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aruanHas something ever gone wrong in your life without any real indication that anything was amiss?
It did in mine today, and the whole thing might just be a big metaphor for what may happen to me if I remain in this reporting job.
I was hideously lost today en route to the Lakeland Police Department, but when you've got the open road, good music and the wind in your hair, everything is a lot more tolerable. So I'm driving along and thinking the creeping smell of something burning is coming from somewhere in Lakeland, then the car in front of me - then I stop at an intersection and the smell gets exponentially worse, plus bonus smoke coming out from beneath the hood.
My instruments, meanwhile, continue to tell me everything is just fine.
The rest is pretty predictable - turned off my car, jumped out and ran to the sidewalk, called 911. A guy a few cars behind me pulled off and pushed my car, with the help of two other men who appeared out of nowhere, out of the intersection and into the parking lot of the post office on the corner. Firefighters turn up a few moments later as the guy, who turns out to be a part-time mechanic, has started digging around under my hood and tells me that hey, there's no oil in your engine.
What?
I'd been in tears since bolting out of my car thinking it was going to explode or something, and the firemen are asking me questions and alternately saying, "Why are you crying, are you worried about your car?" And all I wanted to do was round on them and yell that you don't understand, I've had this car since I was 16 years old and love it more than most of the people in my life, and my job is kind of dependent on my having it, so yeah, I am worried about it, fuck you, thanks. That car has never known anything but hand-washing and Mobil-1 synthetic.
And he's telling me I didn't notice that there isn't any oil in the engine?
In the end, my car didn't catch fire - what probably did was motor oil dripping onto something having to do with my exhaust system that was hot enough to ignite it or close to it. The mechanic manages to start it and rev it pretty high, which he says means I turned it off in time, no major/permanent damage, just get a few quarts of oil and it'll be fine to drive to a shop.
But when I call my brother the car guru in the motor oil aisle of Wal-Mart, the only thing open at midnight when I get off work, because wow, who knew there were so many different kinds of motor oil, he says don't even think about trying to drive it anywhere. "Oil fires don't go out," he says. "So if it catches fire again, and it will, all you can do is walk away."
And he's right. The shop people in my ofice say is reputable isn't too far from the post office, maybe 10 miles, but that's plenty enough time for the oil to drip somewhere not as strategic. So, fine, I'm calling a tow truck tomorrow.
But I feel so ridiculous and like an unfit mother who deserves to lose custody rights. Weirdly, I remember a couple of days ago meaning to check the oil level in my engine and scheduling an oil change. But even if I'd done that, who knows if this wouldn't have happened another month down the line, somewhere in the middle of Florida on the two-lane deathtrap that is Route 60?
And how did this happen? The mechanic says my engine likely has a small leak somewhere, but then wouldn't the oil have dripped onto something that's hot enough to ignite it way before now? And how is there no indicator on my instrument panel for engine oil levels? How did I not know something was wrong?
I love that car completely. It's a 1997 Mustang GT convertible, cherry red with a tan top, that my father bought slightly used and gave to me for my driver's license birthday. No matter how bad any day is, I can get in it, take down the roof and blast some music, and everything is right with the world again in moments. Besides its practical purposes, it's my sanctuary, and I'm always so paranoid about checking my gauges, making sure everything is fine. And everything WAS fine, until it really, really wasn't, and I can't help feeling like a bad parent for not seeing some sign.
But as far as the whole incident being a metaphor, maybe there were signs and I just didn't pay close enough attention. Maybe the engine's been louder or more high-pitched, maybe the acceleration has been off, maybe it's been functioning sub-parly and I've been too preoccupied during what little driving I do around town to notice.
And that's just what I feel like in my new job.
With cops reporting, you're tied to the police scanner for most of the day for breaking news, which is an incredibly stressful, loud, garbled machine and I still can't understand half the conversations that go on, meaning I've made some pretty stupid-sounding phone calls these past two weeks. And even when I do call about something legitimate, either the shift changed and the next person knows nothing about what happened, they lie about nothing going on, or have simply forgotten about that dead motorcyclist because it happened in the morning. The job is constantly high-stress, high-anxiety and completely dependent on sources recounting their information properly and being willing to share it with you. I feel like I spend the entire shift sitting at my desk with my stomach tied in knots about what might happen next, will I miss it, should I have driven out there, did photo miss a great opportunity?
It's seeped over into my life outside the office, too. I've been sleeping badly and too long. It takes time just to unwind from the day before I can relax afterward, and I spend the hour or so between waking up and going to work sick to my stomach with anxiety. And I tell myself I'll get used to it, that I'm overstressing about things, that it'll all fall into place and I'll figure out what to do, because I love writing and have already had some great story opportunities. But I hate the snappish and tired person I'm becoming, especially toward Brandon who's not been nothing but fantastically supportive, and who am I kidding, I have no talent for people and cajoling and was thoroughly unprepared for this job by the university that gave me a degree in it.
So what do I do? Keep the good parts in the forefront of my mind, remind myself that I'll get used to it and things will get easier? How long will that take, if it'll happen at all? And will I see the effects in oh, an ulcer or breakdown?
After all, as I learned today, an engine that's run out of oil, even otherwise perfect, can't function for long. And was neglecting my car, thinking everything was fine because there were no real signs it wasn't, any different than what I'm pushing myself to just grit my teeth and get through?
It did in mine today, and the whole thing might just be a big metaphor for what may happen to me if I remain in this reporting job.
I was hideously lost today en route to the Lakeland Police Department, but when you've got the open road, good music and the wind in your hair, everything is a lot more tolerable. So I'm driving along and thinking the creeping smell of something burning is coming from somewhere in Lakeland, then the car in front of me - then I stop at an intersection and the smell gets exponentially worse, plus bonus smoke coming out from beneath the hood.
My instruments, meanwhile, continue to tell me everything is just fine.
The rest is pretty predictable - turned off my car, jumped out and ran to the sidewalk, called 911. A guy a few cars behind me pulled off and pushed my car, with the help of two other men who appeared out of nowhere, out of the intersection and into the parking lot of the post office on the corner. Firefighters turn up a few moments later as the guy, who turns out to be a part-time mechanic, has started digging around under my hood and tells me that hey, there's no oil in your engine.
What?
I'd been in tears since bolting out of my car thinking it was going to explode or something, and the firemen are asking me questions and alternately saying, "Why are you crying, are you worried about your car?" And all I wanted to do was round on them and yell that you don't understand, I've had this car since I was 16 years old and love it more than most of the people in my life, and my job is kind of dependent on my having it, so yeah, I am worried about it, fuck you, thanks. That car has never known anything but hand-washing and Mobil-1 synthetic.
And he's telling me I didn't notice that there isn't any oil in the engine?
In the end, my car didn't catch fire - what probably did was motor oil dripping onto something having to do with my exhaust system that was hot enough to ignite it or close to it. The mechanic manages to start it and rev it pretty high, which he says means I turned it off in time, no major/permanent damage, just get a few quarts of oil and it'll be fine to drive to a shop.
But when I call my brother the car guru in the motor oil aisle of Wal-Mart, the only thing open at midnight when I get off work, because wow, who knew there were so many different kinds of motor oil, he says don't even think about trying to drive it anywhere. "Oil fires don't go out," he says. "So if it catches fire again, and it will, all you can do is walk away."
And he's right. The shop people in my ofice say is reputable isn't too far from the post office, maybe 10 miles, but that's plenty enough time for the oil to drip somewhere not as strategic. So, fine, I'm calling a tow truck tomorrow.
But I feel so ridiculous and like an unfit mother who deserves to lose custody rights. Weirdly, I remember a couple of days ago meaning to check the oil level in my engine and scheduling an oil change. But even if I'd done that, who knows if this wouldn't have happened another month down the line, somewhere in the middle of Florida on the two-lane deathtrap that is Route 60?
And how did this happen? The mechanic says my engine likely has a small leak somewhere, but then wouldn't the oil have dripped onto something that's hot enough to ignite it way before now? And how is there no indicator on my instrument panel for engine oil levels? How did I not know something was wrong?
I love that car completely. It's a 1997 Mustang GT convertible, cherry red with a tan top, that my father bought slightly used and gave to me for my driver's license birthday. No matter how bad any day is, I can get in it, take down the roof and blast some music, and everything is right with the world again in moments. Besides its practical purposes, it's my sanctuary, and I'm always so paranoid about checking my gauges, making sure everything is fine. And everything WAS fine, until it really, really wasn't, and I can't help feeling like a bad parent for not seeing some sign.
But as far as the whole incident being a metaphor, maybe there were signs and I just didn't pay close enough attention. Maybe the engine's been louder or more high-pitched, maybe the acceleration has been off, maybe it's been functioning sub-parly and I've been too preoccupied during what little driving I do around town to notice.
And that's just what I feel like in my new job.
With cops reporting, you're tied to the police scanner for most of the day for breaking news, which is an incredibly stressful, loud, garbled machine and I still can't understand half the conversations that go on, meaning I've made some pretty stupid-sounding phone calls these past two weeks. And even when I do call about something legitimate, either the shift changed and the next person knows nothing about what happened, they lie about nothing going on, or have simply forgotten about that dead motorcyclist because it happened in the morning. The job is constantly high-stress, high-anxiety and completely dependent on sources recounting their information properly and being willing to share it with you. I feel like I spend the entire shift sitting at my desk with my stomach tied in knots about what might happen next, will I miss it, should I have driven out there, did photo miss a great opportunity?
It's seeped over into my life outside the office, too. I've been sleeping badly and too long. It takes time just to unwind from the day before I can relax afterward, and I spend the hour or so between waking up and going to work sick to my stomach with anxiety. And I tell myself I'll get used to it, that I'm overstressing about things, that it'll all fall into place and I'll figure out what to do, because I love writing and have already had some great story opportunities. But I hate the snappish and tired person I'm becoming, especially toward Brandon who's not been nothing but fantastically supportive, and who am I kidding, I have no talent for people and cajoling and was thoroughly unprepared for this job by the university that gave me a degree in it.
So what do I do? Keep the good parts in the forefront of my mind, remind myself that I'll get used to it and things will get easier? How long will that take, if it'll happen at all? And will I see the effects in oh, an ulcer or breakdown?
After all, as I learned today, an engine that's run out of oil, even otherwise perfect, can't function for long. And was neglecting my car, thinking everything was fine because there were no real signs it wasn't, any different than what I'm pushing myself to just grit my teeth and get through?
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Date: February 23rd, 2007 04:34 pm (UTC)Since the string of posts whining about my job personally and professionally, things have happened. Suffice it to say I'm still there, but feeling a lot less crazed about it. The scanner, while still annoying, has gotten more comprehensible - some of the local police/fire agencies' lack of communication with us has not.
Can I just say, I snickered at your suggestion of buying a book to learn people skills? :) It's a good idea, just doesn't seem like it, you know? But the people thing has gotten better too - my abject terror at picking up the phone has subsided lots.
And looking for new opportunities is exactly what I'm doing. I've signed up with two Web sites, which if nothing else are helping with an idea of what's out there, occasionally throwing new prospects my way.
God, it was horrific. I've seen cars blow up in the movies! After crashes and such, not just bomb-related, either. And in the middle of a busy intersection, too. [shudder]