Thursday, March 5, 2015

Morning ramblings from days gone by. Some .thoughts on madness, work, geography, and coffee makers.




PART 1


Madness, the crawling lizard-skinned monstrosities screaming infernal chaos are slithering across the floor. It’s gelatinous orbs, massive tentacles, and cavernous maw are fixated on its next meal........ YOU! Cursing and fighting you somehow manage to twist free only to be confronted with a fate worse than.......... Running, dreaming I’m running wind in my lungs full throttle leaning into it I run. I run down the trail with sweat streaming leaving only footprints behind me. I know I’m dreaming. Fog misted trail, muddy, sandstone worn, and gravelly my feet crunch and dig I pound forward. Free to run, soar, fleet like deer I’m almost unhinged from gravity.................dare to fly.............. I’m dreaming.
Mighty Cthulhu
I notice, camera like - Drops of silver/crystal/rain clinging to pine needles the clean fragrance fills my lungs/body. I am refreshed . The wind blows, fog swirls enveloping everything. The wind sounds like a tidal ocean vast unseen. The world has become surreal, beautiful.  I run, the trail winds along the rim of a densely wooded plateau. Mountain Laurel, Hickory, Poplars, and Sassafras............see there’s Striped Winter Green poking through a bed of pine needles on the forest floor. Partridge Berry, Mosses, Lichens all abundant. Up and down hills, through and over creek/stream running it’s all silence save for the sounds of wind and my footfalls. Peace unbounded fills me. Lightening Flash Thunder Cracks and I jolt upright drenched in sweat, grinning this is better, much better than most dreams I’ve had.
Stripped Wintergreen
 
PART II
 
     I wake, its work time. Five AM and it’s up and at it. Used to be mornings were a blurry/bleary hangover haze. Leftovers courteous of previous evenings round of binge drinking. It’s not much fun waking up in your front yard with slugs crawling all over you, with the fresh taste of hamburger vomit in your mouth. Motrin, Gatorade and Sun-Drop were my early morning trinity, to calm the pounding. That’s behind me now, I hope.
 
 
Nowadays, mornings start well before the crack of dawn at 401 Maple Loop Road. Stumbling into the kitchen, flipping light switches, radios on with the NPR blaring the latest election news which is really neither. I fire up the “Technivorm Moccamaster”. A coffee machine of the gods, every morning I stand before its austere european bauhaus styling and make my morning libations. I grind the beans, presoak the filter, carefully measure out the filtered water.  With exactitude I measure out the tablespoons to obtain the perfect divine ratio of freshly ground coffee beans to water heated to 195F to 200F. As the website says,
 
“The brewing quality of our coffee makers is beyond dispute and guaranty a first class beverage due to the fact that brewing temperature and water/coffee contact time as well as holding temperature are in accordance with the critical requirements of the European Coffee Brewing Centre and the Specialty Coffee Association of America and Europe. Needless to say that we are proud to carry their seal of approval for all our coffee makers.”
 
Uhhhh yeah whatever, all I know is that this thing makes a mean “Cup of Joe”. It makes a mediocre bean average and great beans even better. The “Technivorm Moccamaster” is the Coffee Maker to have hands down. All you people with your Cuisinarts, Bunn, and what have; you can all just forget it because despite it’s goofy name ( thanks Netherlands based company) it is truly glorious.
 
“The Technivorm-Moccamaster factory is centrally located in the heart of the Netherlands and serves customers all over the world. Every single product meets the electricity requirements of the country they are destined for and are produced under the ISO 9001:2000 regulations.” - YEAH THE FACTORY IS ACTUALLY CALLED THE TECHNIVORM FACTORY. AWESOME!
This is still the best coffee maker hands down, and if this is the way a more sober Garry W. Shores RN prepares himself every day to go and do battle with the angels of death, his brother disfigurement, his other brother “Hey watch this”, and his little nephew “I’m all out of my Percocet 10’s and my teeth hurt soooo bad right now, and hey” in a Level One Trauma Center caring for about 80,000 people a year. You can bet your sweet ass this is definitely the way to start your day. I’m just saying you could do a lot worse.
            Next, it’s oatmeal, always the oatmeal, with dried cranberries and honey. Not just any honey mind you, but honey that is reared, gathered, and lovingly bottled by Blount County’s infamous son Mike Shoppe. A heavy set, thick jowled, handle bar mustached fellow with his hair slicked back “greaser style” he is indeed a sight to behold. Mike is an old hand in the ED at UT Medical Center. Before Mike was married and got straightened out he forged his birth certificate; went got his driver’s license when he was fourteen years old. A few months later his license was revoked for disorderly inebriation and conduct unbecoming a Son of Blount County. No worries, thought Mike, he just forged his Birth Certificate again and got one under another name. Mike is one of those folks that’s good to have on your side of the fence during a brawl. One night, working a mid-shift we had an exceptionally ornery young man whom we were attempting to subdue/persuade/cajole into complying with various treatments we were attempting to inflict upon him. Suddenly, an arm gets loose, a punch is thrown and Mike is standing there with this guys fist in his big meat paw of a hand. Mike chuckles, and drawls “Now boy you know that ain’t gonna win you any friends around here.” Quickly he is subdued and patient compliance is soon flowing like warm blood on a kitchen floor...........So anyway, now-a-days Mike is an amazing Bee-Keeper/Apiary Enthusiast and I buy 4 quarts a year. 
 
            During the summer months when it’s warm I mix my honey and oatmeal with Yogurt. It’s sooo good. When summer heat gives way to the cool chill of Fall I prepare my oatmeal the old fashion way. To this I add a simple boiled egg. The humble egg is a perfect protein and I love it. This has not always been the case, for some reason my trip to Afghanistan drove me to love the boiled egg. For starters, it’s no fuss, no mess, no grease, and no trouble to make.  Throw a little pepper on and its downright tasty. The perfect protein that is the boiled egg is low calories (approximately 82 calories). Unfortunately, the egg has gotten a bad wrap due to it’s cholesterol content. I say to hell with that, our species (Homo Sapiens) has been eating eggs since we climbed/crawled out of the primordial soup 6,000 years ago. As long as you don’t overdo it a boiled egg is good for you. I hate those folks (yes hate) that stand around and scream about their “Egg White Omelets” and “Oh that’s so bad for you, how can you eat that???? You should try to be healthier.” They look down their nose at you just because you’re not into all the latest and greatest trends. I just want to take these people out back and beat them to death with a Grubbing Hoe or maybe a good old fashioned Kaiser Blade, while drinking a glass of whole milk. So needless to say, I’m savoring my boiled egg, and sharpening my machete for the many unbelievers.
 BREAKFAST MENU AT 401 MAPLE LOOP ROAD - SOUTH KNOXVILLE TN 37920.
  •   COFFEE
         ·        OATMEAL WITH CRANBERRIES
·        MIKE SHOPE HONEY
·        YOGURT (OPTIONAL/SEASONAL)
·        BOILED EGG
 
This is what I eat, it’s good for you. I recommend you eat it too.
PART III
            Hurrying out the door, I head out into the early morning, it’s still dark outside of course. Gotta get to work by 0645 no exceptions. No quarter is taken or given in regards to tardiness, our management team refers to it as the “McDonalds Approach” it’s meaningless to me. I just gotta be there on time. Turn the key, engine roars into life, crank down the window the cool air feels good, almost Fall, almost Fall. The heat of summer is almost gone. Smiling I back up and out the driveway, the transmission stalls then catches and I’m off. It always does that in the truck, like clockwork.
 
The summer heat is near, dear, and unbelievably relentless. A force of nature that we of the South endure with pride and style. I’ve learned to embrace it. Embrace the Kudzu, the yard sales; embrace the scantily clad obesity laden ass cracks hanging out, waddling around the parking lots of whatever god forsaken steaming asphalt urban tundra you happen to find yourself struggling with. I listen entranced to the steady orchestral drone of cicada’s, sitting on the front porch as evening slowly creeps and the fire flies twinkle and blink, I grin and drink another class of cold tea. Listen to the silence that’s really not very quiet, feel the air, breath deep get the smells. I embrace the gritty summer environment, wiggling down into the hot muck of it all, what other choice do you have? Sit around and complain I suppose but everybody does that.....................
            Driving, driving and thinking not paying attention I swerve from one train wreck straight away into the next. I’m the worst driver on the planet. I literally make my passengers sick with my “stop and go” and “oh man did you see that abandoned trailer”. There’s only so much anyone can take from a rubber neck driver like myself. It’s dark out so I stay reasonably focused.  I’ve got the windows down the wind blows in my face, forcing me awake with it’s chill. These are the mornings to cherish, when it’s right in between things, not really summer anymore and its certainly not fall; in-between-times.
 
It’s a gray, black, and white morning awaiting the return of morning sunlight. Magazine Road winds and turns I pass by Moreland Heights Elementary School, a huge Intercontinental Ballistic Rocket has prepositioned itself strategically at the forefront of South Knoxville Education. Painted in resplendent red and white hues, the Mighty Rocket serves as a beacon of erudition and refinement to children yearning to breathe the heady musky scented aromas of learning.
            I envision a young, clean shaven Werner Von Braun (former enthusiastic Nazi) lecturing six-year-olds on gyro-stabilizers, liquid fuel propellants, and the viability of National Socialist Doctrine in the Post War American landscape. Imagine, a thickly accented thin young man with an oh so slight limp crisply dressed in a manicured black suit lecturing the eager blood of our nation on the importance of civic duty, patriotism, the superiority of this God-Given-American-Way of Life and the ease of launching an intercontinental ballistic missile at your enemies half a world away. I see this in my mind, the eager faces; hands shooting up with questions too eagerly devoured by our “guest lecturer”.
            Mooreland Heights Elementary the red bricked bastion of education is a welcome site on my morning route. Reminds me of my own “alma mater” of Cowan Elementary. Built in 1921, Cowan Elementary School was where I learned to read/write do my arithmetic, and form impressions / sensibilities that will follow me to the end of my days. Three Stories Tall, indisputably the tallest building in town Cowan Elementary was a place I loved and feared in equal measure.
            Our play ground was a horror show in the making. All steel, wood, rusty shrapnel and concrete. Whoever thought it was a bright idea to play kickball in an asphalt parking lot should have a mental evaluation. Skinned knees, blood, and mercurochrome where the rule of the day. We ran and fought with little supervision. Teachers turned a blind eye as they smoked and caught up on the latest gossip. Everything on the Cowan Elementary School playground was used to punish the flesh while strengthening the soul. As they say, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger” so it was with the playground.
            Lilly Bonner, in second grade Mrs. Bonner who sold pencils at the little concession built near the gymnasium had a class for some of us. Mrs. Bonner, a short round chocolate skinned woman who smelled of tonic oil and shuffled when she walked, of course she wore a dress ever day. As I recall, she was very fond of those flowered dresses that all southern meemaws, meme’s, and naana’s are required by southern law & tradition to cloth themselves in. She loved us children, it was evident, all of us rich or poor, mostly poor. Miss Lily was kind to everyone, no one would act out around her. A mere glance ensured complete obedience. Taught us to memorize poems and spell “M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I”. Joyce Kilmer’s, “Ode to a Tree”. Her favorite poem, we memorized for her and each in turn stood at attention in her little pencil selling room turned classroom and recited it in turn. She beamed with pride I remember clearly that day, now as I drive by Moreland Heights Elementary hoping there’s a Miss Bonner in there making life better, richer. Memories are like trees, experiences become roots growing deep into the soul holding, grounding us to the Earth. Memories nurture our lives letting our roots of understanding grow deeper into the Earth,  strengthening us, suffusing our lives with layers of meaning.
            The old McCarthy house is just down from the rocket school. Been a place of pilgrimage for the literary inclined for years. A place of refuge for the downtrodden and homeless for probably just as long. Two storied, two chimnyed affair long abandoned, disused, and otherwise neglected, left to rot it became the home of vagrants. My kinda folks in an odd way.   I’m always amused by the drunks, usually they don’t mean no harm and often have a very interesting tale of woe and misfortune. The McCarthy house lies in ruin, an unfortunate fire has brought it into it’s current fire-stricken state. I can’t help but think this is a fitting end for one of the more interesting authors of the 20th century. Hell, he probably burned it himself; I can see it now restored and fully refurbished and turned into an artists retreat for some young sympathetic writer wanting/yearning/pleading to the gods to get the right “inspiration”. You’d be better off living in the ashes and ruin of its current state than anything else.
 
The McCarthy house has seen brighter days.
 “ What once was a home became a veritable warren, rats nest of empty bottles, cans, rotten piss soaked mattresses, and wasted lives. Long ago it had become a breeding ground for vagrants, hobos, and other such ne’er do wells. Their wanton recklessness and ill luck foreshadowed the inferno that left only smoldering ash and forlorn chimney’s holding solemn congress over the memories huddled in the confines of this transitory South Knoxville Geography.” - Excerpt from the acclaimed novella “Old Kirby”  by acclaimed author  J. A. Bordman.  You want to learn how to write like someone else, get your inspiration from the childhood home of whatever I think that’s a lot of junk. You need to start this war where your standing because if you can’t do it now you ain’t ever gonna do it. Sure you might be able to sit around looking pretentious with something to say but the bottom line is you done missed the boat and you’re out looking for scraps. I figure he was loathe to see his home turned into the Kerouac Shrine they got going on down in Orlando. The only good thing to come out of that house since Jack lived there are a couple of travel logs. Hanging out at the McCarthy ruins with a couple of cold PBR’s rummaging around, its burned down, down to the ground. Notice a stack of whisky bottles melted into the fireplace. Rusty mattress springs lay in abundance. The kitchen was over here, very odd and vacant. Privet, Kudzu, and Bamboo have already begun to make their inroads. My friend Jill ( a veterinary neurologist )  and I rummage around talking about “The Road” and taking a pull now and then from our beers. It’s an awesome wreck of a mess, shit is just everywhere. We spend several hours just hanging around in the ruins and exploring. The tall brick chimneys stand in mute testimony like a southern gothic stone hinge commemorating the life of a child that would go on to write amazing novels of Knoxville Decadence, Western Brutality and Post Apocalyptic Horror.
            Now-a-days they got someone living there in a camper to keep people like me from poking around, but of course they’re a day late and dollar short. Done been there and took in the feeling, the slow march of decay. It’s fitting eulogy ashes to ashes  and dust to dust. Sic Transit Gloria - Glory fades...........glory fades.
 
             I come to the stop light at the corner of Martin Mill Pike and Ogle Street, my barber shop is right over there and King Tuts is on my right. King Tut’s the name evokes fear and dread in my mind, also confusion. If your gonna eat at King Tuts be ready, for screaming, yelling and high-jinx. It’s a den where folks go to release their unbridled passions in the form of alcohol/children’s musical instruments and karaoke. It’s BYOBooze. The only things worth eating are: The Egyptian Platter (handmade/homemade) The greek salad, a veritable burial mound of ice burg lettuce and feta cheese; a daunting task for even the most battle-hardened foodie and for desert I always recommend the Jack Daniels Pie. It is really super. How much JD is in the pie and how much JD is in Moe is anyone’s guess.
            Incidentally, Moe or “The Pharaoh of South Knoxville” as I affectionately refer to the busy man that is the brain child of King Tuts Grill. Moe’s and his family are Egyptians who migrated to South Knoxville sometime during the Second Dynasty of Ramses II. Adorned in a bejeweled white tunic and golden loin cloth Moe stands Sphinx-like. He towers over his humble cinder block domain that is wholly his own creation. He is Master and Commander.
             While visiting King Tuts Grill be prepared to “go native” drinking your sweet tea out of the large green flower vase is the normal social ritual. Asking for a glass is at best unwise. Beheadings and forced servitude are the norm at King Tuts Grill, not the exception. Be prepared to wait a long time ( no matter how full/busy/what time of day there is only Moe, his wife, and son (heir apparent?) to wait on you By waiting on you I actually mean screaming/joking/asking you questions such as “Garry, why is it that I haven’t seen you in six months? Why is it you only want Greek Salad? Why not try my tasty Jack Daniels Pie? ”
            Next will follow an impossible card game or some inexplicable feat of magic/Riddle Game of the Mummy whereby you are forced/bound by the Rule of Moe to buy everyone at the table a round of Jack Daniels Pie. Word to the Wise, do not engage Moe in feats of reason, magic, and/or cards on his home turf his “Hoodoo” is too strong. Even the Mexicans fear him and you will invariably lose and be bound to buy your group/friends whatever desert of the day Moe is foisting on the great and many “unwashed masses” of true believers that flock to King Tuts on a weekly basis.
            If you’re worried about health codes don’t go near this colorful cinder-block excuse for a dining facility. It routinely scores low or outright fails health/food  inspections on a regular basis. For example, the one bathroom is in the kitchen. Personally, my own experiences there have flown the gamut from fairly decent to how did I spend three hours here while holding an accordion.
Enter and Eat at your own risk, you’ll be glad you did.
            Turning onto Ogle Street, my barber shop is on the left. The Ogle Street Barber Shop. Little woman in elevator sneakers runs the show in there and she cuts hair every day but Sunday and Wednesday. She’s been cutting hair in the same building for the last 27 years. She drives a little white chevy four-door and on the side of it is one those oversized magnetic stickers, it say Ogle Street Barber Shop 573-7676, and there’s a little barber pole next to the name. For some reason, this setup does nothing but break my heart. I go in once a month to get my hair butchered. It’s good enough, they only charge $8, but I always give $10. Always, wonder how can anyone make a living cutting hair for $8 a head in South Knoxville. Occasionally, I see one of my favorite patients in there. The guy with the Brain Stimulators is priceless. Scars and the odd bulge to right of his forehead slightly over the Temporal Lobe. Elderly and pot-bellied this gentleman is an infrequently-frequent visitor to our fine medical facility. He always comes in to try and get admitted, usually in the winter. For some strange reason, he always sticks out with his scars and high pitched lilting voice. I always great him with a grin and a smile. “How you doing today Mr. Talbot, what brings you in today.” “My legs are hurting, are you gonna keep me tonight.” Curious, I pull back the sheets and look at the swollen, skin tight appendages, they look like pink plump purple sausages ready for the grill. Numerous scabs in varying stages of healing polka-dot his legs. Grabbing him a pillow/ cup of coffee ( two creams )  and settling him in for the inevitable wait; I learn that he’d been in jail for “violent acts” as he describes it. That’s why he’s got his “Brain Stimulators”, as he tells it. I don’t really care one way or another. I like him simply because he’s odd, one of those people that not only falls between the cracks he lives in the cracks. Mr. Talbot tells me how about needing a place to stay and how hard it is to find housing, he’d been living in his car, that was about nine months ago. He’s sitting there now, reading a magazine. I see him clearly as I drive slowly by. The woman is trimming another gentleman's hair in the early morning fluorescence.
            Following Ogle Street I pass underneath an old railroad trellis, One afternoon I stopped in front of this very same underpass to witness a man driving a mattress truck. He drove the truck straight on through never mind the fact his overhead was much too tall for the railroad trellis. Never mind the warning signs. The look on the mans face was painful to behold. His mouth a nearly perfect “O”. I felt his pain as I witnessed the roof of his truck crumpling and peeling back like a clumsily opened can of sardines. This morning my passage is without incidence. At the STOP Sign I make a left on old Maryville Pike. The morning fog clings desperately to the ground on Maryville Pike. This road will take you all the way into Maryville if your so inclined.
            Across the street is a chain link fence covering an abandoned 13 acre field. First glance, you’d think nothing of it except for a few rusty NO TRESPASSING signs. Turns out this where Witherspoon Recycling processed scrap metal. Most of the metals were bought from Nuclear Weapons Production Facilities in Oak Ridge, the White Wing Scrap Yard also in Oak Ridge and from as far afield as the Wilcox Naval Nuclear Fuel Division in Lynchburg Virginia. Some of this “Scrap Metal” contained unsettling amounts of highly enriched uranium. Can you say, “Dirty Bomb”? The field over there behind the fence used to be nicknamed, “The Hot Field”. That was back in the 70’s and 80’s. Stories circulate that a lot of the extremely radioactive stuff “too hot too handle” was just buried out there. Witherspoon Recycling employed locals mostly, uneducated folks working for minimum wage grinding metal and breathing radioactive isotopes all day. In 2006, the EPA came in and spent about 6 months shaving off top soil and hauling it off. Now it’s just grass and trees are starting to grow. Nothing remains to let you know the horror that slowly unfolded in your backyard.
            Across the street, from South Knoxville’s very own super-fund site is the Candoro Marble Works. Since 1914, they have cut and polished marble on this site. Ownership has changed hands numerous times. But, marble continues to be a business in South Knoxville. Numerous abandoned quarries, now popular with a younger more aquatically inclined crowd now-a-days physically attest to the importance of marble in South Knoxville’s economy. Condoro Marble was used in the Smithsonian Museums and the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, a fine accomplishment by any standard (ALL TRUE). The real eye catcher though is the Candoro Marble Works Show Room, this is one of the best kept secrets of Knoxville in general and South Knoxville in Particular.
Built in 1923, by our own Charles Barber of the firm Barber & McMurry this building smacks of Italian Old World simplicity, Graceful columns, arches, and quality building materials give this structure a timeless elegance that has more than withstood the passage of time and fortune. It’s definitely a place that exists out of time and place I’m glad it’s there. Completely unexpected it sits on the corner of Maryville Pike and Candoro Avenue. Untrammeled by the decay and apathy that beat against it. Once a year, South Knoxville gather in the Shadows of The Candoro Marble Show Room for “Vestival” an open air extravaganza dedicated to the quirky-home-spun-debauchery that makes itself at home in South Knoxville - “Git You Some”.
            I turn right, the headlights of my much loved 1990 Red Ford Bronco 4X4 illuminate the chosen path and guide us to the next “Station” of my daily ritual. Passing by such fine establishments as “Brownies Poolroom” and “Brewskis” I  come to a halt at  the Stop Light on the corner of Maryville Pike and Eddington Avenue. Eddington avenue is like the Mos Eisley Space Port of South Knoxville.   You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”  Obi Wan Kenobi. Doors locked and sheath knife safely tucked under the seat. Looking over at the “Saveway Foodliner” store. A low slung decrepit sandy yellow brick and mortar affair with “SAVEWAY FOODLINER” in big red letters. What the hell does that mean  anyway? I see mostly drunks and those soon to be drunk or wish they were drunk entering and leaving. A large percentage of the groceries that come out of that place are of a Liquid Variety that you must have a fake ID to purchase. Back in the day, this store was a Cas Walker Store. Today Cas is an unknown largely forgotten fellow who’s vaguely known to be the third husband of Dolly Parton. Honestly, Cas Walker was a mess; the kind of man that can only thrive and survive in the Cut Throat Jungles of South Knoxville. Why in the 50’s and 60’s his stores were worth close to 60 million dollars annually. In 2012 Dollars, that’s more money than you can easily stuff into the bodies of the four bloated opossums you’ve found in the sink-hole behind your house. Arkansas may have Sam Walton and the Walmart Empire and the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, but we of South Knoxville have Cas Walker “The Old Coon Hunter”. He may be dead and most of you don’t know who is, and that he was frequently referred to as “The Old Coon Hunter” and that he was briefly Mayor of Knoxville (removed by recall election). I’m O.K. with that, really it’s fine; Now really now leave me alone.
            In Cas’s own words he recounts, ““She just rared back and hit me in the mouth and knocked out three of my teeth. She was strong as a bull. I started fighting her then, and Lord a’ mercy, I just kicked her on out the door. Then, I went over to the jail and made bond. The next day, some of them tried to say I broke two of her ribs, but where I kicked her, her ribs wasn’t near. I planted me a boot factory, and that never did cost me a cent. She was trespassing. She was an awful good woman except when she took these mad spells.” Sam Walton couldn’t do crap like that and get away with it.
            Looking over at the Old Cas Walker Store with nostalgia that was at least a decade before my time. Would have liked to seen it back in the day. Cas chasing shoplifters down the street with a cane/shotgun and/or machete............ whatever. It would have been a sight to see. “Thumping Good Watermelons!” Accept no Substitutes. And of course his sons wasted all his hard earned money on vice and sin. That’s the way we roll.
            Carefully driving down Eddington, I pause at the Railroad Underpass, this one’s made of concrete and dirt; off to the left is a hobo camp. I see folks walking in and out at odd times. Occasionally you can see a blue tarp back in there a bit, and the occasional smoke from a campfire. It’s been there forever. Talking to homeless people, they tell me there’s lots of “campers” along the tracks and up around Fort Dickerson. Supposedly, there’s a big camp up on the wooded side of Fort Dickerson. I haven’t seen it, YET. I pass through the tunnel and drive slowly down Eddington. Roosters crow and Hen’s run across the street (I’m not joking). Long before it became “cool” for hipsters to raise chickens they’ve been running wild on Eddington for at least the last Seven Years I’ve made my daily pilgrimage to UT Medical Center. I always drive carefully down Eddington a little girl was killed in a drive by shooting here just last year. This are is well known for Robberies, Meth, prostitution, and just about any other trouble you care to name.
I turn left at the next Stop Sign onto Cherokee Trail. Its a downhill hill glide past  all this newly constructed high end college housing horror show that I desperately hope will just go away somehow. Cherokee Trail used to be this awesome little road with tree branches interlocking, forming a canopy over the road. No more, it’s all clear cut land grab and build it up while you can now. The urban jungle has given way to the Keg-Stand. South Knoxville died a little bit when this chancre of high-end-luxury-mom-and-dad-buy-all-my-shit college lifestyle was forced upon us.
PART IV
            I pull into the parking lot. Luckily I’m in early enough so I don’t have to park out at the “Body Farm” / “Death’s Acre”/ or as I fondly call it; “That bit of land that’s enclosed with double layers of fencing and razor wire where they study the decomposition of human remains for science and forensic anthropology” It smells something fierce in the summer like a bloated up/ rot gas filled  dog laying on the Cowan railroad tracks with it’s heads taken clean off. I mean it really stinks. But today, I’m lucky and don’t have to park out there. The body farm is the Brain Child of Dr. Bass a UT Anthropologist who is known the world over for his work in Forensic Anthropology. With the proliferation of his fiction-works and the huge popularity of such shows as NCIS, NCIS-Special Victims, NCIS - oh man this is just too easy to parody so I wont for a change. Everybody and their ex-mother-in-law wants in on the action. My fav are the nursing students who say shit like, “ I want to be a forensic nurse specialist”. They’re young, bubbly, full of optimistic hope, and the joy of learning and helping simply for the sake of humanity. Cruelly, I reply in kind with something to the effect of, “Oh by all mean YES! I hope you enjoy doing rape kits on drunk college girls at three in the morning” Forensic Nursing used to be called Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, it’s all about comforting the victim, paying close attention to “chain of custody” and collecting swabs from your different orifices. I think I’ll pass.
            Walking into the job, the job I’ve had for the last seven years? This is the last station of my morning journey.  Funny how time flies, you look back over it all thinking the good, the bad. I’m a study of missed opportunity and wasted chances. Clocking in late, calling in sick, when I was really just too hung-over/life spinning out of control. Like a cat with nine lives I’m lucky in more ways than I’ll ever hope to understand. Folks had faith in me. I’ve finally gotten over the drinking/abusing my body to the point of disfunction. My Charge Nurse told me one day, “Shores, your a really great Nurse, but you know it’s not always about saving lives, most of the time it’s about showing up on time and being dependable.” I’m routinely the least punctual most disengaged person, screaming and yelling about whatever comes down the line. But the problem is when the chips are down and things need to get done I’m the guy you want on your team. By hook or by crook I’ll get the job done. I’ve already got the medications you need in my pocket. I’m arguing about keeping a patient from being discharged and thirty minutes later she’s headed to the ICU. I’m the nurse you want on your team, but I’m a complete and total trainwreck. However lately, I’ve gotten to train a few of our new hires, trying to teach them how to think for themselves, work without much supervision, and show up on time. Because, when the chips are down you’ll look around and maybe you’re the senior with everyone looking to you for an answer; you best have one quick. Finally, I got some answers, and today I’m ready to go toe to toe with whatever comes through the door.
 
 
 
 




 


 


















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