A TEMPORARY JOB

I had always planned to stay in the Air Force until I became disqualified for some reason, that is: too old, physically unfit or whatever. The military wasn't the greatest in all respects and the thing I disliked most was being separated from my family at a moments notice. Still the thought of being a civilian, always kind of scared me. After I began my 18th year in the Air Force, my wife, Jean, began asking me what I planned to do after I retired at 20 years of service.

I didn't want to get out but she indicated that to stay past twenty years meant working for only half of my basic pay, since retirement pay was computed at one half of base pay. I had acquired a bachelor's degree in psychology and a master's degree in human relations, but these were more eye wash than anything else. The degrees helped me to think but I had no practical experience in either degree. I had never really used them.

Our family was still relatively young. The oldest of our five children would be 15 if I got out in January of 1986 and took, what was called, terminal leave. They all still very much depended upon me for support. I toyed with several ideas, including: going overseas as a civilian to work for the Saudi Arabian Air Force as a fighter aircraft technical advisor (2) working on a doctorate in Education or Psychology (3) getting a teaching certificate for instructing in elementary education.

These all sounded fine but required a huge amount of corresponding sacrifice. We had been overseas for seven years by the time I reached twenty years of military service. Seven with my family and about two more by myself not to mention temporary duty. (TDY) I was sick of overseas and being away. I could make a lot of money but was that time away really worth it? I didn't think so. Working on a doctorate would pay dividends only after at least two more years of school. What I had left of the GI Bill would help but how was I supposed to support my family in to the meantime?

Getting a job as a school teacher didn't pay much but the hours should be flexible so that I could get a temporary job while going to school. Besides, how hard could it be to teach a few second graders? We had bought and paid for land before getting out so we could put the land as a down payment and get a VA Loan and build a house while I was going to school and working at temporary job. Our credit had always been very good, so I would have no trouble applying for and getting a loan to fund all that. Sweat equity and doing the simple house building jobs ourselves should also save us some money and since I only had a temporary job, I'd have a little extra time. In no time at all, by the time I threw in family duties, Church responsibilities and a never ending line of bills, not to mention building a house that was way too big for our budget, we were in way over our heads.

Jean began looking for a job as well and began saying things like, "You know, you should have never gotten out of the Air Force!" But it was too late, we had made our bed and now we had to suffocate in it. So what kind of part time job could we get? I tried everything I could think of including, mental health worker, social worker, substitute school teacher, selling soap, running through the classifieds every day to the point of panic. Nothing seemed to work. Jean had gotten a clerical job at a meat packing plant in their administrative section. She said they were hiring at the plant and paying very good wages, although the work was physically demanding.

I checked into it and decided to give it a try. I had no idea what an ordeal I was about to go through. The term "meat packing plant" was a fancy word for beef slaughter house. I don't know why, but I had imagined that hamburger just sort of appeared at the local grocer or McDonald's. My first day on the job was a total gut wrencher. I was seriously nauseated by the smell when I got within one hundred yards of the plant. It was like something out your worst horror movie. Cattle were herded from storage pens and came out in neat, packaged little pieces we call roasts, steaks, ribs, stew meat and yes, hamburger.

I was given a tour so that I could choose which area I wanted to work in first. I was aghast. Did such places really exist? Was this legal? From the killing floor to the meat hooks, from the horns to the hoofs, it went on and on in an assembly line that systematically dismembered the entire cow. After I got rid of my breakfast, I was asked where would I like to start first? The foreman saw my shocked expression and said, "I probably shouldn't say this pardner, but I don't think you'll last a week here. You just ain't the type."

I am not proud to say that eight long years later, I was still there. I simply could not find work that paid as well in the clean environment world. And what "type" of person works at a slaughter house? I suppose all types but mostly those that are desperate, like I was. Crooks and thieves and illiterates and foreign born's with a few over their head in mortgage debt owners like me.

Never before in my life had I worked so hard physically. One day, about midway thru my stay at the plant, after peddling my bike the nine miles home, I began to take off my clothes to get into the shower, when my teenage son walked in on me and said, "Dad, what has happened to your back and arms and legs! You look like a body builder! I then looked at myself in the mirror and realized I had become physically strong in ways I had not imagined. I had been unbelievably sore when I began that job, but after a few months, when they would hire young men, half my age for me to train, the young men would quit after a few days and wonder how an "old man" like me could keep up the pace.

Not only that, but I was fixing 4,000 sq. foot house and going to school on a full time schedule. I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night and worried about expenses and obligations from waking to sleeping. I worked in many areas of the plant, from the blood pits to refrigeration. From disemboweling to air knives. I wore so much safety gear and equipment that I would bathe in my own sweat and drink what seemed like gallons of water. I had steel mesh gloves on both hands and saw many a worker cut themselves on the razor knives because they would not wear the safety equipment.

I had a hard hat and a visor that fogged up if I got too far from the ventilating fan. I wore boots that came up to my knees. A full metal mesh apron covered my mid section and it was covered by a water proof apron. I was ever leery to make friends or enemies. There is something very disquieting about giving a felon, having done hard time, a knife to cut up beef and he is working right behind you. I trusted few and kept my distance. There were those that I respected but they were far outnumbered by the maniacs and druggies.

I spent much of my time in the basement. It paid more because it was one of the most disgusting places to work in the entire plant. Myself and only one other person worked inside what was called, "the cage." It consisted of a large chute where all secondary cow body parts came down. These "parts" were cut up and put thru a grinder and the oil that was extracted was used in the making of women's make-up. The other "parts" were used for animal food. I could go into stark description of the detail of what went on in that basement but it is too gross for me to want to describe. If the reader would like a more graphic description, the encyclopedias and internet have their explanations under the topic, "slaughter house."

The picture of what it was like, really, was so horrific that, even to this day, I wake up with terrible nightmares. Nevertheless, I had a duty to provide for my family and I knew not what else to do. Many times I applied for other jobs but they paid far less than my obligations. During the first of this era, our contractor's wife contracted cancer. He was obligated to leave the building of our home to others and our sons and I, with the expertise of an electric tech and my wife, drilled and wired the entire house, making all sorts of mistakes along the way. We got an extension from the bank on our construction loan and were able to finish that job, along with all the sub flooring, the priming, the painting and some of the fixtures.

This entire job forced me to drop out of school and I never went back, still possessing the bachelors and masters with a few education courses thrown in. I have purposely left out many of the details of what working at the plant was like to avoid dragging the reader through the same slime I went thru. Suffice it to say that I hope others will not make the same mistakes I did. The house loan was fixed at 10% and was an enormous burden. It was only by selling the house and moving into a much more modest dwelling that we were able to set ourselves free of the burden of debt. I was then able to quit working at the plant and got a more reasonable job working as a hospital orderly.

I remember the last day at the plant, saying goodbye and watching the plant disappear in my rear view window. I loathed the place so much, I have never been back, even when I needed something from that part of town, I would go well out of my way to avoid the area. Poor planning combined with unreasonable expenditures resulted in misery. Looking back at it now, that temporary job, though agonizing, made me stronger physically and emotionally.