The Orkin Man In The Attic

Sometimes the past has a funny way of finding you. Mine came looking for me recently in a plastic storage bin in my attic. The bin had been sitting up there for almost 20 years, holding pieces of a career I had almost forgotten: awards, letters, coffee mugs, flashlights, shirts, trinkets and other memorabilia from my years in the pest-control business. There was Orkin stuff. There was Ecolab stuff. There were reminders of a career that lasted 27 years and, in many ways, changed my life. The plastic bin itself didn't survive. After nearly two decades of Kentucky heat that sometimes pushed past 100 degrees and winters that brought bitter cold, the plastic had deteriorated. When I finally pulled it down, it practically fell apart in my hands. But inside, remarkably, much of my history was still intact. As I sorted through those things, I started thinking about how I got there in the first place. It certainly wasn't the career I had envisioned when I graduated from Ole Miss. I had spent five years studying print journalism, with an emphasis in public relations and a minor in sociology. Journalism was what I knew. It was what I wanted to do. It was also where I met Patty. We met at St. John's Catholic Church, eventually married, and started our family. Our son, Galen Jr.—Tony, as we always called him—came along, and life moved us to Kentucky. We moved to Russellville, Patty's hometown, in 1987. I worked briefly for the newspaper there, covering sports, before we moved to Bowling Green in February 1988. Eventually I landed at the Bowling Green Daily News, where I worked in the newsroom as a reporter, book reviewer and editorial assistant. I loved the newspaper business.

But there was one problem. I wasn't making enough money. We had bought a home. We had a new car. We had a family to support. Patty was working, too, and eventually she made a career change of her own, leaving a manufacturing human-resources job to work for a well-known eye doctor in Bowling Green. We both knew we needed to make more money. That's when a man named Bill Guffey entered the picture. Bill was a manager with Orkin in Owensboro, Kentucky. I knew him because he was the grandson of my next-door neighbor, and Bill and I had something else in common: We liked to run. Back in those days, when a lot of us baby boomers were caught up in the running craze, we'd run 5Ks, 10Ks and whatever else we could find. Bill suggested that I consider pest control. Good pay. Good benefits. A chance to support my family. I listened. After five years in the newspaper business, I traded my reporter's notebook for a pest-control truck. And I'll be honest: My ego didn't like it. I'd gone from working in a newspaper newsroom to becoming, as I jokingly thought of it, a "bug man." For the first couple of years, I hated pest control. Not because of the work itself, but because I was still trying to figure out who I was. I had an identity tied to being a journalist. I had gone to college for five years. I had worked in a newsroom. I was supposed to be a writer. Now I was knocking on people's doors, carrying pesticides and crawling under houses. It took me a while to understand something that would become one of the most important lessons of my life: I was not my job. My job was simply how I made a living. I remember going to the library and listening to Dr. Wayne Dyer tapes. He talked about the person on the inside rather than the image we create on the outside. His ideas about ego and identity helped me put things into perspective. I finally realized there was nothing wrong with being a pest-control technician. I was still Galen. I was still a husband. I was still a father. I was still a writer. I was still the same person who had gone to Ole Miss and studied journalism. I just happened to make my living getting rid of bugs. And once I got over myself, something interesting happened. I got good at it. I stayed with Orkin for 11 years. Eventually, I moved on to Ecolab, where I spent another 15 years. Twenty-seven years in pest control. Twenty-seven years of crawling into attics and crawl spaces, walking through restaurants and businesses, treating homes, solving problems and meeting people from all walks of life. And, like any job, there were some stories. I've nearly gotten myself stuck in crawl spaces more than once. There were moments when I was wedged into places where I wondered whether I was going to get back out. A couple of times I came close to having a panic attack. There were mistakes, too. Some could have been serious. Fortunately, I had good management teams who understood that people make mistakes. They helped correct the situations and, when necessary, helped get me out of trouble. That's one of the things you learn when you spend decades working for a company: You represent the company when you're out in the field. If something goes wrong, the company has to deal with it. But you also learn to be accountable. You learn to pay attention. You learn that safety matters. And you learn that one of the most important parts of pest control isn't the chemicals. It's the person behind the wheel. Driving was a major responsibility. You had to obey the speed limit, follow the rules of the road and take care of yourself and everyone else around you. Over 27 years, I developed a pretty good safety record. Looking back now, I'm proud of that. I've also thought about the pesticides themselves. Someone recently posted on Facebook about concerns over herbicides used on crops, fruits and vegetables. She mentioned that it was one reason she didn't eat cereal. I jokingly responded that, I guess, I was doomed. After all, I had worked around pesticides for 27 years. I'm 64 now, and so far, knock on wood, I've been fortunate. But I'm also realistic enough to know that nobody gets a guarantee about the future. When I was considering going to work for Orkin all those years ago, I talked to my priest about it. His advice was simple. "Galen, you've got to support your family." That stayed with me. Every occupation carries some kind of risk. Construction workers build the buildings we live and work in. People dig ditches and tunnels. Ironworkers climb skyscrapers. Workers maintain towers and electrical systems. People do jobs that require them to put themselves in dangerous situations every single day. Somebody has to do those jobs. I did mine. And I tried to do it safely and responsibly. That's really what a career is, isn't it? You find a way to make a living. You take care of your family. You show up. You do the best you can. And if you're lucky, you learn something about yourself along the way. That's what pest control taught me. It taught me humility. It taught me that a job title doesn't make you who you are. It taught me how to deal with people. It taught me responsibility. And, yes, it taught me quite a bit about bugs. Funny thing is, years later, people still remember me as the Orkin man. I'm reminded of that every now and then. Recently, while working part-time as a cashier at Walmart, a woman recognized me. She had been one of my customers decades ago. She remembered me. I vaguely remembered her, too, although I couldn't quite place everything. And I'll admit, I was a little embarrassed that she remembered me better than I remembered her. But then I thought about it. Why should I be embarrassed? Those years were a part of my life. They were years when I was working hard, supporting my family and building a career. Another reminder came recently at the gym. I met a young man who had started his own pest-control company. We'd had lunch together at Smokey Pig barbecue, and he had asked me about the business. When I saw him at the gym, we started talking again. I found myself telling him stories. The crawl spaces. The close calls. The mistakes. The funny things that happen when you're walking into people's homes and businesses every day. He was picking my brain. And I realized something. I had become the old guy with the stories. The young man was the one learning from me. For 27 years, I had been the one learning from somebody else. Now I was the guy who had been there. That's a pretty good feeling. And maybe that's why I finally decided to bring that old storage bin down from the attic. I wanted to see what was left. As I went through the awards, letters, coffee mugs, shirts and little pieces of memorabilia, I realized I wasn't really sorting through junk. I was sorting through a chapter of my life. Some things I'll keep. Some things I'll probably get rid of. And some of the more unusual pieces may even end up on eBay, because somebody out there might consider them collectible. But I'm keeping the things that remind me of the man I was back then. The young father trying to make a living. The former newspaper guy trying to swallow his pride. The Orkin man learning his trade. The Ecolab employee building a career. The husband and father doing what he had to do to take care of his family. Today, I'm working part-time at Walmart. I've been there for several years, although I had to step away for a while to help take care of Patty when she became ill. I've returned to a place where I know a lot of people, and it sometimes feels like a big family. I'm at a different stage of life now. I'm drawing Social Security. I'm working part-time. I enjoy seeing people, talking to customers and fellow associates, and making a little extra money. Would I rather not have to work? Sure. But I've discovered that I like being around people. And I like having somewhere to go. Maybe that's another lesson I've learned. We spend so much of our lives working that it's easy to think our jobs are who we are. They're not. They're chapters. Some chapters are short. Some last 27 years. Some begin with a newspaper reporter carrying a notebook. Some begin with a pest-control technician carrying a sprayer. And some begin with an older man standing in an attic, pulling an old plastic storage bin apart and wondering where all those years went. The bin may have fallen apart. But the memories didn't. And neither did the pride. Because when I look back at those 27 years, I don't see a "bug man." I see a husband. A father. A worker. A man who learned to put his ego aside and do what he needed to do. And, after all these years, I'm pretty proud of that Orkin man.

The Quiet Side Of The Nuclear Reactor

“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.” The Browns Ferry Nuclear Plant satalong the Tennessee River just outside Athens, Alabama, looking about as serious as a place could look. There were no second chances at Browns Ferry. Everything had a procedure. Everything had a checklist. Everything had somebody responsible for it. At sixty-four years old, Daniel Mercer understood that better than most. Daniel was the kind of man who had spent his life believing that if you worked hard, kept your word and treated people right, things generally had a way of working out. He had earned his bachelor's degree in finance from the University of Mississippi and later completed an MBA. His career had taken him through the business and administrative side of the energy industry before eventually bringing him to Browns Ferry, where he served as a senior site administrator. It wasn't a glamorous job. There were budgets, personnel matters, schedules, meetings, reports and enough paperwork to keep a man busy until retirement. But Daniel liked it. He liked being useful. And after losing his wife of nearly forty years, being useful had become more important to him than he cared to admit. His wife had been gone a little over a year, and Daniel was still learning what life looked like without her. Loneliness didn't always hurt. Sometimes it just sat there beside you. Quietly. Then there was Cindy Smith. Cindy was fifty-one years old and had never married. She had no children, and her career had become the center of her life. She was highly educated, highly disciplined and one of the most respected people at Browns Ferry. Cindy had earned a bachelor's degree in nuclear engineering before going on to earn a master's degree in nuclear engineering. She had spent decades working her way through the nuclear industry, gaining experience in operations, engineering, safety and plant management. She had also earned her Senior Reactor Operator credentials, something Daniel understood required an extraordinary amount of training and responsibility. By the time she became plant manager, Cindy had spent much of her adult life around nuclear reactors. She understood them. She respected them. And perhaps more importantly, she understood the responsibility that came with being responsible for thousands of people working around something that demanded absolute attention to detail. Cindy was serious about her job. Very serious. But Daniel soon discovered there was another side to her.

Cats. Cindy loved cats. Not just the ones somebody could take home from a shelter. She cared about the forgotten ones. The feral ones. The cats that lived behind restaurants, underneath abandoned buildings and around warehouses, surviving on whatever food they could find. After work, Cindy sometimes drove around Athens feeding them. She also volunteered with people at the local animal shelter and helped organize efforts to get feral cats fed, vaccinated and, when possible, adopted. Daniel thought that was an interesting contradiction. Here was a woman responsible for one of the most complicated industrial facilities in the South, somebody who could sit in a meeting discussing reactor safety and plant operations with engineers and executives, and then spend her evening looking under a bush for a frightened stray cat. That was the side of Cindy he liked most. And, truth be told, Daniel thought she was pretty. Not pretty in some Hollywood sort of way. Pretty in a quieter way. She had a reserved smile, a soft voice and a habit of listening carefully before she answered somebody. She wasn't the kind of woman who needed everybody in the room to notice her. Daniel noticed her anyway. Because of their positions at Browns Ferry, both of them understood that any personal relationship had to be handled carefully. There were workplace policies. There were professional responsibilities. And there was the simple fact that neither one of them could afford to have their judgment questioned. So they were careful. They started with coffee. Then lunch. Then dinner at a little restaurant outside Athens. Nothing improper. Nothing secretive. They talked about work, movies, books and their lives before Browns Ferry had become such a large part of them. Cindy talked about cats. Daniel talked about his dog. “You know,” Cindy said one evening, “I think I'm probably becoming a cat lady.” Daniel smiled. “I believe you've already crossed that bridge.” She laughed. “Well, what does that make you?” “A dog person.” “You're the one with that Australian Shepherd, aren't you?” “Mr. G.” “That's his name?” “That's what I call him.” “How old is he?” “Ten.” Cindy smiled. “That's getting up there.” “Don't you tell him that,” Daniel said. “He still thinks he's a puppy.” Cindy laughed. For a moment, Daniel thought maybe there was something there. Maybe. They went to a movie. They had coffee a couple more times. They went to another restaurant. Four or five outings in all. Daniel began thinking about Cindy more than he probably should have. The problem was that feelings have a funny way of showing up where they're not invited. Daniel knew the rules. He knew the risks. And he knew that Cindy was his superior. Still, he couldn't help the fact that he was becoming romantically attracted to her. He admired her intelligence. He admired her independence. He admired the fact that she could spend all day making decisions about a nuclear power plant and then spend half the night worrying about whether some half-wild cat had enough food. And somewhere along the way, admiration became desire to date her in manner of more than just friends. One afternoon, after they'd been talking outside the administrative offices, Daniel finally worked up enough courage to ask something he'd been thinking about for weeks. “Cindy?” “Yes?” “I was wondering something.” She looked at him. Daniel hesitated. “Would it be all right if I held your hand the next time we go out to have coffee or to a movie?” Cindy's expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough. “No, Daniel.” He nodded. “All right.” And that was all he said. But he understood. A few days later, Cindy asked him to meet her after work. They sat across from each other at a quiet restaurant. Daniel knew before she said anything. “Daniel,” she said, “I think we need to stop this.” He looked down at the table for a moment. “I figured you might say that.” “I don't want there to be any misunderstanding.” “There isn't.” “I don't want a romantic relationship with you.” Daniel swallowed. “I understand.” “I've thought about it, and I just don't believe I want a romantic relationship with anybody.” Daniel looked at her for a moment. He could tell the conversation wasn't easy for her either. “All right,” he said. Cindy looked down at her coffee. “I don't want to hurt you.” “Well, my feelings are gonna be hurt,” Daniel said honestly. “I'm not gonna lie about that.” “I know.” “But I'll be okay.” She nodded. After a moment, Daniel asked, “Can we still be friends?” Cindy shook her head. “No. I think we need to keep it professional.” Daniel was quiet. She continued. “You do your job, and I'll do mine. We're both in positions where we have to be careful. I don't want anything to interfere with that.” Daniel nodded. “You're right.” “If we see each other at work, we'll be cordial.” “Hello and goodbye?” “Exactly.” Daniel smiled. “I can do that.” Cindy looked down at her coffee. “My first love is cats anyway.” Daniel chuckled. “I figured that.” She smiled faintly. “And I guess my first love is dogs.” “I suppose that's true.” They finished their coffee. There wasn't any anger. There wasn't any shouting. There wasn't even much sadness spoken aloud. Just two people accepting something that neither one of them could change. When Daniel walked outside that evening, the Alabama air was warm and heavy. He stood beside his car for a minute and looked toward the Tennessee River. He thought about Cindy. He thought about his wife. He thought about loneliness and love and how sometimes a person could come into your life without ever really becoming part of it. And he realized something. Not every person you care about is supposed to stay close to you. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for somebody is let them go. The next morning, Daniel saw Cindy in the hallway at Browns Ferry. She was carrying a folder under her arm. “Good morning, Cindy.” “Good morning, Daniel.” And they kept walking. A few days later: “Good afternoon.” “Good afternoon.” That was all. And somehow, that was enough. Cindy went back to managing a nuclear power plant, and Daniel went back to his office, his paperwork and his responsibilities. And somewhere after work, Cindy would still be looking for the feral cats she had promised herself she'd never forget. And Daniel would go home to Mr. G., who would probably greet him like he had been gone for six months instead of eight hours. Their lives went on. Not together. But without bitterness. Because sometimes love isn't about getting the person you want. Sometimes it's about having enough respect for them to accept the answer they gave you. And sometimes, in the quiet spaces between one person's life and another's, that's as close to love as two people ever need to get.