I finished the first week of my new job back in 1971, and
settled in. Want to know about my love life? There, that sums it up. Nonexistent.
On the positive side, it gave me more time to study my adopted profession. I
read a lot too, encountering fewer entanglements that way.
There were two women who shared an apartment across the
hall. They both worked at Timex Corporation, a large concern that graced the
city back when low-skilled jobs were available in the South. One was rather
thin and possessed of more inner than outer beauty. The other was ample and
possessed a wholesome “stay-away” attitude. Neither seemed overly impressed
with my physique, and since we all thrived on scarcity, we became friends
without benefits other than cordial conversations.
There was a third woman who lived downstairs, a very
attractive person, but lacking a great deal of education. She worked with the
other two. They say she was taking night courses at the local college, but
before I got to know her, she disappeared. After awhile, the girls told me that
she had trusted a supervisor at the plant once too often. He chose to stay
married, and she returned to her hometown in the Arkansas Delta. There was a
shoe factory there at the time. Maybe she found work therein, but it closed not long after. What happens to such individuals? I wish I knew.
Payday came, and with a small supplement withdrawn from
savings, I managed. For the first time in years, I established a routine that
wasn’t totally mandated by higher authorities. Tom gave me a key to the office,
and I made a decision that would greatly affect both my career and my future.
For the foreseeable future, I mandated to myself that, on
normal work days, no one in the company would ever see me get to work, and no
one would ever see me leave. You would be amazed at the outcome.
It really wasn’t that hard. No one arrived before 8:00 a.m.,
so I didn’t have to rush. We usually worked late, but I would simply remain when
the others left. On some days, my total sacrifice was less than 45 minutes, but
it made me a legend.
I always arrived in time to visit the snack area on the ground
floor of the building. It was one of those stands officially known as vending
areas established by World Services for the Blind, an institute located in
Little Rock. They were operated by visually-challenged folks and known irreverently
by a term that would make the Political Correctness Police sail into orbit, “blind
stands.” At least that’s all I ever heard them called.
The counter contained a sunken metal bowl where one placed
money. The operators could count change like a carnival barker at a striptease
show, but only by feel. They say some could tell the difference among paper
bills of differing denominations, but I never put that to the test. I seem to
remember the operator in our building was named Carl. I’m not quite sure. He was
a jolly character who, in addition to selling goods, also served as “gossip-central.”
He could tell you by your footsteps, and phrase his daily report accordingly.
The only time I ever remember him and me having a problem
with communications, was when he was trying to tell me about a ne’er-do-well tenant
who was suffering from “the collapse.” A stroke? No. Muscle problems? No. Back
or knee problems? No. After much back and forth banter, we came to the
understanding that the poor fellow had “dillyed” with the wrong “dally” and would
be back at work following a round of penicillin, a moral lesson from which to
be instructed, both in communication and behavior.
I’d buy a breakfast snack, a cup of coffee, and the daily
newspaper: the grand old Arkansas Gazette.
Then I would go upstairs and prepare to continue my new career.
Life was good. To borrow a line from Dylan Thomas, someone
who knew me then would say of those days, “He was almost always happy, I think.”
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