In early 2005, I took a job with an IT consulting company. The first big job I had with them was working for a major communications provider, implementing a new inventory system and instructing site technicians on its use. I would be more specific, but I don’t want to violate a confidentiality agreement I signed. Communications are very hush-hush organizations.
Each site I went to was completely unmarked. It was always a squat brick building, surrounded by a tall barbed wire fence, cameras all around, deadbolts and electronic locks on every door. I’m sure Fort Knox envies the security.
I had a few adventures on this road trip, traversing the American Southwest. It was a lot of fun, I made an insane hourly rate (driving time included), had all my expenses (food & gas included) paid, every little thing was taken care of. When I walked onto a site, people listened to me, and did everything they could to accomodate me. For the first time in my life, I felt respected and independent.
Most notable on this trip was my very last stop, St. Louis.
I was excited, I had been on the road for nearly a month, and was a bit road-weary. On the road, as fun as it is, you start to miss simple things, things I took for granted. Namely, a soft bed, a home cooked meal, and a computer that could run World of Warcraft without slowing down. Of course, those were only physical comforts. I also had some terrific friends, a loving family, and a wonderful girl waiting for me at home. Within a couple days time, I would be back in Chicago, I would be back home.
Enough with the glurge… on with the story!
That morning, I sat in the hotel room, checking my email, getting the address of the site I needed to visit that day. The address was something along the lines of:
3816 Locust Street
St. Louis
This was the address in my email, so I punched it into MapQuest. It gave me the directions, I printed them out and left. The directions led me into the heart of downtown St. Louis. It is a very interesting city, very different from Chicago in its style. The city seemed a bit more spread out, a bit more open, Chicago has everything clumped together, with constant construction projects going on. St. Louis had a more finished look about it. I’m not saying I like St. Louis more, Chicago has a charm that is unmatched by any place I’ve ever been.
That arch in St. Louis is utterly huge. I’ve seen pictures of the cityscape, and I always thought it looked big due to the camera angle. I was wrong, that thing is huge, towering over the freeway as you enter the city. I was astounded, it is definitely an achievement in architecture. I could see it for miles when I left the city on my journey home.
Well, I was searching for the address. I turned onto Locust Street, and slowly came to a realization as I made a few passes down it: There was no 3816 Locust Street. It was a section of road where complexes on both sides took up full city blocks. I could see a 3800, and a 3900. Great, I had an address that didn’t exist, and I was expected at the site ten minutes ago.
I call up my project manager, “Yeah, you know that address, 3816 Locust Street?”
“Yeah?” He answers.
“It doesn’t exist.” I respond. There’s silence on the other end as this statement sinks into his managerial mind. I hear him punching keys on his computer. After a few minutes, I found out a very interesting and important fact about the site.
Its in East St. Louis, Illinois.
So, I get back into my car, and begin the slow process of leaving the city. It takes half an hour with the traffic, but I make it across the state line and am now in East St. Louis. There’s something people not from that area should know: East St. Louis is a giant slum. I drive along a stretch of road, dilapidated warehouses and stockyards on both sides, looking for Locust Street. I make a few passes along the same two-mile stretch, where the road is supposed to be. And there was no roads. A railroad, a sewage plant, a lumber yard, and a boarded-up factory. So I pull over, pull out the cell phone, and once again call my project manager.
“Hey, you know that site I’m supposed to go to?” I ask. The manger knows what I’m about to say, I can hear it in his breathing, in his lengthy pause, and in his despondent voice.
“Doesn’t exist?” He asks.
“Unless its the sewage plant.” I reply to him, pondering that the sewage plant, at the end of its access road, does bear a similarity to a site. After nearly two hours of searching for this place, I was ready to believe it was. He askes me what roads I passed, so he can get my bearings on his map. According to his map, I am right there, right where I’m supposed to be. So obviously, this site is more advanced, and has cloaked itself against intruders.
“I’m going to get the site technician on a conference call, we’re going to figure out where this place is,” he said, and I hear the click of him switching over to the other line. I then hear the ring and the technician pick up. We talk to the technician to let him know exactly where I am. That’s when I see it.
An officer of the law. Pulling alongside me. With his lights on.
I pause, completely in shock, I have no idea why a cop would want to pull me over, I wasn’t even moving. “Hey… there’s a policeman here.” There’s silence on the other end of the phone, its obvious they’re as shocked as I am, “He has his lights on, I’m going to see what he wants.”
Now, get this image in your mind, if you will. Its about ten in the morning, in the scummiest part of town you can imagine, the air smells dirty (probably the sewage plant), the buildings around me are boarded up, there’s nothing here that should interest me. I’m driving a new gold sedan (rent-a-car, forget the model), wearing a nice long-sleeve button-up shirt and pressed slacks, I look as about out-of-place as one can look here.
“So what are you waiting here for, son?” The officer asks me. He has that tone in his voice, and anyone who’s been pulled over by a cop knows it. It his, ‘I caught you doing something bad and I have you by the balls’ voice.
Obviously, I’ve done nothing wrong, so while wary, I wasn’t really nervous. But I was careful, there’s an old saying, ‘Don’t confess to a crime that they might not know about.’ I put the phone down, not hanging it up, “I’m looking for Locust Street.”
The officer looks at me funny, obviously he doesn’t believe me, “Locust Street is downtown over there in Missouri, son.” Again calling me son, that knowing look on his face.
“I know. I was just there, actually, but apparently there’s one right around here too.” I respond. The officer’s eyebrow raises. Apparently, he now thinks I just may be innocent of whatever crime he thought he caught me doing. “I was actually on conference call with my manager, being as we can’t find it.”
“I think you should move along.” The officer says.
“What, why?” I ask him, completely confused at this point.
“Look as this area, kinda run down ain’t it? Kinda hidden. People wait for people here, like hookers, son. You familiar with hookers?” The officer asks, finally letting me in on the little joke that has had him smirking this whole time.
Great… just great… the officer thinks I’m trying to pick up a prostitute. That’s just super. At that moment, I’m not sure if I ever felt more out of my element, in the middle of a slum, being accused of picking up a prostitute by one of the slum’s finest.
“So I should move along, you say!” I proclaim, suddenly happy I can just drive away from the accusation.
“That’d be for the best, son.” He says. And without another word, I drive off.
I get back on the phone, the manager and the technician waiting patiently, “The cop thought I was trying to pick up a prostitute, over here by the sewage plant.” This is met with silence, then roaring laughter from the two.
“I know where you are!” The technician says. Sure enough, I was less than a hundred feet from the site the whole time. Apparenly, Locust Street was the railroad. You know that tiny bit of gravel that runs alongside railroad tracks? Yeah, THAT was Locust Street.
Fun times in East St. Louis…
Zel-kun out.