What's left at your desk?

Number 2 and I used to go to work with my dad all of the time on Saturdays.

We would run around and play with the phones while he tried to get some work done. Afterwards, he would take us to his favorite charbroiled hamburger joint for lunch.

But I hadn't ever been to where he worked for the last ten years.

It was a union hall in an industrial part of Los Angeles.

I was going to have to go there to pick up what he left behind because he retired with no notice and never went back.

I took the day off from work to do this. II had no idea how long a commute I was facing and while I had directions from mapquest.com, I was concerned that I might not be able to find it.

Spent most of the drive not thinking much about anything. It was one of those days when Stern decides to go past 11:00 a.m. with his broadcast and I listen until Fred starts with the plugs before switching over for the last of Jim Rome.

There are not too many cars on the road here. I'm getting a little paranoid because this really isn't a good part of town.

I find the union hall and it is much smaller than what I was expecting. Practically tiny.

I park in the 10-stall lot next door and head to the front door. I hope they're not closed for lunch.

The front door is covered in pro-union swag and is slightly cracked open.

I don't quite know how to describe this place other to say that it feels like a place that men come together. Like a locker room before a football team comes in and stinks it up.

There's a small window like a bank teller might use and a woman working at a desk behind it.

"May I help you?" she asks automatically.

"Yes. I'm VW."

She reacts like a disc bouncing off of the pegs in the Plinko! game on the Price is Right.

I can see each thought appear in her brain. It is written all over her face.

"Oh. OH! I am so sorry about your father."

"Thank you very much. I really appreciate that. I'm here to pick up anything that he might have left behind."

"Sure, sure. Um...I'm sorry. The other secretary has all of his belongings locked up and she's at lunch right now."

"I can wait. Is it okay if I do that?"

"Yes. I'll let her know that you are here the moment she gets back."

I walk around the lobby and find some recent job openings around Southern California. I also see a job posting for a position in my company. I didn't know we recruited here. It makes sense but it still makes me realize that it truly is a small world (after all).

I don't wait long before the other secretary returns. She opens the door and calls for me to follow her.

"I was so sorry to hear about Mr. VW. He was such a nice man."

I thank her but it's strange to hear her speak about my father so formally. Part of that is using first names is an integral piece of the company culture where I work.

She brings me a small box no larger than a shoe box.

"This is everything he left behind."

I thank her for it but I'm disappointed that it isn't more. I'm finding that every thing I come across has a little story to it and I want as many stories as possible.

"I also need to get your contact information. The union has a small death benefit that I would like to get for you and your brother."

That's nice. I wasn't expecting that. It will cover about 1/10th of the funeral but I'm not about to turn it down. I need to start paying that credit card soon.

I give her my information and she lets me know that it will take her about four weeks to get processed.

I thank her for her time and ask if she could make sure she lets all of the union members that came to my father's services how much it meant to my brother and I.

I walk out the door and head back to my car with the box of my dad's belongings.

I open the hatchback to put the box in....and instead I decide to open it now.

I need to know if I've found more treasures.

I open it up to find......receipts. Lots of them. Just like I found at his house.

The disappointment of the receipts is replaced when I find something that I can't explain.

It's a boxing award.

I read the inscription and it starts to make sense. A group presented this award to him for his contributions to a youth boxing club. It's seems strange that I didn't know this.

There are a couple of letters in the box labeled "personal" (I'll think about reading them later).

And then I find the treasure.

It's a handful of pictures of my dad that I have never seen before.

I flip through them quickly as sudden cloudburst of tears obscures my vision.

Why am I crying in parking lot in a scary part of LA?

I wipe away the tears and get in my car to leave. I'm feeling like a jackass right now and I hope nobody saw that show.

I pull away from the union hall and head back down the street that I drove in on.

I almost get out of the area before a business establishment catches my eye. I had heard the name of this particular enterprise on many occasions and had seen plenty of receipts from this place at my dad's.

It's where my dad and his friends hung out after work.

And instead of going back home, I found myself making the left turn into a new parking lot.

It was 12:30 p.m. and I was going to have a drink.

At my dad's favorite strip club.

VW