3 Days in Zion

The counter woman and waitress brings me my tray, on top of which sits a greasy mushroom swiss burger, a smattering of onion rings, and a cup of Sprite. Just the sight of it makes my stomach churn, and thoughts of late night heartburn rushes dance inside my head. But hunger will make a man do crazy things, make him decide to get a burger at a rundown Dairy Queen with exactly zero customers, make his head not notice the Applebee's across the street with the special on cheesburger sliders. I bite into the burger, the swiss cheese is a bit old, the bun is a bit hard, and the mushrooms are a bit slimy. The onion rings aren't much better, cooked in finely aged oil no doubt; at least that explains how they could be both crispy and soggy all at once. And for the trifecta, the Spire tasted terrible, but I couldn't figure out whether it was because there was syrup stuck to the spigot or the bittersweet taste was from earlier in the delivery process. And as I hurriedly scarfed down my subpar fast food, all I could think was about how much I loved my job.

Just a few days ago I was sitting at my desk inputting some data into a spreadsheet, or researching some kind of hospital company. And here I was today, eating some crappy food in some small town in Illinois, with sreets named Ezekiel, and Jeremiah, and Isaiah, knocking on peoples doors, getting to have conversations with people who do healthcare work for a change. I don't really think any other job I could have can match this one for pure variation. Go to Illinois and meet with hospital executives, go to Wisconsin and work on a historic election campaign, have a sit down with a guy running for state treasurer, go to Florida and meet with hospital workers, monitor finance authorities. And as I finished my burger and walked out towards my blue PT Cruiser, 7 more hours of door knocking ahead of me, I couldn't help but think about how much I'd miss it when I was done.

I'm sitting at Denny's early the next morning, hungry because I didn't eat dinner. Ordered a denver omelette with all the good sides, heavy on the coffee, halfway through my second cup already. Directly in front of me are two old men, chatting about some kind of good old days, a slight hint of a stereotypical Italian-American accent from one of them, a strong Mid-Western accent from the other.
"And I tell ya, there ain't too much of us left. The stories I got, me and Rico," said the one with the Italian accent.
The Midwest guy nodded, "Yeah I know, they should get somebody to write all this stuff down,"
"I'm tellin ya, there's nothin like the good old days. Man, we use to do so many deals."
And he proceeded to tell stories, stories about shady real estate deals in Chicago, ins he had with the mayors office. Tales about how some of his buddies ran the numbers rackets, use to fence stolen goods, how he had to make a million dollar cash run for this guy who hid his money in the floor boards. His buddy Rico would steal anything not nailed to the floor and half of the things that were. I guess those were the days. I just listened closely and drank my coffee, my head halfway down, less they think I was an informant or something. I wanted to get up and tell them that I'd write their story, call it "Those Were the Days: Looting, Shooting, and Wholesale Corruption in Daley's Chicago." And I'd price it at 19.99, and we'd sell the damn things like Snuggies, and we'd be instant millionaires. But I wouldn't dare get up. Instead, they finished up their coffee, paid their tab and walked out. I did the same shortly afterward; then I went to Target to buy some socks.
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I never really noticed, but damn there are a LOT of small towns in the US. Places with 10,000, 5,000, 2,000 people. Places where the highlight is a Monday night ride to the skeet shotting range, where the roads are still sand and gravel, and the airports have Cessna's instead of 737's. Rode past this one community plopped down in the middle of a cornfield, like it had taken a ride on Dorothy's tornado and fallen out of the sky. I tend to forget sometimes that these places exist, to me they're random exits on the side of the freeway. It's good that I get a chance to visit for work sometimes, because I wouldn't otherwise.