Limbo

My psychotic training partner managed to get lost one last time on our final day but eventually we made it back to the yard on the 21st day precisely, just like we were supposed to and totally contrary to my expectations. Forty-eight hours, my counselor told me, and I would be on my own truck. That was 68 hours ago and counting. There are all these items I have to get checked off, all these signatures I have to track down.

Twenty-four of those hours were Sunday, so I’m not surprised that things have taken longer than advertised. Sunday I spent laying about at the roach motel, taking naps, swimming laps in the rudimentary pool, catching up on email and so on.

Now I’m back on the yard, running around like a hamster and making just about as much progress.

Sure wish I could get these last few signatures.

Sure wish they would assign me a truck.

At this point it’s the latter that’s holding me up the most although it’s sort of like the chicken and the egg problem.

71 hours now, and we have just been told that some of us would be waiting another three days. Many glum faces in that meeting. The honesty was kind of refreshing, though.

Earlier today I was told I was number four on the truck list, so I have some grounds for thinking something may happen by the end of the day. Then again, it’s already 3:30.

In the meantime, as I checked out of the roach motel this morning, my luggage, except for the stuff I tote along as I scurry around hunting up signatures, is on my old trainee team truck. Which the shop is prepping to get sent out again. It keeps getting moved around the yard, so every time I need something I have to track it down again. Yes, I know; Limbo is not supposed to be a comfortable place to hang out in.

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