Sluggo Security schedules me 32 hours a week guarding Casa Grande Apartments, a 224 unit key card gated apartment complex in Montebello, CA.
Casa Grande is deep in East L.A., about 25 miles from my homeless vets' dorm. I don't mind being one of the city's thousands of working homeless, but do I have to burn up so much gas doing it? Guess so.
The apartment managers, Edith and Jack, like me and specifically requested me after I had worked there a couple of nights, partially because the regular guard is a spry 80 year-old who is hard to understand because his teeth don't fit so good and the previous alternate guard was a pouty 18 year-old kid who spent most of his shift exercising in the apartment's weight room.
Edith and Jack also like me, I think, because my Daily Activity Reports to them are colorful and slightly sardonic. Old barflies like Edith and Jack like sardonic.
I also lucked out a bit on my first night of work at Casa Grande. I ran across a couple of "party girls" who were trapped inside the parking structure by the two-way security card gates, just like my car thieves (see previous post).
My description of their tawdry appearance (for these were not upscale call girls) and their panic about not being able to drive out of the property in their rented Jeep Grand Cherokee (the preferred automobile of Los Angeles area hookers) must've been stimulating reading to a couple of old alkies drinking coffee in the morning trying to nurse their hangovers as they read my D.A.R.
The next night, I was able to locate which of their tenants were smoking crack late at night by the telltale burnt copper smell. Jack and Edith called Pacific and told them "That's our man", and to make sure the fat guard was scheduled more nights at Casa Grande.
The Pacific Security dispatcher was surprised. Surprised and confused. I had always been a problem employee until then. She called me at the vets dorm and told me that 'for some reason they want you over at Casa Grande' with genuine surprise in her voice.
I'm not a problem employee. The real problem was ---and is--- I'm too old for horseshit posts and bullshit bosses and lazy-assed dipwad dispatchers and I don't keep that much of a secret.
Okay, I'm a problem employee. Always have been.
Casa Grande is deep in East L.A., about 25 miles from my homeless vets' dorm. I don't mind being one of the city's thousands of working homeless, but do I have to burn up so much gas doing it? Guess so.
The apartment managers, Edith and Jack, like me and specifically requested me after I had worked there a couple of nights, partially because the regular guard is a spry 80 year-old who is hard to understand because his teeth don't fit so good and the previous alternate guard was a pouty 18 year-old kid who spent most of his shift exercising in the apartment's weight room.
Edith and Jack also like me, I think, because my Daily Activity Reports to them are colorful and slightly sardonic. Old barflies like Edith and Jack like sardonic.
I also lucked out a bit on my first night of work at Casa Grande. I ran across a couple of "party girls" who were trapped inside the parking structure by the two-way security card gates, just like my car thieves (see previous post).
My description of their tawdry appearance (for these were not upscale call girls) and their panic about not being able to drive out of the property in their rented Jeep Grand Cherokee (the preferred automobile of Los Angeles area hookers) must've been stimulating reading to a couple of old alkies drinking coffee in the morning trying to nurse their hangovers as they read my D.A.R.
The next night, I was able to locate which of their tenants were smoking crack late at night by the telltale burnt copper smell. Jack and Edith called Pacific and told them "That's our man", and to make sure the fat guard was scheduled more nights at Casa Grande.
The Pacific Security dispatcher was surprised. Surprised and confused. I had always been a problem employee until then. She called me at the vets dorm and told me that 'for some reason they want you over at Casa Grande' with genuine surprise in her voice.
I'm not a problem employee. The real problem was ---and is--- I'm too old for horseshit posts and bullshit bosses and lazy-assed dipwad dispatchers and I don't keep that much of a secret.
Okay, I'm a problem employee. Always have been.
No comments:
Post a Comment