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My Cushiest Job Ever - part 2

© Douglas Charles Rapier

One thought that keeps pestering me of late is 'Why wasn't I this industrious when I was in my 20's?' I'm certain my friends and family could compile a list of traits/faults which might answer that query. Time marches on, thankfully, and here I am in my fifth decade busier than ever. Makes me think back to my cushiest job as an inventory clerk for the book store of a state university. As we pick of the thread I began unraveling last month...

Walt was the oracle of the store-room. He not only knew where everything was in the warehouse, he knew where everything used to be. 'See that pallet of uc-547, windowed business envelopes there?' he'd ask in a low voice as he hobbled along. He'd pause, either to catch his breath from the exertion of shuffling and talking at the same time or to give the moment a dramatic element. (Since he had only two speeds - extremely slow and geological, I quite often had time to go for a coffee, a follow-up bathroom break and weave an area rug before he made it from his little cubby-hole of an office back to the next aisle of the warehouse to resume the perpetual inventory. He never seemed to notice. Maybe because he'd been doing the job so long by himself, he'd forget he had me as a trainee/partner.)

'Say what?' I'd quip, emerging from empty reverie as I leaned against the pallet of uc-547 - windowed business envelopes. 'That pallet of uc-547s there. That's right where there used to be a big maple tree the local Indian children used to play under. That was before Colorado became a state, of course.' He was a sage, like I said before. He seemed to have a lot of stories to tell about the life he'd lead and observations to share. But he never did. Mostly, he just murmured or hummed tunelessly. He was good about clueing me into his little secrets about keeping count of tiny items, though. Well, basically, he just wrote down the number on a box or wrapper so he wouldn't loose count and have to start over again. Sometimes he'd loose track anyway, forgetting where he wrote down his last number. Or after writing it so small as to be inconspicuous, he wouldn't be able to read the number through his tri-focals. (Rumour was, he had his lenses hand-ground by a techie from NOAA who'd done his private sector research with Dow-Corning. It was just a rumour. I later found a receipt from the JPL - Hubble project he'd left in the desk.)

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