Mr Trump: "Tear Down This Wall"

The Real World

The Real World. Young man, just wait until you are in The Real World.

From elementary school right through college graduation, wise elders loved to use the term The Real World . It was as if everything one experiences while growing up is a field of flowers, overflowing with butterflies and eternal sunshine. And cookies, let’s not forget cookies. And cake. And pizza and beer!

Growing up can be stressful, no matter what race, religion, or financial status one has. To discount everything is a slap in the face to every youth there is. Heck, I know folks with several decades of The Real World experience that have yet to deal with “grown up” issues. There is always someone, somewhere, that has had it worse: that shouldn’t discount what any person has gone through, no matter their age.

As I entered The Real World in my blue 1970 Chevy step-side pickup, I dove in with the pedal to the metal. A college buddy of mine joined me as we used our last two weeks of The Fake World for the cross-country trip. Later, it was odd to drop him off at the Jetport, once our time was up. Reality struck me that night like a blow to the head, which would actually occur years later, as I lay awake pondering what life would be like in The Real World.

Free of exams and the stress of college, life seemed like it should only become more rewarding and glorious. God, I’m an idiot.

While I had held jobs since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I was starting a career then. No more multiple part time jobs washing UPS trucks, feeding rats, or working on oil rigs. My first job was as a pharmacist technician, as I was still waiting to take the two-day exam to become certified as a pharmacist. The pay was slightly above minimum wage, and the work was intense.

The State of Maine Board of Pharmacy had antiquated laws on becoming registered in the state, and the examiner had misled me on the procedure. Welcome to state government. Even before I had take the exam, I had successfully had the law changed so Maine would recognize the results of the national exam; still leaving the state law exam to pass, much like every other state. Put a damper on the little ditty Maine like to use; As Maine goes, so goes the nation. To me, the Maine Board of Pharmacy has always been two steps behind the nation, and has allowed the personal feelings of board members to dictate laws to this day.

The exam was a two-day event with the first day being eight hours and the second day six hours. In order to take the exam and not wait another six months, I went back to Wyoming, as Maine wouldn’t let me take the test until the following spring. No computers back then, so everything was long hand. It was held in a cramped classroom without air conditioning, and it was over 90 degrees, but it was a dry heat.

Weeks later, having dinner with my folks, the corded black phone gave out its shrill call. The lady at the Wyoming Board of Pharmacy was very kind, and she knew I was anxiously awaiting the results. Mail typically took 3-4 days to arrive, with email being another decade away. She told me I had passed and would be sending off my Wyoming pharmacist license the following day. Now I just had to complete my internship and pass the Maine pharmacy law exam, which was a breeze.

The day I passed, corporate had me working alone in a busy store. It really wasn’t that much of a change, as Pete, the pharmacist/front store manager, I had been working under, typically left me alone while he attended to planograms and other front store duties.

Pete was a chain smoker, though he was careful not to have the ashes land on the counting tray. We would carpool together, and through work and late evening pizza and beer outings, we became friends. He lived life at full throttle, and had a wicked dry sense of humor. One day he decided to stop smoking, and I never saw him pick up another cigarette. Then he took up jogging, and the positive change in him was evident. Not long after, he was with his kids, playing in a pool. As he stepped out, he fell to the concrete patio and was dead before he hit. The Real World.

With Pete’s death, corporate sent me up the coast to the next city. My work partner there was a tall skinny man, married to a rather plump short woman, who had a very active sex life; to which I was invited on multiple occasions to join his wife, friends and him for a festive evening. I declined. Multiple times.

Things were looking up at the new store, heck we even got rid of the cheap electric typewriter and splurged for an IBM Selectric. It was amazing to watch the little ball with all the letters on it spin around and type out your words. The down side with the new store is that we also rented out steam-vacs, and who else should handle the transaction other than the pharmacist? Then there was the New York Times. Again, the duty of putting together and distributing the NY Times was on the pharmacist, only made sense. It was an eye opener on the retail environment when dealing with the Times. Should the paper be late, or both parts had not arrived, people acted as if it were their moral obligation to sling abuse at me for not having their precious paper ready: few words were spared. We were also one of the first pharmacies to have an electronic teller in the store. What a joy. On weekends, not only did the pharmacist do the deposits and paperwork for the whole store, but also maintained the electronic teller, later to be named the ATM.

Still remember one particular Sunday morning when the Times hadn’t arrived, the church crowd was in, and the electronic teller malfunction. A burly gentleman at the end of the line screamed at me that “the cash machine ain’t work’n”, and he was in a hurry so I should drop everything and help him. With half a dozen patients awaiting their prescriptions, not to mention the phone calls for the Times, I looked up and screamed back, “the sign on the outside says Wellby Pharmacy, not Wellby Bank, so as soon as I take care of the people ahead of you, I’ll take a look at it”. He threw some cursive words at me, rather interesting take on the English language really, and told me he’d have me fired Monday morning The pharmacy patients thanked me and volunteered to write letters of support. I never knew just what I was doing with the damned electronic teller, but I always managed to get it running again.

The new store was in a town with a corrosive drug problem. Things were out of hand to the point where the hardware store would call me to let me know Joe Sniffer was out again and to hide the glue. If a technician weren’t available, I’d run out and grab all the glue and hide them behind the pharmacy counter. Being a new pharmacist I tried to not to judge a book by its cover: after all, homeless people get the cold, too. So when a scraggly looking man with long greasy hair asked to buy a bottle of Robitussin AC (the one with codeine), I asked for a license, recorded the sale, and gave advice on how to use the product. He drank the four ounces all in one swig, slammed the bottle on the counter, burped, and left the store.

On the following day, Mr. Greasy Hair was back. He came up to me and asked for another bottle of Robitussin AC. After I informed him that not only was it illegal for me to sell him another bottle so quickly, I wouldn’t be selling him any from that point forward. More cursing, fist slamming and bulging veins. Later that night he came back and asked again. Again I told him no, at which point he slowly leaned over the counter, dropped his voice, and said “for a thousand dollars I can have you taken care of”, and left the store. Now I wasn’t so naïve to think that “taken care of” meant a massage and a nice meal, but what was I too do?

That night, when I got out of work, I was a bit nervous walking to my butch Chevy Luv that was parked under the bright parking lot light. The ride home was uneventful at first, but toward the end of the 45-mile drive something in the steering didn’t feel quite right. The next day I was taking my sister, Monica, out to see some Morgan horses, when again, the steering felt odd. After pulling the little truck over on the dirt road, I went to put on the parking brake, but it wouldn’t engage. Grabbing the front driver side tire, I pulled back and forth and was surprised that I could move the wheel. As I checked the Luv out, I found all 24 lug nuts were on the last threads, and the emergency cable had been rigged so it wouldn’t move. Where did he get a thousand dollars?

Back in the town where the store was located, where just a week earlier my Mom had gone home shopping with me, I went to the police to report what had happened. The officer wouldn’t even file a report. He said something about that is the type of town it is, and to let him know if it happened again. Applications to other stores went out that evening. The Real World.

First Night

First Night

Clay HurtubiseÓ

Sun drenched golden fields, wind tormented trees, ominous heavy clouds gathering: at more than nine thousand feet above sea level, this awe inspiring site made the recent traumatic cross country journey fade, momentarily, into my memory bank. This could be my home. Heaven.

More than two thousand miles away from our home, I had traveled to this sparsely populated region of the country to start anew.  New home, new career: a better, simpler life. The plan was for me to settle into our new home with views of the Snowy Range. It was under contract with a closing date that had already passed, but we were assured the closing would take place in our new town. With me were two of our four dogs, Katrina rescue pooch Monkey Man, and Soft Coated Wheaton Terrier Ms. Bea. Once settled, then my beloved partner would follow.

Twenty-six feet of a U-Haul truck had been stuffed with most of our accumulated home furnishings. For years we had listened to realtors berate us that our home would sell better if it was more bare, as our unique art and belongings were to much for a prospective buyer to see past. How a painting of Homer Simpson falling down a staircase detracts from a twenty-six foot high ceiling with a full-length real stone chimney is beyond me. With the art carefully packed, and most of the furniture removed, the home was now a house. My partner of fifteen years temporarily remained behind, knowing how much this new career, and the land I was moving to, meant to me. It was my dream job, and he was willing to set me free and then move out with me to see if he too could find the magic in the land that so inspired me. I love him for that.

With less than a days travel remaining to our new home, the underwriters from the bank called me at 5:00 PM, on a Friday, to tell me that my funds for the down payment did not meet “Homeland Security Guidelines”, and the loan was pulled. It didn’t matter that they had already poured over all the details, had multiple documents sent repeatedly, nor did it matter that they had sent a ‘firm’ closing date that had already passed. Logic was thrown out like reeking kitty litter, simply no looking back. The anonymous man that had mastered feigned politeness, and who controlled my life at the far end of a cell phone connection, was not willing to take a few minutes and some simple steps to see that the money was indeed mine. With little regard for logic, fairness, or responsibility, he closed the loan telling me I could reapply on Monday.  Start over. That night I sent emails to all involved showing that the sale of my car two months prior, through eBay, was indeed legitimate. His answer the following day, (yes he was there on a Saturday!), was that the money was no longer an issue, but now he required 20% down, instead of the agreed 10% with Private Mortgage Insurance (PMI), would not include closing cost as part of the loan, mandated that I close out a retirement fund, and required an extra eight thousand in escrow to prove that I could make the payments, which were substantially less than renting a home. In all, it would take almost $61,000 in cash to close on a house that was currently valued at $275,000 and being bought for $200,00 (with a new $8,000 roof to be installed by the current owners) and was one of the least expensive homes in an established neighborhood.

While I realized this was bad news, I remained hopeful that things would work out once I arrived in town. If only I had known.

Ms. Bea, to me, is a therapy dog on many levels. Not only can she forewarn me when I am about to experience one of my nauseating, muscle pulling seizures, but she reads me like a box of dog biscuits. If I simply think of *&%! harsh words toward an errant driver, she will reach out to me and put a fuzzy paw gently on my arm and look at me with a “There, there” look in her large brown eyes. I melt.

Monkey Man, named by the woman who put him up for adoption, can be a hellion when he gets wired. A Tibetan terrier, he found us one Christmas Eve just hours after we had taken Otis, another rescue, into our hectic lives. Otis and Monkey Man made quite the team: Otis, tall, lanky, brain dead and full of heart, weighs nearly 100lbs: Monkey Man, small, skittish and struggling to hit 30lbs, and willing to take on Otis at any given moment. Until this trip, Monkey and Ms. Bea got along, but weren’t best buds. When we got Monkey Man, (he was shipped via Delta Air Freight), he was a handful. Obviously mistreated, he shied away whenever a hand approached his cute, fuzzy face. It also seems he had lost hearing in one ear, and would make counter-clockwise circles ad nauseam.

In the cramped quarters of the noisy, rough riding U-Haul, the two of them started bonding. At times it was difficult to tell where one dog started and the other ended. For over two thousand miles, they gave me no problems. Not a single growl. By the time we arrived in the new town, they were inseparable.

Though they were filled mostly to capacity, the gracious elderly man at the storage unit managed to find me a couple of spaces, to store the contents of the truck. The bikes, though, wouldn’t fit, and so for a couple of weeks they got bounced about on the back of the orange FJ-80.

Trying to afford a place where two dogs can be kept proved to be a challenge. Motels that do allow pets, dictate that the animals are not left alone in the room. Rental at the local campground was as much as rent for an apartment: though in this town, a lot of the rentals are severely lacking (code enforcement anyone?). As there still remained a glimmer of hope that the deal for the house could be salvaged, there proved to be few options where we could stay. As I was familiar with hills outside of town, I bought a tent at the local Wal-Mart and ventured up to a place where only four-wheel drive vehicles can go. The highway leading to the hills is notorious for it’s grade, dangerous winds and multiple accidents. The 1991 Toyota FJ-80 managed, pedal to the metal, to maintain a whooping 45mph, but that was all she had.

Once off the main highway, I ventured to an area I hadn’t been in over 30 years. Nothing had changed, except my youth had wandered off. The field was as I remembered it, and I set up the tent using heavy rocks to hold down the pegs. The thought was that it was such a difficult place to get to, I would be able to leave the tent up for a week or so while I figured out the pressing-housing situation.

With our portable tent secured, full water and food bowls for the kids, we took a short hike. Just over a small rutted ridge is the view I had been anticipating: the snow capped majestic Colorado Rockies.  From this vantage point the view is simply breath taking. Seated on an old log with the kids curled up by my feet, I soaked in the warm glow of the setting sun, breathed the thin, crisp air, viewed the dark blue sky with the bright white thick clouds, and heard a whisper of nature’s breath through the trees, and then the pains of the previous week melted away.

On the short hike back, that whisper became more vocal, the trees waved in anticipation, and the air became electrified. The field was now fully aglow and the clouds more prominent: I snapped a picture of the scene should my memory fail me in future years. Doubtful.

There was ample room for all us, and I had brought blankets for the dogs to sleep on. When the sun retired for the evening, the temperature rapidly took a precipitous drop. Soon the voice of nature was a howl, no secrets here. Rain started to pelt the tent and the occasional flash of lightening would eerily illuminate our little home. Both dogs pressed closer to me, and their warmth was reassuring.

Within the hour nature let loose all her tremendous might. The howling wind increased to a staggering 70mph, gust were much more severe. The tent was violently whipping back and forth and the horizontal rain increased the intensity of its assault. Soon there was no lapse between the blinding flashes of lightening and the ear splitting clash of thunder. Nearby trees were being hit and the sound of the shattering wood accompanied by the loud whizzing of flying debris was unnerving to us all. The dogs were pressed tight beside me, Ms. Bea shaking, and I tied my best to calm them. Ms. Bea in particular is sensitive to thunder, and at home she would bark at it well before we were aware a storm was on its way.

Time was on hold, heartbeats counted. The tent was being moved by the relentless wind. Rocks being dragged. I had been in storms before where falling trees had narrowly missed my tent, but that was not the danger here.

Only in a massive summer storm in Indiana had I ever witnessed such ferocious and rapid lightening, only seconds apart, and that time I was on a motorcycle. Not much better here.

The roar of thunder became a cascade, no down time, no counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi… There was no substantial distance between the lightening strikes and the tent. The thought of trying to move into the truck was violently interrupted. A fiberglass tent pole had shattered. The force of the wind instantly flattened the tent, the fabric being form fitted over us like Saran Wrap over a hot steamy dish. Fabric entered my mouth, covered my nose. Encased us all, pinned to the ground. Fumbling for the headlamp, I could hear the dog’s frightened barks and whimpers, but I could not feel them near me. With the light on, all I could see was green fabric: I had to hold it away from my face and could not see further than my hand. The zipper was elusive, and my pocketknife was mocking me from some distant corner of the tent: we were in a fabric coffin. With yelping dogs, relentless lightening, and the freaking steady thunder, it was difficult to focus. Trying to stay on my knees to reach out to more fabric was pointless, as the wind would just slam me back to the hard ground.

Lying on my back, I pulled the tent around me to try and locate the zipper. There it was, above my head. Once I opened the flap, the wind tore in and inflated the tent, causing it to move across that once golden field. First Ms. Bea was located, and I simply tossed her out of the nylon coffin, and then it Monkey Man’s turn. When I got myself out, it was difficult to stand upright. With my new micro headlamp on full, I could not see the bright orange truck that had been just a few feet away. Walking in expanding circles, I eventually found my truck: it was now behind the tent.

At that point I could not locate either dog, and I went into the truck to fire it up and turn all the auxiliary lights on, over a 1,000 watts of light. The sideways rain reflected off the light, making vision still difficult. Ms. Bea quickly found me, and I hastily got her safely inside. Monkey Man had a difficult time locating me, as his hearing problem often has him head in the wrong direction. The storm was not relenting, and I feared Monkey Man might be lost in the hills, easy prey for numerous creatures. As the truck was now easy to locate, I started making circular sweeps. While it felt like an eternity, after nearly 15 minutes I was able to locate him in some ragged trees, on the edge of small drop off, frightened, whimpering, but sure glad to see me.

After loading the gear back into the truck, I put the FJ-80 into low range four-wheel drive and locked the differential for slow, but steady driving. Cresting the first rise, I could not see beyond the hood. Flashes of lightening cast eerie shadows of the pine trees we were under. No path could be seen. Branches whipped relentlessly across the truck, smashing against the windows, threatening to let Mother Nature inside. With my gut as my map, I steered the truck to where I remembered the trail to be. What had been a nice dry trail on the way in was now fast flowing water that reached the doorsills of the elevated Toyota. Once past the washout, I felt better and knew we would make it out.

The drive down the paved hill also proved dangerous, as wind and rain made conditions on the 5% grade gnarly. A month later a trucker would be crushed to death here on a clear, dry, calm evening: victim of underestimating the road. As I approached town, the wind and lightening subsided, but I could still see the fireworks over our old campground.

With no place to go, I parked the truck in the lot at Wal-Mart, where half a day earlier I had bought the tent. Soaked, the three of us made our bed in the back of the truck. Ms. Bea on a small seat, Monkey Man half on top me the whole night, as I lay diagonal across the seat braces.

Early in the bright, clear, morning I got out to take care of the dogs. They needed a walk, (euphemism to go potty), food and water. The truck was a mess, covered outside and inside with fine, dried, red mud. For a parking lot, there sure was a lot of traffic. There were about twenty campers parked out in about three main groups. My truck sat alone. Last night I didn’t notice a single one, as I was just focused on parking. If I hadn’t been so exhausted I doubt any wood would have been sawed. These folks tend to stay up, though I’m guessing last night they were as snug as bug in a rug. An elderly man waved at me and indicated he wanted to talk with me. He gingerly approached me from a spiffy, gleaming, aluminum $100,000 camper being towed by a $60,000 truck that looked like it had never ventured on anything worse than a dirt driveway. I must have been quite the sight for I was coated head to toe in the red dust. My face looked like a child’s mug allergic to soap. He asked me, and as he did so, he pointed a crooked finger up toward the hills and looked at me to make sure I was following his direction, and then wagged his weathered digit toward where the majestic golden field hid from all but wildlife and errant campers, if I had seen the storm last night. Before I could reply, he stated that it had been a doozy. Yes, I said, I saw it.

New Books from Raven House Publishing, LLC

Ms. Bea; Wonder Dog!

WOOF !

Right after this she spotted an intruder and jumped off

the 6' rock into deep snow. Didn't miss a step.

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