Last week I hitched a ride to the jail with Frieda Sanford to visit The Tiger.
This was my first time to be demoted to jail visits as a normal citizen. In the past, my ministry credentials with the izzy group allowed me 9-5 access behind bars. Now I had to stand in line with about 40 girlfriends, wives, and scattering kids for a one-time-a-week 30 minute evening visit. So it goes.
Waiting in the jail lobby brought back memories of the old izzy group food pantry days. The cultures are identical and I miss it.
Tiger is well. He's been on the work crew that goes around cleaning county roads and such 8-5 M-F. The work crew is for the privileged few: those who are in for a minor offense, are less likely to flee, and know how to work, etc. That's right up Tiger's alley.
He said the work crew also get shorter jail time (3:1), better food, and share a cell block which builds some sort of upper-level brotherhood.
I'm glad all is well for him at the local jail. Because, if he doesn't succeed at his upcoming court date then his fate will be like his brother's: state prison.
He told me when he gets out he will ditch his old friends and live on the up and up.
CEO - you are the only way up. Please show him this.
After working 40 hour weeks for almost eight months straight, I have had no consistent work for almost a month now. Although I would prefer to be working (and REALLY prefer for my first house flip project to sell so that I could do another), I now see clearly how the CEO of the universe had me available for Obi-Wan these past few weeks.
As noted in the report that introduced The Acid Queen, she has signature authority on Obi-Wan’s checkbook. I released said checkbook to her back in December at Obi-Wan’s reluctant request and by her so-called claim that she is his power of attorney. I don’t know if she truly has power of attorney over him. Obi-Wan is confused about that.
But based on two months of bank statements, we have evidence that The Acid Queen has stolen money from Obi-Wan. The grand total is about $400 (that I know of), all made by The Acid Queen for her personal purchases, cell phone bills, and other things that were not in Obi-Wan’s best interests or made via his endorsement or knowledge.
After weeks of personal wrangling, Obi-Wan retrieved his checkbook from the reluctant Acid Queen.
All in all, Obi-Wan has removed The Acid Queen from signature authority of his account. I don’t know when or how she will discover this as Obi-Wan wants her to “learn the hard way” and not mention it to her. I advised against this action to no avail.
My role here as operative walks a thin line: I want to assist Obi-Wan in every way possible as the CEO of the universe would have me do. But I want to remain Switzerland in his personal financial affairs. I’m sure The Acid Queen assumes I am operating with devious motives similar to hers. All of Obi-Wan’s friends have been rightfully suspicious of me throughout the years. But I have nothing to hide. And Obi-Wan’s fondness of me has created jealousies, so it goes.
I find it no coincidence that I am currently engulfed in books on various injustices throughout the world. This week, it’s Terrify No More by Gary Haugen (thanks Nurse!) which documents the international legal wranglings of the International Justice Mission, specifically their rescuing of three dozen child sex slaves in Cambodia in 2003. It’s a great read. I highly recommend it.
Although third-world under-aged sex slavery and US elderly financial abuse are basically apples and oranges, the same gist is there: remove the victim from the harmful situation with systematic and methodical prose.
My son, Agent Offspring #1, is four. And in his vast world view, there are two kinds of people: good guys and bad guys.
He plays various adventure scenarios in the back yard based on the embarrassing amount of videos I never thought we'd let our kids watch. And the characters in his play adventures are realistic but quasi predictable. The good guys do good stuff and the bad guys do bad stuff.
He's probably too young to comprehend that sometimes bad people do good things and sometimes good people do bad things. Hell, I can't always comprehend it.
And then there's "who gets to decide what is good and what is bad and what is the definition of good and bad". And on and on.
A couple of weeks ago, my next door neighbor, former backyard shadow, and garden wars competitor The Tiger finally went off to jail for some crimes he committed about two summers ago. He was on probation for a while until he broke his probation.
I told him about jail a while back, hoping to convince him to live on the up in up during the probation period. It didn't work I guess. I said "you're 18 now. You're a man in the law's eyes. No more pansy juvenile detention wus-ville. You'll get put in a cell with six other guys who will force you to be their girlfriend, all at the same time".
I love The Tiger. He really has good in him. A lot. I've seen it. I've lived next door to him for six years and have known him for four years prior to that from the old izzy group ministry food pantry days.
Not to defend his actions but, in many ways he never had a chance. I mean, he grew up moving every four to six months. His mom moved him and his two siblings into one roach infested hell hole after another. He grew up watching men beat his mom. I'm still amazed that to this day he has yet to copy that behavior. He's never had a girlfriend that I know of nor has he created or participated in any physical violence.
He's just such a follower. He's never had a grand goal or even any small goals and stuck with it. He's never had any parents or adult role models that had goals either. He just lives day to day and see what stuff happens. That's the poverty mentality.
Almost four years ago I, Agent B, introduced myself to a small internet public via the agent b files and began sharing my adventures of both a) my spiritual desert period as well as b) my assignment within the poverty culture of a very religious North American city. And other than the occasional word from the CEO, prophetic-type observation within my own surroundings, or random jackass quips, I believe this blog has remained true to it’s mission: to report my discoveries, observations, and personal confessions as a middle-class westerner within relative poverty surroundings while remaining (somewhat) true to christ’s words in Matthew 6:1-4.
All of that to say – there hasn’t been much for me to report as of the past several months for reasons as follows:
1) My wife and I continue to plead with the CEO for an assignment change. I cannot imagine leaving the fair mother city with Obi-Wan still alive and well. But should he pass on, or the CEO gives the green light otherwise, we want to leave. Bad.
We have a realistic destination in mind, but it’s way too early to mention it. As for now, my family and I have stopped “investing” in the fair mother city. We just don’t have it in us anymore. We are spent. Never thought I’d say this but, I just don’t give a shit about Abilene, Texas anymore. Our time is up. The religious strongholds have not won over me. But I am weary. And besides, I’m pretty sure our time here has been a training period for the next phase of our lives.
2) Due to the above, I feel that there is little to say of my life and thus my lack of blogging. I really feel that anything I write now would only be a bunch of rehashed observations from the past four years. One can only say the same thing just so many times.
3) Since much of my day now revolves around trade work (which is physically taxing) I am usually tired by the end of the day. And when I get home there are two toddlers, a newborn, and a wife who is weary from dealing with them all day. I have little time or energy to write anything of significance.
I still have multitudes of observations of the poverty culture and the wealth culture from within my jedi padawan gig. But again, all has been said before one way or another.
On a related note, I am excited about this youtube clip going around of some famous guy on Conan O’Brien’s show ranting about the whineyness (or joylessness) of our wealthy culture. I see this all the time during remodel jobs for wealthier people. People can always find some ridiculous little nuance to be unhappy about. Meanwhile, we installed a laminate floor for an elderly woman who seems to live pretty simple and she was the easiest human to work for. Have lots = bitching & whining. Have little = thankful for everything. Go figure.
Back to the subject – the agent b files isn’t going anywhere. I haven’t heard to shut it down. But my reports may continue to thin out.
My thanks to the handful of you who continue to find value in these writings, thus continue reading. To all – my apologies for not keeping this blog as active as it once was. Thanks for your communications and comments over the years. And please continue to communicate whenever possible. Thank you.
One of the major chapters in the life of Agent Wife and myself is our African friends. About four or five years ago Agent Wife somehow got hooked up with a large African family through her French speaking abilities.
This family is actually four separate households – all siblings: two brothers and their two sisters. The oldest brother is some 20 years older than the other three, so he’s like the patriarch or something. And some have spouses and children and so forth. So, they’re a large group.
They came to the fair mother city through a non profit program called the IRC: International Rescue Committee. It’s a group that assists in bringing immigrants from war torn countries seeking asylum. They pay for the plane fare to the US, find housing, speed up the immigration process, assist in finding jobs (always hourly pay labor since even the educated don’t know our culture, language, etc), and assist in government subsidies (food stamps, etc).
Then they have 4-6 months to be completely self sufficient when all the subsidies end. And oh yeah, they have to pay back that plane fare. Air fare don’t grow on trees, I guess.
So Agent Wife & I stumble upon a great DVD at the library that I highly recommend: The Lost Boys of Sudan. It’s not just some boring documentary (which I like those, btw). But it’s pretty entertaining. Like the Napoleon/Pedro-esque technique of a young man trying to impress a female by giving her caged birds he caught.
Lost Boys is filmed in a “reality show” style, minus both the nonsense and ego filled soliloquies. The characters share a very similar story and life to our local African friends here in the fair mother city, which helped open our eyes to their daily issues.
If anything, this film can effectively show Christ followers the difficulty of daily life for the aliens in our midst. I hope it raises your compassion for those far from home.
The Baileys are my across the street neighbors that I rarely have contact with, thus their first ever mention here in these reports. Mary Bailey is in her 70's I'm guessing. Her son Ted is probably 45 or 50.
Ted ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer. And that's not me being a jackass. There's really something up with him. He's not mentally handicapped, but he's dang close. When I first moved here six years ago Ted was just released from prison and under house arrest. Word on the street is that he wasn't some violent criminal or such. He got wrapped up with the wrong people and rumors say he may have helped in some burglaries etc. I've met him a few times. And the first thing he always says when he's meeting you is, "I got in some big trouble a while back". He's humble. I admire that.
Ted doesn't drive. His mother does. So she's basically his transportation.
Ted doesn't work (that I know of). He rarely leaves the house. So I'm guessing his mother is basically his livlihood and lifeline.
Over the last few nights Ted and the Mackey's from across the street asked for my assistance in helping Mary off the floor as she's fallen or needs help off the toilet. She's fallen like six or seven times in the last week. Amazingly, she's not injured other than a minor bruise or two.
Faye Mackey offered to contact Adult Protective Services as she has a friend who works there. The Bailey's seemed responsive to that idea which shocked me since I'm use to Obi-Wan who has used every last ounce of strength fighting for his independence. APS is usually the last step before an elderly person without responsible children ends up in a care home.
In a bizarre mix of my current work life and my former work life, the jedi master along with Chuckie and myself are doing some work for my old boss at Son & Dad Tree Service, Inc. I of course helped land the job, so it wasn't like he randomly picked us out of the phone book or something.
But it's really weird going back to the north side dynasty and doing some piddly-ass repetitive job (like scraping the exterior of a house for paint prep) on one of The Son's five properties.
Something about this mixture of mundane labor and being at The Son's north side dynasty put's me both in The Zen AND makes me realize how bad I want an assignment transfer from headquarters.
The transfer will come in due time I'm sure. I just never thought I'd be back at The Son's doing some goof job. So it goes.
As the days, months, and years pass I am amazed at how many people I forgot from the old izzy group ministry days. Tons of people passed through our food pantry doors.
I was visiting Obi-Wan at the hospital last month when a hospital nurse came in to check his blood sugar. She knew me. I had no idea who she was. But she said she and her kids use to come to izzy and get groceries several years ago when she was a hurting single mom. Now she’s got her nursing degree and works at the hospital and thanks the CEO that all is well.
I am thankful that the CEO of the universe occasionally lets me see “the rest of the story” from those days. Even if I don’t remember certain people.
But there is one person from those days I will never forget. We shared too many memories together.
Momo, the king of the streets in the fair mother city, was sleeping on one of the cushy chairs in a Starbucks this weekend when I ran into him.
Agent Offspring #2 and I were getting groceries at HEB and decided to get a treat at the nearby coffee joint since my mailman mother gave us something like $105 in starbucks gift cards from her customers. She doesn’t like going there. I don’t mind it. Especially if it’s free.
This was kind of a weird place to run into Momo, since this area of town is way off the beaten path for our homeless friends. But Momo always gets around. I saw him camped out at the mall parking lot once. And that’s WAY off the beaten path.
We chatted for a good while. Actually, Momo rambled on and on with a bunch of homeless mental ramblings and so forth. But I didn’t mind. We all need to be heard and he doesn’t get much of a chance to talk to people. He’s so damn scary looking.
Nothing significant was said or exchanged. But I always forget how much I miss him. Even if he did use to piss me off.
One of my favorite Momo memories was once I ran into him downtown panhandling by the post office. His panhandling approach is terrible. Most homeless guys play the role of the lovable fuzzy tramp looking for something to eat and “god blessin ya” every second. Momo’s approach is to scare the hell out of you.
He’s short, fat, dark, wears the same clothes with stains for weeks until they fall off, and has that psycho pissed-off look in his eye. With his butt crack and gut hanging out he sleeps on a sidewalk like a beached whale. Then when some sucker walks by, he gets up and corners them and gives a direct demand for a buck. It’s such a crock schtick. I’m laughing.
So anyway, I see him do this one day as I’m going to the PO and I yell, “Hey Momo!” like I’m his best friend. Because we are friends. And I give him a hug like I always do.
He just froze with a smirk on his face that said “you’re giving away my schtick. Don’t let on that I’m really a cream puff”.
#1 - A family lost everything, including their mother here. One of the seven-year old twin boys isn't expected to make it either.
This family lives right across the street from my old boss with Son and Dad Tree Service, Inc. Every morning I would see this family when I arrived to work. They had all the mannerisms and trademarks of the poverty culture, including hanging outside in the front yard at all times of the day and enjoying life. The dad was a truck driver, I think. I waved to them and talked briefly once or twice. My heart breaks.
#2 - One of the old money social clubs in town is about to spend one million dollars on high definition broadcasting equipment. Which is even more pathetic since none of the local stations has complete HD technology yet to broadcast their church service to the capacity of the church's soon-to-be new equipment. Sheesh.
A poor family lost everything including their wife and mother.
And a mere 14 blocks away god's people toss big bucks at the trivial.
It’s been a few years or so since I’ve reported on my absence from the sunday morning social club. I believe that my avoidance of this topic proves my confidence in my calling outside of that scene. Thus I don’t feel a need to prove something to others thus proving something to myself.
Despite popular belief, I, agent b, am not opposed to other’s membership of these clubs. Nor am I opposed to the possibility of being part of one myself again someday.
What I am opposed to is attendance. Or better yet – I am opposed to attendance becoming the calling as opposed to living the calling.
Or something like that.
So Agent Wife and I have children. Three, as of almost three weeks ago. And yes, we incorporate our agent calling “outside church walls” into our children’s life. Since our marriage ten years ago (pre-kid days) we discussed how to raise our kids to know the CEO and not just drag them to some sunday morning deal. We wanted to live the experience of this kingdom of god, not just talk about it and naval gaze while someone else taught our kids about god.
So anyway, last weekend both grandmothers were here: my mom and Agent Wife’s mom. Sunday morning they were getting ready to “go to church” together while I was going to visit Obi-Wan and Agent Wife was tending to our newborn.
So then, my oldest mentioned that he wanted to go with his grandmothers. So I suggest to the grandmothers that if they want to take them, I’ll get the older kids dressed and ready to go. They were downright giddy about this, as can be expected by grandmothers.
So later on that day one of the grandmothers mentions to us that if we wanted, we could send our kids to church via our neighbors The Mackeys (who go to the church they visited).
How are we supposed to take that? Are we some sort of deadbeat parental sloths by not taking our kids to church?
No one noticed that our kids knew the songs they sang at church...because Agent Wife taught these songs to them at home!
OK. Sorry. I’m getting a little defensive. Such is being an agent and dealing with family.
But my question: what is better – teaching your children about attendance? Or trying to live the faith?
As an undercover operative for the CEO of the universe, I am strategically embedded within the poverty culture of Abilene, TX (the fair mother city). This blog contains my reports, discoveries, observations, and confessions. My identity must remain concealed due to passages in The Book under Matt. 6:1-4. The names on this blog have been changed to protect the guilty.
Last week I hitched a ride to the jail with Frieda Sanford to visit The Tiger.
