It helps if you're proficient at seeing around corners

Everyone who’s ever worked anywhere, any time, any place knows pit-of-the-stomach certainty that someone’s gunning for you, that you’ve got a target on your back, that you’re doomed.

And, like that soldier’s lament, you never hear the bullet coming.

I remember the night it happened to me.

First, a preface, a bit of context, before I get into the guts of it all.

After 30-plus years in the newspaper game, my position as senior night editor for a small daily in coastal North Carolina was — to use the euphemism of the time — outsourced to a sister paper an hour inland. I was assured the job was still mine, provided I was willing to drive 50 miles each way, every day, a commute I found unappealing, especially in a 1991 Civic with 170,000 miles on it.

So I got out, opting for a world of leisure, traveling hither and yon, seeing the country, visiting old friends and my family, hanging out at the beach, reading and writing — in short, just living my best life.

Four years later, then, with my resources dwindling and at my wife’s gentle — but rather urgent — insistence, I found another gig.

We’d been renting a nice house in a gated community since the turn of the century, and at our landlord’s suggestion, I applied for a spot as a security officer, a job I got almost immediately. At first, I was a part-timer, but as the months rolled by and attrition thinned the ranks, I was promoted and began logging 40 hours a week.

Since I lived less than a mile from the gatehouse, I often was called in when someone called off, and the overtime pay was welcome.

When I started, there was virtually nothing we didn’t respond to, everything from a snake in the garage to domestic disputes.

We dealt with timeshare lockouts, dead batteries, loud music complaints, missing pets, illegal fishing, dead deer in the roadway, trespassers, lost visitors, faulty smoke alarms and the odor of weed.

We handled hurricanes with practiced precision, never closing down. We dealt with the occasional snowfall carefully but efficiently. Power outages, fires, flooding, turtles in the front yard … you name it, we had procedures to handle most of it.

Officers were required to become certified in CPR every two years, and we handled dozens of medical calls a month, mostly as first responders, collecting as much information as possible before the emergency squad, dispatched from 11 miles away, got on scene.

But the bulk of a security guard’s daily responsibilities revolved around serving the needs of the residents, most of whom were respectful and appreciative of the work we did. They let us know when a contractor was due to stop at the gate, when to expect guests’ arrivals and when a big party was planned. They knew the rules concerning parked cars and boats on trailers. They dropped off cards, cookies and cakes at Christmas and were never rude.

But there were, of course, exceptions, the small — but extremely vocal — minority that lived down to our every expectation, wallowing in the virulent cesspool of wealth-driven entitlement.

Luckily, since I was assigned almost immediately to the graveyard shift, my interactions with the worst of the worst were limited, though there were nights I was tempted to use the can of mace that was within easy reach, but I never lowered myself to that level.

What I armed myself with, instead, was the knowledge that most of the biggest complainers were just your run-of-the-mill bullies, venal narcissists who weren’t used to hearing the word “no.”

And that brings us to the night my number finally came up.

Over the course of my tenure, the Property Owners Association had become less and less supportive of the security staff, winnowing our once-robust catalog of services to a shadow of its former self. Fearing insurance liability and potential legal litigation, the board began eliminating things residents had been accustomed to, putting those of us on the front line in a tough spot.

Occasionally, we’d ignore the latest ridiculous dictum — no more lift assists, for instance — and simply do what we were good at, always filing the proper paperwork, forcing the POA’s hand.

Then came the rumors the gatehouse was being bugged, followed closely by the installation of recording devices and cameras, which ran all day and all night, creating paranoia. It got to the point I relied on my training and experience, believing that no matter how bad things got, I’d retain my professionalism.

That night I stopped a car that had no identifying decal, and I asked the woman behind the wheel how I could help her. She acted as if I’d insulted her, insisting she lived inside and to let her pass.

The established protocol required new residents to produce a copy of their lease or rental agreement before allowing them to enter the property. She had no such documentation and became quite irritated when I suggested she take steps to acquire it.

“Stop at the POA in the morning, ma’am,” I said, waving her through, finally grown weary of talking to an entitled shrew.

I thought nothing of the incident until I got a call from my supervisor that afternoon, the gist of which was I had been suspended and was prohibited from showing up ever again.

Of course, both the audio and video evidence supported my version of what had happened, but that didn’t matter to the POA. I heard from the parent security company and listened as the man in charge sympathized and suggested I try another client in town.

“I wish I had 10 more officers like you,” he said at one point, which made me feel good, and I landed a better gig within the week.

I’m retired now and remain grateful for the chance to have proved my worth in another profession, realizing all the while it could all disappear with no warning and without cause. It’s becoming an even colder world out there these days, jobs being eliminated, lives being compromised, futures being occluded by fear and dread.

My advice to those still at it, still employed, still in the work force, still hanging on in spite of the ever-threatening headwinds?

Keep a low profile, stay out of the line of fire and pray … a lot.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where “Gimme Shelter” remains in heavy rotation.