Fairbanks Frolics

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I came to Fairbanks because I was curious. I came because I was asked. I came because there was nothing to go home to. I came because home was no longer where I belonged. Petersburg was not home. Neither was Juneau. Now I am here in Fairbanks trying to make memories and build, quite literally, a place for myself. I look into a mirror and see the world behind my shoulder. Perhaps if I press hard enough I can break through this glass world.

My cabin, formally my brothers who has now moved on to bigger and better things such as running water and free laundry in the campus apartments, sits by the edge of Wecota Road off of Gold Hill, which itself jets off of the infamous Sheep Creek. The road is unpaved and passing vehicles blow yellowy dust into the air like snow. The dust coats my deck, and unfortunately, everything else. My deck has become more of a storage platform for extra junk than a place to sit. I have a chair, a ten dollar fold out from Freds, but it too is coated with dust, and has become more of a decoration than an actual item for one’s sitting pleasure. A TV, freezer, and several boxes overflowing with coat hangers and clothes complete my white trash atmosphere.

I have exactly twenty days to remove everything from the cabin before my lease expires. ¾ of the items are my brother’s which includes boxes of chewed computer components, old clothes, books, a TV, fridge, two microwaves, and—oddly enough—a bag of pinecones. Items that I cannot sell or give away, will be piled in my truck and taken to the transfer site on farmer’s Loop for disposal. What is one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and I am sure my things will be swarmed upon and taken like so many hyenas to a kill. I find myself visiting the transfer site so often it has become like a trip to the store for milk.

A balding man with a beard and leather slippers was knee deep in a dumpster on my last visit. I pulled up nearby to dispose of old mail. With a look of delight he stood from the explorations at his feet with a toothy grin and egg carton in hand. “Someone left eggs in the carton!” Sure enough, in his hand two chicken eggs gleamed in the morning light. Smiling wryly I backed quickly away so as not to engage him in conversation being that I was the only one nearby capable of comment. “Better check them before eating!” I yelled before slamming my car door with a bang and zooming out of this gated paradise. Although I often lower my standards, picking food from the garbage is a line drawer. Even now I still shudder when I recall my third college semester roommate who dug through our trash for a rotten cantaloupe.

Due to the lack of running water I find myself, and please forgive this confession, reusing utensils several times over. Knives, forks and spoons, when licked clean, sparkle like they were newly washed with Dawn. Bowls, plates, and cooking implements are another story. Because my valuables do not include a large pot for boiling water, these items have found their crusted selves piled high on my stove. Guiltily, I try not to look at them as I prepare food with my microwave, paper plates, and licked silverware. I drink straight from juice cartons and eat salads out of their bags. I cut fruit and vegetables with my pocket knife, wiping the edge clean on a not-too-dirty corner of unwashed laundry.

My “fancy camping” experience is similar to growing up on Kuperknof Island as a child. Only my parents, dependent on an inner resourcefulness, built a pump system for running water. I miss water. With water I can wash anything when the need arises. Presently, I am forced to carry clothes and bathing items from home to the car to campus and back again. My frustrating battle with on campus parking services has forced me to abandon my truck at the corner of College and hump my books and laptop the quarter mile to school. Now that the weather is warm and balmy, I find the walk a pleasant way to enjoy the foliage and get a bit of exercise in the process. The extra time commitment can be annoying, resulting in my factoring an extra twenty minutes into anything that I do requiring a vehicle.

Parking services, as alluded to in previous paragraph, has been the bane of my existence since last Fall semester. Indeed, if a hole opened up and swallowed the whole of this institution and its stupid rules I would cry with joy.The University of Alaska Fairbanks requires that anyone working or living on campus to register and pay a semester parking fee. Once this task is accomplished, each individual is issued either a green or gold decal depending on your level of hierarchy within the system. Students are given plain decals with a polar bear stamped on the front, while university staff are issued the regal sounding gold decals. Rule number two (here I would wish to add that there are more rules than I can list) designates certain areas of campus for certain decals. Students park in the farthest lots while staff have the advantage of practically walking from car door straight into the building. In the summer this really doesn’t matter, but in the winter it can make a tremendous difference in one’s wellbeing. For example, I nearly frostbit my ears in -30 walking down to my truck in the lower level parking (when I first arrived there was free parking across the road on campus). The first of my offenses began when I parked my truck on campus after 5pm to visit the Pub.

The signs, of which there are several posted, claim in bright gold lettering that there is absolutely no parking for non-decaled vehicles between 7am to 5pm. Logically I assumed that parking is permissible after 5pm. And so, trusting in our state institution, I parked and left for an enjoyable evening of open mike. I returned several hours later, hopped in my truck and began to drive home. Only then did I notice the white paper fluttering in the wind beneath my windshield wiper. I stopped, leaned out the window and snatched the paper with the tips of my fingers. My charge? $30 dollars for parking without a gold decal in a gold decal required lot.

The following morning I called Parking Services and demanded an explanation. Apparently, despite the signs, parking after five is also illegal and not only that, it is their policy not to list all their policies. Welcome to the beginning of the end. My one consolation, droned the Parking Service man, was to apply for an appeal. This form, which is in all respects a letter explaining your innocence, is filled out and sent to the department via the internet. Delighted at finally being able to put my English degree to use, I proceeded to write the saddest, most apologetic letter ever created. Lucky for me, it worked. A week later I received a receipt in the mail discharging me from my crime. Tickled, I placed the letter in my memories folder for later scrapbooking (an act that may or may not take place in this lifetime).
Offense Number 2. A few weeks after my first incident, I was hired temporarily for an editing position on campus. My employer, a meek, older women with gray hair and glasses, gave me a single use pass for on campus access. At the time I believed that the pass was good for a month, and so scratched out the corresponding dates with my fingernail before hanging it on my rear-view mirror. Three days later I was issued a ticket, this time for double the previous amount. Frustrated, I went directly to the source. Parking Services office resides in the middle of town, far away from campus as if to hide from irate drivers who would no doubt form a mob if given the chance.

My initial act when confronting people is to play the “dumb blond” motif. This either pricks the conscious of an individual or exasperates them to the point of giving me want I want to make me go away. However the choice may be, I usually get what I want. However, in this situation, I really was a dumb blond (brunet) who had no idea why I was given a ticket for having a day pass. It turns out that the pass is only usable once and afterwards more three dollar day passes need to be purchased. The women behind the desk bought my act, real or otherwise, and removed the amount from my bill. She persuaded me to buy another day pass, and for purposes of faked ignorance, I shelled out three dollars for something I would never use.

Offense Number 3. Despite my Alumni status as a student, I was prompted by a good friend to attend free jazzercise sessions Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays afternoons at Bartlett Hall’s gym on campus. I parked in student parking, after five. You would think that after time two I would learn, but no…upon my return I had not one, but two tickets.; one for thirty dollars, the other for sixty. At this point in the game I was exhausted from a day of work and an hour of leaping about to Shakira. I refused to pay any of the tickets to such a frustrating and, in my opinion, corrupt administration. To this day Parking Services sends me bill reminders at least once every two weeks. I pile them next to my cockatiel cage and use them for cage bedding.

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Photos

Moose Kill
Not mine, but it's fun to aspire.

Drums for Jesus
Quimby about to rock out on the church drums.

Negative Versus Positive
In about four weeks this sign will change by about eighty degrees...can you guess which way?

Tauras Operation
Who knew that changing shocks could bubble such joy from within the soul?

Alaskan White Trash
My porch/garage.

Alaskan de' Tropical
Didn't know we had cockatiels in Alaska did ya? There was a big movement back in the sixties to make them our state bird, but the ptarmigan was just tastier.

Oktoberfest
I only stopped at the Pub for a minute--test in the morning--but I still wish I had worn my frauline outfit...

Nerd Shoes
I try to make him cool, but alas...

Twisted Love
These birch can't decide on what color to be at the same time.

Robot Eyes
Guess who has a fetish for robot movies...and guess who stole them from the theater...