So I drafted an email that would also double as a rough phone script. After entering over a hundred email addresses, and hitting the send button, I found out the hard way that the list needs to be scrubbed and updated. At least a dozen email addresses were outdated or simply inaccurate. I have received two responses. One affirmative. Then, there were also the sixty or so people for whom we had no email address. I hate to think that this week I will learn how many phone numbers are inaccurate or the volunteers who no longer have that phone line.
I was awakened Friday morning with a text message from my CEO up in Murphreesboro: "Action item for you. Go to storage unit and inventory all disaster supplies."
After a brief stop at the office to check my email, I headed down to the shed yard in Estill Springs. And there I sat with a clip board, counting just about everything: X number of cots; Y number of blankets; Z number of cleanup kits. I have to say that I'm not a big fan of plopping my can on a cooler chest for a day, leaning over a clip board and scratching down figures on a legal pad. But the truth is that I feel more immersed and better prepared for what may lie ahead. I have a greater degree of ownership over what's happening.
I stopped by Jack's after work a couple of nights this week for a beer. I keep finding myself talking to one Troy McFarland. A well-dressed country boy in his early forties. The kind of guy who looks like he was the President of his high school class and carries himself like he used to get away with murder because of it. Troy and I exchange jokes, stories, and experiences. But he had half the bar's attention, stumping all including the staff with a bar trick. It's called "The Field Goal." Many thought it was impossible. After twenty minutes, I slapped the bar and called out. I got it! All gathered 'round and watched as I applied a solution so simple, it's difficult to believe none of us saw it sooner. "That's part of the trick," Troy said.
Yesterday, I finally took the time to restore the songs from my Ipod to my Itunes folder on my new laptop. I had called Apple and spoken with a guy, asking him "If I hook up my Ipod to my laptop, and just sync it, will the songs be transferred from my Ipod, or will it be wiped clean." The man told me it would be wiped clean. "Look. This is a simple data transfer. There must be some way to get this done."
He was specific in how he chose his words. "There's no process that Apple operates that can perform this task."
"So pretend you're not an Apple employee for a minute," I said. "What would you do if you were in my position?" He told me to google Itunes music recovery, which I did. I downloaded a recovery program for ten dollars and ran it. After some frustration and a little facebook chat help from my old CHA friend, John "Tank" Kozemple, I was able to complete the process and listen to something besides the radio.
I then went to Fast Jack's on Lincoln for a beer and a quesadilla around 5pm. I happened to sit next to a woman who used to work for my old company, CSC. For some reason, she seemed impressed with the fact that I worked in Falls Church. After exchanging a few names of people we knew inside the company, the fellow on the other side of her, Larry, bought me a beer. I had no idea why and then it hit me like a fastball to the face. He was thanking me for distracting this woman from being a pain in his ass.
This woman would not shut up! The sheer volume of nonsensical, uninformed, unsolicited bullshit that spewed forth from this woman's mouth would drive Dr. Phil to drugs. Her job! Her marital history! Her political opinions! Her cats! I endured it for a bit, thinking of it as a listening exercise, recalling the lesson of Lyndon Johnson. Read people. Watch their eyes. Watch their hands. Listen to them. Don't just listen to what they're saying - listen to what they're not saying. The most important thing a person has to say is the thing they're not telling you. I excused myself to use the mens room in the other bar, where half the staff lamented my torturous experience. Apparently, this woman has pestered people straight out of the bar on many occasions. I finished my beer and returned to find another empty stool, a few slots away.
I walked straight up to the man sitting there, patting him on the shoulder. "How's it goin' there, buddy?" An older fella. Mid sixties. His name was Eddie Nieves, aa Puerto Rican. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to brush up on some Spanish. Needless to say I spoke with my hands a lot. Needless to say, I was trying to show off. Eddie and I spoke for an hour on various topics. He did two shots of Cuervo and hit the road.
Then I met up with Toshi, who introduced me to the Starlite Lounge, located outside of the downtown area, over toward the Air Base. Toshi knew the manager. We got in with no cover. He introduced me to the band. (Magnolia. They rock!) I saw a lot of familiar faces who welcomed me at their table, and who insisted on sharing their whiskey and beer. "Brian! What's goin' on man! Want some Jack? Sit down and meet everybody! Hang out with us for a while!"
I'll decline to go into too much detail on the evening. No, it's not for lack of memory, smart asses. But the important thing was that, at the end of the night, as I walked into my apartment, it felt like I had not only gotten to know a few of the locals, but, as I had been instructed to attempt, I felt like they had gotten to know me, to a degree. People were asking for my phone number, giving me theirs, saying "We gotta hang out!"
I've felt welcome since my arrival here. But now, I feel more than that. I feel more of a part of this place. I feel it becoming more of a part of me.
--
Swallow it down, what a jagged little pill
It feels so good swimming in your stomach
Wait until the dust settles
