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Letter to the editor

You do what?

So, your job is boring. Big deal. Meet these hard workers, then be glad boredom is your only problem.

By Times Staff Writers
Published August 31, 2007

Some jobs are rewarded with smiles and thank-yous. Think of the friendly Wal-Mart greeter. The affable postal worker. The ice cream man. 

Then there are these - jobs where the very nature of the work guarantees employees will be spit on, physically attacked or burdened with another person's pain. As Labor Day approaches, we peek into the lives of a few people who need skin as tough as their jobs.

Julie Hazlett

Age: 40 - Lives in: Pasco County - Years on the job: 3 - Salary: $32,000

BRANDON - She has been called the "Water Witch." She shares an office with "Ted the Terrible" and another co-worker with a nickname too vulgar for the newspaper.

Julie Hazlett is a water cop. Or, more formally, a Hillsborough County water conservation inspector. They're the ones who give you a ticket when you water your lawn on the wrong day.

She snakes through unincorporated subdivisions and neighborhoods five days a week, logging up to 200 miles a day in her county-issued truck. She's out as early as 4 a.m., as late as midnight - when people try to illegally water lawns on the down low.

But Hazlett will find them. She turns into a neighborhood, lowers the windows, turns the radio down. First, silence. Then, the telltale schwip-schwip-schwip of a sprinkler. She gets out and surreptitiously snaps digital photos.

She also trolls for houses with wet driveways or water in the gutters. Evidence.

Hazlett has an agricultural background. Her family has raised oranges and cattle in Lake Wales for five generations. She likes using that knowledge without sweating in the sun all day. "If I don't win the lottery, I'll probably do this job forever," she says.

But there are dangers. Some people aren't very understanding when they get cited. A first-time violation can cost $100. Once, an angry man leaned into her truck and verbally assaulted her - a good example of why Hazlett refuses to show her face in newspaper photos for all to see.

"I have a big wrench I'll hit somebody on the head with," she says.

About 15 percent of those who get cited appeal.

But, Hazlett says, they rarely win.

Jan Wesner, Times staff writer

Anil Pandya

EAST TAMPA - Anil Pandya has tested thousands of people for HIV at the Drug Abuse Comprehensive Coordinating Office on N 56th Street.

And in the past four years, he has had to tell about a dozen of them they were positive for the virus that causes AIDS.

"We always try to keep it short and simple," he says. "Even if we're uncomfortable, we need to just say it: 'Here are your HIV test results, and they're positive.' We just have to get that out."

Some are sad, others afraid - they hear a death sentence.

Always it's a shock.

"A lot of times, no one was thinking anything was going to come of it," Pandya says, "including us."

It can take awhile for the news to sink in.

As part of his master's degree in public health and HIV prevention, Pandya learned how to give test results. He tells those who are negative how to stay that way. Limit sexual partners. Use condoms. Don't share needles.

When it's positive, he watches some cry. Some are angry with themselves, realizing the precise moment they contracted HIV.

Pandya remembers each name, each face. For him, it's hardest to tell someone young. "Unfortunately, that's happened," he said.

He is sad for them. He cares deeply and tries to be strong for them.

When they're ready, Pandya tells them how to stay healthy and where to get treatment. He tells them they aren't alone.

The biggest problem, he says, is they think there's no hope. But they're wrong, he tells them. "There is hope."

For a free, confidential HIV test, call 984-0909.

Elisabeth Dyer, Times staff writer

Andrew Mather

Age: 27 - Lives in: Gibsonton - Years on job: 2 1/2 years - What he makes: declined to say

ST. PETE TIMES FORUM - The arena is empty, and Andrew Mather gathers his crew for a powwow. The security supervisor warns them to be ready for fights in the mosh pit and kicks to the face from crowd surfers.

It's the calm before the storm.

As guests arrive, Mather stands in the center of the arena on the lookout for people who need his help - and for the troublemakers. Eventually, he'll post himself between the stage and a short rail that holds back the masses.

Almost immediately, people start to heckle him. They want to get backstage. They curse at him when he tells them no.

"This gets really irritating," Mather says.

It's the same at just about any concert. The lights dim, the arena goes black, the crowd screams. The first chord is struck and detonates the crowd into a frenzied mosh pit.

Mather just stands there, watching and waiting.

The large crowd shows no mercy. Many are drunk and expect to do whatever they want, when they want.

"I've been cursed out so many times, threatened, pushed, and swung at, but because we're a 'no hands-on facility' I can't do anything about it," Mather says. "But I do my best to enforce the rules."

Jessica Brady, Times staff writer

Nicole David

AIRPORT - Meet Nicole David. She's a 37-year-old mother who likes to play basketball and backgammon, whose accent gives away her Trinidadian roots.

But the drivers at Tampa International Airport don't see any of that. They just see her fluorescent yellow vest, her whistle and her systematic hand motions, directing them to keep moving past the curbside, allowing stops only for loading.

Ninety-nine percent of drivers quietly comply. But that 1 percent is what makes her job tough. It's what landed her in the hospital November of last year, after telling a man three times to move his Lexus SUV. He wouldn't, so she started writing a traffic ticket.

She doesn't know what happened next - she blacked out after he stepped on the gas and rammed the car into her, she says. Witnesses told her the collision sent her body spinning. The joints between her hips tore.

Ten months later, she still feels pain and can't play sports. (The Lexus driver was arrested and charged with battery on a law enforcement officer, but pleaded not guilty and the case eventually was dropped.)

Others have yelled racial slurs at David, who is black, and tell her to get a "real job." Drivers have spat on her coworkers and thrown drinks.

In the past few years, drivers have hit eight airport traffic specialists or run over their feet, says John Jansen, David's boss.

David tries not to take all this personally.

Airport traffic specialists get trained yearly in customer service and "verbal judo," a communication tactic used to deflect attacks.

How does David deal? "It's just got to roll off your back," she says.

Alexandra Zayas, Times staff writer

Sal Mazza

Age: 39- Lives in: Pasco County - Years on the job: 5 - What he makes: $69,000 a year

YBOR CITY - At 3:25 a.m. early Sunday morning, police say Officer Sal Mazza and his horse D'Artagnan wound up on the windshield of a drunk man's car.

They recovered, but it was just an example of the dangers and annoyances Mazza faces daily on his night shift in Ybor City.

He starts at 6 p.m., in time to greet the dinner-and-a-movie crowd. They approach him, ask him questions like, "What's your horse's name?" He smiles when they recognize the Three Musketeers reference.

But the night wears on. The alcohol flows, and people aren't so friendly.

By 3 a.m., partiers spill from hip-hop mega clubs. It's Mazza's job to break up the crowd and tell them to go home.

Clubbers jeer. A young woman stands in his way with a camera, saying he's harassing black people. Some smack the horse's butt, to see if it will take off - an offense worthy of arrest.

"You know what irritates me the most? When people call my horse, like, Butternuts. And they call him Mr. Ed. As soon as they say that, it catches my attention. That's a person I need to watch."

On horseback, Mazza can see blocks away. One horse can do the job of five officers, he says.

In May, Mazza was the first to spot a shooting suspect from high on his horse.

As the man ran toward a getaway car, D'Artagnan caught up and knocked him over, eventually trapping the man between his hooves.

Alexandra Zayas, Times staff writer

John Daugirda

NEW TAMPA - At a recent Cory Lake Isles neighborhood meeting, some homeowners revolted against what they called a corrupt board of directors.

That's when John Daugirda stepped in to calm the flaring tempers. He tried to reason with them, to explain the process, but it was no use. To some, he was the enemy.

It's the same scenario for Daugirda three or four times a week. He's a Community Development District manager, working for a private firm that acts as a consultant for area CDDs.

A primer on CDDs: When developers used bond money to build little planned communities in the area, they created a bunch of minigovernments called CDDs that can collect taxes to sustain themselves. The "governments" make decisions about infrastructure and neighborhood improvements. Daugirda advises them on financial and legal matters.

Sounds real intriguing, huh?

Now try sitting through these meetings, which have lasted for five-hour stretches.

Try explaining the same laws over and over, as angry neighbors hurl insults at their board members - then at you.

Still, Daugirda rarely raises his voice. He says he wants to weigh both sides of the issues.

When things run smoothly, Daugirda's job is a piece of cake. When neighbors and board members disagree, he takes on the role of psychologist, mediator, attorney, referee and voice of reason.

"I'm trying to build a consensus," he says. "But when you start to have board members who have differences, you get into a lot of interpersonal psychological issues. It can get tough."

Emily Nipps, Times staff writer

[Last modified August 31, 2007, 10:52:49]