Douglas E. Berry

With five weeks left in the SCUSD school year, I still don't have a permanent post, but things are looking up.

First, I have been told that at least one guard has indicated that they are leaving, and I'm first in line for a spot. So I will have a post for next year. If more than one guard chooses to retire, I'll have the first pick, which will be nice.

Secondly, I have a post through the end of the school year. A guard has an issue to deal with that led them to not being able to work for the rest of the year, so I'm covering that spot starting Monday. It's a good corner, I've worked it several times before. For the locals, I'll be at Westwood School, at the corner of Saratoga and Los Padres.

This means two checks with lots of hours to end the year. Then I need to buy some storage bags for my uniforms and put them away for the summer. I also need to let the boss know the dates of Burning Man so we can schedule around that.

Coming to the end of the year, I can honestly say that I love this job. It has been a perfect fit for my new normal in terms of endurance, the kids and parents have been great, and I'm doing something!

In the Good News department, I've been informed that I'm now next in line to get a permanent post at work. I'm just waiting for the next person to resign.

At that point, I'm offered the post. Unless it's at the far end of the district or a place I've worked and really didn't like, I'll take it.

Ah, the human factor. It gets into everything. This morning I was supposed to be covering a corner at Eisenhower School, morning and afternoon. I show up, get into my gear and set up my chair, just in time to see another guard pull up. The regular guard for this spot.

Turns out he asked for next Friday off. Called the boss and after checking, admitted the screw-up was on his end. So now I'm getting paid for the three hours I should have worked today (payroll went in yesterday, and it would be a huge headache to get the hours taken off) and have work next Friday already set up.

Nice to have a mistake work in my favor for once.

Jesus fucking Christ, what to say today? I've hit one of my low ebbs, a day where I feel worthless and sick. I'm not motivated to do anything, and I need to start moving. Just writing this is a struggle. I don't even have the brains for playing Civilization VI. What I really want to do is slump in front of the TV and watch Law & Order reruns until my eyes bleed.

Part of it is the winter blues. While we don't get WINTER like much of the rest of the nation, we do get short days, less sunlight, and colder temperatures that increase the levels of pain I feel. All of that triggers my urge to just hunker down and hibernate. Sadly, not being a bear, I can't really do that. Pity. I can see myself gorging on burritos through the summer for a long, gassy, winter nap.

I know that bears don't actually hibernate in the classical sense but instead can sleep for days with brief periods of activity, like shitting in the woods. Of course, with the government shutdown affecting our National Parks, the bears are now competing with idiot humans for the best shit in the woods spots. My money is on the bears.

Speaking of bears, there's now an active effort being made to re-introduce the Grizzly Bear (Ursus arctos horribilis) to California as a replacement for the now extinct California Grizzly (Ursus arctos californicus.) As the Grizzly is the bear on our state flag, it would be nice to have a sustainable population back in Sierra Nevadas and the lower Cascades. Hopefully, they would eat some of the morons in our state and improve life in the Gold Country.

Yes, I'm a firm believer in moving us down a step on the predator ladder. I love wolves, bears, mountain lions, and all other apex predators. While driving for Super Shuttle I found myself facing a mountain lion as I searched for an address back in the Coast Range foothills early one morning. A beautiful animal, it had to be five feet long. It briefly froze in my headlights before slinking into the treeline. Considering most of my wildlife encounters were with skunks, this was a pleasant change.

I've also had the pleasure of hearing a mountain lion scream while camping. This was while I was still in Boy Scouts, and we were camping at Arroyo Seco. At O'dark thirty we all got woken up by the most demonic sound. Half roar, half pissed off steam engine. And it was close. It roared a few more times, and we could tell it was circling our camp. Next day, we found the remains of a deer several yards from our campsite and tracks that told the tale of one cat chasing off another from the kill.

Which brings us to deer. I like deer, and understand the need for deer hunting. We've destroyed the natural balance of predators to prey, and the deer are too dumb to notice that the wolf packs and big cats are gone. So we need to thin the herds, but see my comment above about reintroducing natural predators.

Much of my experience with deer came at Fort Benning, Ga. The training areas were a deer sanctuary, as hunting wasn't allowed on post. So almost every training exercise meant seeing deer. One of my platoon sergeants taught us the skill of tapping deer. This is sneaking up to a deer close enough to touch it. As deer have three modes: eat, fuck, and avoid predators, this was extremely hard. It was some of the best field craft training I ever had. I managed to touch a deer twice out of about 15 tries.

The other really cool encounter with deer came when my squad was moving along what can be described as a sunken trail. We had about two to three feet of red dirt earth on either side of this trail that wound its way through a fairly dense patch of pine forest. I've forgotten why we were doing this, probably a reconnaissance or setting up an ambush. But we heard a drumming sound, and my squad leader signaled for us to hunker down against the higher side of the trail. The sound got louder and suddenly a herd of deer were leaping over us. It was amazing. To see such magnificent animals in full exertion at such close range! One hoof hit my helmet. Not hard, but enough to rock me a little.

I had no idea where I was going when I started this and ended up talking about animals. Sometimes, you just let your brain wander.

I can honestly say that 2018 was my best year in a very long time. This was the year that my long road of stroke recovery finally blossomed into a new world of hope and possibility. I started the year still largely afraid and ended it with new hope for my future.

What a lot of people don't realize about medical crises like cancer or a stroke is that a big part of recovery is overcoming the shock of your body betraying you. You trust your body, depend on it, and then you have something go frightfully wrong all of the sudden and you are faced with dealing with a body that has betrayed you.

For a long time during and just after my cancer treatment, and again after my stroke, I'd look at my body in the mirror and instead of seeing me, I'd see the Thing. The Thing was the meat sack that had turned on me, leaving me broken and unable to live the life I wanted. You fear what the Thing is going to do next, so you retreat into a shell. You stay in your safe spaces, avoiding anything where the Thing might strike.

But this year I had progressed far enough in my recovery to get past the fear of my own body. I owe a lot of this to the amazing help I got from therapists. They helped me recognize why I was acting the way I was and gave me the tools to work through my bad times.

This is why I was able to apply for the Citizens Police Academy. Attending this over 12 weeks at the beginning of last year was transformative. Not only did I learn a great deal, but I found myself pushing beyond my limits. One of my Drill Sergeants always told us that what we thought were our limits were just the beginning of our potential. Attending the CPA proved this again. I found my confidence there.

Which led to me spotting an ad in the local city paper for crossing guards. I felt it was time to reach out for some type of work again. I knew that I had limitations; I get tired fast, have chronic pain issues, and still suffer from some balance and proprioception issues. I had been thinking of a gig job like Door Dash, but when I learned what the guard job entailed, I realized it was perfect for me.

As it turned out, getting the job turned into an ordeal. I had to redo my fingerprints after my first set was routed incorrectly. But they came back clean, I passed the physical, and I found myself a member of the Santa Clara Police Department. It's funny, as a crossing guard I am the lowest man on the totem pole, yet I am immensely proud to be wearing the department patches and my badge. It's good to be a part of something bigger than you.

I've been filling in as a relief guard over the past few months, and hopefully, I'll be getting my own corner soon. I really enjoy the work and the kids are great. Having a little extra money coming in is nice as well.

Along with all this police-related stuff, we did do other things. Kirsten and I work publications for the 76th World Science Fiction Convention here in San Jose. I was in charge of the Restaurant Guide, and I'm really happy with how it turned out. We also worked the newsletter at the convention. Although this meant I spent most of the con in the newsletter office, and there were several problems we had, I really enjoyed the insanity of working a World Con.

Immediately after World Con, we headed out for Burning Man. I was able to get out and see more this year, which was nice. The highlight was seeing the Alan Parsons Live Project performing "I, Robot" in its entirety and then having Alan Parsons himself come and hang out in our camp for a few hours. Really nice guy.

Musically, we saw a couple of really good shows this year. Judas Priest and Deep Purple, though Deep Purple was a bit of a disappointment; Ghost; and seeing the final show of Machine Head's current line up. That show was off the charts. We made a couple of ball games, and after nearly 25 years of being a baseball fan, I finally got a ball. From one of the grounds crew at San Jose Municipal, but it's a real baseball!

A good year. There were a few places I fell short, like keeping up on my writing and going to the gym on a regular basis. Two things to work on in 2019. But I'm entering the new year in good health and good spirits. For the first time in years, I feel good about the future.

Your usual cynical curmudgeon Doug will be back soon. But right now, I have melted into a pile of goo with big heart eyes and a smile that will not quit.

Late in my afternoon shift, I saw a mother and young daughter step up to cross. The little girl was probably a Kindergarten kid, she looked about five-ish.

Light pops green, I raise my sign, blow my three blasts on the whistle and step out to meet them mid-way across the street. The little girl can't take her eyes off of me and has a big smile. A thousand-watt smile.

Once safely across. Mom explained what was going on. This was a special trip because the girl had never crossed the street with a crossing guard. She specified that she wanted me to cross her.

I am amazed that I didn't melt right there. Her very first crossing with a guard and I was chosen? Wow. Such an honor.

And that's why I love this job. Even on a slow corner, I can make a difference.

Well, I got told. This morning I crossed a group that included a young girl who excitedly told me that she was having hot lunch today.

"Awesome, what are you having?"

She nails me with a glare that was filled with the unfathomable depths of scorn that only a 7-year-old dealing with utterly clueless adults can muster.

"Hot. Lunch." she said slowly for the benefit of the idiot with the stop sign before mounting her scooter and sailing down the block.

After weeks of bureaucratic bungling, and with no time to spare, the wheels are rolling for the school crossing guard gig.

Thursday morning I go in for a physical. Simple "can you walk 100 feet carrying a 2lb sign and can you see across the street" stuff. Then on Monday, I have a two-hour session with CSO Carpenter - who has been pushing this ever since the fingerprint screw-up - which is an orientation and equipment issue. The next day is the mandatory guard orientation.

Hopefully that same day I'll do all my city paperwork and get the city HR lecture. At that point, I will be an employee of the Santa Clara Police Department. Then I vanish into Worldcon 76 and Burning Man. After we get back, I'll have three training days, morning and afternoon, with established guards on different corners.

Then, I just wait for the phone to ring. I'm told that usually a corner becomes available for "full time" after six months. Which would be 15 hours a week, split into two 1.5 hours shifts each school day.

I'm sitting here singing the opening number from A Chorus Line.

Because very little in my life is easy.

Fingerprints were successfully retaken, I should hear back by Friday as the SCPD is asking for this to be done quickly.

I did get clarification on what the trouble was. The tech who took my last set accidentally selected the wrong routing code. Totally understandable, as the process covers six web-based forms, and I think all of us have slipped when selecting from a drop-down menu.

After it is confirmed that I am not a felon or wanted for shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die, I'll get called for the medical test. That's simply to confirm that I can stand, walk, and hold a 2lb sign up. Then I'm hired.

I make no bones about it, I miss being a truck driver. Not just because it paid the bills, but for deeper reasons. Humans define themselves by their roles. Be it a job, a family standing, or awards garnered. We can't simply be, we need that confirming identity to offer up to others. There are many family names drawn from professions; Miller, Carpenter, Wright, Mason . . . my last name of Berry refers to an old province of France where William of Normandy gathered many followers from. Those knights were granted lands in England's South, which is why you find a lot of Barrys, Berrys, Duberry, and other such names in Devonshire today.

So I was a Driver. I found I loved driving commercially when I got a job with SuperShuttle in 1994. Getting behind the wheel of a seven-passenger van and learning every detail of San Francisco so I could ferry people to and from SFO pushed me hard. I had to learn where every street in our service area was and how to read a map book really fast for the ones I didn't recognize. I had to learn traffic patterns for both freeways and surface streets. And I had to do it all while keeping a professional smile for my passengers.

I loved it. The challenge of keeping up on busy days, handling sudden changes or issues, and working hard enough to get tips motivated me. I even learned to be a tour guide of sorts, letting the visitors coming in for a vacation know what they were seeing as we rolled to their hotels clustered around Fisherman's Wharf. Of course, there were the odd and honestly stupid questions, like the woman who asked: "Do people really live in these buildings?" as we rolled up Larkin St. Yes, she was from a flat state and had never seen a hill before.

Eventually, my health failed me, and I moved into dispatch before leaving the company to heal. It took close to four years, part of that time spent working in the sheer living hell that is retail before I could get behind the wheel again. First with PODS, delivering storage units using a frankly amazing lift system named PODzillia that looked like part of the truck until I fired up its engine and began expanding it like a robot in a bad science-fiction movie. When I was forced to leave that job, I got hired by Lord & Sons, a supplier of construction supplies.

This was the job of my dreams. I had the longest route in terms of mileage. I would start at our warehouse in San Jose and pass through the Livermore Valley, Contra Costa, the Delta, into San Joaquin County, go as far south as Modesto before coming back through Livermore on my way home. Eleven hour days were not uncommon, as were days when I put enough miles on the truck to reach the Mexican border. Most days I came back to the warehouse exhausted, sore, bruised and bleeding from scrapes on my hands, and needing to carry a few . . . um . . . repurposed Gatorade bottles to the restroom for emptying and rinsing.

I thrived on this. Because as much as I might have bitched about changes that forced me to do 50-mile backtracks and clueless salesmen who made impossible promises, I took pride in handling everything in stride. I came to know every state secondary road and bypass in the San Joaquin Valley. On those days when I couldn't make it into work, my replacements were hopelessly lost and missed deliveries and pick-ups. When I had to cover a different route, I made sure I had a plan and executed it.

But aside from the pride of a good day's hard work, and I can drive you up and down Highway 680 and show you the buildings that "my stuff is in" - including the new northbound span of the Benicia Bridge - there's something deeper I miss. When you spend ten hours a day behind the wheel, you get to a point of Zen-like oneness with your truck and the road. I knew truck L1114 like the back of my hand. I got it with 14 miles on the odometer. When I was forced to retire due to health, I had driven the Bitch to the Moon and a quarter of the way back, about 300,000 miles. I knew each sound and reaction. I knew how she turned and braked like no other truck, and we were on the road together, the hours flew by.

I'll probably never feel that connection with a vehicle again, and most people won't understand what I'm talking about, but I get that. Because unlike them, I'm a Driver.