It was a 20 minute team interview with 3 people and 6 questions. My answer to one of the questions really impressed them. I got very positive vibes from all three of the guys, and left feeling really good. In spite of that—since I’d walked out of interviews feeling good so. many. times—it was still a shock when my recruiter called later that afternoon and said, “They’d like you to come work for them.”
OMG. We don’t have to move. At least not this year.
It’s only another 6-12 month contract, but nearly all my contracts have gone perm (or in the case of my last gig, “open-ended.”). It’s also at a significantly higher pay rate than I’d been making at my last job.
I’m meeting with the recruiter tomorrow to start the onboarding process, with an expected start date of either the 12th or the 19th, depending on how quickly everything churns through the system.
And as is my policy—and to protect everyone involved—I’m not going to say who this is with until such time (hopefully not any time soon because I’m in no hurry to go through this unemployment thing again) that our relationship comes to an end.
The deal was simple; we’d get to ask him a couple of questions and he got to ask us a couple of questions. A bit odd if you ask me. What could The Devil possibly want to know from us? I couldn’t tell you.
“Is heaven real?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice like dying embers in a fireplace, “and so is hell.”
“Who goes to heaven?”
“Whoever God wants there.”
“I’m afraid that’s much too vague for us.”
“What’s that like?” he asked, his eyes perking up.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s it like to be afraid?”
A bit confused, I tried my best to describe the feeling of fear. My explanation was a bit clumsy but he appeared to be satisfied with it.
“Why’d you want to know that?” I asked.
“Because when God made me, he didn’t give me the ability to feel fear. I can’t feel lots of things.”
“What can you feel?”
“Pain.”
I got us back on track.
“Can you elaborate on your answer from before? About heaven?”
“Of course. Heaven is open to all of God’s creations, whatever they do.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. When I was called in, the people in charge told me that my primary objective was to secure information on how humanity could get to heaven. With that sorted, anything else I gathered was a bonus.
“Are you going to heaven too? Since you were created by God,” I asked.
“I could, but I won’t,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Because I committed the most egregious sin. I did something only God was supposed to do.”
“What’s that?”
“I tried to create angels. They didn’t work out. My angels were made in my image, so I guess I’m to blame. All they do is cause suffering and destruction, so God said they had to go to hell, to suffer for an eternity”
“You mean the demons?”
“Yes, I guess I do. I couldn’t go to heaven, not while my creations were suffering. So I decided that when the time came, I would travel to hell and suffer with them.”
“Why?”
“Because I love them.”
I checked my watch, “Time’s almost up.”
“Yes it is.” he replied.
“I have to go back and get debriefed.” I said, preparing to leave the facility.
“They’ll be ecstatic when they get the good news.”
“And what might that be?”
“That no matter what we do, we’re going to heaven.”
“But you’re not, or anyone else for that matter.”
“But,” I said, my voice wavering, “You said…”
“Yes, I know what I said my child. But you’re not one of God’s creations,” he said with a tone I would mistake for sadness if I didn’t know better,
I had been in San Francisco for about five months. One weekend afternoon my newly-minted friend Kevin (also new to The City) and I decided to go exploring, so we bought tickets to the ferry and headed out to Alcatraz Island. The weather started out well, but by mid afternoon after we’d finished the tour and were ready to head home, clouds moved in and an epic downpour started. While we sheltered in one of the old guard shacks near the dock waiting for the ferry, one of the park rangers at the visitor center caught my eye. I do so love a man in uniform. But who doesn’t? He was blond, bearish, and as I remember, sported an enormous mustache as did most guys in 1987. I guess I was being less than discreet, because I’d apparently caught his eye as well.
When the ferry finally arrived, like two drowned rats Kevin and I made our way to the dock, where said ranger was assisting passengers boarding the ferry. As we walked past, our eyes locked on each other and he said, “Hope you enjoyed your visit. Come back any time!”
I took that as an invitation…or maybe a dare. Kevin and I looked at each other after we’d boarded and Kevin said, “He was so flirting with you.” “No way!” I said. “He was just being friendly.” (Not believing a word, even as I was speaking it.)
As the week passed, I couldn’t get that ranger’s face out of my head. I resolved that first thing Saturday, I’d head back out to the island.
He wasn’t at the visitor center when I arrived, and I was worried that I happened to return on one of his days off. After wandering the island for a half hour or so I returned to the center and asked if he was working, and they said yes; he was leading a tour in the cellblock—the one place I failed to look.
When I caught up with the tour group and he saw me standing there, he literally lost track of what he was saying and a big smile spread across his face.
After the tour ended, he asked what I was doing there and I said, “Hoping to run into you again.”
“I’m just about ready to go on my lunch break. Would you like to join me?”
Duh.
We sat on a bench that afforded an incredible view of the city, and after finishing his sandwich, Jay gave me a private tour, including several “restricted” areas on the northwest side of the island.
No Virginia, we did not fornicate. But we did make out for pretty much the remainder of his break on a grassy area by the prison laundry.
We exchanged numbers and made plans to go out later that week.
It was at that dinner that he dropped the bomb: he would love to see where this would lead, but he was moving to Australia in two weeks and didn’t think it would be fair to get involved with anyone only to say goodbye such a short time later.
We got together once more after that, and then as quickly as he’d come into my life, Jay was gone. And we never did get naked. Phone disconnected, a “For Rent” sign outside his flat, and all I had to remember him were my memories and a copy of “Gay Love Signs” he’d given me. I still have that book in a box somewhere.
That’s a thought that’s been darting in and out of my consciousness going on at least five or six years now.
Even when I’m home.
I first noticed it after we moved to Denver. Understandable, since I’d just uprooted my entire world and was feeling very unmoored. But even three and a half years after returning to Phoenix it still hasn’t gone away. By all accounts this little brick house we’ve occupied for the last three and a half years is home, and the thought of having to move out in a little over a month’s time if I don’t find work is profoundly distressing, but still I find myself sitting at my desk, or watching television, or doing the laundry and out of nowhere that thought will pop up, often accompanied by a profound sadness at the direction the world and my life has taken lately.
But if you ask me to describe the “home” I want to go home to, I’m at a loss for words. If anything, I don’t think it’s a place per se, but rather simply a sense of security and…settledness that has been conspicuously absent since we initially left Phoenix. Compound that with the feeling the entire world has become a powder keg that’s just waiting for someone to light a match and well…you get an idea.
