Monday, October 26, 2009

A Day in the Week of a Courier

Friday Perspective
Courier Chronicles

In lieu of the normal weekend report recapping my latest excursion in life I transfer you today experiences from the job scene on Friday. This will be a different attempt. I sometimes wish I could hand write my post with pencil on a pad as it is happening. I would take pictures to fill in the gaps. Then in my dream world I could later at my own convenience scan the document and post it for you to my see the authenticity on paper. I could keep a little hand written book going and when I filled all of the pages I would store the little bound document on a shelf in the barn. Pencil written blog post, instead I am typing late Friday recounting how my job works completely around the forward movement of myself through the tunnels uptoon.

May I start my explaining the situation leading up to Friday's adventure. Two weeks ago while having a convo with my Rookie I had a vision that I would be working all day on Friday the 23rd even though I did not find officially find out until last night. I was so aware that I would be pulling a long day that I made at least two separate humans know of my work related premonition. Fate, synchro and the ability to see and take what is going on around me at face value leads me to the truth. So, I worked all day today and had these amazing transfers stack up on themselves as if they were rookies or better yet cookies.

The first one: I took a lift in an auto viper, hence the puny Friday blog post. It is definitely not the normal routine which leads to cosmic timing implications. In the passenger seat of the car approaching from the North and East I can see the buildings through the glass. It is an earlier view than my normal 0745hrs perspective which is usually around about the time that I roll out of Dooleyville for the Jar. Seeing the sunlight bursting through the cuts in the overwhelmingly gray low cloud sky gave me cause to consider time and space. At one point minutes from the car stopping up in a garage, the crown of the tallest building in town appeared lit by rising sun. Resplendent against an early morning dark sky. The lower floors below the crowned roof and halfway down the building were obscured by a dark low cloud enveloping the symbol of our Nation's backbone. The cloud was an elongated runner feeding over the hill that is the square and it was interlacing like the fingers of Mother Nature herself with the steel and glass structures as if they were no part of the atmospheric decision. Low clouds, individual at sunrise take on the characters of human emotions.

As soon as I got on my bike I rolled out north and east back towards the auto view that had stolen my thoughts and side tracked my infantile attention. I stopped at ten and eleven Blocks north and one East. The view was slightly better and free of overhead three more blocks further out. I looked through and saw the crown in a gap and then pulled back to witness the bigger picture. I left the bike across the street and took to foot for a better vantage. I watched the sky and light change in front of me for over twenty minutes. Then I took off for the US Post Office for the start of my day, it was 0812hrs.

Mail Delivery times two then a warm cup of coffee. I find myself with Crackauer's latest written effort, Where Men Win Glory under a fire escape and next to a red brick corridor. It is the story of Pat Tillman's life and death from infant to the NFL and on to Afghanistan where he was killed with a squad automatic weapon fired by one of his fellow platoon members in Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion Seventy Fifth Ranger Regiment. I am listening. Coll is referenced in the first few chapters as is Lawrence Wright. These are authors I have already faced the truth with, my familiarity with the context in which their words were applied made me feel in touch with 'reality'. The phone rings, I'm Bootsed. Before the normal schedule starts I am on a mission to the State Courthouse Chambers to pick up a signed order and then get it filed below with the clerk. I take the rest of my warm cafe in a few gulps, put the book in the bag and then buckle up one handed on the roll like Dicky taught me. I got the two jobs done and returned by 1010hrs, enough time to start the 1015 schedule at one firm with two departments.

Then onto the 1030 at two firms in two different buildings. Things stacked neatly in the bag, the CMPD HQ is is the first stop at 601 East Trade. The records department will have something set aside for me. I lock up, walk in and am greeted by a fellow sitting on the bench with three plastic grocery bags at his feet. At the Kiosk were three armed and vested CMPD officers, I look for and get eye contact then turn left to the records window. The girl disappears to let my contact know that I have arrived. While I wait I look over and see the light dark man on the bench fixing a little late breakfast out of the plastic bags. A cylinder like box of Quaker Oats into a yellow plastic bowl with a white plastic spoon. He pours Milk in, floating his oats. Is this really happening as he sets the room temperature concoction down next to his side and reaches into a different plastic bag pulling out some bread, Peanut Butter and another plastic knife utensil. This guy is more cracked than I am, I thought to myself as the Lead Cop stood up from behind the desk kiosk and started with a firm verbal ball busting about identity, blood tests, the FBI and Wade County. The big mustached cop was familiar with the identity of the light dark twitchy man with no other place to fix some fooding other than where he sat in the Head Quarters of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department.
In an effort to keep your attention this story will continue tomorrow.

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