Maybe not so brave.

Some days simply contain more information than I can reliably fit into the loose parameters of this space. Strange, because no day should be comprised of more or less raw sensory information than any other.

For example, on Thursday I received an email from a writer at the Washington CityPaper, the alternative local dish and entertainment weekly newspaper. If you live in a metropolitan area of any size, you doubtless have an analogue of CityPaper, similar all the way down to typefaces, layouts, and popular columns. I assume that when someone first figured out that a free large-circulation paper could be supported entirely with advertising revenues, they packaged and sold an "Instant Entertainment Weekly" package containing the mandatory fonts, formatting for the personals section, subscriptions to Chuck Shepherd's News of the Weird, and so forth. The alternative theory is that the vast majority of these media outlets are under the control of one wealthy puppetmaster, which is paving the nation's understanding of what constitutes a hip alternative publication into a uniform gradient.

In any case, CityPaper's head reporter sent me an email saying she was working on a story about the altruism scam currently running in Washington, and she had read my journal entry relating my encounter with the scam artist. Oddly, it was the second time this week that someone had told me they were working on a piece for CityPaper on this topic. The first was my friend and former colleague Christina, who said she wanted to quote me in an article about the scam which she was sending to the newspaper. I have no idea if there is actually some sort of connection between these two events, or if Christina simply has extraordinarily bad timing in her choice of subject matter.

The reporter wanted to talk to me about my experience, so I called her on Friday. I approached the interview with a little trepidation. Although I place a significant amount of information in the public eye, I am accustomed to being the gatekeeper of what is reported. This uncertainty at how I might appear in the media was doubtless the same anxiety many of my friends and loved ones feel about this journal, so I had no doubt that the experience would be an instructive one for me. In addition, I rather hoped that the piece might mention this site and attract some additional visitors.

I chatted with the reporter for almost an hour. Among the interesting pieces of information I learned was that the scam artist who came to my door had made quite an impression on Capitol Hill, where her hijinks where generating outrage and demands for her incarceration. I also felt that the reporter was not particularly sympathetic to the plight of the wealthier scamees. Presumably, the scam artist needed the money, she asked, so did it make that much difference how she asked for it?

Having provided ample foaming rhetoric on the topic in the essay I wrote immediately after the event, I found myself in a more philosophical frame of mind. We discussed the scam from perspectives of race and class, the ritualistic methods of packaging any kind of conflict in DC. The person who was asking for money under false circumstances slowly transformed from a malfeasant to a postmodern financial redistribution artist whose scamworks were forcing the complacent populace to reassess its perceptions and beliefs. The fact that I wasn't taken in by the scam allowed me to comment on it somewhat dispassionately, like someone who has witnessed an accident but not personally been injured. I'm quite certain I might be whistling a less charitable tune had I been burned in the wreck, too.

Late in the conversation, talk turned to this journal and the kind of writing I do. The reporter then asked if I was interested in freelancing for the CityPaper. My silent reactions, in order, were 1) wow, and 2) this might mean that I didn't just sound like a complete moron. I told her I would indeed be interested, and she responded that I should pitch them a story sometime. This was met with no small measure of private thrillings on my end of the line. I'll admit that I occasionally fantasize that someone who reads this ongoing stream of para-daily missives might help me to write for a larger audience. I'll admit to harboring hopes that this is one manifestation of a much larger work-in-progress.

Later that afternoon, still buoyed up by this conversation, I prepared for my first night shift at the Rescue Squad. I was extremely nervous. The image of myself in the mirror -- sporting that official patched blue shirt, blue pants and tall black boots -- looked like someone more authoritative and important than I felt.

As I drove out there, running late, I was caught behind a huge dump truck carrying flattened cardboard boxes. Ever now and then a box would jettison itself off the back and into my path. I finally yanked the car out into a turning lane and illegally passed the truck... seeing, as I did so, the police car parked on the other side of the street. I watched in mounting anxiety as the cruiser pulled a U-turn and started down the street behind me. They hadn't turned on the flashers, but I felt quite strongly that I was now doomed to receive some sort of insurance-jacking infraction. The police pulled up next to me at the next stop light. I stayed eyes-forward at the wheel (this is the customary position of subservience for those groups of citizens like myself, who are intimidated by the police but not in serious danger of being beaten up by them.) The red light stayed mercilessly red. I was sweating. On green, I pulled away and saw the cruiser fall back behind me again. Then they pulled off and were gone.

I wondered: was I only being paranoid? Or had they seen the prominent rescue squad patches on my shirt and recognized the vestiges of a common service? The thought that I had just received preferential treatment was titillating and horrifying all at once.

Traffic was light in the growing darkness. I was flipping through the radio and failing to hit a station or song that fit my mood: equal parts anticipation and fear, like the beginning of a new relationship. We're so infrequently put in a position in which we have almost no idea what to expect of the near future, yet it can be so difficult to savor such a moment as an unopened gift.

I arrived at the rescue squad just before my shift began at 7pm. All of the squad bay doors in the building were open, revealing the gleaming equipment waiting inside. The slick metal skins of ambulances and rescue trucks mirrored the rows of phosphorescent lights high overhead. It was a brilliant island surrounded by a dark asphalt sea. I felt the same awe I've known inside cathedrals, when a sense of nascent faith challenges the complacency of the spirit. I forgot about the nervousness, the cops, CityPaper, and almost everything else. I parked my car and walked slowly toward the building, entering into the bright apparition and feeling completely illuminated by it.