The Bomb Technician

After a little over a month I'm finally writing again. It was not a lack of ideas, just a lack of time. But, a great bit of inspiraiton this evening, coupled with the completion of the majority of the planning for the Matt Dutton Memorial Golf Tournament, I've finally got a free moment.

Mike wiped the sweat pouring from his brow. He had see touchy equipment. He'd been doing it for 25 years. He was getting frustrated, not a good emotion for a bomb technician. This was one of the most sensitive, and finicky things he'd ever dealt with.

"Why's this damn thing so touchy," he muttered.

He watched as the little green light on the piece of equipment he was using flashed from green to red. Nothing to panic about yet, just means I've got to start over. It was frustrating though. To think you were one step closer. Just moments away from completing this task and getting on with your life, then that damn light and that irritating voice.

"I just don't know what the problem is, he said slamming an object down beside the others. I do this all the time. It's not that hard!"

He looked around at the on-lookers. Didn't they have something else to do besides gawk. Are they just sitting there with morbid curiosity running through their little pea-brains, hoping to see a guy blow up. No, they were probably rooting for him to finish, as much as he was.

He sighed deeply as the screen froze once, more and the red light began to flash.

"Damn!"

"Hey, you're ok," said Linda. "You just have to be patient."

"It's easy for you to say," he said. "You've just got to stand by monitoring you're little screen over there, while I do all the work."

"Well, you're keeping me busy, having to undo what you keep doing."

"I swear it's this damn machine. I do this all the time and never have this much trouble."

"Yeah, it's always the equipment," chuckled Linda, walking back to her station.

Mike swore under his breath and went back to work. He moved quickly, hearing only a steady stream of beeps. This was good. Progress was being made.

"One more," he said. "One more."

He listened as he drew the object across the scanner. Beep! Mike's heart leapt, and then sick feeling crept into his stomach. He stared in horror.

"Item not found," came the biting tone. He watched as the light flashed from green to red, and the screen froze.

"Please wait for customer assistance!"

Mike's head drooped, he swore, and felt only hatred for the self check-out lane at Wal-Mart.