Seeking Love and Fortune...

I can't imagine a more apt name for a city, than Plainfield, Illinois. It is plain and it has fields. It is in Illinois. And it is in this quiet city where fortune sits for the taking. Onward I travel, to fortune and glory.

But it is never that simple, is it?

At 6:45 on an ironically named Good Friday, I stand in a the parking lot of an area High School. I am amidst a group of about 30 or 40 other fortune seekers at the center of which is a very short, portly and balding man with a sharp goatee. In his hand, he holds a clipboard, upon which is written a list of names. One by one, he calls out first names, mine among them. "You're on my team," he barks, "Get into your cars and follow me!"

Through the quiet streets of Plainfield, a caravan of desperate men and women parade onward to an unknown objective.

I come here partly out of boredom and partly to fill my coffers. Hard labor is not my standard operating procedure, but the thought of a temporary project at high pay made me salivate with greed. A day of work, maybe a week...oh what I could do with that money! I weighed the relative costs--gas, food and tolls--against the gains with considerable delight.

Contractors are a strange breed. Back at the job site, I tried to analyze my temporary co-workers. Everyone has a reason; a reason why they're not at a regular job on a Friday; a reason why they need, or want, to do this; a reason why they were qualified to do this.

The group breaks into sub-teams, led by men who've done these projects before. One is quiet, intelligent, compassionate; he is, of course, not my team leader. Instead, I am led by the boistrous, unshaven young man who openly admits that the polo shirt he wears with the Caterpillar Inc. logo is his "one nice shirt".

As we walk into a library, he makes a joke "On your left you'll see the 'Battle of the Books' poster..." when we fail to laugh at the joke, he continues, "this is what I do at work." His name is Kevin and he's a tour guide on the trolley in downtown Chicago. Unprofessional he may be, but hard working nonetheless.

As the day wears on, bits and piece of these people spill forth. An Army Combat Uniform (ACU) jacket graces the coat rack--it belongs to a tall, industrious young man with a beak of a nose and light, olive skin. Might be Indian, might be Lebanese or might be Israeli. These thoughts are silly--he's a soldier and an American. Would I have someone look at me and wonder if I was a Polack or Ukrainian?

I'm paired up with an older gentleman who somehow got the impression that I'm a veteran with this company. He is perhaps 50 to 60 years old, too young to have the dementia he's displaying. "How quickly does the company pay?" he asks. I don't know, I haven't submitted an invoice to them yet. "Do you guys all just do this part time?" I don't know, I'm a freelancer and this is my first time working with them. I find myself wondering why he's here--a retiree looking for something to do, or another tragic story of an older generation kicked to the street, left to fend for themselves amongst a workforce that is younger, stronger and faster.

A blizzard gathers outside, an atmospheric anomaly that breaks what was a beautiful streak of spring weather. Of course, I'll be driving almost 300 miles home in this. I miss Jamie.

I forego lunch in the hope of an early release. It would just break my streak anyhow. The robotic nature of the work has me entering a Zen-like state--I become lost in my head, alone in the far wing of an eerily empty school. In this state, food becomes unnecessary; pain an illusion; time non-linear. I feel as if I'm outside of myself, watching a figure that looks surprisingly like me do the same thing over and over. In spite of my efforts, early release does not come.

My wife and I had an earnest discussion prior to my departure. It was about need versus want. She can handle me being gone if it were some dire need. I fail to see the difference; ultimately, we'll "need" the money, it's only a matter of time. Or so I convince myself.

Ten hours later, the work is finally finished. The old man and I exit at the same time. "So is this a typical day for you guys?" I'm happy to say that this is very atypical for me. It will not be happening again. You have a nice day sir.

I'm desperate to leave, to get out of Plainfield. The roads in the suburbs become a labyrinth, an ever changing landscape designed to keep me from escaping. My Google directions fail me. Without a map, in a land I do not know, I turn to my compass. North and west is the direction home. This method works surprisingly well.

Darkness descends rapidly, as slush continues to fall from the sky. I've been up since 5 am, and I won't see my warm bed until 10 p.m...

...at best. The slush and rain are turning to ice and snow.

In the lonely darkness of the car, my mind wanders. Let those men and women seek their fortune, let them take my share. My fortune lies not in the gold and treasures of man--she sits alone, in a quiet house, on a quiet street, in a quiet town.

I fiddle with the volume knob, but the music in the car can neither drown out the din of my folly, nor the sins of my avarice. All I can think as I pass car wreck after car wreck is that I’d never forgive myself for not making it home.