I Was the Law.
Aug. 30th, 2004 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebitterguyOkay. Ten years ago.
(In case you're wondering, I think that 10 years ago really WAS as good as I'm remembering, since I had a good time, considering I couldn't even find a nice shitty job to pass the time with and spent most of my waking hours on Fidonet)
(Additional: if you're one of these guys who whines about "Big Government", you're gonna get ANOTHER reason to hate me. BeeOTCH!)
Anyway. Ten years ago.
Twenty-one. In my year of "Between Carleton and the Gonk".
So, the summer came along and I just HAD to earn SOME money. Something. So my mom tells me to apply for a job as a dog tag sales staff for the county. Jesus, Mom, that'll be sitting in the mall for a week. There's no job to that.
Christ, Bitter Guy. Listen to your MOM! She KNOWS things! Things Geeks Don't Quite Figure Out.
So, yeah. I ended up doing what came to be known as Puppy Patrol. This consisted of being handed several hundred dog tags, a roll of stamps, a box of envelops, another box of letters, and a receipt book, as well as a list of citizens who have licensed their dogs.
My target? Everyone NOT on the list.
God, it was a fiasco waiting to happen. But it turned out pretty well.
So, my job was to drive around the North Fredrickburg area, going from door to door, asking "You got any dogs? Got licenses for them? No? How many shall I put you down for, then?"
It was a good gig. It was $5 for me per tag, and I could sell a couple dozen easy. Up at noon, out for three or four hours, zoom.
Admittedly, I WAS terrified of getting mauled. Many's the house that had a very large pet fido waiting on their doorstep. It's rather strange to walk up to a house, see an untagged dog, and ponder whether or not you'd live long enough to collect your $5.
One time, I walked up to a house and knocked. The dog came to the door first. Now, admittedly, there was a step down, but I really don't think I should have been able to look the dog in the eye.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but do you have a license for this horse?"
On another occasion, I drove to a rural house (that was 50% of my job, on top of the near maulings) and drove a bit up their driveway. I stepped out and waved to the lady of the house, who was on her porch, and she came towards me waving. I said hi, and she screamed "Get back in your car!"
Now, Mama Bitter didn't raise no dummies. Well, one. But he's got his Masters in Engineering, so explain THAT to me. But Me? I got back in the damn car. And then, once again, stared face to face with a big puppy.
There are still scratch marks on the car. Uday can show them to you, if you'd like.
I got to see a lot of the county that summer. I really fell in love with the countryside that year. Old farmhouses and newer, scattered developments. And getting to drive around. And occasionally take in a show from Clarke's band, Two Steps Back.
The job was good. In the end, I had a good summer, and earned enough for a camera. Hey, WErewolf 2 wasn't free.
I was at home alone with my dad, actually. Uday was off with Mamma in Turkiye, and Qusay was working up north planting trees and putting out fires. In that order, unfortunately. So I pretty much had the run of the car for the whole summer.
I guess I should have spent more time with him. We've gotten closer since then, actually. I even got to find out about the Napalm Story. But there's still too much distance.
Of course, that was during one of the less stable periods of my relationship with... She Who Must Not be Spoken Of. Which meant that I'd occasionally pull over to the side of the road and weep like a whipped stable boy. The worst was that damn Jesse song. Ah, Joshua Kadison. How many heartbroken young men have you driven to death's sweet embrace?
One less right here, fucker.
In between maulings and savage depression, I was off to Kingston for the Werewolf game (which never got finished, even though I had a GREAT True Wendigo adventure with a quest to Pangea for an arrow to kill it). Or learning to play Magic. Dave Polk fucking SLAUGHTERED me on many an occasion.
Good, as they say, Times.
(In case you're wondering, I think that 10 years ago really WAS as good as I'm remembering, since I had a good time, considering I couldn't even find a nice shitty job to pass the time with and spent most of my waking hours on Fidonet)
(Additional: if you're one of these guys who whines about "Big Government", you're gonna get ANOTHER reason to hate me. BeeOTCH!)
Anyway. Ten years ago.
Twenty-one. In my year of "Between Carleton and the Gonk".
So, the summer came along and I just HAD to earn SOME money. Something. So my mom tells me to apply for a job as a dog tag sales staff for the county. Jesus, Mom, that'll be sitting in the mall for a week. There's no job to that.
Christ, Bitter Guy. Listen to your MOM! She KNOWS things! Things Geeks Don't Quite Figure Out.
So, yeah. I ended up doing what came to be known as Puppy Patrol. This consisted of being handed several hundred dog tags, a roll of stamps, a box of envelops, another box of letters, and a receipt book, as well as a list of citizens who have licensed their dogs.
My target? Everyone NOT on the list.
God, it was a fiasco waiting to happen. But it turned out pretty well.
So, my job was to drive around the North Fredrickburg area, going from door to door, asking "You got any dogs? Got licenses for them? No? How many shall I put you down for, then?"
It was a good gig. It was $5 for me per tag, and I could sell a couple dozen easy. Up at noon, out for three or four hours, zoom.
Admittedly, I WAS terrified of getting mauled. Many's the house that had a very large pet fido waiting on their doorstep. It's rather strange to walk up to a house, see an untagged dog, and ponder whether or not you'd live long enough to collect your $5.
One time, I walked up to a house and knocked. The dog came to the door first. Now, admittedly, there was a step down, but I really don't think I should have been able to look the dog in the eye.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but do you have a license for this horse?"
On another occasion, I drove to a rural house (that was 50% of my job, on top of the near maulings) and drove a bit up their driveway. I stepped out and waved to the lady of the house, who was on her porch, and she came towards me waving. I said hi, and she screamed "Get back in your car!"
Now, Mama Bitter didn't raise no dummies. Well, one. But he's got his Masters in Engineering, so explain THAT to me. But Me? I got back in the damn car. And then, once again, stared face to face with a big puppy.
There are still scratch marks on the car. Uday can show them to you, if you'd like.
I got to see a lot of the county that summer. I really fell in love with the countryside that year. Old farmhouses and newer, scattered developments. And getting to drive around. And occasionally take in a show from Clarke's band, Two Steps Back.
The job was good. In the end, I had a good summer, and earned enough for a camera. Hey, WErewolf 2 wasn't free.
I was at home alone with my dad, actually. Uday was off with Mamma in Turkiye, and Qusay was working up north planting trees and putting out fires. In that order, unfortunately. So I pretty much had the run of the car for the whole summer.
I guess I should have spent more time with him. We've gotten closer since then, actually. I even got to find out about the Napalm Story. But there's still too much distance.
Of course, that was during one of the less stable periods of my relationship with... She Who Must Not be Spoken Of. Which meant that I'd occasionally pull over to the side of the road and weep like a whipped stable boy. The worst was that damn Jesse song. Ah, Joshua Kadison. How many heartbroken young men have you driven to death's sweet embrace?
One less right here, fucker.
In between maulings and savage depression, I was off to Kingston for the Werewolf game (which never got finished, even though I had a GREAT True Wendigo adventure with a quest to Pangea for an arrow to kill it). Or learning to play Magic. Dave Polk fucking SLAUGHTERED me on many an occasion.
Good, as they say, Times.
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no subject
Date: 2004-08-31 03:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-31 04:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-31 03:31 pm (UTC)A couple years later, it was salaried with a gas allowance. Kids these days, no gumption or hustle.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-31 03:36 pm (UTC)Or pay $1 an hour.
What Qusay REALLY did that summer
Date: 2004-12-20 07:36 pm (UTC)Wish I could say that I was doing the exciting stuff of planting trees and putting out fires. Because those tree planters have fun at night, what with their Phish music and accessories to Phish music (lousy government-run camps, with their constant supervision and their no phone and no alcohol or drugs or girls policies). Alas, I spent far more time cutting down trees (well, brush; trees don't go down with brush axes), and painting buildings (which, upon my return at the 10-year mark, this summer, had since been painted green a step up from the beige we had offered).
I pine (yes, the pun is intentional) for the days where I weighed 30 pounds less and what little extra covering that was on there was muscle... I too had a good summer then.