My Trip to the Sheriff’s Substation

Bishop can be an interesting place to live…let me illustrate. Well, first, everything is ok. I went to the police station today voluntarily, not in cufffs or in the back of a squad car. But anyway, this is how the whole thing came to pass…
At the beginning of April 2009, I was a government employee, determined to hang on to a position with the Department of Commerce that was already obsolete!
I was one of the relatively few people across the nation chosen to help begin the work of the 2010 Census. In the spring of this year, then, the Census Bureau hired people to initiate mapping of neighborhoods for structural and other data.
This phase of the census was completed very quickly and the memory of my $15/hr job was only that. I needed to work; we were having a rough time of it with my husband’s pay being our only source of income.
On my very last day of canvassing, I went into the local grocery store to get some water, and while gulping it down, I spotted an ad on the store’s bulletin board that caught my eye. On a small slip of paper was some information about a job at a substantial rate of pay. I removed the paper and left for home, called the employer and went to work in a week.
I was to read a table of contents for the writer of magazine articles. This job entailed my going to work at the home of my boss for 2 hours at a time, which I did. This was not a problem, though I am not in the habit of going into stranger’s homes for money.
As I said previously, we needed the money and my job with the government had just come to an end. I arrived, ready for work, at the address he gave me and waited for him to find me and show me where he worked and lived.
His double-wide trailer was nice and I was invited in. I must say that I was not altogether comfortable standing in his living room, but I managed. He asked if I wanted to sit, which I did, groaning with the hip pain I was becoming accustomed to.
He asked if I was comfortable and did I need anything? I replied “No thanks, Don, I’m fine, it’s just that my hip is killing me so I need to ask you, umm, do you mind leaving the door open while I am here?” and he just smiled, Don did, as he complied…The door remained open for the 2 hours I spent working there and I was grateful that I had the courage to even mention it. My most pressing problem was that I needed to be able to flee if need be with the least amount of effort since my hip was shot. He didn’t mind. Thank God.
Don sat in an overstuffed chair near but not uncomfortably near my own.
We discussed the job, our families and the weather as people tend to do, then he spoke only of the job itself.
He handed me a couple of sheets of paper with a table of contents on one of these papers. The table had been written by him and he wanted to pay me to read it silently and then report to him whether or not it could be rewritten so as to appeal and not offend a Cosmopolitan audience.
Don had written this table of contents with Playgirl readers in mind who enjoyed sexually explicit and titillating writing in contrast perhaps to a Cosmo reader who may or may not enjoy such a reading experience.
Playgirl had gone out of business recently and from what I understand, Don had been left holding the table of contents.
I was to rate the table by how easily I thought that Don could translate the language he used, “Cunt”, “Cock”, “Pubes”, “Clit” and etcetera to Cosmo language like “Vagina”, “Penis”, “Pubic Hair” and “Clitoris” are some of the examples.
So. I understood my job and was ready to get on with it. I checked out my inner comfort level and was not surprised to find it wanting, yet again, we needed the money and I sensed no actual danger.
The guy was apparently harmless. At least physically harmless.
And so Don left the room and I began to read, ready to rate what he had written. I was pretty much mortified, folks, definitely disgusted. “Yuck” would fit right about here. “EEeeww” would work even better.
The words were not terribly offensive to me in and of themselves, I am in no way a prude. But I was beginning to sense that something else was going on besides my job.
Where had Don gone to wait while I read? Why had he left the room at all? I thought he had given me space but then I wasn’t so sure. He was quite prompt when I called to him, “Don?” when I was done.
I finished my 2 hours and did not allow myself to think about the job until I was in my truck bound for home.
I believe that was a self-protective decision, not to think about it until I was absolutely safe.
Once in my safe truck and on my way home I thought to myself, why did he leave the room? Why did he choose me to do this job, and why did he offer to pay me more money if I would let him practice his massage on me that day?
Now, with hindsight fully operational, I am fairly certain that he was masturbating in another room while I read his writing. I don’t know this, though. I must be sure that I leave the correct impression here. Don did not touch me in any way. He suggested I let him massage me but did not force the issue. Not at all.
So I decided to go to the Sheriff’s substation only because of a small slip of paper. It was placed withing reach of children. They would not have the confidence to resist money so easily.
They would be seduced/lured with ease.
And that, dear readers, is why I went to the Sheriff’s substation and told a Sargent this story. The Sargent was not pleased when he found that these slips of paper were appearing all over town as fast as they were removed. And neither was I.
The moral of the story? Be careful when broke. Don’t think you can’t live without money. Someone will give you enough money to eat or find shelter, you don’t have to read disgusting material for $15 an hour. Don’t let your child grab anything off a community bulletin board no matter what…
Ever.