Career choices can be a matter of necessity

Career choices can be a matter of necessity
                        

The Great Recession of 2008 swallowed my job whole, the way the shark in “Jaws” bit Quint at the waist, and just as bloodily.

Do you remember any of these ubiquitous phrases?

“Sub-prime mortgages,” “housing bubble,” “predatory lending practices,” “credit default swaps” and “too big to fail.”

What I knew about macroeconomics wouldn’t have filled a shot glass, but even I, a jaundiced journalist with a 1991 Honda Civic and 30-plus years in my profession, understood that when I was called into a meeting with the top brass at the newspaper, my life was about to be upended in a most unpleasant and ugly way.

I was told the position of senior night editor was still mine, but I’d face a 100-mile daily commute to an inland city … or that my wife and I could just leave the coast and begin a shiny, new life in a most unsavory and unattractive location, an option we rejected.

So I needed to find another job. The question was … doing what?

Fortunately, I had built up a bit of a nest egg — nothing ostentatious but reasonably reassuring — so I took the next four years off. But after all those beach days and nights, the various trips around the country visiting friends and family, and lots of reading and writing and cooking and relaxing, there finally came a day of reckoning.

My practical wife tacked a sheet of paper to the door of my refuge.

It was titled “The Situation,” and its stark, harsh truths snapped me back to reality, creating a scared urgency that reminded me of what I felt after four years of college and no immediate prospects.

That’s why, at 57 years old, I got myself hired as a security officer in the gated community where we’d lived since fall 2000.

At that time I was the lowest of the low on a crew that numbered 18 professionals; consequently, as a part-timer, my schedule was extremely erratic and unpredictable, leading to situations like working 14 straight days and/or nights during the holiday season, when everyone else wanted time off to be with their loved ones.

By the time I took a better gig in the commercial sector, I had risen to the pinnacle of the seniority ladder, having lasted a full 10 years.

So I was doing something right.

Residential security required expertise in a number of areas, and that only came with experience; I mean it’s one thing to pass a CPR test when you’re working on a mannequin, but it’s quite another when there’s an elderly person who needs immediate help.

Not that it was always a life-and-death job. Most of the time, you dealt with things like dead car batteries, snakes in the garage, condo lockouts, lost dogs, damaged mailboxes, loud music next door, and the faint but distinctive aroma of weed in the park.

We had no legal right to arrest or detain, but we did run radar checks every now and then that resulted in friendly warnings.

Our basic mission was “Observe and Report,” so that’s what we did.

It was a full-time job, though, within walking distance of the house, and by the time I was permanently assigned to the graveyard shift, I had established a comfortable routine, working alone most nights.

That left me with hours and hours to reflect on my life, patrolling the 56 miles of paved roads in the community, checking on the public buildings and the private homes, listening to AM radio as stations aired alien-encounter shows and West Coast ballgames.

Frequently, I thought back to the only time I’d ever dealt with a security guard, a memory that still caused my neurons to seize up, a flashback that had haunted me since the events of October 1976.

I was on fall break and, with no girlfriend or family obligations, I decided to visit a high school friend for a weekend at his college. That Saturday night, unable to get to sleep on the floor of his room, I made my way through the boisterous crowd as they partied hardy and walked to my father’s Ford Country Squire, where I rolled one.

It wasn’t the best decision I’d made in my 21 years, I’ll grant you, but there was no way I could have anticipated what happened after the campus guard tapped his flashlight on the driver’s side window and was greeted by a cloud of cannabis when I lowered it a little bit, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” playing ever so softly.

Possession with intent to sell was a Class A felony in that state, and even though that was total overkill, when the town cop found the baggie in the glove compartment, I was arrested and booked. Eventually, after Dad secured a lawyer who struck a plea deal, my crime was reduced to misdemeanor disturbing the peace, a charge that was expunged from my record after 30 days on probation.

I thought it was cool when that attorney sent us a Christmas card.

Looking back, I can’t blame the security officer for doing his job, though he could have just advised me to get back inside … quickly.

I was trained to de-escalate some volatile situations, but those involving domestic violence and/or firearms always prompted calls to law enforcement. They were very few in number, and most nights, the thousand or so residents under my watch slept soundly.

Wonder how many of them had secret stashes in their cookie jars?

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on his Facebook page, where hazy memories of Jamaica still fill the air.


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