Mango Bob (3 page)

Tempted as I am to try the Lion's Den menu, I head to Bobby's office. As before, when I push open the door, a bell tinkles, and I see Bobby reach under his desk. Yep, I'm betting he has a gun there.

He sees it's me, “Good. You're back. Got everything taken care of?”

“Yes. No problems”

Bobby points to the chair in front of his desk, and I take a seat. “The courier brought over the documents. All you need to do is sign in front of a notary. We can do that at the bail bonds shop next door.

“You ready?”

I nod, “Let's do it.”

Bobby stands and says, “Follow me”.

On the way out, he stops to lock the door behind us. A necessary thing in this neighborhood.

The bail bonds shop is next door. Once inside, I'm impressed. It's clean, no strange smells, no one looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter.

A middle aged black woman behind the counter greets us with a smile, “Bobby, you back again? How much bail you need this time?”

Bobby laughs, “Shirley, you're looking good today. Your husband know you dress like that in public?”

“Bobby, you know he does. What you got for me today?”

“I need you to notarize some documents for Mr. Walker here.”

Shirley looks at me, extends her hand, “Driver's license please.”

I pull out my wallet, extract my license and hand it to her.

“You're Johnny Walker? Like the whiskey?”

I've heard it before. “Yep, that's me. But most people just call me Walker.”

“Okay, Walker. Sign and I'll notarize.”

Bobby has placed yellow sticky arrows on each of the pages where I need to sign. Initial here, sign there.

I go through the stack, sign or initial them as required. Then hand off to Bobby.

He checks each page, then hands the stack to Shirley. She applies her notary stamp on the final pages. “That'll be twenty five dollars, cash.”

I pay with a twenty and a five, and Bobby and I head back next door. He unlocks the door to his office, sticks his head in and looks around. Satisfied, he says, “All clear,” and walks in.

I'm thinking there was a time when it wasn't “all clear” and Bobby has learned to check before he goes in. Maybe that's got something to do with the little surprise under his desk.

Back in his office Bobby puts the papers in a brief case. “I'll file these with the court and in 30 days you'll be a free man.”

He presents me with a bill for $500. Says $350 is his fee, and $150 for court costs. I pay him with a temporary check, and I'm actually surprised he accepts it. I thought for sure he'd want cash.

Maybe he trusts me.

I thank him for his time and head for the door.

Bobby stops me, “We're not done just yet. There's one small detail in the divorce agreement you may have overlooked.

“According to the papers you just signed, you agree to be moved out of your wife's home by eight tonight.

“If you're still there after eight, you'll be trespassing. Anything you leave in the house after eight becomes her property.”

Okay, I didn't expect that. I didn't realize I'd have to pack up and move out tonight. But it figures. It's her daddy's house. She has every right to live there. And I don't.

So it's settled. I'm moving out. Tonight.

No problem. I can go over to the house, load my things into my truck and take it over to the storage unit I just rented. Shouldn't take more than an hour.

But then what? After I move out, I'm technically homeless. And this complicates matters. Where will I stay?

Just about everyone I know worked at the plant. And most of them lost their jobs two weeks ago. Many left town, and the ones who didn't, won't be happy to see me. I'm one of the few who still has a job there – at least for a few more days.

As an office guy, a lot of plant workers feel I'm somehow responsible for the decision to move the plant to Mexico. Even though I had nothing to do with it.

I understand. Factory guys and office guys usually don't hang out together. This means there's no work friends who might have a place for me to sleep for a few days.

My nearest relative lives 1,200 miles away. Which means no family to bunk with. And no ex-girlfriends or ex-wives to take me in either.

So maybe a motel?

I don't think so. Around here, even the cheapest motels go for $70 a night. And you wouldn't want to stay in those kinds of places unless you were well armed.

And I'm not about to pay $120 or more a night for a motel room just to sleep for a few hours. My soon to be ex-wife will tell you I'm kind of cheap that way. I won't spend a few extra bucks to get something nice. And I would really prefer not to spend much money at all.

The way I see it, there's nothing wrong with trying to save money. Especially when your paycheck ends in a few days.

I explain this to Bobby – hoping he'll have a spare place I can stay for a few days.

But no go. Bobby isn't in the business of providing accommodations for his clients. He suggests I pitch a tent in the nearby state park. Stay there until things settle down.

He's serious.

According to Bobby, “It'll be like a vacation. Stay in the campground for twelve dollars a night, enjoy the peace and quiet, watch the sun set over the river.”

The way he tells it, it sounds pretty good.

I've been camping before. The last time was in Afghanistan. That wasn't so much fun. But before Afghanistan, camping was something I enjoyed. Getting away in the woods for a few days. Being 'one' with nature.

The more I think about it, the more it sounds like a reasonable solution.

Instead of paying to live in a cheap motel, I could camp out at the state park for twelve dollars a night. And, I'm quoting Bobby here, “It would be like a vacation!”

Camping out. In a tent. Just me and my truck. In the woods of Arkansas in the fall.

But just until things get settled.

7

And that's how it came to be that I was living in a tent. A big blue one from Walmart.

After leaving Bobby's law office, I drove home and loaded everything I owned into my truck.

Some clothes, a couple pair of shoes, my laptop computer, a few books, a box of old documents and photos.

And my gun. A stainless steel Smith & Wesson 357 magnum revolver. Haven't shot it in years, and hope not to have to shoot it any time soon. But if I do, it gets the job done.

Packing only takes about 30 minutes. Which if you think about it, is pretty depressing. All my worldly possessions take less than a half hour to pack and fit in just a few boxes.

It's almost six in the evening. That means I'll be out of the house before the deadline. That should make Vicki (my soon to be ex-wife) happy.

Next stop, Value Self Storage.

The security code issued when I rented the unit gets me through the gate. Takes only a few minutes to transfer the boxes from my truck into the storage unit. My worldly possessions don't even fill half of the closet sized space.

I still need to keep up appearances at work, so I keep out a small suitcase packed with my office clothes, clean underwear, socks and shaving kit.

Locking the storage unit, I head over to the big Walmart Super Center. There, in the sporting goods department, I choose a Coleman 14' x 9' tent, a sleeping bag, a fluorescent lantern, an air bed, and an ice chest.

Everything I need to start my camping adventure.

In the food section, I pick up a twelve pack of bottled water, a box of crackers and a chicken Caesar salad from the deli. Enough supplies to get me through the night.

Next stop, Toad Suck Park.

Yes, it's a real place. Look it up and you'll find it just south of Conway, on the Arkansas River. An easy eight mile drive from the Moreco plant.

During the spring and summer months, Toad Suck park stays pretty busy. Vacationers, picnickers, family reunions.

But this time of the year, not so much. Too cold to swim, unpredictable weather, and the fish aren't biting.

It's after dark when I arrive. A notice on the gate-house says 'choose any unoccupied spot, and pay the ranger in the morning'. That's what I'll do.

The campground is mostly empty, and I drive slowly until I find a suitable campsite on the river loop, close to the restrooms.

Normally, when the campground is busy, you wouldn't want to camp near the restrooms. Too much foot traffic. But when camping in a tent without a toilet, especially when no one else is in the campground, being near the restroom can work in your favor.

Before pulling into my chosen site, I get out with my flashlight to make sure the site is unoccupied and doesn't have any problems.

It looks okay.

Parking the truck on the paved pad, I leave the headlights on so I can see to pitch the tent. The tent I've chosen is one of those shock-corded affairs, the kind where all you have to do is lay the tent flat on the ground, and pull up from the center.

I lay it out, pull it up, and the tent locks into place, creating an instant shelter. For added stability, I stake the corners to the ground. Then unzip the door and walk in.

Not bad. Plenty of room. A roof over my head.

The fluorescent lantern from Walmart goes in the center of the tent, giving me enough light to start sorting out the rest of the gear.

The inflatable bed goes on one side, the ice chest with the food on the other. Keeping the food and bed separate is a must when camping in the woods. You never know what kind of visitors the food might attract.

When all my gear is stowed, I sit down on the bed and take a look around. Home sweet home.

Not exactly what I planned when I started the day. But could have been a lot worse.

I keep reminding myself what Bobby said, “You're getting off easy. And living in a tent will be like a vacation.”

8

The first two days of tent camping are pretty nice. Not many people in the campground so I have the place pretty much to myself.

Just me and the snowbirds in their big RVs stopping overnight on their annual trek to the warmer climes of the south.

Of course, it isn't really like a vacation for me. I still have to get up each morning and go in to work. And getting ready for work while living in a tent is a little more difficult than when living in a real house.

My morning routine is as follows. Get up at sunrise. Put on sweats and running shoes. Run the trails, try to cover at least five miles. Return from run, find the least wrinkled shirt and pants, grab my shaving gear, and make a trip to the park restrooms.

The park restrooms are unheated block buildings with primitive facilities. Pretty much what you expect in any government operated park. The good news is the showers have warm water, the toilets flush, and there is a mirror to shave by.

Compared to camping in Afghanistan, this is paradise. No one shooting at me, no scorpions, no blowing sand, no 110 degree temps.

At twelve dollars a night, camping here isn't bad. In fact, it's quieter and cleaner than some high priced hotels I've stayed in. But no cable TV and no maid service.

The park ranger does keep an eye on things during the day, and other than the occasional raccoon, no one has bothered my tent. So far.

Still, it isn't a vacation. I do have to go to my job each day. Speaking of the job . . .

My degree in computer science from the state university was supposed to open doors and be a path to a high paying career in the 'exciting field of computer management.' And for a few years, it was.

But these days, even eleven-year-old kids can write code and set up computer networks. So being a computer expert isn't much of a specialty anymore.

In the corporate world, the IT manager has become a baby-sitter to all things computer related. Anything goes wrong with any computer and you're responsible.

You have little input on the reckless decisions of upper management. And those decisions cause many of the problems you have to fight and fix every day.

If you're a regular reader of Dilbert, you know what corporate life is really like. But I'm not complaining. At least I have (or had) an office job.

Most of the six hundred other people who work at the plant were out on the factory floor. And while I was free to roam most of the day, those on the plant floor were often handcuffed to their stations.

Yeah, I know. It sounds bad. But to prevent injury, machine operators working around eighty ton stamping presses are required to wear restraining chains – handcuffs - to keep their hands out of harm's way.

It's either that, or people get hurt. Arms crushed, workers decapitated. I've seen it happen more than one.

That's why management says 'safety is job one'. Unfortunately, the reality was far different.

Those working on the plant floor use drugs and booze to numb the noise, grime and monotony of the assembly line. They'd toke up before coming to work, toke up at lunch, and toke up again on final break to avoid 'harshing their mellow'.