he said to the ceiling.  “Beverages of any kind are strictly prohibited from the courtroom.”

Vera was looking up with her one good eye, readjusting the bright pink eye patch.  “What the hell ya looking at, Potsy?”

The judge froze at the sound of his heavily despised schoolyard nickname, the bailiff angrily corking Vera’s bottle and standing nearby for more action, just now figuring how the glass flask easily breached metal detectors out front.

Judge Potts stared at the ceiling.  “Vera; in this court of law, you’ll address me as “Your Honor.”

He continued staring as Vera looked around slowly, giggling like a school girl as the bailiff cautiously returned to his seat, Vera calling after him to, “Hold that for my honeymoon, bro!”

’Bro’ was a word her new husband seemed to love, and Vera was all over it.

Arraignments continued as the gavel came down again:

A young teen accused of assaulting his girlfriend.

A young teen accused of dealing drugs.

An old man accused of assaulting his girlfriend.

An old woman accused of dealing drugs.

And Frenchy . . .  led into the courtroom handcuffed and bedraggled, unshaven and hurting between the legs, his truck just now being pulled out of a crushed pig trough, the hurting crew chief spotting his massive new bride trying to breach a dividing rail, now falling forward to send a torn bag of sour patch candies raining down like wedding rice.

She wasn’t wearing any panties, and spectators turned away in disgust, missing the furious bailiff’s imitation of a charging defensive lineman.

The gavel was coming down like machine gun fire, Vera struggling to her feet and knocking the bailiff over with shear weight; Judge Potts’ eyes locked on the ceiling as more court officers ran to assist their fallen comrade.

Vera’s shrieking pronouncement filled the courtroom:

“Woo-wee!  We got us a honeymoon in progress!”

Frenchy’s mind exploded out of its near comatose condition.

To be continued . . .

 DAY 98: Thursday, January 14, 2010:  Your cruise ship tipped over, when you left the center of it.

Continued from Day 97 . . .

As Rourke danced around morning events, refusing to press charges and secretly cursing Randy, Ferg began tapping his first survey point at a huge box store site near the Buckland Hill Mall in Manchester, tapping capped rebar with a hammer and chisel, causing a massive geometric ripple effect as his former survey manager motored just out of sight, along Interstate 84.

Rick had neglected to charge his cell phone again, holding barely enough life to reveal several new calls parked in his message box, before the tiny battery fizzled out.

He never got a proper count, but Rick noticed how several leading entries started with Rourke, suddenly remembering that . . . ! . . . today was the day they slam-dunked Ferguson’s career goals, and sent him packing.

Rick started chuckling to himself, nearly spilling a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as – only a half mile behind his car – Ferg drove over to another traverse point across the sprawling lot.

A small tap for man, thought Ferg, a giant blow for ugly retail.

Meanwhile, getting ready for the merge onto Route 91 South, Rick was thinking, no more turncoat knowing far too much and giving me the hairy eyeball lately, ratting me out for taking the Environmental Department’s truck on a weekend run to Montreal, hitting those titty bars off Saint Denis Street. No more telling me how people are losing jobs, and I’m spending profits on trips I damn well deserve.   I would’ve kept Ferg alive at five if he didn’t start spewing lectures on morality.  A fucking instrument operator . . . I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but one thing is certain; he’s presently unemployed

Sixteen minutes later, Ferg was done halting progress on a multi-million dollar project, and Rick was seated in Rourke’s office, staring at a wall of ugly-ass cardboard and duct tape.

The policeman had left, unconcerned with bullshit on private property, involving an evasive little man who forced smiles and was hiding something that didn’t matter . . . yet.

“Wow.” Rick started.  “Looks like some local crack heads pitched at your window last night.”

A large manila envelope sailed over the desk to land in Rick’s lap, with Ferg’s name on a small, white label.

Rick jumped at this intrusion upon his hangover and read the label, Rourke watching closely.

“Hey Rick?  You wanna tell me why a ten-year employee just refused our separation agreement, and introduced that chair to my big fucking picture window?”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

Rick looked away, as if there was something to his right.  “Wow.”

“Wow, indeed.”

“Did he uh . . . say why?”

This time Rourke worked hard to make his smile appear genuine, watching Rick closely.  “He said a lot of things, Rick.  A whole lot of things.”

Rick was nodding now, not liking that smile at all.  “Really?”

“Really.”

Rick waited, feeling his hangover melt away like something very serious had just entered his bloodstream.

“Gonna say a lot more, Rick.  God only knows.”

“Shit.”

“Shit, indeed.”

Rick looked very ill, Rourke asking, “Anything you might wanna add?”

“Well . . . uh . . . what did he tell you, exactly?”

Now Rourke was smiling for real.  “Randy!”

“Shit!”

“He told me about the shit, too,” Rourke said, making stuff up.  “Pretty sick, if you ask me.”

“No!”

“Everything.”

“Bastard!”

“Now it’s your turn.”

Rick swallowed hard, thinking things over until the little man elaborated.  “Why in god’s name would a calm and collected survey schlep like Ferg turn down thousands of dollars in severance pay, health insurance, and a job placement service to walk through my window in the blink of an eye?”

Rick’s eyebrows arched in anticipation.

“We both know it’s not stupidity.”

“You just told me he’s holding a lot of information.”

“That’s one-half of the equation.  He’s holding something else.”

“Well, obviously he can do a lot with that information.”

“Like go to Andover and Johnson?”

“Sure.”

“Or . . . say . . . newspapers?”

“Ugly.”

“Let’s throw the Department of Environmental Protection in there, while we’re at it.”

“He would be burning bridges, though, wouldn’t he?”

 “The man just verbally filleted my ass and took out this window with that chair you’re sitting on; do you really think he cares about working this field anymore?”

“Apparently not.”

“So what does he care about?  What’s his course of action?  He certainly doesn’t have a lot of money to go postal and burn bridges, unless his wife makes a lot.  Is he even married?  I mean . . . what could cause this crazy action, other than your perverted fucking survey crew driving him nuts?”

“Hey!”

Rourke scowled, putting Rick in his place.  “I did like the snapping turtle.”

Rick glared.  “Mark still talks funny, like Uncle Fiddles.”

“Another sick bastard,” Rourke said.  “You sure know how to hire ‘em.”

“Tough field, shitty pay.”

“Give Ferg a call.”

“Give him a call?”

Rourke smiled again, rare and shark-like.  “Randy.  I had no idea about Randy.”

“I’ll let the heat wear down for a day or so; see if Ferg comes to his senses and apologizes.”

“Sunday night’s good.”

“Jesus . . . he didn’t tell you about Uncle Fiddles, did he?”

Rourke was showing the shark again.  “Quite a crew you got there, Rick.  Hell of a bunch.”

Rick looked at the envelope in disbelief.  “Surveyors never turn down a severance.  They don’t make enough.”

“This one’s making something, and you better find out what.”

To be continued . . .

DAY 74: Monday, December 21, 2009: Did you hear the wolves running a poor moose last night?  Hey . . . how did your pants get ripped?

TIME TO PAY THE FIDDLER (HIS JUST DUES)

THE FIDDLER

More often than not, a threat is all about the people you work with.  Where I worked, surveyors messed with your life, family, and career.  In our field crews, two guys would be together every single day, all day long.  One was designated crew chief for whatever reason, and the other was trying like hell to become a crew chief, unless he was a temp or intern. There can be a large pay gap between the crew chief and his partner, and if they don’t play nice, it makes for a very long life.  On top of this, the engineers, drafters, and office guys have a nasty habit of looking down on field crews, pushing them hard for field data, or just pushing them around.  I remember one engineer absolutely stunned that I had a BA from the University of Rhode Island, until he heard it was in English and Anthropology.  “Good for waiting tables,” he said.  “Or gunner on a lousy survey crew.”

That bastard waddled laps around the office all day, driving everyone crazy until his manager started laying down the law, and he blew a few major projects, lost clients, and left to work for a competitor.

Uncle Fiddles the pervert had taken drafting classes while riding security desks with Mark, and eventually started riding a desk in the office.  He wasn’t a very effective drafter, but out in the field he would stare at young kids way too long, and became a serious liability.

He loved to call field crews on stormy days and ask how hard it was raining, then harass people about something they may have missed on a previous job, when it usually turned out to be his own sloppy drafting skills.  When caller ID became available on cell phones, he could call for days and never get an answer.  The crews were done with him, and the managers planned his demise.  I’ve got some more crazy-ass stories about this freak, but we’ll get to him later.  NO!  QUICK STORY!

Down in New Haven, working a bad neighborhood near some projects and crack houses, where Uncle Fiddles was suddenly confronted, then surrounded by a gang of very pissed-off drug dealers.

I was at the survey gun laughing my ass off, watching Fiddles turn pale and fearful, backing up as a big dealer pointed angrily toward me.

The 32X power scope showed how – every time his loose camp shirt lifted up – a small revolver was tucked into a broad belt, so this was getting better than cable television.

“Shoot him.” I said to the gun.  “Right in the uglies.”

You have to understand Uncle Fiddles.  This is a guy who spent most of his waking hours trying to make you look stupid, from planting drugs to throwing your ass under the bus at every opportunity.  The rest of the time, he was thinking about things that made Hannibal Lector look like Beany the Baby Bunny Rabbit.  I’m talking pedophile stuff that made you want to vomit, and kill his sorry ass a thousand ways to Sunday.  I’m going to open up some big guns on this freakish creature later, but I just wanted you to understand my bottomless, cruel desire to see him gang raped by large drug dealers and sold as shark chum.

Sometimes the dealers thought we were cops.  They usually sent a mule (young kid who delivers the drugs) to ask why I was taking pictures, and I always explained the survey instruments in vast detail, how the “camera” was actually an electronic measuring device (EDM), or total station (never say “gun” to a mule); how it sent a beam of light, recording distance and angle as the light returned, and blah blah blah blah blah, so that he quickly got bored and tried to sell me some crack.  When Uncle Fiddles was running things, I should’ve asked for something a thousand times stronger than street drugs, but they haven’t been invented yet.

The point is, Uncle Fiddles knew we could handle anybody and was coming completely unglued, or just looking for an excuse not to work.  The hulking freak spent four years in the army and sixteen in reserves, and liked to think he was the second coming of Rambo, “accidentally” leaving M-16 banana magazines in the van, or calling Ali a “draft dodging pussy.”  He couldn’t even handle a few lousy street dealers, and while asking him to let me talk over the two-way, he switched his radio off and begged for his life, then came back and said we were done for the day.

I should’ve ignored him and walked over there, because in two minutes I can bore the most hardened drug dealers to tears, showing them how we are way too interested in computerized instruments to ever be real cops, who would shoot a data collector on sight, just for assaulting them with extreme and deadly boredom.

But hey!  Fiddles was the crew chief, and you’re never supposed to go against their decision, so it was going to be a very short day, which is a good day when stuck with the creepy Uncle.

Uncle Fiddles was likely to tell the boss you were scared, and that he had to “back some people down,” and comfort you on the way home, which is a creepy thought when dealing with the Fids, but that’s what usually transpired.  I’m just glad to get that gem out of my hellish closet of collectable memories, and move on.

I was very lucky, because the gun was like a kid playing video games all day.  It also became a kind of sick addiction (like a kid playing videos all day), and they used it to full advantage.  Sometimes I pulled a thousand shots in six hours of work (subtracting a couple for lunch, travel time, setup, etc.), that’s a shot and typed description, completed every 21.6 seconds, with the rod man walking to each target. 

“I would blow my brains out, doing what you do,” Randy the crew chief said one day, after 800 shots.

“I would blow my brains out just being you,” I retorted.  “Except I couldn’t find the fucking target.”

Needless to say, Randy and I never quite bonded.  I really don’t miss that place.

Although I eventually clawed my way upward to the Environmental Department like a buried miner seeking light, most of the last decade was spent behind that gun on a survey crew, taking shots at the rod man’s prism.  None of that is a sexual metaphor, so please try to focus.  All things considered, the gun made me somewhat valuable, and in the end, it was the gun that killed me (no pun intended – whoa! — let me think about it).

My sick little addiction was a great talent when speed was required, and I could stand all day at the video game-like instrument and blaze away at the prism under grueling conditions, until the sky darkened.  There were actually crosshairs in the powerful 32X zoom lenses, like in a riflescope, or on the upper lip of certain Sicilian women.^[1]  I somehow convinced myself that the little round prism on a telescoping rod was a fleeing target trying to get away, and my survival depended on hitting it dead center very fast, OR ELSE.

I never could quite figure out OR ELSE, but I’m sure it had something to do with horrible pain and death, falling behind schedule, or very high octane coffee, jagging my system to shoot that little glowing bastard one more time, one more time, one more time . . . and like anything, it got pretty old after awhile.  Sadly enough, the doors to career advancement in Survey were firmly closed in my face, after wasting time and money on a drafting course.

Rick the Survey Manager tested me with drafting questions, and when I passed in flying colors he let me spend one day on the computer, tutored by Mark, a very giggly guy^[2] who promptly sabotaged the living hell out of me, leaving a thousand different layers of work on the plan, and changing directions every hour, before “losing” all my edits in a system that has more backup than Gladys Knight.  In short, he was the kind of person who – if he detected even the remotest threat of competition – would kill it before it could grow.  All things considered, after spending one day in a claustrophobic cube, completely surrounded by people distracting me more than whistling prairie dogs, maybe it was a good thing.

“Be honest,” I told Rick, knowing the chance for truth was always less than 50%.  “You’ve got very fast, competent, and experienced people drafting already, so with my field experience, and the computer skills of a small sea anemone, it doesn’t make any sense for me to try and advance, coming into the office.”

He admitted that I had been buffaloed, which is more than I expected.  I would be in the field until grizzly death occurred, killed by bands of rabid llamas or irritated landowners.  My future in Survey was looking pretty bleak.

When an opening came-up in the Environmental Department, I couldn’t run over there fast enough, inspired by great people, great work, great beer, and truly great . . . beer.  I was also very proud to be playing a small role in cleaning up the planet, while saving the lives of certain vital and vulnerable species.  No . . . really.  Life was good until the beer (and work) finally slowed down, and it was back to Survey, with a very large target on my back.^[3] 

“They hate you for jumping ship to the tree huggers,” I was told.  “Oh . . . turn around and let me get that knife.”

Environmental was a dream come true, and I miss that crowd. 

Uncle Fiddles and the creep crew?  According to my little program, they’re stalking this blog.

Hope they enjoyed the trip down memory lane, but it won’t flush ‘em out.  When they stalk, it’s never in a good way.     

[2] I snuck up on him with a big honkin’ snapping turtle, when he was in his cude.  He leaped up on his chair and screamed like a little girl.

[3] Environmental people do not drink beer like football fans.  They sip exclusive “snob brews” in “taste gatherings”, while listening to obscure musical artists named Falifia or Connor’s Lament.  Despite rumors, smoking herb is never permitted unless it’s during work hours or after, when they leave.