S5: Kaiser

I left Prescott pondering Dr. Roberts’ message and the apparently supernatural intervention that allowed me to hear it. Up to now my destination had been Nowhere, CS (State of Confusion). Hopefully I might have ended up finding my haven in a cave, capable of protecting me from the extreme heat. Even better would be an abandoned–or ideally, lost–gold mine. With my recent run of luck and boneheaded choices, my most likely landing spot would be a hot flat rock with a rattlesnake to cuddle up to.

            But now as the miles slipped away again, I had this burst of spiritual illumination to nudge my choices. If indeed I actually did matter somehow, then maybe I should be choosing a destination more consistent with mattering in whatever ways people matter.

            So how–and why–do people matter, I wondered. I still don’t have a fully satisfactory answer for that question, even much later as I recall events and chronicle these twists and turns, even after what happened next in my story.

            I followed SR 89A to Interstate 10 and then turned west toward southern California. Being an ex-Adventist, I have many friends who live in Corona, Riverside, Loma Linda, La Sierra, Hemet, Redlands, and all the other SDA communes gathered around the medical, theological, educational, and food industries of Adventist Mecca. I figured maybe one of them might be the “inside connection” I needed to reenter a refined and polite society of The Employed. After all, now that I mattered to God once again, He was going to bless me and restore my fortune. Right? Isn’t that how the story of Job spun itself out in the concluding chapter? Not meaning to, I rehearsed the high points of that Old Testament saga. My brain actually twisted itself into a weird pretzel appreciating the dual notion that Job made a career of being God’s man . . . and “JOB” was also a cryptic three-letter word for being employed and earning a paycheck and all that good stuff. Job . . . wealthy Bible guy. Job . . . W2 forms, eight-to-five, health care benefits.

            Bruce, my man, I think you’re cracking up just a little bit . . .

            I pushed that reverie to the side and focused on the additional So Cal factoid that my second wife was still living in Beaumont, had never remarried, and still carried my name. Yes, I was still technically married to my third wife, but after all, we were separated and she was in Colorado. So no, any possible spousal reunions were probably not the things that mattered most to God, but still could possibly be a fringe benefit.

            I drove along, absorbing the new ideas from Prescott, and at the same time letting my mind sail off into some oddly-sized fantasies.

My car and I wheezed into Southern California, and I quickly fell into an existence of soaking up the undeserved kindnesses of friends. Several of them cheerfully helped me out with gifts of money, sometimes rather large sums.

            I blush to remember it, but “No, no, I got it” now became the expected mantra when my faithful comrades covered my tab at a fast-food joint. Hebert surprised me one afternoon over a shared plate of fries at McDonald’s. We’d been commiserating over the reality that he was facing surgery to remove a malignant prostate. And all at once he came out with this. “I got a nice offer for you.”

            “What’s that?”

            He helped himself to one more fry before pushing the last few golden treats toward me. “With me going under the knife Joanne and I can’t use the cabin this summer.”

            “For the whole season? Bummer.”

            “Tell me about it. ‘Cause, man, it’s sweet up there. Mercury hardly ever goes higher than about 75.”

            “And . . .”

            My friend looked right at me. “It’s yours if you want it.”

            I gaped at him. “Hebert. Man, no way.”

            “Why not?”

            It was a galactic gift which nearly took my breath away. “But . . . hey, what can I offer you in return? I got nothing.”

            “Doesn’t matter. Well, there is one thing.”

            “Man, you just name it.”

            “Fire code says we need to clear out a ring around the place. Hundred-foot perimeter. Get all the pine needles and underbrush and such; just push it into a stack fifty paces away from the cabin in all directions. Hopefully we can get through the Santa Ana season without mishap.”

            I exhaled, hardly believing the guy’s generosity. “I’ll pick that place clean. You kidding?”

            “Plus say a prayer on my behalf every now and then.”

            I wasn’t about to mention my lingering doubts about the efficacy of getting down on my knees. “For sure.” We exchanged a fist bump, and lo, he fished out an envelope and there were the keys.

            Hebert’s cabin was a few tens and twenties and fifties of miles (and more) away from all the places where I would be submitting resumés, so I was grateful for the rent-free aspect. Still, my limited resources were still very precious and tended to dwindle more rapidly than I liked! Often I would drive to somewhere, a lengthy trek offering but one prospective employer for the day, and once that resumé was finished and submitted, I would revert to my Matthew 20 scheme at the local Home Depot parking lot, standing around and holding up a “Ready to Work” sign, hoping someone would give me this day my daily bread. 

           By the way, just hoisting that cardboard plea is long, hot, tiring, and discouraging work in itself. In southern California the majority of people trying to scratch for day-to-day work in this manner are Hispanic. And I can testify to one thing: you can throw out all the stereotypes. These folks are not low-lifes or deadbeats or drunks or bums or lazy or criminals. I stood there among them and now I know. Almost without exception, they’re decent, diligent people with good humor that defies how difficult life is when this parking-lot-roulette is the only way you can get work. They are almost universally ignored; many are unkindly berated. Oftentimes they’re run off by minimum-wage employees hired by the megastore or home improvement center and assigned as “Parking Lot Attendants” specifically for the job of driving away “those illegals.”

            I recall one slow, simmering day when I was loitering with a small group, perhaps a half-dozen Hispanic guys. Probably half of them couldn’t speak English, and my Spanish vocabulary pretty much starts and stops with enchilada. But we were gamely conversing the best we could, taking turns borrowing the small circle of sparse shade provided by immature trees planted in islands in the parking lot. One of those patrol guys made a beeline toward us, and everyone flinched when they saw his parking lot attendant vest. This employee happened to be black and he paused to take stock of the situation. I guess he was just doing his duty as told, but he shooed all my Hispanic friends away. When I turned to leave with them, he quickly said, “Oh, it’s OK. You can stay.”

            Huh? I was there in the same lot as the others, sharing their situation and their economic plight, but somehow it was okay for me to stay and not them. I was confused and showed him my sign: “I *WANT* to work. What do you need me to do?”

            “It’s cool,” he said. “We just can’t, you know, be running an employment temp agency here in the parking lot.”

            “But it’s okay for me? And not them?”

            “Yeah. Just . . . do your thing, man. Get a gig and clear out of here fast as you can.”

            It took me a moment to regain my moral footing. “You know what? I’m out of here. You guys need to grow a conscience or something.”

            Speaking of cardboard signs, I fell back on the old tried-and-true idea of just trolling for dollars. I penned another masterpiece with my best lettering: NEED WORK. NEED GAS TO GET WORK. CAN YOU HELP?

            I planted myself at a choice panhandling location: the intersection of an Interstate off-ramp and a city street. Holding my sign aloft, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself $17 ahead in just over an hour. On the one hand, that’s a tad better than minimum wage! But the reality was that I’d gotten a lucky $10 from one person, a crisp five-dollar bill from another, and loose quarters and dimes from most everyone else. Not to mention a whole lot of studious look-the-other-ways by probably 120 motorists. Amortized into a ten-hour work shift, I wasn’t confident this could become my prosperous new life.

            It was a moot point, though. I was barely into Hour #2 when a city cop showed up in his patrol car. I already knew the California Highway Patrol exercised dominion over the Interstate and all its on- and off-ramps. This guy wasn’t with them. Still, he parked and strode up to me with an officious gleam in his eye. “Let’s move it along, fella. You can’t be doing that here.”

            “But I’m not on the off-ramp!”

            “Doesn’t matter.”

            “This is the pedestrian sidewalk.” I gestured at the surrounding pavement to buttress my case.

            “We got a smart guy here? Huh? Good luck with that, pal. Fact is, you’re breaking vagrancy laws. An’ you say another word about it, you’re off to jail. Your choice.”

            Wow. I didn’t know enough to be sure of my own legal footing, but the message seemed clear enough. It is illegal to try to obtain money if you are unemployed. And even more illegal if you are homeless.

I had filed with a dozen employment agencies. One of them had submitted my resumé to Kaiser Permanente, but I’d gotten a generic form letter with the bland decree that I didn’t fit their profile. As is typical, there was a slender shred of hope tagged on at the close: However, we will keep your resumé on file, circumstances do change, in the event, blah blah blah.

            Quite some time had crept past while I heard zero from either Kaiser or the agency. Then one Wednesday, as I was scrounging for some lunch, I received a call from Alex, the agency recruiter who had recommended me for that Kaiser help desk job.

            “I maybe got something,” she told me without preamble.

            “I’ll take anything.”

            “Well, who knows, but Kaiser wants to have a face-to-face with you. If you’re interested.”

            “I’m interested!” I shouted. “I’m super-interested. Just say when and say where. I’m not exactly in a choosy frame of mind.”

            Alex wished me a cheerful good luck and said she’d text me the details. Tomorrow morning, Thursday, 11:00, in Corona.

The next day I carefully drove down the mountain toward Corona, determined to do my very best for this interview.

I’d done the mileage math and allowed myself a huge cushion of time “just in case.” With Lady Luck being as parsimonious as I’d ever seen her, at least in my case, it paid to give her a wide berth. And sure enough. I had just gotten off the winding two-lane mountain road and merged onto the broad ribbon of the I-10 Interstate when I spotted trouble ahead. Taillights! Gobs of them. It was nothing ahead but gridlock and traffic grinding to a halt. We were coming up to what locals call the Sixty-Ten Split near Beaumont, and commuters were frozen up going both east and west.

I blurted out some choice words and tried to peer over or around the cars in front of me. Thankfully the CHP patrol lights were just up ahead, and we all gaped at the carnage. A big-rig tractor-without-trailer had apparently gone right under the trailer of another truck. Crumpled metal everywhere, flares out, lookie-loos pausing to gawk. There wasn’t much left except the frame, wheels, engine and transmission. The fenders, hood, and cab were ripped completely off the frame.

My heart was in my throat as I looked at my own dashboard clock. God, don’t let me mess this up! It took a full hour for me to edge past the accident and back up to normal freeway speeds. Still okay, I muttered to myself. Still got some cushion there, Bruce.

            But as I wheeled up to the main gate of the Kaiser empire, my stomach went wobbly on me again. The corporate administrative offices were inside a veritable fortress of fences, pass gates, badge-accessed doors, and guards. I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, my anxiety multiplying as I eyed the other cars in the queue. It took me another frustrating half-hour to navigate that super-top-secret-maximum-security Kaiser headquarters compound. Still, I got to my appointment early, not late.

            The interview itself went quite well, I thought. A lady named Sabrina welcomed me, offered coffee and a pro forma query about the commute, and tsk tsked when I told her about the freeway pileup. Then, with a minimum of fuss, it was down to business. The interview consisted of her asking me prepared questions from a four-page briefing sheet she was holding. All standard stuff, boilerplate, and as far as I could tell, simple and uncomplicated. I was comfortable with my answers, neither hesitating nor having to embellish and “make stuff up.” Which I can definitely do, but who knows, maybe it shows on a guy’s face when he’s in the hot seat. All things considered, I felt a growing sense of optimism. So far so good!

            The interviewer set aside her printout and looked me up and down. “So, Mr. Younggreen, perhaps you have some questions for me?”

            Oh. Um, sure. I did ask her a few things about the work environment and Kaiser’s expectations. By now things felt more relaxed between us and she described the culture of the place in a way that sounded appealing. I can do this!

            At the conclusion of the interview she took me on a perfunctory tour of the help desk call center. It occupied an entire floor of the administration building, with maybe two hundred desks and a dozen supervisors. When the tour was over, I asked her, “So what’s next?”

            “Well, it generally takes a few days to go through all the processing.” A glance toward the elevators. “Who was your recruiter again?”

            “Alex.”

            “Oh yes. Well, I’d say you should hear from her by Tuesday at the latest.”

            Out in the parking lot I clicked my heels together and whistled a cheery tune all the way back up to the mountain and Hebert’s cabin.

I didn’t get the Kaiser job . . .

A wind storm had splatted another pile of pine cones into the sanctity of my 100-foot fireproof circle, so I’d spent a perspiring hour clearing things up. Just then my iPhone dinged. It was Alex.  

Bruce:

Unfortunately we got a note that the manager will be passing on your application for the Kaiser job. The reason was that they didn’t feel you’d be a good fit for their high-volume fast-paced environment.

I’m sorry!

Best regards,

Alex G.
Resource Development Manager

I stared at the cryptic words on my digital screen. Another failure. Another door slammed in my face. A sick feeling of disbelief washed over me and I slumped to my knees, letting the phone tumble off into the swept-up pile of cones.

Because I nailed that interview! Nailed it! In my gut I knew I’d given enough to that Kaiser Q & A to land a job at a phone bank! You kidding me? I had been at my best that morning.

At such a low moment, the mind skids off into all kinds of indignant alleys and U-turns of self-denial. Hey, it was Kaiser that blew the interview! That Sabrina lady, she was clueless! I coulda done that work no sweat and she knew it. What a crock!

I was disappointed and sorely depressed, and it took a while before I could even calm down enough to vent in anger to Mark, one of my longsuffering friends. Almost with trembling fingers, I typed out a vehement, frustrated email and hit send without editing it for punctuation or blasphemy.

            God doesn’t know what He wants. If God has other plans for me, why is He so impotent that He can’t bring them to fruition? The simple truth is, THERE IS NO “GOD BEYOND!”

            My buddy wrote back without delay.

I so agree that our Loving Creator God is very mysterious! I do know that if I was God, there would be a lot of dead people! I have also learned from my study of Scripture that when God shows up and finally reveals Him/Herself . . . you often wish Yahweh had stayed hidden!

            Well, thanks for that. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for an online Bible study from a friend whose bills were all paid and his mortgage note already burned. But my friend had plenty more ammo with him.

            I say that because when God showed up and talked with Job, HE WAS UNDONE! God proceeded to hammer him with a long series of questions for which Job had no answers. Fortunately, after Job was pounded into the ground, things DID get better–but it was a process and it took time. God had Job’s friends give him some money, and then Job had to go out and rebuild everything he had lost. (Read it for yourself: ch 38-42).

            Huh? How was I supposed to process something this apocalyptic? In that brutal Old Testament miniseries, God permitted Lucifer to literally take away everything Job possessed: all his crops, livestock, his ten kids, and even his health. If this was what I might expect, God was likely just getting started.

            I almost didn’t want to keep reading, but sat out there in the dust as my Christian friend continued to pour forth the Bible’s sagas of trial-by-fire.

            And how about when God showed up and talked with Gideon? Every time God opened His/Her mouth things got WORSE!

            I was familiar with the story, having absorbed the highlights in an Adventist elementary school. But I scrolled down the extended email and pondered why God would deal His servant such blows.

            “Gideon, your army is too big! I’m whittling it down to 300 men . . . to fight an army over 100,000 strong!”

            “Gideon, here are the weapons I want you to use in your upcoming battle: Torches and Trumpets!”

            There was more, but I shoved my phone into my pocket and paced the perimeter of my pal’s property, angry and profane thoughts crowding my brain. I wasn’t sure there was a God. But one thing I was absolutely positive about was this: I was in no condition to endure any heroic sagas along the lines of these Old Testament tales of woe. Joseph being accused of rape and then spending years in an Egyptian prison? No, thanks. Daniel being tossed to the lions? Paul being shipwrecked and lashed within an inch of his life? Even a successful warrior named David spent half his adult life being chased through the hills and valleys of Judea by an irate King Saul.

            It wasn’t until later that I sucked up enough courage to scroll through the rest of that tough-as-nails email. Mark’s recitation of Bible heroes was eerily similar to my own reverie; he tossed in Moses and the Exodus, and even included Jonah and Nehemiah as a bonus P.S.

            But then there was this calm, almost serene conclusion.

            You know, I read these stories and wince when it seems that things get much, much worse after God appears! Which is very disheartening when you’re desperate for a miracle and a divine breakthrough!

            Still, Bruce, all I know is this, for myself and my family. Yes, we have suffered many terrible things over the course of my 59 years of life, but I do give my testimony: MY LIFE HAS BEEN WAY BETTER WITH GOD THAN WITHOUT HIM/HER. I simply cannot deny the many “miracles” that have brought me to where I am today.

            The sun was setting as I went back inside and began to prepare a simple supper, my brain in a leaden funk.