Aventura

As I was reading the words of a friend on a gran aventura, I had some thoughts of my own, inspired most likely by the jagged, forested slopes and the landscape I saw in those pictures. I thought, then I relayed, that the adventure is in our minds. While I am fully behind of this type of gran aventura, seeing that I am not on one, I decided that it is irrelevant what others' opinions of the aventura are; it only matters whether it is actually an aventura to the participant himself. It's the pursuit. It's thinking and observing. It's realizing that what you see is unique no matter where you are. Who else has a beast as subordinate as mine, or a day like today as I experienced it.

Scheduled today was a meeting with a woman named Meta. This meeting was set for 1:00 pm, but I had to bring with me a $10 money order. I went to the bank and took $20 out of my checking account and waited in line behind 7 people, all apparently having transactions that were more complex than simple deposits. I gathered that the couple behind me was there to request a cash advance. I gathered that this was a common reason for bank customers to stand in line around lunch on a day other than Friday. I had my cash in hand and finally was able to see a teller. Please make me a $10 money order. 'Do you have an account with us?' Well yes, but I have cash. Will you please just sell me a money order for cash you woman-prick. Perhaps I'd like some privacy with my money order. Why do people need money orders? Wouldn't the bank like to group me into that population. Doesn't that bank already have enough data on me? I cave in and give her the account, which lets her waive the fees, and a woman will call me later this week and offer to upgrade my account. When she does, when she insists I change my account, why don't I just go to another institution with my business. Why don't I just start using cash for everything. Buy money orders each time I need to send a check through the mail. There was a short round woman attempting to small-talk the people in line. Christmas this, giving cash for Christmas that. I smiled, to let her feel comfortable should she have wanted to talk to me. Those people are not proud of what they are at the bank for, and neither am I. I would spend $20 to have a $10 money order without this invasion of privacy.

I make it to my meeting on time. I walk down Tremont street; court would be faster. I'll remember next time. Metal detector. The man operating the conveyor belt hates only two things in this world: X-Rays and Conveyor Belts. Those items, and people on probation. He begrudgenly allows me to take my jacket, keys, and cell phone into the building. 6th floor. Instructions posted everywhere. Appointments. Waiting room. I'm seated dead center, with four people on each side of me. Winners. All of them winners. Not a representative sample of people who do wrong or break rules. A representative sample of those who can't get good lawyers. I'm in that group, I share that with these people. I'm the only one who was in a position to fire mine, though.

Meta appears at 1:05. So nice to finally meet me, she exclaims and warmly shakes my hand. The message last week was to explain to her why she shouldn't issue a warrant for my arrest. She's sweet, though, and seems disappointed in our justice system, in my case. I'm given the lowest level of probation afforded to someone just coming into the system. My 2 year sentence should consist of 6 months of bimonthly meetings with Meta or someone else assigned to lower-risk people like me, followed by six months of email correspondence and the satisfaction of my $1,800 debt related to the case, followed by a petition by this woman to shorten the term to one year only. Our meeting is short. I am to provide a urine sample to an agency on the 5th floor, where I am also to meet with a collections agent. I show her pay stubs and letters addressed to me at my claimed address. She comments about the victim's $200 jeans, and I say something dumb about how I don't go to bars downtown anymore. Second time I slipped up today.

She formally refers me to the drug testing agency. This agency tests for 6 or 8 different drugs, none of which I have used in the last 30 days. Alcohol is not on the list, but your usual suspects are. I'm shown to another waiting area where some homeboy's phone repeatedly rings with about three lines of an Eminem song I don't recognize. It must be his text message ringtone, and it's pretty obnoxious for the 30 or so people sitting around. The 6th floor lobby had a posted policy prohibiting such ringtones, but this guy probably would have argued that his was not a ringtone, but rather, a text message, so he would be exempt from the policy. He was a large guy, and sweat just dripped down his neck. After a few minutes of watching those sweat beads drip down his neck, I decided to give him a pass on the policy violation, because it would be pretty miserable to be such a sweaty and large man, in probation, in a waiting room with a bunch of other people on probation. I kept trying to recognize the song or make out the lyrics.

The guy from the drug testing agency called my name. It's policy among employees in the probation building for the offender to lead the way, with the employee walking behind and barking orders, and at each intersection of hallways telling the offender what their next move is. This supposedly increases the safety of the probation officer or maybe the drug testing agency guy. They don't have to worry about me. I am a sick puppy, sedated, and a pacifist, and even a federalist or maybe court fanboy when I am among these people. I comply with anything I am told to do. The forms are onerous, and I take a few shortcuts but do not mislead.

This guy works in a small office, probably 8' x 8.' He shares this small room with a woman who listens to the radio at that level where you can hear the tone of the voice but can't hear what is being said. Her screen is hidden and I imagine, in hindsight, that she was either reading a quilting blog or perhaps something much raunchier. Something unrelated to her job with this agency, which I imagine is to accumulate, process, summarize, and eventually forward on the $10 money orders the agency receives. The agency sells one product and charges one price, and accepts one form of payment. This woman was handed my money order after the man wrote down my name and an identifier for the money order. Checks and balances and internal controls seem like they might be tough to crack on day one, but the two of them sitting there for 5 days a week might be able to figure something out. My $10 payment is sure to get to the agency since I watched as the man scribed in the initials 'B.I.' into the payee line on the order. I notice how the desk shakes when he rests his arm on the table or touches the computer keypad, or writes. This table was not made for use in a drug testing agency office; it was made for bake sales.

The pleasantries behind us, we proceed to the men's room to complete the business. It's locked. He unlocks it and we enter. I see a toilet and a sink and a mirror. I do not notice for sure whether he is admiring my junk or has plans to. I decide to take my jacket off (yes, a jacket not dissimilar to the one that got me into this mess). In taking the jacket off I squarely clock the fine gentleman in the head with my elbow. Squarely in the head. He says something about it not being a problem; perhaps he is used to this type of physical abuse. I apologize. He does not instruct me because I know what to do. I urinate in the pastic bottle, and for the first time, I spill onto the bottle. It's OK, because I am to handle the sample until it is placed into the sealed plastic bag. Undoubtedly the folks on the other end wear rubber gloves and work in a supersterile environment. Stick the sticker, you're done. I'm done. Back to the waiting room. Sweaty big guy still there. Form is complete. Meet with collection lady, who kinda laughs.

The probation people aren't explaining things quite clearly enough these days. I didn't need to come in, my financial plan is already done. She laughs because I indicated my profession on the form, and this profession explains why the form is filled out so "meticulously." Honestly, it was not my best work by any stretch of the imagination. I rounded things off at very high levels. If there was a line for my income item, I claimed the income. Same for the expense. I had to write in the line for "taxes" on the expenses side. They asked for gross income. Can't get to net without the fucking taxes. $2,000/month in taxes I pay. Apparently this government-funded agency doesn't expect to see too many folks that actually fund it's operations. The woman gives me a small amount of useful information, though. She is a collections person, which is a position that is afforded a pretty nice office. Her iphone sits plugged in and prepped for frequent tinkering. Her desk is big. She presents well. Her office is bigger than the office shared by the drug sample folks. Her desk more solid too.