The first Monday after daylight savings time always throws me off.balance. By Wednesday I’ll be better but Monday, I always feel like someone is playing a prank when i look out the window and see it is still dark. That just isn’t right. Well right or not, Monday Morning has arrived. So I suppose we must start. Ready the timers and off we go into a brand new week.
I’ve just about decided it is an archival storage inside a secured facility, I’m just not certain what the archives holds or what sort of secured facility it is. This for later I expect.
Monday, March 15th: This area is restricted.
“This area is restricted.” The man with the large gun slung over his shoulder said sternly. I looked at the multitude of signs, and reams of barbed wire decorating the fence. The fact that it was restricted was not news. I was perfectly happy to turn around and go back, leaving it restricted and alone. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the plan.
I fished out my identification and my papers. I stashed them in the top of my messenger bag, my driver’s license clipped to the paperwork for easy reach. I knew I’d be stopped at the gate. I was warned of the procedures.
I leaned out of the car window. Despite the chill in the air, I opened it as I approached the guard house.
I have a permit,” I said, slowly and carefully. I didn’t think permit could be confused with anything else but I wanted to be on the safe side. I didn’t want the man with the very large gun to think I said something like ‘I have a gun,’ when I in fact did not. For this trip I was going to behave myself. There would be no sarcasm, no attempt to tweak anyone’s tail. I was going to get in, do what I came to do and then leave. Quiet as a mouse.
‘Well a mouse with a permit, anyway,’ I thought.
The air near my window was strange. The heater in my car pumped out warm air but I could feel the cold air washing in from outside. The man frowned and I pulled my head away from the cold edge returning to the warmth completely as he decided what to do.
He stepped out of his little guard house and extended his hand. I handed over the permit and my identification. He stepped back in the guard house, taking them with him.
I have to give him credit. There was no slacking on his watch. He read every line of the paperwork and checked my identification. He studied my identification to make certain it wasn’t forged. He studied my face and the picture. I started to smile in a friendly way, but remembered I hadn’t been smiling that day at the DV and let the smile droop.
Finally, he reached for the phone inside the booth, pressed two buttons and waited for someone else to make the decision. After a short conversation which I couldn’t hear from my car, he hung up the phone. He looked over to me.
“We wait,” he said.
“Of course,” I said as though this were a normal occurrence for me. It wasn’t but it was what I was led to expect would happen. The Guardsman called someone more senior to apprise him of my arrival. If everything proceeded as planned a separate guardsman would be sent from the main building, escort me into the parking area and then walk with me to the receiving room. There, me and anything I brought in with me would be searched and I would be taken to someone in charge who would remind me of what a privilege this all was and how few were ever granted access. I would try to look humble and not like I wanted everything over with. Then I would be escorted to my destination and watched while I actually did what I came to do. I had no illusions about working in private.
Ten til Midnight 