today's tom sawyer

Once, I believed I had the greatest responsibility in human nature to fulfill, that is, taking part in the raising of a child. With responsibility comes more responsibility, which is why I found myself making copies in the dead of night, during the pregnancy and first few months. I'd been out of work since I dropped my schooling. It's arguable that a full time third shift job will tear at one's health just as much as funded unemployment. Some known to me would attest, I was a mess before all of this. Kinko's office and print center eventually wore me down to a nub, too. Lucky for me, and my ex's daughter, humans regenerate. You'd think these monkeys were half phoenix; I rose to take on more late night employment at a local television station. I'd been cutting my meds in half with a razor blade each night when working for Kinko's, just to keep my head above the desk. Now, I cut them with a quart of coffee. Arguably, just as effective. As well as the money I'm bringing in, I've stabilized as a person. The electric shock of parenthood was like the zap they give the kind of mental patient I may have become had none of this occurred.

I started working at the local t.v. station early fall off this year. Upon hiring, I was asked to sign an agreement that included a promise not to share company secrets. I'm not sure what qualifies as a secret. After all, my family has been to tour the station, including the control room where I spend most of my time. A fax came through once, describing an auto accident, including names of victims. It stated in caps lock that the information was not to be released until the next morning. I did nothing with the fax, and even kept my fingerprints away from it entirely. Perhaps the reception of these kinds of faxes is a secret, but I'll risk it for journalism's sake. I read once of an Apple computer employee that got canned for blogging a new product prior to its debut. I had an electronics instructor in college who would punctuate each ramble with "...and stuff ...and things ...and that." No lie, twelve times a class period without a hint of salt. So, I have gotten the idea to divulge what I believe are the stations secrets, replacing all nouns with 'stuff,' 'things,' and 'that.'

My manager came in to talk to me yesterday. He said he wasn't directing this stuff at anyone in particular, but that the things weren't getting in the stuff, and that. We really need to get the stuff in the things, so be sure to do things so that they do. The night shift hasn't been getting the stuff in the things, and that, so the morning shift has too much stuff to get in the thing. "I need a refresher on how to get the things in the thing..." I said. His head kind of twitched to one side, realizing I was admitting guilt for ignorance of putting stuff in things, and holding up the morning shift. "Come in a half hour early and we'll get you trained on [and?] that." He comes off like he's gonna be all up in your stuff. But, my manager is pretty nice, and stuff, and things.

Underneath, it's a lot of techno babble, and really gains very little in translation. I probably needed not hide it, anyway. Here's a story from work of personal observation. Each taped show needs to be "timed" so that local commercials will air over the right portions of the tape when aired. It involves a television monitor and a console. I rewind the tape and stop the it each time the monitor goes blank. Then, I write down the displayed time on a small piece of paper to be entered into a computer, later. It was a tricky little task at first, for me, but I soon got the hang of it. See, when you're close to the blankness, you need to switch the console from "shuttle" to "jog." This allows you to fine tune your position on the tape, and get an accurate time reading. Of course, you often overshoot your mark on "shuttle," so you might be "jogging" for a number of seconds. I'm getting pretty good at jogging at a good speed, which involves spinning the dial on the console very quickly with your finger pressed into an inverted nub. One day while jogging, I couldn't help but notice how the tight circular finger motion was like the vigorous massaging of a clitoris. I think of this each time I am timing a tape now. I'm still not bad at it, but my finger slips from the nub when I start to believe, and I go for the labia.

No, my job is not without its rewards. The Coke machine nearest my house has raised its toll from seventy-five cents to one dollar. However, the Coke machine at work still requires only seventy-five. I know I'm admitting to an awful unhealth, but I'll down three Diet Cokes on a ten hour shift. (This is after my quart of coffee.) So, I slip three dollar bills into the reader, get three Diet Cokes, and it spits back three tokens I can redeem for a candy bar. Which, my body is quite craving after teasing my metabolism with chemical sweetener. There are often leftovers from parties or conventions hanging around the break room, too. And, I don't think it's any company secret that I ate the last two thirds of the apple cinnamon cheesecake from the Christmas party.

I work alone, and have in the majority of my jobs. I do get some interaction at the television station. I was nearly given a heart attack by a couple of Southeast Asian immigrants who only needed to clean the place. I heard talking, and a quick glimpse of who I thought were teenagers__they were the right height, anyway. I thought we were being robbed. I summoned my best "Who's there!" They knew some English, enough to say that they were from Service-Master. I'm thankful they didn't bust in while I was sub-directing the newscast. Which, is the other form of contact I have with others in my job. A friend was very impressed to hear that I give countdowns from commercial breaks during the nine o'clock news. I'm not in the studio at the time. I'm on the telephone, a headset. But, whatever gets her wet. The extent of communication we have, aside from coordinative, is saying hello and goodnight. Some nights I ask "What's up?" or "How's it going?" The news is always good, even if the news is not.

I was welcomed to the broadcasting network by a phone call from the news anchor. I thought of all the things I should have said, afterward. So, I suppose it was like any other time I've spoken with a girl, for the first time. It's no secret the anchor is a looker. Perhaps she's the network affiliate's secret weapon. She almost makes me wish I received the channel at home. I have this secret fantasy that I'll see her in public. I can meet the face behind the glass, and she can meet the man behind the curtain. I'd say that's pretty clean and innocent daydreaming. Keeping it professional. Strange... that in such an environment, eroticism at work rises in me only from an editing machine console.

Tonight, while tenderly jogging through segments of the latest Girls Gone Wild infomercial, I reflected. I'm a bit more reflective, of late. Retrospective, too. There's parenthood behind me, that could have stretched 'til my death. At times when parenting was too intense, I'd plan my reaction to a negative paternity result. I'd usually soon recall the physicality between myself and my ex, and move on to more productive synapses. Who knew? Contained in my fantasies were the telling-off of my ex's father, quitting my job, moving cross country; in order from most to least absurd. I have no business with that family anymore, I like my job__it's vitality beyond money. In a circle of cute Denny's waitresses, my job has earned me the nickname Mr. 44, for the UHF channel by which the broadcast is received. There's no reason to verbally put the finishing touches on the wreck of a relationship I had with my ex's father. How I'd like to have no weekly margins of time in which to pursue the hobby of binge drinking, but no. I've seen what I can become when unchecked. Without a child occupying the regions of concernedness in my brain, it's become clear to me that I am just as big a babe to be swaddled.