A Master Class in Gremlin-Taming(R)
Rick Carson's Taming Your Gremlin® has helped hundreds of thousands of people combat the inner saboteur lurking in the recesses of every human mind. Now Rick takes you to the next level by revealing new ways to escape your gremlin. Rick shows how to access the "natural you"—a place of clear feelings and pure potential. He also shares his powerful I CREATE method: seven keys for creating rewarding relationships, which our gremlins love to mess with. With wit, wisdom, and plenty of real-life vignettes, Rick helps gremlin-tamers at all levels give gremlins less than the time of day.
204 pages; ISBN 9780061624889
Title: A Master Class in Gremlin-Taming(R)
Author: Rick Carson
The Bottom Line
Bundles of shingles and buckets of tar grow heavy quickly, and while the boxcars we spent hour after hour loading offered some shade, they blocked any hope of a breeze. Summer was half over, and I was glad I'd return to Texas Tech in the fall. For Jim Turnbow and the other dock men, there would likely be no reprieve.
Jim Turnbow had been to prison twice for assault, and every man on the dock knew it. He was forty-five plus and tall, with shiny, wavy black hair. He had a wind-worn face, long sinewy muscles that reminded me of steel cables, and a body swirled with tattoos, including one of a panther on his right forearm. He moved with an undaunted sureness, which I found intimidating. I never saw Jim smile, and he rarely spoke.
Jim and I and the rest of the men on the loading dock got a twenty-five-minute lunch break every day. Though the West Texas wind blew hot and dusty, we ate outside on the dock to escape the smell of burning tar inside the factory.
One day, as I sat on the dock practically merging with my baloney sandwich, I sensed Jim's eyes on me. I risked a glance at him. He was squatting directly across from me, eating a turnip with his pocketknife. His dark eyes were locked in on me. I felt small and brand spanking new, and I tried to grin. My face wouldn't cooperate, and I felt my lip twitching. Then, in a crisp, quick tone, Jim spat out, "Rick!" His cold black eyes pointed right at mine.
My heart skipped a beat, and my soul snapped to attention. Until then, Jim had spoken to me only rarely and briefly, and he had never called me by name.
Jim gestured with his knife as he spoke, his thumb pressing a slice of turnip against the flat side of the blade.
"When you're dead . . ." He leaned toward me, his already level gaze became a piercing glare, and his hand, the knife, and the turnip slice began quivering with the crazed conviction of a man being thunderstruck by the truth. Wide-eyed, I gulped.
"When you're dead . . ." he repeated with greater force, his eyes glazed and wilder now.
"When you're dead . . ." he said again, through clenched teeth this time, and louder, "you're a dead peckerhead." Then he got up and walked back into the factory.
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