Declare The Pennies On Your Eyes.

Ever since my tax lien went public, I've been flooded with paper mail from credit doctors of all sorts. Usually they come in the form of an "official" document to be opened only by addressee, complete with faux red-rubber-stamps like "URGENT" or "ACTION TAKEN" betrayed only by their 'pre-sorted' postage.

But this one is different. Holy Crap! What kind of Year 3000 punishment is about to rain down on me? THE TAX MAN IS COMING! AND HE HAS REALLY BAD SKIN! I hope he doesn't trash my new 3D suit!

Hope Is A Two-Headed Flower.

Reeve's mom gave us this flower bulb back in November and we planted it right away. It soon sprouted, then grew slowly, unfurling its green arms. We went away over Christmas for a couple of days and left the heat in the apartment off. When we came back the plant had totally flopped over and wilted.

We staked it up with dry spaghetti and yarn and it collapsed again, looking completely defeated. Some time went by and we cut off a few creased and torn chutes, and eventually the remaining stalk started growing straight again, up toward the skylight.

Well, it got really big and tall but we weren't sure if it was going to bloom. Then, just a couple of days ago, out popped not one but two big blossoms. On the same day I received an email from someone I had contacted a few months back, asking if I had settled into a job yet here in Portland. He referenced a previous email which, strangely, I never received and said he was currently looking to add a fourth person to his consulting firm and could we meet the next day?

So we met yesterday and will meet again next week, but it looks like a very strong lead with a talented and hip group of ex-New Yorkers. And it pays well. Cross your fingers for me!

Miller & Willie.

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I called up and got an annoyed sounding woman's "Hello?" I asked if I had reached Andrew's Brewing Company. I heard a shuffling and then a man's voice came on "Hello?" I asked again and he confirmed that I had the right number. I asked whether they do brewery tours (with the hope of meeting the animals pictured on the beer label). That's when I learned the tragic news.

The man on the phone said the dog and cat (Miller and Willie) are long dead. But, he said, they led good lives and are buried in the backyard. Oh, and there are plenty of other dogs and cats running around the brewery these days, I was assured. I asked the man's name and he sounded confused. "Andy." Of course, what was I thinking? This brewery doesn't even have a website, let alone a staff.

Andy said he doesn't much like giving tours, but he will if he has to. He's two hours north of Portland, not too far from Bar Harbor. He said if I give him a few days' notice, he could show me around on a Saturday. He usually cuts wood all day on Saturdays, he said. But he'd come out of the woods to show me the place. And added that I shouldn't expect too much. "It's no Shipyard Brewery, but the beer's better at least."

I also learned that Miller the dog had a brother named Nick, as if I needed another reason to drink this beer. Seriously, with this label, I don't know how Andrew's isn't a major contender.

Brooklyn.

Brooklyn: I think about you every day, good and awful.

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Lien On Me.

Two liens actually. One federal and one state. It's okay though; they'll magically disappear from my credit report in 10 years. Poof!

I've been ruminating about my FICO score lately as I helplessly watch an assortment of nails expertly hammered into my credit coffin. The IRS action was the debt zenith of the recent months since my move to Maine. Other highlights include my bank closing my checking account following a "sustained overdraft" of $650; an ER bill sent to collections; a few cell phone and internet shut-offs; back rent on our apartment, vet and car repair bills, etc.

Of course a job-- even a modest job-- would set me on the road to recovery. I had a job, as a Traveling IT Guy, but I just found out that the company I was working for was less-than-clear about what I was being paid. The $1,300 check I was planning on using to pay my back rent appeared in my mailbox in the form of a $200 slap in the face. All of my jobs for the past two months, even jobs I drove 2 hours to get to, were paid at only $20 each (but were supposed to pay out at $55-$250 per job).

The only solid job lead I have now is with a large local employer who requires a credit check. Yep, I need "an excellent credit score" (according to my 20-year-old recruiter) in order to be considered for employment with this company. In fact, when this policy was introduced in December, the person in the now-vacant position was fired for having a bankruptcy on his report. It seems the company retro-assessed the "risk" of their current employees.

I also needed to provide a list, including dates, of all of my residences for the past seven years (I've had nine). And submit to a drug test. I have to wonder if there are civilizations whose members don't live and die by their credit histories.

I Feel You, Roz.

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Gravy Job.

Every week when I show up to work, the first thing I do is go to the break room to punch in. And every week there is some seriously nasty food sitting out just for us employees. There's always at least one heaping, congealed plate of sausage gravy. Here we see some bonus bits of bacon frozen in time.

There's also a note from the manager taped to the refrigerator encouraging us to help ourselves to any expired milk or yogurt we find. God I love this job.

Driven by Positive Thinking.

My "manager" at the hotel bar is about 25. This is his mug.

My girlfriend doesn't think this is funny and I sort of agree. She thinks it's just pedestrian and not any more clever than the average indie comedy film about hipster slackers working corporate jobs. I do agree, but when I post here, it's more about identifying things that depress me rather than trying to make people laugh.

After all, I really don't have or expect a readership. I've posted over 60 items and have had 3 comments from the world. I do this for me, for my current and future self. Maybe by trotting my pet peeves out, I'll realize their banality and move on.

I guess what I hate about this mug is that this guy has been effectively lobotomized at age 25. The mug is consistent with the rest of his personality and his "go get 'em-ness" as an assistant manager at an airport hotel. Perhaps what really bothers me is that:

a. I wish I was blissfully ignorant like him;
b. my inability to understand him reminds me of the alienation I feel as an American;
c. he earns more than I do;
d. he has more hair than me;
e. he has better credit than me;
f. he's younger than me;
g. he's on a career track.

Or maybe I just hate him because he's Driven by Positive Thinking.

Salad Bar Mitzvah.

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For my IT Guy job, I go all around the greater Portland, Maine area to retail and office locations as well as people's homes. Today I was sent out to a grocery store to fix this 42" plasma TV/computer setup that dangles from the ceiling above the store's salad bar.

The TV has a desktop PC bolted to the back of it and a black steel shell covering the PC, the whole streamlined mess suspended from a pole. The salad bar was near the meat counter, so when I arrived, I asked the meat person to page the store manager so I could check in and she did. "Amy Martino to the salad bar please." Suddenly, the poor woman at the meat counter was reamed a new anus by an assistant manager with a greasy comb-over.

"Don't EVER page the manager by their full name unless it's an emergency! That's the code for an emergency! It's 'MIZZ Martino' unless you're being robbed or you cut your hand off in the slicer... I swear to god, if you page the manager by their full name, you'll have four guys running over here preparing for an emergency!"

Then, presumably to call off the approaching mob, the comb-over guy snapped up the white phone and enunciated "MIZZ MARTINO... to the salad bar please... MIZZ Martino." The deli woman cocked her head and fidgeted with her ear. I wasn't sure if she was embarrassed for herself or for comb-over guy.

Anyway, the jobs were easy: remove the massive aerodynamic steel shell and replace some cables. Of course, until I fixed it, I didn't know what the screen would be displaying. I just perched on the stair ladder tinkering with wires and watching the weirdos parading through loading up their salad tubs with "salad," perhaps in the throes of a 2008 resolution. You know, salad-- pineapple rings, jello, pasta, croutons, dinner rolls, cheese, fruit medley, ranch dressing-- healthy stuff. Smashed into a gallon-sized tub, its top held on by rubber bands.

Maybe the vantage point of the stair ladder inflated my confidence, but I couldn't stop judging these people. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. A goateed employee broke my trance. "LCD or plasma?"

"Sorry?"

"LCD or plasma?" this time nodding up toward the TV I was working on.

"Oh, ah, plasma."

"See, I want an LCD. My wife is making me wait a few more years cuz the price keeps coming down. 10 years ago one of them cost eight grand!" Then something caught his attention and he was gone.

As I worked, I reflected on the day before, and how I was completely out of money and had no gas in the car. I had ended up at a toll booth on I-95 without the $1.25 I needed to pass through. I rolled up to the guy and said "I don't have it!" He calmly wrote me a promissory note (!) and had me sign my name agreeing to mail $1.25 to the Maine Turnpike Authority within 5 days.

I felt so demoralized but was soon distracted by the fuel gauge dipping into uncharted territory. I was so sure that I was going to run out of gas that I was just running damage control, shutting down unnecessary drains on the electrical system-- stereo, headlights, GPS-- in an effort to get the last few meters out of what I had in the tank.

When I thought I felt the car lurching, I called 611 on my cell phone and had Sprint add roadside assistance to my monthly plan. I tried to sound nonchalant: "Hi, is there some sort of roadside assistance that Sprint offers? There is? Hmm, I think I might be interested in adding that today." The operator told me that in the event I ever need to use my new feature, all I need to do is dial #ROAD. Somehow I made it home without needing to.

Then, last night, I did some cash-in-hand Mac support for my film-maker friend David which allowed me to fill the tank with gas, maybe for the first time. I couldn't stop staring at the gas gauge after that. The needle looked so funny all the way up. I was so used to it being in the red or even below the red. I was hypnotized by it, smiling like an idiot.

These were my thoughts when the plasma screen came to life and I was snapped back into the moment, successful in my tinkering. The content on the screen was a bewildering arrangement of panels and frames displaying all kinds of information. Scrolling news, a slide show of supermarket specials, a tanned TV cook talking about lime zest. "I just love to use lime zest. Even when a recipe calls for lemon zest I use lime zest! When you're choosing your lime, choose the shiniest one. The shiniest lime will have the most juice."

Huh. OK. Well, that was fixed. So I wrapped the black shell back around the works and bolted it in place. I gathered up my tools and asked the poor meat woman if she'd please page Mizz Martino back to the salad bar and had her sign my completed work order.

Then, as I walked away I turned to look back at the salad bar. Several schlubs were gathered around smashing "salad" into their tubs, heads cocked up at the TV processing some amuont of the bombastic content. Maybe they were wondering what lime zest was.

I almost turned to leave, then was suddenly proud of what I'd accomplished. I came and fixed something that was broken and now these people were interacting with the thing. Though in the most banal sense, I was useful and felt like a real person. Just like with the gas gauge, I was hypnotized by the TV, smiling like an idiot.

Excellent Communications Skills.

When applying for jobs, I am always sure to call attention to my excellent communication skills. After a while though, it just sounds rote and I start to wonder if my skills really are all that great. But then I see something like this and I am reminded that people suffer at the hands of poor communicators.

p.s. People still use clip-art?

Nerd Spray.

Sometimes, my IT Guy job is hard. But sometimes I show up on site and there's nothing for me to do. Whatever the problem was has vanished. This frequently happens with printers. One of my first support calls was to a place that printed paychecks; both of their paycheck printers were broken. When I arrived, the printers were humming along nicely and there was apparently nothing that needed attention.

The woman in charge of the print room had fixed them by installing "maintenance kits" which was already about as much as I would ever know how to do. She was glad I was there anyway. "Well, now that you're here, maybe you could go through and do a preventive maintenance on these machines just to keep us going as long as possible."

I figured I might as well do something so I could say I was there and get paid for the call. All I could think to do was to get out my can of compressed air, open the hatches on the sides of the printers and thoughtfully spritz some air into the works.

My girlfriend calls it Nerd Spray. I made a point of getting the most industrial-looking brand at the electronics store here in Portland. The can is huge. It commands respect.

Yesterday I was sent to a local heat oil company to service a $7,000 Printronix "line matrix printer," the thing they use to print people's power bills. That's it up there on the left. When I arrived I was shown to the printer which was spitting out power bills at a steady pace. The error message on the screen that was called in had disappeared several hours ago. Out comes the Nerd Spray.

I got $80 for that call and $120 for the call to the paycheck place. It offsets days like today: I drive 90 minutes each way to New Hampshire, spending $25 on gas and tolls in order to swap someone's CD drive in their home PC for $45. And then on they way home, about to run out of gas, I slap down the last 4 quarters to my name on the counter of an off-ramp gas station "Put these on 3," as if I'm betting on a horse.

The downside is that the Nerd Spray jobs engender a different kind of stress, almost worse than the stress of "will I be able to fix this thing." It becomes "will I be able to pretend I know some advanced IT voodoo and put a curse on this thing so it won't break again in the next 24 hours?"

The Young People.

Just when I was beginning to think that I was living in a backwater here in Maine, along comes the Portland Press Herald to the rescue with a cutting-edge column called NXT: Next Generation, in which a not-too-old and not-too-black Minnesotan named Justin Ellis "brings you dispatches about 'the young people' and what they do."

OMFG!

Hat Trick.

For three consecutive nights-- an entire "work week"-- I had no customers at the bar.

Sure, the shifts are only 4-10, but come on. 18 straight business hours with NOT ONE PERSON. Except for my friend David who was out by the mall anyway and stopped in for a Coke because I guilted him.

Not making any money is one thing, as is being bored. But as you may know, I live for the random customers at this place. The occasional bar patrons at this deserted airport hotel are the only solace for a 33-year-old bartender making $135/week. With a BA and 10 years of professional IT experience.

Like last week. I had this guy at the bar, a real NYC artist with works in the permanent collections of the MOMA and the Whitney. He asked for an Absolut with grapefruit juice and soda, then ordered a pizza to the bar and split it with me. He was such a breath of fresh air: not only a living, breathing (smoking) customer, but proof that New York still exists even though I can't see it anymore. We talked about how embarrassed we are by humanity, about Chinatown, where he lives, and about DUMBO, where he has his studio.

He was witty, flamboyant and self-assured-- such the opposite of New Englanders. He seemed genuinely interested in me and how I ended up at the bar. We finished off the pizza, he fielded a few cell phone calls, had a couple more drinks, and signed his check which included a huge tip, even though I ate his pizza and complained to him most of the time.

And then he was gone, and I was again staring at this horrible carpeting and the piped-in musical counterpart to the carpeting. It was an elevator version of No Woman No Cry. The local 10:00 news was on the TV and I suddenly felt so depressed.

You Want Your Cancer Meds WHEN?!?!

As a freelance "IT Guy" working part-time for a 3rd party dispatch service, I frequently pose as an employee of companies I've never heard of, at places I've never been for people I will never meet. That's all pretty awkward, but the hardest part to get used to is showing up at a place only to be faced with technology I've never laid hands-- or sometimes eyes-- on. In my life.

Yesterday I drove 40 miles out of town to a Rite-Aid to "replace a part in a printer," according to my work order. I showed up and identified myself to the nearest cashier as an employee of Silver Fox Solutions. I was asked to wait, then greeted by a pleasant, big-haired manager named Darlene who told me to follow her to the broken printer.

I was expecting to be taken to some crusty manager's office when Darlene dipped through the waist-high swinging door of the photo department and nodded at a large metal structure. She hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her high-waisted jeans and said "There she be. Have fun." and dipped back into the store leaving the door swinging and me staring at the structure, blankly nodding my head.

It turned out that the monolith I was to service was the main digital imaging workstation for the photo department-- the thing that prints the customers' digital photos. I read through the PDF I was given when I accepted the job and the document took me through disassembly of the steel shell that housed the printer and the replacement of the faulty part.

After three hours, victory was mine when, suddenly, an entire roll of someone's pictures began to spit out one after the other-- a dozen or so flash-washed images of a house cat in various stages of repose on what must have been a new scratching post, Christmas tree in the background.

I'm trying not to get too stressed by the randomness of these jobs. I'm not about to lose sleep if I'm responsible for some fat-ass not getting his boring Christmas pictures back before New Year's day, but today I had to go fix some weird drug-dispensing tower at a hospital cancer ward.

Of course when I took the job I was merely told that I'd be troubleshooting a USB peripheral on a computer. In fact, the computer in question controlled a variety of "peripherals" including locks on two drug refrigerators and the doors and drawers of the giant drug-dispensing tower.

I introduced myself to the receptionist at the cancer ward as an employee of Generation Next, and when a nurse showed me to the drug tower, she assumed I was intimately familiar with not only the workings of "the system," but also its quirks. "Of course the fridge door takes forever to pop open once the system unlocks it, but you know how long we've been complaining about that."

The tower was loaded with drug vials with names like Cyclophosphamide and Mitomycin. The drugs are very expensive, she told me, up to $9,000 for a single dose. I was there because the drawers and doors of the tower no longer opened when "the system" told them to. I sized the whole shebang up and down with the nurse still standing there. I nodded slowly, gravely, with narrowed eyes, opening and closing the doors of the cabinet softly as if feeling for some tell-tale resistance in the hinges. "Mm-Hm..."

Once the nurse left me alone for a few minutes and I got a feel for how all of this equipment worked in concert, my panic subsided and I took notice of my immediate surroundings. There, taped to one of the drug refrigerators, was one of those "humorous" line drawings you'd see in a DMV cubicle or stuck to a cash register at a hole-in-the-wall auto parts store, or perhaps at a Rite-Aid photo department: a 10th generation photocopy of a guy falling on the ground and bursting into laughter saying "You want it When?!"

Wait, what?

"Excuse me, nurse? Can I please have my chemo?"
"When would you like that, sir?"
"Um, well, can I get it now? I mean I'm here and everything. And I'm dying and stuff"
"Wait... YOU WANT IT WHEN?! AHH-HA-HA-HA-HA"

Anyway, somehow I fixed the tower and got out of there. This job is so weird. I keep thinking one day the jig will be up.