The Interview

Getting ready for a morning trip at Pisgah Outdoors

I didn’t sleep at all last night.  I mean I slept, but I didn’t.   It started with the usual tossing and turning and trying not to think about what I was in for the next day.  Trying not to wonder if the fish were going to bite, if I had everything I needed, if I was going to hit that “fuck you rock” at the bottom of the rapid and throw the customer from the boat.  Finally, I drifted off only to wake in a panic that I had missed my alarm before realizing I had hours more of night ahead of me.  I did the wake and panic a few more times before looking at the clock and noticing that my alarm was fifteen minutes away.  I rolled out of bed, aborted the alarm moments before its short life ever began, wandered into the kitchen and pressed start on the coffee maker three minutes before it was set to start brewing, ten minutes before my alarm. Then stood in the dim glow of the hood light above the oven watching the inky black liquid drip into the glass carafe. Here it constituted itself into the drugs that would soon course through my veins and drive my mind and body to its assigned tasks for the day.  The scent of fermented and roasted beans from some far off land, in some far off place, that spoke a far off language, ground to a powder and then steeped  just out of reach of my addled brain and craving body filled me with the sense of animal desire and primordial urge that only and addict can understand.  Every fucking drop drip drip dripping into a black hole of endless waiting.  I yanked the carafe from its heated plate, allowed the drips to hit and sizzle, and poured the first renderings into my cup before returning the tempered glassware atop its station.  

The first gulps scorched my tongue and the roof of my mouth.  I winced and sent the searing pain down my gullet.  My taste buds were dead now, but I was skipping breakfast anyway.  The drugs took hold and vibrant alertness rushed into a dizzying anxiety as the reality of what lay before me made its way through the morning cobwebs.  The colloidal fog now condensed into drops of panic, and would soon turn into a raging river of dread. 

Good god man get ahold of yourself. Your shit is packed. You’ve checked and double checked.  It’s just the caffeine talking.  You’ve done this a hundred times already this year.  You’ve been at this for fifteen years.  

Then it hits.  

Clenching my way from the kitchen to the bathroom trying not to wake the entire house I make it just in time for nothing.   Last night’s burrito and apple pie sit perched above a ledge too afraid to jump, but too committed to go back now.  I left my phone sitting on the counter by the coffee pot and this time could be wisely used to check the weather, the flows, the water temps off the USGS gauge; or spent browsing the internet for scantily clad images of the starlet in that movie I watched last night.  Fuck! What was her name?  Ok, never mind.  Burrito finally got the courage up to jump and apple pie is a follower so here we go, splash down. 

Its a small win but when I stand I know the job is not done, it has only begun.  The lack of sleep and the excess of coffee will eventually find me at the ramp running for the bushes hoping for something solid, but prepared for the level of liquidity that banks and retirees dream of.  I pray that it all hits before the customer shows up, and my impression of an African lion marking his territory is witnessed only by an annoyed and squawking heron.  I grab a roll of TP from the stack in the closet and toss it into the truck next to three others that were put there previously, and for the same reasons. 

Back inside, it’s time for the morning shower, as opposed to the afternoon or evening shower.  Showers are an important part of this job and should be thorough and frequent.  There is a hierarchy of importance in the shower with hair being of least importance, as there is not a lot left.  Arm pits are next,  you should give some effort to not smelling like a rutting musk rat, at least at the beginning of the day.  Feet command a very high status as these are the things that get you around, and are most exposed to corn chip scented neoprene, Chacos, stream side muck, and the occasional leavings of farm animals and/or domestic dogs. At the top of the hierarchy, and of utmost importance, is the holy of holies; the crotch and undercarriage.  Waders, bike seats, boat seats, the weather of a temperate rain forest; all seek to create a moist environment rich in a thriving mycological community, as well as enough friction to remove a top layer of protective skin.  This can be a season ending affliction if left unchecked.  The key is to use enough soap and effort to keep things as clean as possible without going overboard.  The possessor must use his or her best judgment in this delicate task and not become carried away in the moment. For this reason, I will go into no further detail and only say that it’s yours; wash it as hard and fast as you feel is warranted.  

The morning is cool and brisk as I load the last few items in the truck, grab a bottle of water from the cooler, and toss it along with some processed and packaged food item in the front seat for the ride to river.  Sitting in the cab, and staring out a fogged and cracked windshield, I say a small prayer to the gods of fish, boats, and old trucks; then turn the key that always remains in the switch (who would steal this rig) and listen as the whine of the starter spins the crankshaft on an engine far past its prime.  With a little coxing and kind words the big V8 fires up, smoke billows from the tail pipe, the entire cab rattles and shakes as pistons, valves, cams, and other various moving parts begin to find their rhythm and balance.  I turn the heater on full blast since there are only two positions left on the best performing piece of equipment on this dinosaur.  In a few seconds the window is clear of moisture and only paw prints and nose prints on the inside, and bug guts on the outside, obscure my view; which is plenty safe enough for operating a three ton rig at sixty miles per hour.  Foot hard on the brake I grab the shifter on the column, pull back and down into what feels like drive and lurch forward in a sudden jolt of torque and resistance.  I ease my foot off the brake and metal on metal screams into the foggy early morning valley from my place perched near the top of a ridge.  I allow the sufficient effort of the low gears to slowly pull the truck and trailer and entire rig to the precipice of the drive where I will once again gain the brake as gravity takes over to the bottom of the mountain. 

Out on the highway my nerves have began to calm.  Im in it now, and while the anticipation is still building, most of the wait is over.  There is a quick stop for fuel, and some substitute that replaces a former love. It’s a love that I have grown too old for; a love that I no longer get to feel, taste, enjoy.  A love that once brought me peace, comfort, and occupied my time; has now left me with only an acknowledgement of mortality and a habit. The warm soft blanket of addiction has matured into the cold mechanical act of maintenance. I make a phone call to a fellow interviewee to see what kind of job he is applying for today and we boast, brag, confess, admit, share, absolve, reassure and comfort one another over the phone on the drive to our respective interrogations.  

At the ramp, the morning fog hangs over the river and obscures all but the tops of the trees on the far bank.  I have made it here ahead of schedule and there is plenty time for launching the boat, the mania of rechecking gear, and one quick last episode of anxiety before the day begins.  I don’t even have to run for the bushes. I take a deep breath and prepare myself just as I see the vehicle that cost more than I owe on my house pulling down the dirt path to the ramp.  

As they exit their vehicle, I greet them with smiles and begin to be as charming as I can.  I try to tread the thin line between the confidence and self-assured demeanor of an old dog that’s done this many times, while maintaining the excitement and joy of an ignorant puppy.  This is the first impression and will set the tone for the day.  I want them to know that I am happy to be here, appreciative of the job, ready to work; while never forgetting to have fun.  I want them above all else to relax.  I want to reduce their anxieties and put them at ease.  I want to instill in them a sense of  calm confidence.  

Sure, I’m the one showing up for the job interview.  Every day in this line of work is the first day on the job.  Every day brings a new face to impress, new challenges to overcome, new idiosyncrasies to understand and/or correct.  Every day is a different day and while novelty is the spice of life, and I’ve become accustomed to having to prove myself on a daily basis; I am not the only one who has shown up for an interview today.   

The boss resides in the water.