Chapter 29: Breaking
Up Is Hard To Do
Jobs 83-84
2010
Job #83: Intern, Geographical Information Center
When I started the Geospatial Workforce Training Program
(GWTP), I was nervous that I would again experience the sort of difficulties
with the computer software which had plagued me during my time in college. To
my delight, I thrived in it. I knew I just needed a second chance in order to
master it. The only part that gave me trouble was our final project, in which we
needed to show that we knew how to use the software in order to solve
real-world problems. The project was approximately equivalent to a senior
thesis for a bachelor’s degree, but geared toward vocational students who
perhaps hadn’t had any previous college education. The idea was that we were to
partner with a local business or organization which could use some GIS-based solutions
to specific issues (even if they weren’t aware they had a problem).
I’ve always hit a wall when it comes to projects of this
sort. I don’t mind doing research, and I’m okay at writing papers, but when it
comes to thinking up some new and original idea to try to convince someone that
I actually know what I’m doing, I blank out. The other students in the GWTP
were coming up with some really interesting-sounding and practical ideas for
projects, but I was floundering about, trying to think of something, anything.
My instructor, Chris, suggested a possible project. The GWTP
shared a building with an electrical lineman college, and they needed some help
with something. The facility was located next to the O-Town airport, and so
they had to report the height of their practice poles to the Federal Aviation
Administration. The FAA has a handy webpage which allows users to enter data
about the structures they’re reporting, then the FAA’s software generates a map
showing the location of the structure in relation to the airport. The problem
the lineman college was having was that their FAA-generated maps were showing
their poles as being almost a mile from the airport, rather than a few yards.
The answer to their problem was actually quite simple. It’s
been long enough ago that I can’t remember the exact details, and they would
probably bore you anyway. Basically, there are various methods in which to
record one’s position on the earth’s surface, such as Digital Degrees and
Degrees Minutes Seconds. The FAA’s web page only allowed the data to be
submitted in one of the methods, but the GPS (Global Positioning System) device
the lineman college was using was set to a different method.
The campus director for the lineman college was actually a former
classmate of mine from my college geography courses, named Jennifer. Her job at
the lineman college didn’t really have anything to do with geography, and it
was really just a funny coincidence that it was her responsibility as director
to submit the GPS data to the FAA. She didn’t know about the difference in the
versions of the GPS data, and the FAA’s website was not particularly
informative that the data could only be in the one format. When my former
classmate entered her numbers, the FAA’s webpage was truncating the last few
characters, resulting in the grossly inaccurate maps it was generating. It was
an easy matter to set the lineman college’s GPS unit to the FAA’s required
method, and the data that was already recorded was automatically converted.
Jennifer was pleased to have that issue resolved, but that
didn’t constitute enough of a “real world” solution for my final project. I
decided to provide them with a GIS map of all their poles, with the heights of
each one recorded along with their GPS coordinates. Of course, they already
knew where their poles were, and how tall they were. But every time they
replaced a pole, even if it was in the same place and the same height as its
predecessor, they had to submit a new report to the FAA. I figured my map would
facilitate this process.
I painstakingly gathered the GPS coordinates for each pole.
I often had to work around the student linemen as they were practicing their
new trade. Working near all those utility poles and the rough men who serviced
them sometimes gave me flashbacks to the bad old Osmosis days, but it pleased
me to reflect upon how two past experiences – one good but under-utilized
(geography major) and one bad (utility pole inspector) – were coming together at
that particular point in time. I felt like I was on the right path to something
better.
Unfortunately, a map of some utility poles – while useful to
my “client” – still did not satisfy the criteria of the project, which had to
involve some actual analysis. I had already spent the majority of my time
creating the map, and had to scramble to come up with some way to use the data
in a meaningful manner. With Chris’s help I was able to come up with a
hypothetical utility company and demonstrate how GIS could be used to calculate
maintenance costs based upon the location of different parcels of land.
My project passed the requirements to graduate from the
GWTP, but I was not very proud of it. All the other students had come up with actual
problem-solving projects for actual businesses and groups. I felt like mine was
weak by comparison. Even at that, it did attract the attention of a real
business owner with a real problem that needed fixing, which actually lead to a
real job…sort of.
We presented our final projects to our clients and pretty
much anyone else who was interested. Among the attendees was the owner of the
businesses which rented a space in the converted factory where the GWTP was
held. This nice lady, whom I shall call Susan, in partnership with her father
and brother, was trying to develop a radical new form of clean energy
production called flying electric generators (FEGs). They are sort of like
little helicopters which are tethered to the ground. They fly to a certain
height under battery power. Then high-altitude winds keep them aloft while at
the same time generating power by turning their turbines. The electricity is
then transmitted to the ground via a cable attached to the tether.
Of course, these high-flying, stationery wind turbines and
their tethers present a hazard to aircraft, so they can’t be flown just
anywhere. Susan had settled upon Minnesota as the being the best place in the
United States for a steady source of high-altitude winds. Now she needed to
know just where all the airports were in Minnesota, and other airspace restrictions.
She was interested to note that my project had made me familiar with the FAA.
There was another student by the name of Dave. I forget what his project was
about, but it also attracted Susan’s attention as being relevant to her needs.
It probably also didn’t hurt that Dave was from Minnesota.
Susan approached our instructor Chris about the possibility
of recruiting my and Dave’s help with her project. Part of the GWTP included a
paid internship at College Town University’s Geographical Information Center.
The GIC was an off-shoot of the university, but it sold its services to clients
in the real world. Our internship was carefully crafted to provide us with
actual paid work experience while not violating our unemployment insurance
benefits. We had to submit the hours worked each week to the California
Employment Development Department, who then adjusted our benefits accordingly.
Generally, the internships ended when students graduated
from the GWTP. Special dispensation was made for Dave and me so that we could
work with Susan. Susan became a client of the GIC, and my and Dave’s
internships were extended so that we could work for our client. We divided up
the work. I gathered data and put it into a usable GIS format. Dave was
responsible for creating the actual maps. This arrangement suited me just fine.
I love finding and collecting data, but my cartographic skills have never been
particularly strong. Dave was less keen on data, but he had a real talent for
creating attractive looking maps.
In a short amount of time I had to become something of an
expert on our nation’s airspace, which is rather complicated. I also had to
find data on every airport in Minnesota, and I mean EVERY airport, no matter
how small. I actually found one small airport which, when displayed in our GIS,
didn’t match the description of its coordinates. In fact, this Minnesota
airport was displaying as being in a completely different state when plugged
into our GIS software. I discovered that its coordinates had been erroneously
entered, much like Jennifer’s poles. I informed the good people responsible for
such things back in Minnesota of the discrepancy, and they were very grateful.
I also found two more anomalous airports which at first I thought were
mistakes. The first one appeared to be in the middle of a lake, but it turned
out to be a sea plane base. The runway of another one appeared to cross the border
with Canada, which didn’t seem right. Upon investigation, this tiny airport
really does span both countries. You start your take-off or landing in one
nation, and end it in the other one. I don’t know how this came about, but it’s
the only one of its kind.
All in all, Susan was very pleased with our results. She
wrote me a very nice letter of recommendation, which I still have. So now I had
a brand-new certificate in GIS to update the one I had received from College
Town University and a new-found confidence in my ability to parley my training
into a lucrative career, which is something I had not gleaned from my earlier
education. We were in a fortunate position at the time wherein we would have
been able to relocate if needed, so I began to apply every place I could think
of.
Some organizations often offered different positions for
which I was felt I was qualified. It started to become difficult to remember
just which ones I had already applied for, so in order to avoid repeating
myself, I started keeping a very thorough log of the exact details of each
position I applied to with the date and other relevant information. Chris had
said that on average a person had to apply one hundred times before finally
landing a job. By the time I reached about 80 applications in my log book, I
figured I must be getting close. Out of those 80, I only got three interviews
(all by phone because of distance), but they did not result in an offer of
employment. I used to think that I was pretty good at getting jobs. After all,
I’d had over 80 of them by that point. Of course, there had been more jobs that
I tried to get, but hadn’t, and apparently I’m not so good at getting a very
specific job. It seems rather ironic
that the guy who’d had over 80 jobs couldn’t get one job out of over 80 applied
for.
Under Obama’s various programs to stimulate the economy, I
kept getting extensions on my unemployment insurance benefits, but that was
about to end, and I was getting desperate to find a job. This desperation led
me to make a very tragic mistake. One of the few jobs which I came close to
landing was with Davey Tree, which has a GIS division which gathers data on former
trees, A.K.A: utility poles. I was very careful that the job wouldn’t be like
Osmosis, and by all appearances it only involved tramping about the quiet
countryside with a GPS device. I ended speaking by phone with a (seemingly)
nice man who was fairly high up in the management structure of Davey. He
advised me that all their data collection positions were on the east coast, and
the pay wasn’t high enough to justify me relocating. Despite our previously mentioned
fortunate situation, I had to admit the wisdom of his advice. He said he was
willing to help me, and he knew someone in my area who might be interested.
Job #84: Utility Pole Inspection and Treatment (again!)
That someone was a woman (whom we shall call Molly) who had
been a manager at Davey, and had started her own pole inspection and treatment
business. Davey also inspects and treats utility poles, and Molly sub-contracted
with her former employers to provide this service for utility companies.
This woman, whom we shall call Molly, upon the suggestion of
the (seemingly) nice man from Davey, had one of her foremen contact me. When he
told me the nature of the job, I was very apprehensive after my traumatic
experience with Osmosis. I asked a lot of questions to make sure this would be
different. Molly’s company wasn’t big enough to have recruiters, so I felt
confident that I wasn’t being lied to. I eventually agreed to sign on with this
small company. I knew the work would be hard, but I wasn’t afraid of hard work.
I just didn’t want to kill myself while constantly being told I wasn’t meeting
some unrealistic production quota. I was also giving in to my old habit of
trying to correct a mistake from the past. I thought if I could do well at
Osmosis-type work in a non-Osmosis-type environment, I would redeem myself for
the mistakes I had made at Osmosis.
Well, it turns out I had been lied to. Molly’s was just like
Osmosis. If anything, Molly’s was worse because they were less well-funded than
Osmosis. I reported for my first day of foreman training in Orland. I had been
told that if I was working out of town, my accommodations would be paid for. This
was in September, and it was still brutally hot in the Sacramento Valley. After
that first 10-hour day, I showed up at the local motel where the rest of the
crews were staying. When I gave my name at the front desk, I was told there was
no reservation for me. I called the foreman (whose name I can’t recall, but he
was such a carbon copy of Osmosis’s Rick that I shall call him Rick 2) to find out
what was up. Rick 2 informed me that in actuality they only paid for a room if
the work was more than an hour from my hometown, and Orland was “only” 45
minutes away. The other crew members were from further away than me, so they
got a room. This was bullshit. Now I was faced with a 90 minute round-trip
commute in addition to 10 hour days. I should have quit right then, but I had
already made an investment in boots and other gear, and I needed work badly, so
I grimly determined to stick it out in the hopes that things would be better
when I became a foreman again and got my own truck and crew.
I had one near-death experience with Molly’s which topped
anything Osmosis had thrown at me. I was drilling into a ridiculously small-diameter
pole which supported the cable and fuse-box going to a massive pump on a farm.
At Osmosis we had never drilled into poles that small, and also never on
privately-owned poles like this one. I had accidentally drilled all the way
through larger poles with Osmosis, and now I was a few years’ out of practice,
and working on a much smaller pole than previously encountered. I went right
through that sucker in no time flat. Oh, well, I figured – it happens
sometimes. Then the foreman I was training with pointed at something on the
back side of the pole. The 400 volt cable ran down the back of the pole, and my
drill bit had come within less than an 8th of an inch of nicking the
insulation of the cable. If I had nicked it, the rubber soles of my boots probably
wouldn’t have been thick enough to prevent all 400 volts from going to ground
right through me. At least I probably would have been dead before the gas in
the drill’s tank could have exploded.
Also the intervening years as a vendor and a GIS intern had done nothing to
prepare my body for jumping back into the rigors of pole inspection and
treatment. Every joint and muscle in my body was screaming. And apparently I
had not invested enough in those boots, for they soon started to wear away at the
backs of my heels. I tried applying moleskin and an extra layer of socks, but
it kept getting worse. One day I couldn’t walk anymore because the pain was so
intense. I had go sit in the truck with
my boots and socks off until the crew could take a break and drive me to my
Blazer (which was parked at the motel I couldn’t use). When the other guys on
the crew saw the hideous half-dollar sized holes on the backs of my heels, they
knew I wasn’t just being a wimp. They couldn’t believe I had lasted as long as
I did. I then drove home barefooted while trying to keep my raw wounds off the
dirt on the floor of the Blazer.
So I had some time off. I had to apply for Worker’s
Compensation and Disability. The thing with Worker’s Compensation is that it is
paid for by your employer’s insurance company, so trying to get money out of
them is no easy task. The investigators I spoke to on the phone were incredibly
sympathetic when they saw the photos of my heels, but that didn’t stop them
from ruling that Molly’s was not responsible for my injuries. I wasn’t
surprised. Disability insurance, on the other hand, is a state- run program
paid for by you, the employee. They are usually much more relaxed about paying
you if you are injured and can’t work, even if it’s your fault. So at least I got some disability payments for
the few weeks that it took my heels to…heal.
I put my time off to good use. I kept searching for GIS jobs
to apply for. I approached Jesse, the head of the GIS department of O-Town city
government, and volunteered my time just so I could keep up on my skills and to
gain more work experience that I could put on a resume. Actually the GIS
department at O-Town city hall was so small that Jesse was not only the head,
he was pretty much the entire department. I met him when he came to the GWTP
along with some other local GIS employers to tell us about employment
opportunities in the area. He was a fairly recent graduate of the geography College
Town University, and he had lucked into this real government GIS job because he
had gone to school with the person who was leaving the position.
Anyone loves free help, so Jesse took me on. I feel like I
did some good work for him during the short time I was there, and I increased
my understanding of GIS in the process. Unfortunately, my feet had healed sufficiently
to allow me to return to Molly’s. I desperately needed to extricate myself from
that awful situation. I had even sent an email to the (seemingly) nice man at
Davey, explaining my unfortunate injury at Molly’s, but reiterating my interest
in data collection, despite the distance of the jobs from my home. I told him
that as long as I was careful and had good boots, I felt I could handle a bunch
of hiking. I followed up a couple of days later with a phone call. The
(seemingly) nice man must have talked to Molly, because he suddenly wasn’t so
nice anymore. In as many words, he said he wasn’t interested and hung up with a
bang.
When it came time for me to make my reluctant return to
Molly’s, I bought a different pair of boots – ones which seemed like they
wouldn’t hurt my heels. When I tried them on, my wounds were still too recent,
and the pain was too much. I had to call Molly’s and beg for more time off. I
was hoping they would fire me, because I was no longer technically on
disability, but employers are reluctant to fire an injured employee under any
circumstances for fear of lawsuits.
I was once again in the awful situation of needing to get
out of a job, but unable to quit with nothing to fall back on. When I could no
longer claim that my feet were preventing me from working, I pretended to have
car trouble. I ended up talking to Molly herself for the first time. She asked
why I couldn’t take Greyhound to work, which was now located in Redding, more
than an hour’s drive from O-Town, so at least my accommodations would be paid
for. I tried to be as difficult as possible without actually being defiant in
the hopes that she would decide I was too much trouble and fire me, but to no
avail. Eventually I had to say I’d figure something out about my car (which was
fine except for an unfortunately quart-a-day oil habit), and a couple of days
later I drove myself to Redding the night as if
driving to my own execution. I stayed in the motel, but I didn't sleep well because I had tremendous anxiety about what lay ahead of me.
Those first few days back were awful. The crew I had been
working with in Orland were there, and they were genuinely concerned about the
welfare of my feet. I was going to be working with a different crew, however for which
I was glad. I was definitely not planning on being a good employee, and I didn’t
want to subject them to that, because they had been decent to me. I had worked
with the other foreman a couple of times in Orland, and he had been nice then,
but by now I had gained a (well-earned) reputation as a difficult trainee. He
was none too pleased to be stuck with me, so that made for a pleasant couple of
days.
My new boots protected my feet just fine, but the rest of me
was a wreck, emotionally and physically. October in the North Valley is usually
still hot, and Redding is notorious for being one of the absolutely hottest
places in California. And the soil there is nothing but hard-packed red clay
and rocks. One day I had to make a full excavation around a large-circumference pole. The dirt was so hard it was like
hacking through concrete. The foreman I was working with kept coming around to
check on my progress and couldn’t believe how little of it there was. I didn’t
care – I was trying to get fired, after all. In reality, I don’t think I could
have done much better if I had cared to. That Redding soil is ridiculous.
An eight-hour day under such conditions would be bad enough,
but 10 hours is like a never-ending trip through hell. After 9 hours I couldn’t
take any more. I went to the poor foreman who was saddled with me and said I
had to go back to the motel because I was sick. He didn’t want to take the time
to drive me, so hecalled me a cab, which took a big chunk out of my expenses budget
for the week, because we were working some distance from beautiful downtown
Redding. I got back to the motel and took a shower. IRick 2 called me and said I
was suspended for three days for leaving work early. I thought, “Okay. Now we’re
getting somewhere. It’s not fired, but it’s a start".
I began packing up my stuff for the drive back to O-Town. I took my time because it was past check-out time on the room. I was even wondering if I could sleep there and leave in the morning. That question was soon answered when Rick 2 called me back and said that I’d better not be thinking about
trying to sleep at the motel because they weren’t going to pay for it if I was
suspended. I didn't bother to remind him that the room was already paid for.
So I got another nice little reprieve from that awful job,
albeit unpaid. Sadly, the three days came to an end and once again I was forced
with having to go back to Redding - and on my 51st birthday, too – but I had hatched a new plan. I didn’t tell
Mrs. Rimpington my plan, because she was convinced that nothing I could do would
get me fired free and clear, and she wouldn’t have approved of this plan, but I
was confident it would work.
I would have preferred to drive up the night before work and
stayed in the motel so I could be fresh for work the next morning. Molly’s,
however, was not going to pay for a room for me on the last night of my
three-day suspension, so I had no choice but to get up extra early (much too
early for our family tradition of birthday breakfast in bed) and drive for 90
minutes to report for my 10-hour day. If my plan didn’t work, I’d be in for one
fuck of a miserable day.
I left an hour earlier than I needed to, which was actually all part of my
plot. About 10 miles north of College Town, I pulled over and took a nap. I
figured I could explain later that I had left so early because I wasn’t sure
how long the drive would take, but when I realized I was ahead of schedule, I
decided to take a nap. You know, out of concern for safety and being a
productive employee.
I actually did sleep a
bit, but instead of setting the alarm on my cell phone to allow me enough time
to finish my drive in time for work, I set it so that I would be late. When I
awoke, I made a “panicked” call to Rick 2 explaining that I had over-slept – I dunno,
I guess my alarm didn’t work, or I hadn’t heard it. I told him I was on my way
and gave him an estimated time of arrival. He told me to forget it, I was done.
I wanted to make absolutely certain I understood him, so I asked him to
clarify. He said I was fired –terminated -discharged. Such magical words to my
ears! But I had to play along. I said, “Are you sure?” I didn’t want to protest
or beg too much in case I accidentally stimulated some long-dead sympathy nerve
in him and he changed his mind. He confirmed that they had given me all the chances
they could and “sayonara”. I muttered, “Oh,
okay” and hung up and then did a happy jig alongside the Golden State Highway.
I drove back to O-Town with a lighter heart. When I walked
into the house, Mrs. R couldn’t believe it when I said I had actually gotten
fired. I then explained my brilliant scheme, and she had to admit the sagacity of it. I then sat
on the bed and asked Grandrimpy to bring me two slices of left-over pizza on a
plate. Those in attendance sang “Happy Birthday” and I had my breakfast in bed,
after all. It was one of the best birthdays ever.
So, okay, I committed fraud. I admit. But it wasn’t for
long. Barely two months later I got hired at Job #85 (bus driver). I didn’t
even put Molly’s down as a previous employer on my application. I knew I wouldn’t
get a good reference, and my total time with them hadn’t been long enough to
constitute a significant gap in employment.
I’ve been at my bus job for over five years now. However, I don’t plan on being with them until
I retire. Plans are underway for a major relocation and a similar job for a
different employer, but that won’t be for a couple more years. I will be very
careful to never get myself into a situation where I need to get fired from a
job, for any reason. I’m too now old for such shenanigans.
In the next (and hopefully final) chapter I’ll talk about my
current job, and we’ll see if I’ve learned anything. I think I have. Ta!
The end.