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| LIFE IN THE DARK, QUIET LANE By Scott M. Stoffel It's another cold morning in Arlington. I'm a little sweaty, anyway—probably the only guy down in the Metro tunnel who actually appreciates that rush of December air when a train thunders into the subterranean terminal. Beats me which train it is that just came through. I have to walk down to the other end of the tunnel to where the electronic sign is, or I can't tell one from another. There's a guy looking my way. Did he say something to me? Maybe it was a friendly, "Good morning." Or maybe it was something more like, "How come you walk like a drunken gooney bird landing on an ice slick at 348 miles per hour?" Well, if it was the former, good morning back at ya, buddy. If it was the latter, I should have you know that I do not walk anything like that; my speed was nowhere near 348 miles per hour! Besides, if these legs worked right, why would I bother using the cane? Truth is, I don't know what he said, and I still wouldn't, if I asked him to repeat it. So I'll just smile and take it as a pleasantry. Ah, I made it to the light-up sign just in time for the next earthquake. Let's see … it says "Y," I think. That's the first letter, anyway. The whole thing reads something like "Your Line Has Come In," but "Y" is all I need wrestle out of it. Sometimes it says "B," which is the first letter of something like "Be Patient; Your Line Is Coming Soon." Of course, that sign isn't always functional. Occasionally, I am left to take a ride of faith. But I've figured out a foolproof system for determining whether or not I got on the right train: If the train goes up onto the bridge across the river, I've got it made. On the other hand, if it goes to Arlington National Cemetery, I'm really in the bone yard. That's right—I'm heading into DC. I work for the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). Sorry if the acronym annoys you. When you work for the FAA, everything is an acronym. For instance, I work on FPT for ASD as part of my PMP to improve the NAS. Does that make any sense to you? Yeah? Then can you explain it to me? There's not much traffic this early in the morning. Not much light, either. Blows my mind why they call this "C Street," 'cause I can't barely "see" a thing. I sure wouldn't mind if Dawn decided to cross Independence Avenue a little early today on her way to that top-floor office. Not that my wife lets me ogle other babes, but Dawn's the kind of lady you just can't help gawking at. So call me a perve; I'd sure love to see Dawn's radiant beauty right about now. Well, Dawn can go ahead and sleep in; I'm not hanging around "No-See Street." My office is over on Maryland Avenue. That's the street between New Jersey and Virginia, I think, but I'm lousy with road directions. Why should I bother memorizing road maps, considering I'll never own a legal driver's license? It's 6:05 by the time I reach the office. I'm not the only early bird. It's surprising how many other folks like to get to work before sweet Dawn even gets a start on her rouge. Some of them seem to know who I am. They're very courteous. I try to be the same. Though I can't entirely shake off a certain glum feeling I get from not being able to talk to them. I wonder if I make them feel uncomfortable? Seems inevitable. I try to don a smile or at least look distracted, so people don't feel like I am pressuring them to communicate, especially since we don't have too many options on that level. A common sense of good will is enough for me. Security sure is tight these days. I'm half expecting to come in one morning and be required to go through strip search. Mom's absolutely right about that "Always wear clean underwear" thing. You just never know. The ASD (Department of Systems Architecture and Investment Analysis) offices are pretty quiet and orderly. The people here are engineers, computer scientists, and various types of business/administrative specialists—in other words, people with a lot of know-how. You might expect there to be a generous heaping of snobbery among all these intellectuals, but I will tell you that stereotype doesn't fit here. Really, the environment around here is quite friendly. Again, I start feeling somewhat depressed, while I shuffle down the long hall toward my cubicle. A woman sidesteps into a perpendicular hall to allow me room to pass her in the narrow corridor. I'm not sure who she is but can think of two people who have similar shadows. I'm too chicken to risk getting the name wrong, so I don't say anything. I've found that people react better to silence than to being called the wrong name. Basically, that means I don't talk much. How do you suppose my coworkers interpret my silence? My cube isn't exactly a luxury suite, but it has everything a General Engineer needs, except maybe a kitchenette. I always get the PC up and running first off. That's my bridge to interaction around here. Being an engineer, I have my "Plan B," of course, in the event that my computer crashes and is promptly tossed out a window: right here on the wall is my trusty dry-erase board. Just write down what you want to say with the fat marker, and I'll copy edit it for you. Oops! Sorry, my alter-ego is a novelist/editor, and he follows me to the office sometimes. No, I won't edit your writing—I promise. But that board is a tedious communication system. E-mail or direct typing are much faster. Which reminds me; I need a second to enlarge the screen text. I'm online and ready to roll now. No pink slips in the e-mail inbox; I guess that's a good sign…. There's a note from the NAS Architecture Co-Lead, just a few comments concerning my latest draft of a terminal navigation implementation step…. And here's a file attachment of a technical document someone needs me to review today…. Ah, and here's some project guidelines from the boss—she's found a new topic for me to research in the vast realm of the National Airspace System. Okay, have a seat here at the keyboard, and we can talk for a few minutes. I'm Scott Stoffel. I'm legally blind and deaf and walk like a drunken gooney bird landing on an ice slick. It's great to meet you. |
