Big Daddy...

I am the second of my mother's four kids, with one older sister, one younger brother, and a "baby sister". My dad, God bless him, wasn't too interested in his kids, so I was more or less on my own growing up. I never had that "male influence" in my life. That is...until I went to work for No Fault Industries.

I was hired to be the assistant warehouse manager, and my new boss would turn out to be the closest thing I've ever had to a big brother. His name is Robert Bardsley, but most people refer to him as "Big Daddy". Big Daddy, as the expression goes, has never met a stranger. When meeting somebody for the first time, he grins from ear to ear, throws out his hand, and says, "Hey, Big Daddy!" Robert loves people; he loves conversation, he loves telling jokes, and most of all, he loves his wife.

This may not seem like much until juxtaposed against his "other side". Big Daddy is undoubtedly the toughest man I've ever known. His hands are scarred from years of bar fights, and his brothers (one of whom worked with us) all testified that Big Daddy has never lost a fight. So, you're probably imagining Big Daddy to be 6'2", 240lbs. or so, right? Wrong. Robert stands 5'4", 170lbs. I think the best way to describe someone of his size is "scrappy".

The tales I have heard over the years of Robert's fights, sometimes against two or more opponents at the same time, are not the only reason I consider him to be the toughest man I've ever known. No, there are more horrific things Robert has endured that earn him that title.

Prior to going to work for No Fault Industries, I had been told that Big Daddy was very sick. A brain tumor had been discovered behind his right eye in 1991. The doctors discovered that it would likely be impossible to remove the entire tumor without, at the very least, blinding Robert. So, they cut out what they could and decided to try and kill the rest with aggressive radiation and chemotherapy while giving him no more than five years to live. In case you don't know, radiation treatment is devastating enough all by itself, but, when coupled with chemotherapy, is downright debilitating. Robert continued to come to work until he was physically unable to haul himself out of bed.

Big Daddy missed the better part of a year of work before the remnants of the tumor were gone. During that time, the section of skull the surgeons had removed during his operation died, causing him to endure another operation to have a piece of plastic implanted to replace the dead bone.

After being released by the doctors, he returned to No Fault. Now, being the warehouse manager at No Fault didn't include sitting in an office and directing a warehouse crew. Robert was the crew. He did all of the manual labor, such as unloading truckloads of supplies, keeping the warehouse orderly, cutting the grass, "weed-eating";etc. There were very few easy days.

Robert loves to hunt, and at that time, he was a member at a hunting club in Gross Tete, which is between Baton Rouge and Lafayette. One morning, as he was riding his four-wheeler out to his deer stand, Robert forgot to duck as he passed beneath a section of "drill-pipe". The pipe struck him right on the bridge of his nose, completely crushing it into his face with enough force to drive his head back until it bounced off the rear of the four-wheeler

Now, what Big Daddy did next is one of the reasons he gets my vote for "Toughest Man Alive": He hooked his freaking thumbs into his freaking nostrils and pulled his freaking nose back out of his freaking skull so he could breathe!! What?!?!?!? Luckily, his hunting partners saw the whole thing, and rushed him to the nearest hospital.

Big Daddy's tumor stayed in remission until 2002, when he was forced to begin chemotherapy again. He continued to come to work every day in spite of his weakened condition.

Finally, in 2003, he admitted that he could use some help, and that's where I came in. Robert and I hit it off immediately, and over the next three years, I had more fun at work than at any other time of my life. Robert had fun no matter what menial task he was involved in, and it rubbed off on me. For the first time in my life, I had another man I could really talk to, and who could give me advice about things.

The doctors finally felt comfortable ending Big Daddy's chemotherapy in 2004. The tumor was still there, but it wasn't growing. Times were good. Robert was healthy, strong, and we worked well together...

...until 2005, when he fell 18 feet out of his deer stand and broke his back. So, back into the hospital he went for a solid month. After another several months at home, he came back to work. Most men would have retired long ago, but not Big Daddy. He wasn't nearly as healthy or strong, but he was back, and we were working together again...

...until 2006, when rumors began to surface that the company wasn't doing well. Key members of management began leaving, and Big Daddy decided to retire. Less than six months after his retirement, I was let go. Robert and I only spoke occasionally by phone after that, and I didn't see him until this week.

Unfortunately, I had to go to the hospital to see him. His tumor had begun growing again sometime in late 2007, and, since that time, he has lost the ability to speak as well as the use of the right side of his body, all while undergoing his third round of aggressive chemotherapy. Last week, Robert's wife came home to find him unconscious, and he hasn't woken up since that time.

So, it's come to this... The doctors have told the family that there is nothing else they can do, and they've stopped the chemotherapy. So I'm praying for Big Daddy. I'm praying that, once again, his tumor will shrink, and I'll get one more opportunity to sit and talk with him and thank him for being that "older brother" figure, and for being Big Daddy...

Sheeba-Shabba-Shooba-Shabba

So, my boss (a retired backwoods police officer we lovingly refer to as Mumbles )and I are working on a case involving a couple of different violations. One of the people we're looking for is a woman who drew up some plans for a church. The woman isn't a licensed engineer, so what she did is illegal…

Anyway, we've been digging around, trying to find a valid phone number or address or something so we can serve the "official papers". Mumbles found a couple of numbers, one at the church she drew the plans for, the other being what he assumed was her cell phone.

So Mumbles calls both numbers and comes running into my office waving his arms to tell me, "the voice on both answering machines sounds like the same cotton pickin' woman!!" *GASP* So, we thought we'd go over to the church, which is several miles from the middle of nowhere, and see if she might be there. We take the 2-hour drive out to the church...and find it abandoned. Then Mumbles decides it will be a great idea to drive up and down every road we can find looking at names on mailboxes. After what seems like an eternity of listening to Mumbles read every single name on every single mailbox we pass, we call it quits and go back to Baton Rouge.

The next day, we're back at the office talking about the phone numbers, the addresses, and all of that, and Mumbles reminds me of his "discovery" of the same voice on the two different answering machines. So, I arbitrarily call one of the numbers with my speaker on so we can both hear.

The answering machine picks up, and, to my horror, it's the default automatic female-sounding message! And as I was sitting there trying not to laugh, Mumbles blurted out, "See, that's the same dang ol' voice as the one on the other dang ol' machine!"

So, I spun my chair around, folded my arms, and explained to him that the voice he heard was, in reality, not that of a real person.

You should have seen his face; it was as if I were speaking Cantonese to him or something. He just sat there staring at me, and I knew that the realization was dawning on him slowly.

I wanted so bad to say, "Great sleuthing there, Sherlock!" But, out of sheer respect for Mumbles' age, I didn't…

East Baton Rouge Parish Courthouse = Chinese Fire Drill

Okay, so I got caught daydreaming in February. I was driving 45 through a school zone, and before I realized it, an East Baton Rouge Sherriff's deputy was standing in the road in front of me, waving his arms violently and directing me to pull over. So...I got a nice little $112.50 ticket for going 45 in a 35.

I went to pay my fine yesterday, since today was the deadline. Well, if you know anything about downtown Baton Rouge, you're aware that there are pathetically few parking spaces available. As I was driving around in circles looking for a parking spot, the sky went from cloudy to torrential rain in less than a minute.

I finally found a parking spot in one of the many "public parking lots" downtown. This one had a new-fangled electronic payment kiosk which accepts your hard-earned cash in exchange for the privilege of parking in a pockmarked, weed-infested, garbage-strewn "parking lot".

I opened my umbrella and stepped out of my truck...into akle deep water...and slogged to the payment kiosk, where I discovered the "flat rate" was $5.00 for the first hour (!!). I was just about to insert a $20.00 when I noticed the hand-written note taped to the kiosk stating, "This machine does not give change". So...without paying, I shrugged my shoulders and trudged off towards the courthouse.

After reaching the second floor of the courthouse and finding the appropriate department, I found myself at the end of a long line of miserable-looking, half-drowned people waiting to pay their fines. A half-hour later, it was finally my turn! I handed the "cashier" my ticket, which she promptly handed back to me. We stood there looking at each other for a few awkward seconds before she informed me that I had to first go to the 10th floor and have myself removed from tomorrow's court docket before she could accept payment for the ticket... Off to the elevators I went.

When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out onto the 10th floor and began the search for the appropriate department. After finding it, I opened the door and immediately found myself at the end of another long line consisting of many of the same miserable-looking, half-drowned people I had stood in line with on the 2nd floor!

Another half-hour later, it was my turn! I handed the friendly City-Parish employee my ticket, which she placed on the counter as, in a lazy monotone voice, she went through the motions of explaining what was happening and what my options were. Her last statement was, "After you pay the ticket, you gotta bring me back the yellow ticket". In my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding me?!?!?!?". In reality, I grimaced, took the paperwork she gave me and walked away silently, headed back to the 2nd floor. Again.

So, after reaching the second floor (again), I found myself in the same long line (again) with the same group of miserable-looking people I had been following since I got to the courthouse. At this point, we had all basically lost the will to live and had resigned ourselves to this never-ending back-and-forth trek; time had lost all meaning. Sometime later, I was handing the "cashier" my money and paperwork (again).

She handed me my copies and reminded me to go back to the 10th floor (again) to return the "yellow ticket". Off to the elevators (again)!

...back on the 10th floor (again)...back in line (again). I noticed that, by this time, most of us had dried out, our clothes becoming shrunken, ill-fitting and wrinkled...waiting...waiting...to...hand...the...friendly...City-Parish employee...my..."yellow ticket"...

...now I'm at the window (again), handing her my "yellow ticket". She chuckles and informs me that it wasn't necessary to wait in line just to hand her my "yellow ticket". Again, in my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding?!?!?!?" Again, in reality, I grimaced and walked away silently, headed back to the elevators. The ordeal was finally over. I was free from the maze. I wanted to live! I wanted to see the sunshine!

In the elevator, I instinctively pushed the 2nd floor button and, when the doors opened, I instinctively assumed my place at the end of the line. It was only after realizing that the line consisted of a completely different group of miserable-looking, half-drowned schmucks that I snapped back to reality. I smiled to myself, spun on my heel, and schlepped out of the courthouse.

It was then that I remembered I had parked without paying!! Oh crap!! Now, I was jogging down the wet sidewalk praying that my truck hadn't been towed.

Finally, I rounded the last corner, and...there it was! My truck hadn't been towed, and I had never been so glad to see it. So I sat there in my truck for a few minutes, letting the cold A/C dry the sweat on my face...

Note to Self: Next time you get a speeding ticket (God forbid!), pay it through the mail!!