Friday, April 11, 2008

I have only fifty-eight minutes...

Busy week, did right well on Thursday and Friday. One inmate library worker returns from being imprisoned in F-unit, did thank me for sending him "Lord of the Silverbow" by David Gemmell and "Birds of Prey" by Wilbur Smith. He started working again on Thursday afternoon. I put the new books and all the new CDs into the system, linked with barcodes and new Call numbers, and found I have a security problem among my inmate library workers - since three of the new CDs were checked out to a patron that had no access to the CDs nor circulation stations - someone is working for themselves. I restricted the patron but the problem is the inmate library clerk - which one of three could have done it? (Don't you love Library Mysteries?) The rest of the day was normal, and I did turn in my reports for last month. I drove home in the Caravan wishing I had riden my motorcycle, but then I had choir practice so after a nice dinner with the television off and talking with my wife - I get to ride my motorcycle to the ATM and the Church and back home again. What a lucky guy!

Friday and I wrapped up well, fired up the motorcycle and rode into the thirty-six degree "cold enough for you?" morning. Yes, it was, but I know the weathermen are promising almost pure sexual-extrascy with temperatures of sixty-eight and SUNSHINE! So one has to ride to work, if it were warmer (like fifty-five at six in the morning) one would have to ride right on by the work and get into living lovely... Fingertips did provide painful sensory distraction, but I am a guy and that is what I do, ignore pain for the pleasure. I was almost doing wheelies with my throttle and clutch syncronizations... okay, I amplify my riding, but I was smiling then and now when remembering.

Normal Friday, I want to finish all the big stuff and get the place ready for opening Monday. Focus!, and I find my first distraction - one of my inmate library clerks - wants to talk to me in private, so we go into the workroom and close the door. He confesses to stealing some mylar bookcovers for another inmate. His walking with Christ and getting closer to God has him struck with GUILT, and after two days of prayer, talking to his preacher and more prayer and signs from above -- he came to confess and try to make it right. I fired him, congratulated him on getting right with God and himself and wished him lots of luck in the future - that he was on the proper path. He snuck back before lunch and returned the mylar. I tell the other three that he has been fired, and we get to work. Shipped books to camps, did ILLs, made copies of tax and other forms, received supplies, answered email, suggested that replacing broken CD jewel cases with more jewel cases didn't make sense, I would rather softer plastic (from China). I contact the new person at the Job Center for another worker, that may happen by Tuesday of next week.

I have my lunch alone: a pickle, sandwich (with sliced tomato - my wife loves me!) and an apple. The workers return and we open for inmate patrons, I talk with the Corrections Officer assigned to watch the movements, the Food Service manager stops by and talks to me about what I might need in the library - I ask for an espresso machine and doughnuts, but he was already burned by Ken Schram (KOMO4 NEWS) over the idea of a Latte stand in the prison. In Starbucks country it is a real living and skill, but we wouldn't want prisoners learning skills that might come in contact with the Latte drinking public, would we? I have been really supporting his Baking students, in new books and recipes, and buying their cookies and pies for my crew, and some bread for take home.

I talked books, found information and filled requests for assistance and filled my last book cart for purchase from this year's money, all gone. I sent that in for approval and purchasing, with the weeding done the library wasn't perfect when we closed and locked up, but pretty close for a bunch of men without women directly supervising their efforts. I locked up, dropped off distribution for the inmates, and walked to the dock and the waiting ferries. The tide is really low, and I imagine that the closer ferry might get stuck in the muck if the water disappears a few more inches - what was that Global Warming rising sea levels thingy? It isn't going to happen, but I am yawning so much by the time I an seated I collapse on myself and the bench and fall soundly into sleep - it is Friday.

When I wake and walk up the steep gangplank I start thinking of the beauty of the day, it is warm, the Sun is OUT, and I have a motorcycle waiting in the parking lot. I fly home, much better than the American Airline company - I buy my eleven dollars worth of fuel for the next hundred and fifty miles. While there a patient from Western State Hospital politely asked if he could admire my machine and ask about it, and he did. I know he is from the hospital because he is very polite and he tells me that he rode a Triumph in the 1970s just like mine. A driver filling his SUV (and costing him his paycheck) comes across the pumps and admires the bike, too. Of course he rode one in the Sixties when they were hot. I am pumped, because I have a bit better than only memories and bask in their admiration for my fine steed. The patient asks if he can listen to me start the bike up, and I ask if he is going to listen now, and I hit the fuel valve, key and starter switch - they both wish me safe riding and I cruise out to be waved on by a policeman waiting to give someone a ticket. Not me, but I roll on and lean left and am going, going and gone.

I could bore you with the brunette in the Mustang convertible with the top down that looked at me (she didn't but I know she put her turn signal on to cut in front of me - she knew I was alive) or how much I wanted to run with the coed that was in her tanktop, shorts and high speed running shoes (she is much too serious and fast for me - but lovely). I did count sixteen parked motorcycle in front of Eagle Leather and lots of motorcycles on the road doing their best to better me - nah, I ride alone -- always happy to see other two wheelers with engines winding along giving me the V signals that I have to flash back or nod approvingly if my clutch hand is working. One of the club, and I am laughing or smiling at the way the lean goes deep and the throttle roars in answer and straightens me out without dropping to the gravity well of Earth. I think I have my machine broken in now, it wants to leap up on the rear wheel and paw the air - or I do and I am not a trick rider but a sane safe fellow wearing a four-in-hand tie under his leather jacket. It is Friday and the Eagle flies or the Dragon...

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