Summer Swelter

Three weeks ago Allyson offered to help me finish the tear down of our 1973 VW Bus. We had a free Saturday with no plans, so we set the day up with three chunks of work, forcing our undisciplined sides to keep going. I was ready to call it at around 4PM. We had returned from a big lunch and I felt like taking a nap. The black asphalt outside our storage shed was radiating hot air in wavy sheets and I was beginning to zone out as I gazed at the wheat fields across the street.

But Allyson wanted to press on with the bus. She was convinced that two of us could take the pop-top roof off the bus by ourselves instead of using the four people the manual said we would need. How could I say no to that kind of optimism? The pop-top removal was a final hurdle that I was dreading because I didn’t think I was going to be able to recruit four people to help me. I found her solution more elegant. Not only did we get the pop-top off, but we basically finished every other project needed to strip the bus down for the auto restoration shop.

The next week we prepared to move Nikita to the next phase. I planned the logistics all week for us to transport Nikita’s shell to the paint place and her engine to the engine guy all in one day, by ourselves, and without owning our own truck. I lined up a U-haul truck, made contact with an engine mechanic I liked, bought a cherry-picker (engine lift jack) and made sure that the uber-qualified paint shop would take on my lowly VW bus project.

They helped my friend restore a Mustang recently, and it was just appraised at 80 grand so I was worried they only catered to the rich and famous. They agreed to make room for me, even though there were a dozen cars waiting in line before me.

We were up at 6am and got to work before the heat could start slowing us down. Allyson cleaned Nikita, while I loaded the engine into the back of the U-haul using my new cherry-picker. Before we knew it, the tow truck came to take Nikita away. We were laughing the whole time. It’s rare you get to see the fruition of a project that lasted 8 months. It’s also rare to see a totally stripped Bay Window bus going down the highway, bouncing around on the back of a tow truck. I hoped it was inspiration to a hundred aspiring men with rusting Bus shells in their backyards.

The Friday night before Nikita left I was making last minute arrangements at my storage space. I wanted to remove a couple last items off of the bus before the move. As I was fiddling with my manual and going over window removal, I heard a car horn and a voice yell out, “Are you there?!” “Sure am, how are you doing?” ….“Oh fine….”

My former storage space neighbor started to heave himself out of his white Dodge Dakota. I moved into the space because I heard that my next door neighbor was a former VW mechanic. You can imagine my surprise when I met him and found that he must have been a mechanic some time ago. He was born in 1936 and he had a lot of wise words for me the first time we met, but he had forgotten more about VW’s then I’ll ever know. He was more interested in airplanes at that point in life. He used the space next door to make the nose cones to acrobatic aircraft, and he was one of the best at it. I could tell when he finished a project because I would smell the honeysuckle sweetness that polyurethane resin gives off, the same resin I used to make surfboards years ago, drifting over from his unit.

Sadly, I forgot his name, but he didn't hold it against me. He forgot mine too. That didn’t stop us from talking earnestly about my VW project. He was wearing suspenders, and they pulled the waist line of his pants far higher than his bellybutton. He had lost most of his hair, and he had big bright eyes that still wondered at life and new things, protected by large eye glasses.

I told him about my plans to install a 2 liter engine which he really liked. He complained that a former friend had destroyed an old work bench and used it for fire wood, and he had only asked him to store it for him for a little while. He talked about his wife who had left him for a richer man, and the fact that ten of his prop cones were in “Osh Kosh,” which he said with amazement. He could see that I was busy and turned around to walk away. I politely returned his good-byes.

As I was turning away and moving on to the next thing on my list, he said, “Oh and you know what? I almost forgot, I was diagnosed with lung cancer yesterday.”……“Is that right?” I managed to get out after a pause. “Yep, but I’ll beat it!” He turned to leave again. “Well, how did that go? How did you find out?” “Oh, well, I was up at OHSU yesterday, and they put me in a big white tunnel machine, a MRI you know. And they said, ‘Yep, you have the cancer.’ But you know I have my son making meals for me and I’m eating lots of fruit that kills cancer, like grapes.” “Yea, I remember you telling me about the diet you were on, with pomegranates.” “Well, that’s right," he said as he raised his hand to wave the caner goodbye. "I’ve beat this before. I’ll beat it again.” He just smiles. “You know my friend’s father was a mason when we were young, and he would bring this stuff home and we would help him mix it in his basement. And it was asbestos, so either that or maybe the fiberglass from the cones, I don’t know. But you know, I’ll beat it!” “Yes you will….hey if you’re driving by tomorrow, stop by. We are going to take Nikita to the shop. It may be nice to see her go.” “Ok, will do.”

He turned to walk away and I wanted to just hug him. But I caught his hand instead and held it firmly. He patted me on the shouldered, smiled, and walked away.

The day before this conversation, I took the GMAT test. This is a graduate school entrance exam and it was the last requirement I needed to complete for my MBA application. I has studied pretty seriously for it for about a month, concentrating on the math section. The test is graded immediately and I scored only in the 38^th percentile in the math, but in the 89^th percentile in the verbal. Convinced that score wasn't going to cut it, I distracted myself with the bus over the weekend. On Monday, I rushed my scores over to the school first thing, and on Tuesday, I received word that I was accepted. The high verbal score and my high essay scores redeemed me.

This MBA program is unique because even though it is full time, classes only meet once a week. I worked out my schedule with my boss and got her permission to attend, and the GI Bill was going to take care of the finances. Or so I thought. Upon talking more thoroughly with the Finance representative at the school, it became apparent that they didn’t think the GI Bill would cover the full cost of tuition. I did some research and found that they were filing the requests in a way that could have costs me up to $20,000. There was a disconnect between the program and the state University, and the University representative wasn't requesting that any of my bill be alloted to fees.

Once I was forced with the prospect that I may actually have to pay for the MBA, my passion for it was immediately lost. The school seemed very willing to work with me and correct the mistake, but my heart was no longer in it. When I told them I would be withdrawing my application they said I had a spot saved for next year, but I doubt, “if I shall ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence; two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” I figure that I’ve already received a business degree, so why add insult to injury? I’m leaning towards something else at this point, maybe more in line with my test scores, like an MFA.

While all of this admission conversation was going on Tuesday and Wednesday, my week was further complicated with the news that my advocate and mentor, the woman who hired me, would no longer be my direct boss. We will still be able to work with each other, but she will be departing to one team to help them with process development for the Division, and I will be staying with our current Department.

Her departure seems cruel, but the leadership has its reasons. I’m hoping this will turn out for the best, but there is this feeling of being out on a limb. I’m pretty amazed that despite my choice to leave the military and government work, my work life still operates on an 18 month cycle.

These few weeks just kept hitting like this, with the big events all happening in those six days, Friday through Wednesday in July/August. The following week was a blur that focused into action by Friday.

By the time this last weekend rolled around, I felt like I was forcing a stumble into a walk after a fast trip on the merry-go-round. On Saturday, I was able to take two of my mountaineering friends with me to the beach and introduce them to the surf. The waves and weather cooperated and one of them, despite being a novice swimmer, was able to actually stand up. They were all smiles. We drove home, and ate dinner in front of the classic surf movie, Shelter.

Allyson and I were able to enjoy Sunday together. We went to church, bought lunch, and sat in the park near our house. We talked about the whirl of life, and how much I disliked working in a cubicle. We then slogged for an hour in the heat to get the movies. On the way home, we were hot and lethargic. As dusk started we took a dip in our community pool. Afterwards, she beat me in billiards as I sat there helpless, worrying about my green swim trunks dripping chlorinated water on the white polished stone tile at the Community Center. By Sunday night the concerns of of the day were fading. The clock was hitting 9pm when we ate our lime chicken and sweating blue cheese for dinner in the soft orange light of our dining room. I looked at Allyson’s sun burnt face and I thought to myself, “Maybe we really do have it all.”