I placed an ad in the local paper, offering a reward, and got a phone call saying that she had been seen at the Indian's gas station. I only know of one and that is where I get my fish snacks. Off I go, on my lunch hour, paper in hand. Nope, haven't seen her. Back the next day to catch the early shift. "Oh, yes. She came into my motel; very friendly. I didn't let her stay but Todd, who works at the garage next door, took her in." Seems as though the gas station to which my caller referred is on Washington Street, next to the other newspaper. Off I go again, on my lunch hour, so happy that someone had her.
First stop is the motel. Run-down, seedy-looking joint. I suspect that it gets its money from housing subsidies and "do-drop-ins." Definitely not where you want to spend an hour, much less the night. Communication was a major problem. Not there. Tried the newspaper. Yep, saw her and thought she was going to get hit by a car. Now, I'm trying the garages along the strip. I did say it was lunch hour, right? First one is closed. There's one across the alley where the man is spray-painting a truck. Nope and doesn't know Todd, either. Frankly, he probably doesn't know anything. Looked and acted like a product of years of incest and/or inbreeding. Up the street to another one. Todd works in the building where the red truck is parked; the locked door. "Oh, there's a side door." Back to the building, try the side door, sure enough, the man inside recognizes the photo and says Todd is next door. Surely not my incest person? Nope, takes me through a maze of doors and announces "you're about to lose your dog." My first impression was that I had walked into a clan meeting; just give me my dog. I was hoping that Cindy would meet me with her usual enthusiasm. Not. The mother-in-law will be there with the dog around 5:30. (I'll be back at work.) Now, we're down to the nuts and bolts. No collar. Female? Nope, male. Between me and you, I think they have my dog. I was so disappointed. So, boys and girls, hope springs eternal but, other than canvass door-to-door, I think that I've done all that I can do.
It seems that the Indian population is larger than I thought. Looks like they own all of the hotel/motel/Quality Inns and a fair share of the gas stations/food marts. The Day's Inn is owned by a coworker's family. The Country Hearth, a stately-looking establishment, is also Indian-owned, as is the infamous Walker's Motel. The medical community claims quite a few, as well. I don't have anything against their prosperity but where do they get their money? Me and mine have lived here all of our lives, trying to live the American dream, and can't get squat. Foreigners, primarily from the Middle-East or Indian subcontinent, get off the boat and own something within a year or two. What's wrong with the picture?
Wally update. I walked in on Friday to learn that the orientation for new hires is canceled indefinitely. They can't hire until after Christmas. And who did I hear this from? The acting store manager. But did nemesis know this the day before? Of course. Running true to form. It is a good thing that I had not called the people on Thursday to schedule it. Also had a meeting with the assistant manager for personnel (the one that is dissed on a regular basis by the personnel manager), my nemesis, and the acting store manager. Everyone was prepared for the meeting but me. A call for unity, harmony, more communication. Seems that the regional personnel director is being inundated on all fronts; everyone, including me, has complaints. Interesting that one manager who has been there for many years would comment that I would have problems with her. And the manager who just left stated that she was difficult to work with and that I would have to be aggressive. So you know that you have a problem and not solving it? Documenting, documenting.
The nasty divorce may have something to do with it but this is her character. Land transfers in the paper noted that the home in Ripley had been transferred to her daughter. Same with the car. Girlfriend is coming out of this with nothing. Guess I would be sour, too.
Let's see if we can't get enough money together to buy that senate seat in Illinois that is up for grabs. Dumb, dumb, and dumber. More on that later.