Lucille and Martha made small talk over coffee. Chatting over coffee after lunch became a tradition for them a few years back when Oliver Reeves moved to town and opened his charming little restaurant. Reeves blew in from back east. He said he found Hazelton while looking for a change of pace. He told his customers who lingered at the counter long enough to swap stories about his old life.
He gave the usual rat-race-in-a-big-town story. When he finally took stock of his accomplishments, he realized he wasn't happy. "I felt like I had been traveling through space all those years, man," he would say. "Then suddenly I looked outside the rocket ship and said, "Where the heck am I goin? And that's when I found Hazelton and had the crazy idea to open up a diner."
Lucille and Martha nodded along as Oliver told his story today. They knew every word, having heard it so many times. Today's audience was the widow Butler. Not your ordinary widow, Sara Butler. She was only 37. Her husband fell to cancer; he was only 40. Oliver himself was a spry 52 and handsome, Lucille and Martha agreed. They could see that Sara Butler felt the same.
Martha waved to Oliver for the check. He shook his head. "Not today, Martha. It's New Year's Eve. This one's on the house!"
"Oliver," Lucille said, " you told us our meal was on the house last week. And before that, it was right before Thanksgiving."
Oliver smiled broadly, "I know, Martha. If I go broke for giving away a few lunches to my best customers, so be it. At least it'll be on my terms."
The ladies beamed at him. New Year's wishes passed between all and the diner cleared out. Oliver closed up early. He didn't have any plans. He didn't celebrate earth holidays. He sat down in his office chair in the back of the restaurant and took out his notebook.
Oliver kept fastidious records of his patrons' meals. He even had scales built into the floor so he could record their weights. His eyebrows rose as he jotted down Lucille's weight today. "Oh my. Lucille's up 10 pounds in 2 weeks. It's almost her time."
He snatched three post-it notes hanging off the nearest cabinet. Recipes that would be a home run starring Lucille.
Hit the road, one chapter at a time
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
#14 The Deadfall
I used to take the path behind my grandmother's house when I needed to be alone. A hundred and fifty yards through waist-high grass led to a lush forest. Tall, mature trees lined the path that was cleared long ago. A sea of curved, gently waving ferns framed both sides of the trail.
The land sloped down from the field and then leveled itself. Sounds of rushing water, the white noise of these woods signaled my approach to the river. Stones broke the water's surface in just the right places to allow a crossing. After snow melt and heavy rains a few of the footholds disappeared making a crossing a question of just how wet would you get?
The land rose steeply after the river. It's characteristic sound replaced by eerie winds racing through the densely spaced pines. The trail wound unpredictably up the incline, sometimes avoiding a ravine or boulder. Other times the trail curved to allow the climber to double back and rest from the demanding slope.
And at the top was the deadfall; a massive pile of trees left behind by loggers before the turn of the 19th century. Engineers planned a firebreak to cut through the huge forest after several fires ravaged protected lands in neighboring states the previous year.
I always turned back at the deadfall. It intimidated the hell out of me. I couldn't see an obvious way over it and it stretched to either side as far as I could see. But I always wondered and sometimes dreamt of what lay on the other side of the deadfall. One summer it consumed my thoughts so completely I set out to cross over it.
I equipped myself as I thought I might need and made straight for it. After a few hours I stood before the twisted, gnarled mound of dead trees. I edged west looking for an opening. After thirty minutes I turned about and walked east. Another hour passed and I could find nothing that resembled a possible way through.
Defeated, I sat on a stump and took a drink from my bota bag. While my heart rate slowed, I heard a sound that chilled me to my soul. I cannot describe it to you now. Nor will I ever be able to tell of it with any true accuracy. Let me simply tell you that I stiffened in fright and when my wits returned it took all my will not to turn and flee.
What I did then, was curious. I climbed the deadfall. Made straight for it, I did. I followed where I thought the sound of nightmares came from. The funny thing was this: after a minute or two of struggling, the deadfall opened up for me. No, it didn't move or become animated. The way became simpler, is all. As easy as the path through the ferns.
I ascended the crest of deadfall and fell to my knees at once. again, I could find no words for what I saw. I could not move or speak. I could only gape.
The land sloped down from the field and then leveled itself. Sounds of rushing water, the white noise of these woods signaled my approach to the river. Stones broke the water's surface in just the right places to allow a crossing. After snow melt and heavy rains a few of the footholds disappeared making a crossing a question of just how wet would you get?
The land rose steeply after the river. It's characteristic sound replaced by eerie winds racing through the densely spaced pines. The trail wound unpredictably up the incline, sometimes avoiding a ravine or boulder. Other times the trail curved to allow the climber to double back and rest from the demanding slope.
And at the top was the deadfall; a massive pile of trees left behind by loggers before the turn of the 19th century. Engineers planned a firebreak to cut through the huge forest after several fires ravaged protected lands in neighboring states the previous year.
I always turned back at the deadfall. It intimidated the hell out of me. I couldn't see an obvious way over it and it stretched to either side as far as I could see. But I always wondered and sometimes dreamt of what lay on the other side of the deadfall. One summer it consumed my thoughts so completely I set out to cross over it.
I equipped myself as I thought I might need and made straight for it. After a few hours I stood before the twisted, gnarled mound of dead trees. I edged west looking for an opening. After thirty minutes I turned about and walked east. Another hour passed and I could find nothing that resembled a possible way through.
Defeated, I sat on a stump and took a drink from my bota bag. While my heart rate slowed, I heard a sound that chilled me to my soul. I cannot describe it to you now. Nor will I ever be able to tell of it with any true accuracy. Let me simply tell you that I stiffened in fright and when my wits returned it took all my will not to turn and flee.
What I did then, was curious. I climbed the deadfall. Made straight for it, I did. I followed where I thought the sound of nightmares came from. The funny thing was this: after a minute or two of struggling, the deadfall opened up for me. No, it didn't move or become animated. The way became simpler, is all. As easy as the path through the ferns.
I ascended the crest of deadfall and fell to my knees at once. again, I could find no words for what I saw. I could not move or speak. I could only gape.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
#13 The Visitor
Crackling twigs and whistling. The sounds that disturbed my rest. No one had walked this path in years. I moved to get a closer look.
A man or boy in his late teens or early twenties. "He's the curious sort," I said to myself. I can tell things about people and curious types unconsciously broadcast that fact far and wide. Whistling just sealed the deal.
He approached the cabin cautiously, probably wondering if it was inhabited. Then he called out the customary two or three times.
"Hello?"
"Anyone inside?"
"I've run out of supplies and I'm lost."
When I didn't reply he tried the door. It swung wide and he entered the cabin. I slipped outside but watched from a window. I silently watched him rifle through my things. I didn't have anything of much value, so he moved on.
When he started tossing Evelyn's drawers, I struggled. I tired to tell myself that he was an opportunist. A scavenger. It wasn't personal.
He stopped when he came across a picture of Evelyn and I. He held it close to the window to catch the light.
"What a beast," he said, tossing the photo of my darling to the floor.
I lost control then. I floated through the wall and came up behind him. His insides felt so warm.
A man or boy in his late teens or early twenties. "He's the curious sort," I said to myself. I can tell things about people and curious types unconsciously broadcast that fact far and wide. Whistling just sealed the deal.
He approached the cabin cautiously, probably wondering if it was inhabited. Then he called out the customary two or three times.
"Hello?"
"Anyone inside?"
"I've run out of supplies and I'm lost."
When I didn't reply he tried the door. It swung wide and he entered the cabin. I slipped outside but watched from a window. I silently watched him rifle through my things. I didn't have anything of much value, so he moved on.
When he started tossing Evelyn's drawers, I struggled. I tired to tell myself that he was an opportunist. A scavenger. It wasn't personal.
He stopped when he came across a picture of Evelyn and I. He held it close to the window to catch the light.
"What a beast," he said, tossing the photo of my darling to the floor.
I lost control then. I floated through the wall and came up behind him. His insides felt so warm.
#12 Just Breathe
I tried to control my breathing. Waves of pain like bolts of electricity scorched my spine and legs. When I focused on the ragged gasps for air and breathed deeper, it started to work. My muscles eased their rigid grip on my upper body. I still couldn't feel my legs so I closed my eyes and focused on deeper breathing. After about ten minutes, my body had fully relaxed. My headache ebbed, too.
My pain had made a couple circles on it's mat, laid down and went to sleep. But it would be back.
"There are too many people on this bus," I said to the man next to me. "Why doesn't the driver just get moving?"
"The street is full of people. He can't move forward," he said.
I decided my choice to get on the uptown bus was terrible. I looked out the window. Smoke poured from both towers. Flames sporadically flashed from windows. Another person jumped.
I stood. I decided to fight my way to the door. The press of bodies forced me back into my seat. The man beside me put his arm across my chest.
"We're moving! He's got us moving!"
The bus inched forward until there suddenly came a ripping, grinding roar that filled our ears. People on the street ran in every direction. I saw a woman drop to her knees and clasp her hands in prayer. Then it all went black.
The sound of metal striking metal. The bus pitched and rolled to one side. People screamed in terror as we got tossed off the ceiling, walls and each other like a cereal in a near-empty box being shaken by a hyper child.
The pain brought me into clear focus. Knives of agony lanced my lower back. Legs went numb. I screamed but couldn't hear it, couldn't separate from everyone else.
A choking dust and smoke mixture filled the air. I covered my mouth and nose but kept screaming. I lay on a pile of people that writhed beneath me. I felt like a worm atop a pile of worms. The bus lay on its side. The floor of the bus was ripped open. Flames burned on the street beyond.
I did the only thing I could. I slowed my breathing. I tuned out all else. Sometime later, the pain receded. I rose. Oriented myself. I started helping people off that bus.
My pain had made a couple circles on it's mat, laid down and went to sleep. But it would be back.
"There are too many people on this bus," I said to the man next to me. "Why doesn't the driver just get moving?"
"The street is full of people. He can't move forward," he said.
I decided my choice to get on the uptown bus was terrible. I looked out the window. Smoke poured from both towers. Flames sporadically flashed from windows. Another person jumped.
I stood. I decided to fight my way to the door. The press of bodies forced me back into my seat. The man beside me put his arm across my chest.
"We're moving! He's got us moving!"
The bus inched forward until there suddenly came a ripping, grinding roar that filled our ears. People on the street ran in every direction. I saw a woman drop to her knees and clasp her hands in prayer. Then it all went black.
The sound of metal striking metal. The bus pitched and rolled to one side. People screamed in terror as we got tossed off the ceiling, walls and each other like a cereal in a near-empty box being shaken by a hyper child.
The pain brought me into clear focus. Knives of agony lanced my lower back. Legs went numb. I screamed but couldn't hear it, couldn't separate from everyone else.
A choking dust and smoke mixture filled the air. I covered my mouth and nose but kept screaming. I lay on a pile of people that writhed beneath me. I felt like a worm atop a pile of worms. The bus lay on its side. The floor of the bus was ripped open. Flames burned on the street beyond.
I did the only thing I could. I slowed my breathing. I tuned out all else. Sometime later, the pain receded. I rose. Oriented myself. I started helping people off that bus.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
#11 The Agency
"I've done what you've asked of me. That should count for something," the man said.
"Yes. You have done all we've asked. It's just that..."
"That what? Enough is never enough for you people. Is it? I just want to try and put my life back together."
The man in the dark suit crossed his opposite leg. He removed a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his coat. He deftly removed a cigarette and lit it in a few short seconds. As he finished the exhalation of smoke, he said, "Life back together? We both know there's no putting it back the way it was."
"I didn't say 'the way it was'!" he yelled.
"No need to get angry, son. That won't resolve anything, will it?"
William tried to relax himself. "I've lost so much. Can't I get any of it back?"
"That's outside of our operations, William. You know that."
"You could pull some strings..."
"No other agency likes to work with us. Only the highest ranking officials of the other bureaus ever request anything. We're lucky that way." He smiled a wide, self-satisfied grin.
The man dropped his chin to chest and rested, gathering his thoughts. He decided then and there he would do what he could to honor his lost family members. His surviving son, he would train. Somebody would need to teach these devils a lesson down the road.
That moment. It must've been seven years ago now. Seven years since he leaped across the table and snapped the agency
man's neck. Seven years since the goon squad rushed the room and pinned him to the table. Pinned him to the table while they made him watch the monitor. A live video being shot at his home. He watched his son murdered and wife raped and killed at the hands of the agency. Seven years ago since he nearly went mad. But instead he joined them. What other choice was there?
"If at first you don't succeed," he thought to himself.
"Yes. You have done all we've asked. It's just that..."
"That what? Enough is never enough for you people. Is it? I just want to try and put my life back together."
The man in the dark suit crossed his opposite leg. He removed a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his coat. He deftly removed a cigarette and lit it in a few short seconds. As he finished the exhalation of smoke, he said, "Life back together? We both know there's no putting it back the way it was."
"I didn't say 'the way it was'!" he yelled.
"No need to get angry, son. That won't resolve anything, will it?"
William tried to relax himself. "I've lost so much. Can't I get any of it back?"
"That's outside of our operations, William. You know that."
"You could pull some strings..."
"No other agency likes to work with us. Only the highest ranking officials of the other bureaus ever request anything. We're lucky that way." He smiled a wide, self-satisfied grin.
The man dropped his chin to chest and rested, gathering his thoughts. He decided then and there he would do what he could to honor his lost family members. His surviving son, he would train. Somebody would need to teach these devils a lesson down the road.
That moment. It must've been seven years ago now. Seven years since he leaped across the table and snapped the agency
man's neck. Seven years since the goon squad rushed the room and pinned him to the table. Pinned him to the table while they made him watch the monitor. A live video being shot at his home. He watched his son murdered and wife raped and killed at the hands of the agency. Seven years ago since he nearly went mad. But instead he joined them. What other choice was there?
"If at first you don't succeed," he thought to himself.
#10 The Crypt
I panned the flashlight back and forth across the ancient chamber. Dust motes floated about so thickly I could not see more than ten or twelve feet ahead.
"No one's stepped foot into this chamber since they sealed it," I said.
My assistant, Marisa nodded her head in agreement. She held a cloth over her nose and mouth as a shield to the dust. She stepped forward into the crypt illuminating objects with her own lantern.
Once we opened the crypt door, I sent the other three men on the team out of the tunnels to base camp. We needed additional tools and instruments that we dared not carry into the tunnels unless we had a reason to use them.
I caught up to Marisa and tapped her shoulder. I pointed to my watch. She nodded and inspected her own watch. "I was just thinking about that," she said. "Where's our team with the gear?"
They had been gone for too long but I didn't want Marisa to panic. "They probably forgot something and had to double back. No worries. Let's take a closer look at that sarcophagus."
Marisa's passion for archeology overode her fear of what lay in a 3500 year old tomb. We pressed deeper into the chamber and came upon the resting place of the ancient ruler of the river valley. We ran our lights over the lid, mouths dropped open in horror. The sarcophagus lay open! Strips of the bindings that once wrapped the mighty man-deity were all that remained.
"His final resting place is defiled!" Marisa yelled. "Who could do such a thing?"
"We didn't see any signs of disturbance in the outer tunnels," I said. "They must've looted the tomb years ago, at least."
"There's something else in that corner," Marisa said. "Come."
We walked into the deeper shadows in the back of the crypt. The ceiling was lower here and there appeared to be a hole in the wall near the floor. Our flashlights finally illuminated the truth. A pile of human bones and shreds of clothing.
That's when the scraping sound behind us started. Uneven and gaining in volume, something shambled into the room.
"Collins? Simpson? Finch?" None of our comrades answered. Silence but for the scraping. Then the gutteral, echoing rumble. A parody of a human voice filled the chamber. Finally, the unmistakable sound of measured laughter.
Monday, December 26, 2011
#9 Fitted For My Jumper
"Greg, let's go through this again. If I don't have something to work with here, you'll do six months easy."
"What do you want me to say, Doc?" I asked.
"Anything. Anything you think I'll believe. If I think it's even remotely possible, I can get them to buy it."
I turned my head to face the Doc. I never looked at him during a session, always laid back and kept my eyes forward. But this was the first time he had been so blunt about fabricating a story to keep me outta jail.
"What are ya saying, Doc? To lie?"
"Yes, damn it!" he yelled. "Lie. Make it up. And hurry. If you don't turn yourself in soon they'll come here straight away. Take you right off that couch."
"Ah, you're only worried about your reputation. That's why your so worked up!"
"Now Greg, that's the most..."
"The most truthful thing I've said in three years! Admit it! That's a fact, Dad. You can't have a son in jail and still attend all your conferences and luncheons."
"Greg!"
"That's right! They'll be whispering at the bar, in the coat room and in the can. They'll say, "It's a shame that Waters can't manage that kid of his. Will probably cost him a Joseph Zubin award." Another will answer, "No wonder his wife took off. Probably failed in the bedroom, too."
My father stood up and looked down at me. I had a couple more zingers but the look on his face held my silent. He looked wounded. Like he had just been shot in the belly and knew he was gonna be dead in half an hour. He walked across the room and opened the door that led out back.
"You'd better go. At least you'll have a head start. "
"But what about my story?"
"I'll take care of that. Go. Go before I lose my temper."
I laughed at him as I got up. "Lose your temper?"
I walked over to him and got real close. I didn't care that I had hurt him. "Lose your temper? You have to care enough about people to lose your temper and make it feel real, Dad. When was the last time you felt anything for me, huh?"
He looked right back at me and said, "Whenever it was, it will certainly be the last time. Now. Go."
It was no use to run or hide. They would find me this time. I would just have to try and do my time as clean and quiet as I could. I had a craving for a greasy burger so I drove to a fast food joint. I settled into a booth facing the corner, trying to stay as out of the way as possible.
Some guy in his twenties comes in with two kids who must've been around 4 or 5 years old. The two of them ran amok no matter what their old man said to 'em. They finally got their food and sat down near me. I felt bad for the dude, in a way.That is, until I announced his ignorance.
One of his wild things asked, "Daddy, how come some people use the drive-thru?
The father said, "Because some people are real lazy. They are too lazy to get out of their cars and walk inside to order food. Now finish those fries, will ya?"
I didn't even hesitate. My meal finished, it was time to go anyway. So I grabbed my red plastic tray and slowed as I passed their table.
"Hey buddy," I said, "Do you know why people bring children to fast food restaurants?"
He looked at me with a dead stare. A stare that broadcast how perplexed he was that a total stranger would ask him a question.
When he didn't respond I said,"They take them to fast food places 'cause their too lazy to cook at home and secretly want to see their children become fat and sick from the preservatives and fillers."
If the dudes chin could have unhinged and fell on the table it would have. I walked on. I heard his kids ask him, "Why do you secretly want us to get sick, Daddy? Mommy says you are lazy all the time. Why didn't you say something to that man?"
I chuckled as I hit the crash bar on the door and jogged to my car. Time to get as far as I could before it was over.
"What do you want me to say, Doc?" I asked.
"Anything. Anything you think I'll believe. If I think it's even remotely possible, I can get them to buy it."
I turned my head to face the Doc. I never looked at him during a session, always laid back and kept my eyes forward. But this was the first time he had been so blunt about fabricating a story to keep me outta jail.
"What are ya saying, Doc? To lie?"
"Yes, damn it!" he yelled. "Lie. Make it up. And hurry. If you don't turn yourself in soon they'll come here straight away. Take you right off that couch."
"Ah, you're only worried about your reputation. That's why your so worked up!"
"Now Greg, that's the most..."
"The most truthful thing I've said in three years! Admit it! That's a fact, Dad. You can't have a son in jail and still attend all your conferences and luncheons."
"Greg!"
"That's right! They'll be whispering at the bar, in the coat room and in the can. They'll say, "It's a shame that Waters can't manage that kid of his. Will probably cost him a Joseph Zubin award." Another will answer, "No wonder his wife took off. Probably failed in the bedroom, too."
My father stood up and looked down at me. I had a couple more zingers but the look on his face held my silent. He looked wounded. Like he had just been shot in the belly and knew he was gonna be dead in half an hour. He walked across the room and opened the door that led out back.
"You'd better go. At least you'll have a head start. "
"But what about my story?"
"I'll take care of that. Go. Go before I lose my temper."
I laughed at him as I got up. "Lose your temper?"
I walked over to him and got real close. I didn't care that I had hurt him. "Lose your temper? You have to care enough about people to lose your temper and make it feel real, Dad. When was the last time you felt anything for me, huh?"
He looked right back at me and said, "Whenever it was, it will certainly be the last time. Now. Go."
It was no use to run or hide. They would find me this time. I would just have to try and do my time as clean and quiet as I could. I had a craving for a greasy burger so I drove to a fast food joint. I settled into a booth facing the corner, trying to stay as out of the way as possible.
Some guy in his twenties comes in with two kids who must've been around 4 or 5 years old. The two of them ran amok no matter what their old man said to 'em. They finally got their food and sat down near me. I felt bad for the dude, in a way.That is, until I announced his ignorance.
One of his wild things asked, "Daddy, how come some people use the drive-thru?
The father said, "Because some people are real lazy. They are too lazy to get out of their cars and walk inside to order food. Now finish those fries, will ya?"
I didn't even hesitate. My meal finished, it was time to go anyway. So I grabbed my red plastic tray and slowed as I passed their table.
"Hey buddy," I said, "Do you know why people bring children to fast food restaurants?"
He looked at me with a dead stare. A stare that broadcast how perplexed he was that a total stranger would ask him a question.
When he didn't respond I said,"They take them to fast food places 'cause their too lazy to cook at home and secretly want to see their children become fat and sick from the preservatives and fillers."
If the dudes chin could have unhinged and fell on the table it would have. I walked on. I heard his kids ask him, "Why do you secretly want us to get sick, Daddy? Mommy says you are lazy all the time. Why didn't you say something to that man?"
I chuckled as I hit the crash bar on the door and jogged to my car. Time to get as far as I could before it was over.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
#8 All I Want For Christmas Is...
Emerson paused as he passed Lewis' cubicle. His catalog editor wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad in red, blue and green ink.
"Lewis, it's Christmas Eve. I thought I told you to go home two hours ago?"
The bespectacled man of thirty-five, turned in his seat to peer up at the boss.
"You said you had most of your Christmas shopping left to finish. What's the hold-up?"
"Uh, I needed to get the list right. Can't start wandering around Manhattan without a good list, you know. I'd never finish."
Lewis showed his list to Emerson whose eyebrows arched in surprise.
"Lewis. This looks like the theory of relativity. The long version. How can you make any sense of that?"
"He, he. Just like any brilliant thinker, boss, I've got an algorithm. I have so many people to shop for, I need to make it a science," Lewis said.
"Aren't you single and an only child? Who the heck are you buying all that for."
Lewis straightened himself up in his chair and pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.
"Mr. Emerson. That's not very, um polite. Why, I've dozens of cousins and many friends and neighbors whom I care deeply about. And they for me."
Emerson held up the palms of his hands toward Lewis. "OK,OK. Easy there Lewis. I didn't mean to imply you had no one to celebrate the season with, I just..."
Lewis stood up and faced his boss nose to nose. "Well what exactly did you mean, then?"
"I just meant, I meant that the rest of us have wives and kids and you...uhm. You see what I mean, don't you?"
"No, boss. I don't and that saddens me. But you'll see what I mean. Someday." Lewis turned back to his cube and gathered up his things. He pulled on his coat and grabbed his list.
"Look, Lewis," Emerson said.
"Merry Christmas, boss. See you in 2012." Lewis swiftly left the row of cubes and made the turn to the elevator.
Davis emerged from an office across from Lewis' cube. "What was all that about, Tom?"
"Hmph. Lewis is delusional. Remind me to stay out of his personal biz next time, will ya?"
"Yeah," Davis said. "Let's get a drink at the hotel. There's mistletoe hanging all over that bar."
Lewis struggled into his basement apartment with the last armload of packages. He tipped the cab driver well. He couldn't have managed it alone.
Once he had it all sorted and wrapped and tagged, it was nearly 9pm. Lewis sat on the floor amidst the piles of gifts and shreds of paper and tissue. He attempted recovery, but his soft, 140 pound body had no reserves of energy to call upon. He needed rest and food.
He looked aorund his sparse apartment and Emerson's words rang in his mind.
"He was right, you know that," he told himself. "I have no family or friends. Any relations I do have don't know how to find me and probably have no cause to try."
Lewis crawled over to his fridge. Kneeling, he pulled open the door. Mostly empty shelves stared back at hime. The condiments outnumbered the food. He closed the door. He lay his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe just a short nap.
A persistent knocking thumped away at his front door. Lewis snapped out of his trance. He got to his feet and took shaky steps to the door. He worked the locks and opened it a crack.
"Lewis," a bearded man said, "You're not dressed? We don't have time for this! Let me in!"
He opened the door and a burly man in his sixties blew in like a winter wind. His great wool coat billowing all around him as he spun left and right, inspecting the gifts.
"Well done, lad! No make yourself decent and let's be off! I'll start loading the gifts!"
Lewis gripped the handle of the ornate, sliding door. It was one of a pair of mammoth doors that separated the great room in two. Behind him stood a massive Christmas tree. It's single decoration was a star. The star of Bethlehem.
Petros placed his ear to his door. "They are getting restless out there. Oh! Stephan is speaking now. Get ready Lewis for our cue. We must pull the doors aside at equal speed, as we practiced, yes?"
"I'm ready, Petros."
Stephan's voice rose as he said, "When they heard the king, they departed; and behold, the star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy!"
"Now Lewis! Pull!"
The two men pulled the doors along their oiled tracks revealing the tree and the shining star at it's peak. All around the base of the tree lay hundreds of presents. When Lewis' door reached the end of the track, he peered around it. The children sat with mouths and eyes wide open.
"What patience the have," he thought. And a second later Stephan told the children who had nothing but the clothes on their backs to find their present.
A cheer went up and the children surged forward. Petros and Lewis stood clear for their own safety. They exchanged smiles across the sea of children. He thought he saw a tear roll down the big man's cheek.
"My list might be a science," Lewis thought, "but this part is all magic."
"Lewis, it's Christmas Eve. I thought I told you to go home two hours ago?"
The bespectacled man of thirty-five, turned in his seat to peer up at the boss.
"You said you had most of your Christmas shopping left to finish. What's the hold-up?"
"Uh, I needed to get the list right. Can't start wandering around Manhattan without a good list, you know. I'd never finish."
Lewis showed his list to Emerson whose eyebrows arched in surprise.
"Lewis. This looks like the theory of relativity. The long version. How can you make any sense of that?"
"He, he. Just like any brilliant thinker, boss, I've got an algorithm. I have so many people to shop for, I need to make it a science," Lewis said.
"Aren't you single and an only child? Who the heck are you buying all that for."
Lewis straightened himself up in his chair and pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.
"Mr. Emerson. That's not very, um polite. Why, I've dozens of cousins and many friends and neighbors whom I care deeply about. And they for me."
Emerson held up the palms of his hands toward Lewis. "OK,OK. Easy there Lewis. I didn't mean to imply you had no one to celebrate the season with, I just..."
Lewis stood up and faced his boss nose to nose. "Well what exactly did you mean, then?"
"I just meant, I meant that the rest of us have wives and kids and you...uhm. You see what I mean, don't you?"
"No, boss. I don't and that saddens me. But you'll see what I mean. Someday." Lewis turned back to his cube and gathered up his things. He pulled on his coat and grabbed his list.
"Look, Lewis," Emerson said.
"Merry Christmas, boss. See you in 2012." Lewis swiftly left the row of cubes and made the turn to the elevator.
Davis emerged from an office across from Lewis' cube. "What was all that about, Tom?"
"Hmph. Lewis is delusional. Remind me to stay out of his personal biz next time, will ya?"
"Yeah," Davis said. "Let's get a drink at the hotel. There's mistletoe hanging all over that bar."
Lewis struggled into his basement apartment with the last armload of packages. He tipped the cab driver well. He couldn't have managed it alone.
Once he had it all sorted and wrapped and tagged, it was nearly 9pm. Lewis sat on the floor amidst the piles of gifts and shreds of paper and tissue. He attempted recovery, but his soft, 140 pound body had no reserves of energy to call upon. He needed rest and food.
He looked aorund his sparse apartment and Emerson's words rang in his mind.
"He was right, you know that," he told himself. "I have no family or friends. Any relations I do have don't know how to find me and probably have no cause to try."
Lewis crawled over to his fridge. Kneeling, he pulled open the door. Mostly empty shelves stared back at hime. The condiments outnumbered the food. He closed the door. He lay his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe just a short nap.
A persistent knocking thumped away at his front door. Lewis snapped out of his trance. He got to his feet and took shaky steps to the door. He worked the locks and opened it a crack.
"Lewis," a bearded man said, "You're not dressed? We don't have time for this! Let me in!"
He opened the door and a burly man in his sixties blew in like a winter wind. His great wool coat billowing all around him as he spun left and right, inspecting the gifts.
"Well done, lad! No make yourself decent and let's be off! I'll start loading the gifts!"
Lewis gripped the handle of the ornate, sliding door. It was one of a pair of mammoth doors that separated the great room in two. Behind him stood a massive Christmas tree. It's single decoration was a star. The star of Bethlehem.
Petros placed his ear to his door. "They are getting restless out there. Oh! Stephan is speaking now. Get ready Lewis for our cue. We must pull the doors aside at equal speed, as we practiced, yes?"
"I'm ready, Petros."
Stephan's voice rose as he said, "When they heard the king, they departed; and behold, the star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy!"
"Now Lewis! Pull!"
The two men pulled the doors along their oiled tracks revealing the tree and the shining star at it's peak. All around the base of the tree lay hundreds of presents. When Lewis' door reached the end of the track, he peered around it. The children sat with mouths and eyes wide open.
"What patience the have," he thought. And a second later Stephan told the children who had nothing but the clothes on their backs to find their present.
A cheer went up and the children surged forward. Petros and Lewis stood clear for their own safety. They exchanged smiles across the sea of children. He thought he saw a tear roll down the big man's cheek.
"My list might be a science," Lewis thought, "but this part is all magic."
Thursday, December 22, 2011
#7 Gallup Poll
Riiing. Riiing.
Norman stared at the phone. He looked up at the wall clock. 8:40pm.
Riiing.
"Sheesh. How late do they think they can call?" he said out loud.
Riiing. Riiing.
"Why doesn't voicemail pick up?"
Riiing.
Silence followed. Norman smiled. "That should buy me another twenty-four hours at least."
Riiing. Riiing.
"Come on!" he shouted.
Norman got off the couch, grabbed the phone and punched the 'Talk' button.
"Hello, Out Of Area. What can I do for you?"
A pause. Then, "Mr. Norman Painter?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Painter, I'm Mr. Vance from the Gallup Corporation. You may have heard of a Gallup Poll?"
"Yes. Yes I have."
"Well Mr. Painter, I'm sorry for calling so late but you've been selected to participate the latest Gallup Poll."
"I have? So what's it for?" Norman asked.
"Mr. Painter, our latest poll is concerned with leisure time. We're measuring what people prefer to do when they have free time. Time away from work, school and family for example."
"Huh," Norman grunted.
"So let's begin, Mr. Painter. What is your age, please?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine. Yes. How long have you lived at your current address?"
"Three months."
"Fine. How long did you live at your previous address?"
"About six months."
The line went quiet for a moment.
"Mr. Painter, do you always move so frequently?"
"Only in the last several years," Norman said.
"I see. Are you currently employed?"
"Not currently."
"Are you in school, then Mr. Painter? Some kind of technical training classes, maybe?
"No."
"Married?"
"No."
"Children or other dependants?"
"No."
"So, if I may ask, what are you doing with all your time, Mr. Painter"
"Watching TV mostly. Sometimes I go online and stuff. I sleep whenever I want"
"Mr. Painter," Vance's voice gained some volume, "are you ill? Have you been to the hospital recently?"
"Uh, no."
"I'm confused, Mr. Painter. These calling lists we use are screened to make sure we are calling the right people. But based on what you've said, you could never qualify as a participant in this poll."
"Well why not? I have free time like anybody else."
"Mr. Painter. With no job, no school, no children, all you have is free time."
"But..."
"Furthermore, you are an insult to every hard working person in this country. Do you know how many people are literally killing themselves every day to make enough money to buy groceries and heat their homes? Some people are taking turns eating in the house. "It's true. I know folks who tell me things like, 'I don't eat on Tuesdays and Fridays; those are my off days.' "
Silence hung in the space between them.
"What do you think about that, Mr. Painter?"
"I think I'm glad I'm not one of 'em."
"Mr Painter, do you believe in Karma?"
"Nah. I'm not into religion. But if you were standing here in my house I'd kick the everlovin' hell out of you, you pompous asshole!"
Silence for a few beats.
"Well Mr. Painter, sometimes religion gets into you. Sometimes justice gets into you. And sometimes, when it's needed, stuff just gets adjusted all on it's own. Funny how it seems to even things out sometimes, Mr. Painter of 17 Middleton Street, 1st floor apartment with a flimsy doorknob."
Silence filled the space again.
"Are you threatening me, Mr. whatever your name is from the Gallup corporation?"
The connection fell dead and that annoying sound of the phone off the hook filled Norman's ear.
Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Norman's doorbell rang again. Buzzzz. Buzzzz.
Norman stared at the phone. He looked up at the wall clock. 8:40pm.
Riiing.
"Sheesh. How late do they think they can call?" he said out loud.
Riiing. Riiing.
"Why doesn't voicemail pick up?"
Riiing.
Silence followed. Norman smiled. "That should buy me another twenty-four hours at least."
Riiing. Riiing.
"Come on!" he shouted.
Norman got off the couch, grabbed the phone and punched the 'Talk' button.
"Hello, Out Of Area. What can I do for you?"
A pause. Then, "Mr. Norman Painter?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Painter, I'm Mr. Vance from the Gallup Corporation. You may have heard of a Gallup Poll?"
"Yes. Yes I have."
"Well Mr. Painter, I'm sorry for calling so late but you've been selected to participate the latest Gallup Poll."
"I have? So what's it for?" Norman asked.
"Mr. Painter, our latest poll is concerned with leisure time. We're measuring what people prefer to do when they have free time. Time away from work, school and family for example."
"Huh," Norman grunted.
"So let's begin, Mr. Painter. What is your age, please?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine. Yes. How long have you lived at your current address?"
"Three months."
"Fine. How long did you live at your previous address?"
"About six months."
The line went quiet for a moment.
"Mr. Painter, do you always move so frequently?"
"Only in the last several years," Norman said.
"I see. Are you currently employed?"
"Not currently."
"Are you in school, then Mr. Painter? Some kind of technical training classes, maybe?
"No."
"Married?"
"No."
"Children or other dependants?"
"No."
"So, if I may ask, what are you doing with all your time, Mr. Painter"
"Watching TV mostly. Sometimes I go online and stuff. I sleep whenever I want"
"Mr. Painter," Vance's voice gained some volume, "are you ill? Have you been to the hospital recently?"
"Uh, no."
"I'm confused, Mr. Painter. These calling lists we use are screened to make sure we are calling the right people. But based on what you've said, you could never qualify as a participant in this poll."
"Well why not? I have free time like anybody else."
"Mr. Painter. With no job, no school, no children, all you have is free time."
"But..."
"Furthermore, you are an insult to every hard working person in this country. Do you know how many people are literally killing themselves every day to make enough money to buy groceries and heat their homes? Some people are taking turns eating in the house. "It's true. I know folks who tell me things like, 'I don't eat on Tuesdays and Fridays; those are my off days.' "
Silence hung in the space between them.
"What do you think about that, Mr. Painter?"
"I think I'm glad I'm not one of 'em."
"Mr Painter, do you believe in Karma?"
"Nah. I'm not into religion. But if you were standing here in my house I'd kick the everlovin' hell out of you, you pompous asshole!"
Silence for a few beats.
"Well Mr. Painter, sometimes religion gets into you. Sometimes justice gets into you. And sometimes, when it's needed, stuff just gets adjusted all on it's own. Funny how it seems to even things out sometimes, Mr. Painter of 17 Middleton Street, 1st floor apartment with a flimsy doorknob."
Silence filled the space again.
"Are you threatening me, Mr. whatever your name is from the Gallup corporation?"
The connection fell dead and that annoying sound of the phone off the hook filled Norman's ear.
Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Norman's doorbell rang again. Buzzzz. Buzzzz.
#6 Meltdown
"Sergeant! Report!" The lieutenant barked.
"Sir. All men are accounted for. Loomis and Ketsu are injured but are ready to move. The dropship is beyond repair."
"Terrain assessment?"
The sergeant looked over his lieutenant's shoulder, shielding his eyes from the sun glare off the snow. "I don't have much, LT. We can't explain the tremors. We had no advance recon on earthquakes or geological instability. They appear to be increasing, getting worse..."
"Worse?! Sergeant, I'm standing right here with you. Worse is a gross understatement, soldier! The planet feels like it's about to split in two. What about the eclipses?"
The sergeant lowered his eyes and shook his head.
"Look, Hess," the lieutenant said, "sorry for tearing you a new one, but I've got to get these men to the rally point. All I see is snow and more snow. Our instruments and comm systems are blown to hell. I can't even get a compass to work. Every thirty seconds there's a total eclipse followed by an earthquake."
"LT, I think we need to move on. There's no explaining this planet. But we can't keep the men pinned down here. They need to get moving to take their minds off it all."
"You're right about the men, Hess. But we don't even know what direction north is."
Corporal Pat Hughes jogged up to the edge of the command tent. He saluted. Lt. Fields returned the gesture.
"Get in here, Patrick. What've you got?"
Hughes said, "Sir. Something unusual is happening. The snow is melting but not like you'd expect. It's rapidly liquefying and becoming like syrup."
"Hughes, what in the hell are you talking about?" Hess said.
"Sir, the snow is changing into a thick liquid, like heavy cream or something."
The lights failed and their world tilted on edge. All three men went down. Tables collapsed tossing maps, supplies and weapons onto the ground. Ground covered in snow that had transformed into a sticky, wet mess.
The soldiers struggled to stand. White strands of snow-stuff covered their uniforms and hands.
"That was the worst tremor yet!" Hess shouted. Sunlight returned, instantly scaring the darkness away.
A private ran into the command tent forgetting to salute."Sirs, half of Alpha company just disappeared! Right when the eclipse started. They were right there and now there's no trace. Just a terrible scraping sound like the planet was being peeled back. No equipment, no nothing left behind!"
"What?" yelled Lt Fields.
"Did you forget how to salute an officer, private?" Hess yelled.
The private immediately saluted.
"Mother, this ice cream tastes yucky. There's little things in it."
"Oh Bobby," sighed Mother. "Must you constantly whine? There's a garbage can right over there. Toss it out but don't expect another one! I'll get you a wet nap for your hands. It's melted all over you."
Bobby lumbered over to the trash can and tossed the half-eaten cone inside. He stopped for a second. He swore he heard shouting and guns shooting. Gun shots? He looked into the can but didn't hear it again. He ran back to mother.
"Sir. All men are accounted for. Loomis and Ketsu are injured but are ready to move. The dropship is beyond repair."
"Terrain assessment?"
The sergeant looked over his lieutenant's shoulder, shielding his eyes from the sun glare off the snow. "I don't have much, LT. We can't explain the tremors. We had no advance recon on earthquakes or geological instability. They appear to be increasing, getting worse..."
"Worse?! Sergeant, I'm standing right here with you. Worse is a gross understatement, soldier! The planet feels like it's about to split in two. What about the eclipses?"
The sergeant lowered his eyes and shook his head.
"Look, Hess," the lieutenant said, "sorry for tearing you a new one, but I've got to get these men to the rally point. All I see is snow and more snow. Our instruments and comm systems are blown to hell. I can't even get a compass to work. Every thirty seconds there's a total eclipse followed by an earthquake."
"LT, I think we need to move on. There's no explaining this planet. But we can't keep the men pinned down here. They need to get moving to take their minds off it all."
"You're right about the men, Hess. But we don't even know what direction north is."
Corporal Pat Hughes jogged up to the edge of the command tent. He saluted. Lt. Fields returned the gesture.
"Get in here, Patrick. What've you got?"
Hughes said, "Sir. Something unusual is happening. The snow is melting but not like you'd expect. It's rapidly liquefying and becoming like syrup."
"Hughes, what in the hell are you talking about?" Hess said.
"Sir, the snow is changing into a thick liquid, like heavy cream or something."
The lights failed and their world tilted on edge. All three men went down. Tables collapsed tossing maps, supplies and weapons onto the ground. Ground covered in snow that had transformed into a sticky, wet mess.
The soldiers struggled to stand. White strands of snow-stuff covered their uniforms and hands.
"That was the worst tremor yet!" Hess shouted. Sunlight returned, instantly scaring the darkness away.
A private ran into the command tent forgetting to salute."Sirs, half of Alpha company just disappeared! Right when the eclipse started. They were right there and now there's no trace. Just a terrible scraping sound like the planet was being peeled back. No equipment, no nothing left behind!"
"What?" yelled Lt Fields.
"Did you forget how to salute an officer, private?" Hess yelled.
The private immediately saluted.
"Mother, this ice cream tastes yucky. There's little things in it."
"Oh Bobby," sighed Mother. "Must you constantly whine? There's a garbage can right over there. Toss it out but don't expect another one! I'll get you a wet nap for your hands. It's melted all over you."
Bobby lumbered over to the trash can and tossed the half-eaten cone inside. He stopped for a second. He swore he heard shouting and guns shooting. Gun shots? He looked into the can but didn't hear it again. He ran back to mother.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
#5 Floor Plans
Jones stepped out of the elevator and into the brightly lit lobby. He noticed the security guard behind the welcome desk didn't look familiar.
"A sub," Jones thought, "maybe they fired Willis, too."
Several people brushed past Jones, scurrying on their paths to get things done. He realized that standing there holding a large, cardboard box could be disrupting the human traffic. He shuffled over to a bench along the wall, sat down wearily. He decided to lay the box between his feet.
"What'll I tell Vicki?" Jones muttered. "How does a guy tell his wife he got himself fired three days before Christmas?"
Smith stepped off the the elevator into the brightly lit lobby. He froze after a few steps, noticing the man and his cardboard box out of the corner of his eye. He turned, prepared to speak, to defend himself if necessary. When he realized it wasn't Wiggins he sighed, nodded to the man and briskly walked outside for a smoke.
"Firing Wiggins wasn't too difficult," Smith thought."The guy had crossed the line and not for the first time, either. Christmas or not, he couldn't stay another hour." The real problem for Smith was timing. He didn't have a back-up plan that allowed him to transition smoothly. And this was a hell of a time of year to source new talent.
Jones thanked the guard for calling him a cab. He went outdoors to wait on the curb. The chill felt good.
"Can I ask you a question?" Smith said.
Jones turned to his left. He recognized the guy who came out the elevator who looked like he wanted to talk to him. And now he was.
"Sure. I guess," said Jones.
"You get canned today?" Smith said while lifting his chin in the direction of the box.
"Yeah. Eight years and all I got was this box of stuff," he joked.
"What floor did you work on?" Smith asked.
"Fourteen."
"You work for Stan and Bev?"
Jones took a step closer to Smith. "Yeah. How did you guess that?"
"You look like their type. Known them a long time. Competed for the same clients."
"Really? Well, I guess I'm not their type any more."
"Can I ask you something else?" Smith said.
"Why not?"
"Was it something criminal?"
Jones smiled. "Not even close."
Smith nodded. He reached into his coat and produced a card. Take this. Call my office tomorrow morning and set up an appointment. You belong back in the game, Milt. But this time you'll be on my team."
Jones read the card. P.E. Smith & Associates. Twenty-second floor.
"You seem to know a lot about me already," Jones commented.
"Enough to hire you even though you just got fired."
Smith dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and stomped it. "Merry Christmas, Milt. Tell Vicki everything is going to be just fine." He turned and walked uptown.
The cab pulled up in front of Jones just as he shivered from a chill gust of air.
"A sub," Jones thought, "maybe they fired Willis, too."
Several people brushed past Jones, scurrying on their paths to get things done. He realized that standing there holding a large, cardboard box could be disrupting the human traffic. He shuffled over to a bench along the wall, sat down wearily. He decided to lay the box between his feet.
"What'll I tell Vicki?" Jones muttered. "How does a guy tell his wife he got himself fired three days before Christmas?"
Smith stepped off the the elevator into the brightly lit lobby. He froze after a few steps, noticing the man and his cardboard box out of the corner of his eye. He turned, prepared to speak, to defend himself if necessary. When he realized it wasn't Wiggins he sighed, nodded to the man and briskly walked outside for a smoke.
"Firing Wiggins wasn't too difficult," Smith thought."The guy had crossed the line and not for the first time, either. Christmas or not, he couldn't stay another hour." The real problem for Smith was timing. He didn't have a back-up plan that allowed him to transition smoothly. And this was a hell of a time of year to source new talent.
Jones thanked the guard for calling him a cab. He went outdoors to wait on the curb. The chill felt good.
"Can I ask you a question?" Smith said.
Jones turned to his left. He recognized the guy who came out the elevator who looked like he wanted to talk to him. And now he was.
"Sure. I guess," said Jones.
"You get canned today?" Smith said while lifting his chin in the direction of the box.
"Yeah. Eight years and all I got was this box of stuff," he joked.
"What floor did you work on?" Smith asked.
"Fourteen."
"You work for Stan and Bev?"
Jones took a step closer to Smith. "Yeah. How did you guess that?"
"You look like their type. Known them a long time. Competed for the same clients."
"Really? Well, I guess I'm not their type any more."
"Can I ask you something else?" Smith said.
"Why not?"
"Was it something criminal?"
Jones smiled. "Not even close."
Smith nodded. He reached into his coat and produced a card. Take this. Call my office tomorrow morning and set up an appointment. You belong back in the game, Milt. But this time you'll be on my team."
Jones read the card. P.E. Smith & Associates. Twenty-second floor.
"You seem to know a lot about me already," Jones commented.
"Enough to hire you even though you just got fired."
Smith dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and stomped it. "Merry Christmas, Milt. Tell Vicki everything is going to be just fine." He turned and walked uptown.
The cab pulled up in front of Jones just as he shivered from a chill gust of air.
#4 Sorry - We're Closed
Martin pulled his car into the hair salon parking lot. It was 10 minutes to six by his watch. A "Sorry - we're closed" sign hung on the door. He could see through the large glass windows that one of the hairdressers busied herself cleaning up.
Martin leapt from the car. As he neared the door, he saw the hours of operation sign. "Open until 6," he said. "They always try and knock off early in the kind of places."
Martin knocked on the door. He wrapped against the glass with his knuckles. The woman within laid aside her broom and came to the door. She turned the bolt and smiling sweetly said, "I'm sorry sir, but we're closed."
"But your sign says open til 6. That's ten minutes from now. You have to wait on me. By law you do!"
"Sir," the woman started, "did you have an appointment?"
"No. I don't have an appointment."
"So you've never been here before, either?"
Martin sighed, "No. Never. Look, I have an appointment tomorrow morning that is critical for my job. My regular barber took sick and closed his shop today. I don't need an appointment to see him, by the way. I drive by this place everyday so I figured I would stop on my way home, before you closed, which I clearly did on time and get a haircut. Now please let me in. I demand it." Martin crossed his arms and looked down at the hairdresser. He towered over her.
She stepped aside and opened the door. "We only cut women's hair here, sir so this is gonna cost you."
"Oh, I'm sure it will,"Martin muttered. He walked inside and heard the door close and lock behind him.
"Take the last chair near the hair washing station. It'll be easier to clean up back there."
Martin obeyed and walked the 40 feet to the back of the salon. He plopped in a chair and took off his glasses. The parking lot was sloped and he couldn't even see the outline of his car from back here.
"What's this big appointment that you have tomorrow?" she asked.
"Can we stop with the small talk? You're job is to give me a cut. Let's just get on with it. If you can do it in silence, you'll be rewarded with your tip."
She came up behind him and opened his throat with a straight razor. Martin watched the blood spray onto the mirror across from him. She spun the chair to face her. She smiled broadly. The razor held at an angle away from her body, blood dripping from her hand.
"There's your cut. Now, if you don't mind, I like small talk. It keeps my mind from flashing all over the place. Keeps me focused. So you just finish bleeding out and then I'll take you downstairs. With the others."
Martin leapt from the car. As he neared the door, he saw the hours of operation sign. "Open until 6," he said. "They always try and knock off early in the kind of places."
Martin knocked on the door. He wrapped against the glass with his knuckles. The woman within laid aside her broom and came to the door. She turned the bolt and smiling sweetly said, "I'm sorry sir, but we're closed."
"But your sign says open til 6. That's ten minutes from now. You have to wait on me. By law you do!"
"Sir," the woman started, "did you have an appointment?"
"No. I don't have an appointment."
"So you've never been here before, either?"
Martin sighed, "No. Never. Look, I have an appointment tomorrow morning that is critical for my job. My regular barber took sick and closed his shop today. I don't need an appointment to see him, by the way. I drive by this place everyday so I figured I would stop on my way home, before you closed, which I clearly did on time and get a haircut. Now please let me in. I demand it." Martin crossed his arms and looked down at the hairdresser. He towered over her.
She stepped aside and opened the door. "We only cut women's hair here, sir so this is gonna cost you."
"Oh, I'm sure it will,"Martin muttered. He walked inside and heard the door close and lock behind him.
"Take the last chair near the hair washing station. It'll be easier to clean up back there."
Martin obeyed and walked the 40 feet to the back of the salon. He plopped in a chair and took off his glasses. The parking lot was sloped and he couldn't even see the outline of his car from back here.
"What's this big appointment that you have tomorrow?" she asked.
"Can we stop with the small talk? You're job is to give me a cut. Let's just get on with it. If you can do it in silence, you'll be rewarded with your tip."
She came up behind him and opened his throat with a straight razor. Martin watched the blood spray onto the mirror across from him. She spun the chair to face her. She smiled broadly. The razor held at an angle away from her body, blood dripping from her hand.
"There's your cut. Now, if you don't mind, I like small talk. It keeps my mind from flashing all over the place. Keeps me focused. So you just finish bleeding out and then I'll take you downstairs. With the others."
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
#3 Hanging On Every Word
The woman in the booth behind me said it. "Our daughter doesn't deserve one more day. I want it done and done right."
I covered my mouth with a napkin. I didn't want any of the other restaurant patrons to see me silently screaming into it. I bit down on my index finger until I feared I might break the skin.
"She wants her daughter dead!" I thought. What kind of a monster says such a thing? Elbows on the table, I rocked forward and back fueled with nervous energy and anxiety. My heart beat so loudly in my chest I assumed anyone passing by my booth could hear it. I started to wonder if I heard what I heard. I'm sure it was out of context. Right?
She was speaking again but I missed it. Fighting for control, I leaned back against the smooth wood of the high back of my booth seat. At first I wished it had been cut lower so I could see the fiends. Now I was grateful for the partition, protecting me from what lay on the other side.
"Let's talk about the price again. And where you decided to do it."
There were two men at the booth! I hadn't heard this one speak before, I'm sure of it. I wish the voices weren't so muffled.
"Is that all you can think about? The price?" the woman said. "I think the price is fair. Even if it's a little high, it'll be worth it to have it done right."
"Dear!" the man huffed. "You never knew how to haggle!"
"Haggle?" she said in a harsh whisper. "Is that what we're doing? Haggling over the price of a life? The value or our daughter's..."
"Hold it now, folks," the other man interrupted. "This is no place to have that kind of talk. I'll walk away from it right now if you two can't control yourselves."
There was a pause. I almost forgot to breathe.
"There. That's better. Have a little more wine. Waiter!"
Again, another pause. I could see the waiter coming over from the bar with a wine bottle in his hands. After the waiter left, the woman excused herself and walked off to the bathroom.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "This is too much for her to handle and..."
"Don't apologize, pal. I've been through this before. It's all pretty common, reactions like that. We just can't have your wife breaking down in a public place, is all."
I couldn't bear it another second. I needed to know who that woman was. I didn't know what I would do next but I just had to see into the eyes of a mother who was willing to kill her own flesh and blood.
I timed it the best I could. I grabbed my purse and walked toward the bathroom door. She would be coming out any second now. I would get to look into the eyes of something unfathomable, unimaginable. A heartless murderer.
I hesitated before the door. Then I reached for it but the handle pulled inward and away from me. The woman stopped short as she nearly stumbled into me. We looked into each other's eyes. A sharp intake of breath from both of us.
"Princess? What ever are you doing here?"
I covered my mouth with a napkin. I didn't want any of the other restaurant patrons to see me silently screaming into it. I bit down on my index finger until I feared I might break the skin.
"She wants her daughter dead!" I thought. What kind of a monster says such a thing? Elbows on the table, I rocked forward and back fueled with nervous energy and anxiety. My heart beat so loudly in my chest I assumed anyone passing by my booth could hear it. I started to wonder if I heard what I heard. I'm sure it was out of context. Right?
She was speaking again but I missed it. Fighting for control, I leaned back against the smooth wood of the high back of my booth seat. At first I wished it had been cut lower so I could see the fiends. Now I was grateful for the partition, protecting me from what lay on the other side.
"Let's talk about the price again. And where you decided to do it."
There were two men at the booth! I hadn't heard this one speak before, I'm sure of it. I wish the voices weren't so muffled.
"Is that all you can think about? The price?" the woman said. "I think the price is fair. Even if it's a little high, it'll be worth it to have it done right."
"Dear!" the man huffed. "You never knew how to haggle!"
"Haggle?" she said in a harsh whisper. "Is that what we're doing? Haggling over the price of a life? The value or our daughter's..."
"Hold it now, folks," the other man interrupted. "This is no place to have that kind of talk. I'll walk away from it right now if you two can't control yourselves."
There was a pause. I almost forgot to breathe.
"There. That's better. Have a little more wine. Waiter!"
Again, another pause. I could see the waiter coming over from the bar with a wine bottle in his hands. After the waiter left, the woman excused herself and walked off to the bathroom.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "This is too much for her to handle and..."
"Don't apologize, pal. I've been through this before. It's all pretty common, reactions like that. We just can't have your wife breaking down in a public place, is all."
I couldn't bear it another second. I needed to know who that woman was. I didn't know what I would do next but I just had to see into the eyes of a mother who was willing to kill her own flesh and blood.
I timed it the best I could. I grabbed my purse and walked toward the bathroom door. She would be coming out any second now. I would get to look into the eyes of something unfathomable, unimaginable. A heartless murderer.
I hesitated before the door. Then I reached for it but the handle pulled inward and away from me. The woman stopped short as she nearly stumbled into me. We looked into each other's eyes. A sharp intake of breath from both of us.
"Princess? What ever are you doing here?"
Monday, December 19, 2011
#2 Have A Nice Day
"Have a nice day," Neil said as he handed the $3.50 in change to the driver. A woman in her mid-thirties driving a 1998 Blue Ford Taurus had stopped one foot too far forward to easily make the exchange of toll money. When her elbow failed to hyper extend itself and she could no longer bear the tension, her hand and forearm shot forward. She squeezed the ones but dropped the two quarters.
Neil saw the coins tumble. Heard them hit the asphalt and bounce. He locked eyes with her for a few seconds. "She must be having a real crappy day," Neil thought. She looked like she might start crying right there in the toll booth lane. "Golly, all on account of dropping fifty cents," he thought.
'Remember, Neil," he said to himself, "You can't guess what every poor fool coming through your toll lane is runnin' towards or runnin' from. So you can't judge 'em. Not ever, unless they mean to harm you. Then that's pretty clear."
That advice passed from Neil's training supervisor thirty-two years ago when he first took on the job of toll booth operator. For thirty-two years that advice never fled his mind. It had stuck and he was happy for it. He had absorbed more than his share of rude and obnoxious people in his time in the booth. But because of the advice he could let it go and just focus on the next car. Comfort resided in that release for Neil.
Now there was another rule of equal importance that Neil didn't remember so well. From time to time he broke this rule and to date, it had not come to any consequence. Until today.
"Neil, no matter what happens, don't leave your booth and walk into the toll lane. The lane is for cars and cops, not toll-takers." His supervisor leaned in close like he meant to pick a fight with the young trainee. "You hear me, Neil? Never leave the booth and get in that lane."
"Don't move, ma'am," Neil said. "I'll get your quarters for you."
Neil turned away from his window, grabbed a flashlight and opened a door on the opposite side of the booth. He made the tight right hand turns needed to go around the front of the booth and into the lane. He stood in front of the woman's car and fanned the flashlight's beam across the ground where he suspected the coins might lie. When he couldn't see them he got down on his knees and looked underneath the car.
The shift supervisor at the Benson P. Meadowbrook toll station looked out the wide-paned glass of her office just in time to see her Neil, her graying, stoop-shouldered, big-hearted Neil going to his knees in front of the blazing headlights of an idling car. She jumped up out of her chair, touched both hands to the glass but couldn't speak or move any further.
Neil's squinty eyes opened wide when simultaneously, he both found the quarters and heard the engine rev and roar.
Neil saw the coins tumble. Heard them hit the asphalt and bounce. He locked eyes with her for a few seconds. "She must be having a real crappy day," Neil thought. She looked like she might start crying right there in the toll booth lane. "Golly, all on account of dropping fifty cents," he thought.
'Remember, Neil," he said to himself, "You can't guess what every poor fool coming through your toll lane is runnin' towards or runnin' from. So you can't judge 'em. Not ever, unless they mean to harm you. Then that's pretty clear."
That advice passed from Neil's training supervisor thirty-two years ago when he first took on the job of toll booth operator. For thirty-two years that advice never fled his mind. It had stuck and he was happy for it. He had absorbed more than his share of rude and obnoxious people in his time in the booth. But because of the advice he could let it go and just focus on the next car. Comfort resided in that release for Neil.
Now there was another rule of equal importance that Neil didn't remember so well. From time to time he broke this rule and to date, it had not come to any consequence. Until today.
"Neil, no matter what happens, don't leave your booth and walk into the toll lane. The lane is for cars and cops, not toll-takers." His supervisor leaned in close like he meant to pick a fight with the young trainee. "You hear me, Neil? Never leave the booth and get in that lane."
"Don't move, ma'am," Neil said. "I'll get your quarters for you."
Neil turned away from his window, grabbed a flashlight and opened a door on the opposite side of the booth. He made the tight right hand turns needed to go around the front of the booth and into the lane. He stood in front of the woman's car and fanned the flashlight's beam across the ground where he suspected the coins might lie. When he couldn't see them he got down on his knees and looked underneath the car.
The shift supervisor at the Benson P. Meadowbrook toll station looked out the wide-paned glass of her office just in time to see her Neil, her graying, stoop-shouldered, big-hearted Neil going to his knees in front of the blazing headlights of an idling car. She jumped up out of her chair, touched both hands to the glass but couldn't speak or move any further.
Neil's squinty eyes opened wide when simultaneously, he both found the quarters and heard the engine rev and roar.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
#1 The Black Pool
Raun stood upon the moss-covered rocks protruding from the steaming stream. Her chest heaved from the effort needed to climb the nearby cliff face. The muscle fatigue ebbed away so slowly. They were close. The weeks of hard travel, the brushes with death, the lack of food were all part of the sacrifice. The pair agreed to endure whatever came their way for the grand promises. The promises of eternity.
Only a bit further up the path running alongside the river and they should find the entrance. August's heat and humidity pressed around them on all sides. It crushed like a giant hand, squeezing the air from their lungs, fresh oxygen barely able to find the fluttering lungs. But Raun wasn't about to give up.
She was no quitter and if Del even considered it she'd beat the thought out of him! Raun's sacrifices to be here, here on the verge of her dreams cost her much. Her family might never forgive her, even if she succeeded in returning from the pool.
The pool! It shouldn't be more than a hundred yards or so ahead. She could hear the changes in the water now. The falls that fed the pool! This was it!
"Where is that incompetent buffoon?" Raun whispered into the silent forest air. On cue, sticks snapped upstream on the right hand side of the stream. The water moved fast here, though it didn't look particularly deep and Raun wondered if Del could swim. "I never did bother to ask him," she thought.
Del parted the branches of a few small pine trees. "You comin'?" he asked. The hulking form half-turned and hesitated for a few seconds. She didn't have to answer and he knew this. Raun was all the family he'd ever known. Orphaned soon after birth, religious folk raised him and sent him off to seminary when he came of age.
There wasn't a book in those libraries that held Del's interest. He sought adventure and the good monks at the seminary knew little of that. He slipped out a window one night and never looked back. "That was twelve years ago", Del thought. He thrust the thought back into his subconscious mind and moved ahead. He heard Raun closing the distance between them.
She stopped a few feet from Del. She followed his eyes as they traveled down her lean body. They settled on her legs.
"Blood is seeping through the new bandage, Raun," Del said. "I have another clean one in my pack."
Raun looked down at the blood soaked wrap around her thigh. She had forgotten the jagged wound during the climb. Just acknowledging it again allowed the pain to return.
Only a bit further up the path running alongside the river and they should find the entrance. August's heat and humidity pressed around them on all sides. It crushed like a giant hand, squeezing the air from their lungs, fresh oxygen barely able to find the fluttering lungs. But Raun wasn't about to give up.
She was no quitter and if Del even considered it she'd beat the thought out of him! Raun's sacrifices to be here, here on the verge of her dreams cost her much. Her family might never forgive her, even if she succeeded in returning from the pool.
The pool! It shouldn't be more than a hundred yards or so ahead. She could hear the changes in the water now. The falls that fed the pool! This was it!
"Where is that incompetent buffoon?" Raun whispered into the silent forest air. On cue, sticks snapped upstream on the right hand side of the stream. The water moved fast here, though it didn't look particularly deep and Raun wondered if Del could swim. "I never did bother to ask him," she thought.
Del parted the branches of a few small pine trees. "You comin'?" he asked. The hulking form half-turned and hesitated for a few seconds. She didn't have to answer and he knew this. Raun was all the family he'd ever known. Orphaned soon after birth, religious folk raised him and sent him off to seminary when he came of age.
There wasn't a book in those libraries that held Del's interest. He sought adventure and the good monks at the seminary knew little of that. He slipped out a window one night and never looked back. "That was twelve years ago", Del thought. He thrust the thought back into his subconscious mind and moved ahead. He heard Raun closing the distance between them.
She stopped a few feet from Del. She followed his eyes as they traveled down her lean body. They settled on her legs.
"Blood is seeping through the new bandage, Raun," Del said. "I have another clean one in my pack."
Raun looked down at the blood soaked wrap around her thigh. She had forgotten the jagged wound during the climb. Just acknowledging it again allowed the pain to return.
30 Days, 30 1st Pages
I'd like to announce an experiment. For the next 30 days, I'm going to post the first page of a new story. Every day the start to a fresh tale. The exercise is called a "writing prompt"; I picked it up from the folks at the podcast Writing Excuses.
The idea is to write daily, exercising the writing muscles. At the same time, writing about unfamiliar topics outside my comfort zone stretches my abilities. We'll see if I'm up to it. And who knows? Maybe there'll be an idea good enough to use for a longer project. Without further ado, up next is the first entry titled "The Black Pool".
The idea is to write daily, exercising the writing muscles. At the same time, writing about unfamiliar topics outside my comfort zone stretches my abilities. We'll see if I'm up to it. And who knows? Maybe there'll be an idea good enough to use for a longer project. Without further ado, up next is the first entry titled "The Black Pool".
Thursday, December 15, 2011
A Bus, a Meeting and Conversation
Whenever I attend a company meeting, a large scale gathering, I’m concerned about a few things. First, I’m concerned about my everyday responsibilities at work but most importantly at home. Fortunately, that usually wanes pretty quickly. The earth’s not going to stop spinning because I leave for a few days.
The next concern is about what’s going to happen. More specifically, what’s in it for me? I’ve seen this referred to as WIIFM. Follow me? Good. I think that’s a pretty staple human reaction, asking that question. How will what I’m about to do impact me?
Based on past experience I didn’t always feel like some content benefitted me. Only after some reflection did I come to realize the meeting or conference wasn’t being held just for me. So, OK. I get it.
Now, this week was different. “How?” you ask. I was part of the content. Yes. I was in front of some folks delivering the goods. At least I hoped I was delivering something good. That remains to be seen, I suppose. Some early feedback registered as positive but I’m waiting for the full debrief!
My point here is that my perspective was tilted this time around. Instead of being an audience member participating and sometimes judging, I was facilitating and being evaluated by my peers. A bit daunting at first pass, but I like challenges!
To sum it up, I did fine. My partner did well, too. So, let’s move on. There’s some other cool stuff to share.
When I landed in Tampa I boarded a shuttle with about twenty-four other members of the team and raced off to the hotel. Less than two miles from the hotel, the small bus begins to fill with smoke. It becomes choking and downright noxious and none of the windows could be opened. I asked the guy next to me, “How come the driver’s not saying anything.” Then, “Why is he going faster?”
We turned onto a major city street and drove toward the hotel. It was close now, but the smoke was so thick I had to put my hand over my mouth to breath. Without warning the driver yanks the wheel to the right, turns down a side street and hits the breaks. He opened the doors and called for everyone to get out. Streams of liquid marked our path on the pavement. Smoke continued to roll out of the bus.
All twenty-five of us ended up standing on the corner with our luggage waiting for help to arrive. That’s when we noticed the house we stood next to had this metal, DIY-looking security grates over the windows. “I’m thinking this isn’t a good neighborhood,” I said to one of my colleagues. In the end, we were rescued and all was well.
A guest speaker was scheduled for the morning of Day 2. For many, it was the highlight of the conference. His name is Bob Delaney and his story is so incredible you’d think it was a movie script. Actually, Delaney wrote a book and a movie is in the works. Delaney’s book was published in 2008. Here’s a link to check it out:
It’s the true story of a New Jersey kid who follows in his dad’s footsteps joining the state police, going undercover to infiltrate the mob, and helping put 30 members of major crime families in jail. But that’s where the story gets interesting. Instead of going into the witness protection program, Delaney does the opposite. He becomes and NBA referee and is on television 25 nights a month during basketball season. He’s a sitting duck for a wise guy looking to even the score. There’s much more to the story, but I won’t spoil it. Get a copy of the book. I read it today. Yes, my copy is signed!
When Delaney spoke to our group he moved a lot. The camera guys had a hard time keeping up with him so they could keep his image centered on the two mega-screens in the front of the room. Probably a skill he picked up being undercover and mastered as an NBA ref running about 3 miles a night during the game.
I was sitting at a front table. Instead of using the stage, Delaney put his notes, written in red magic marker on the inside of opened manila folder on a table where people were sitting. He told them he needed the space. Nobody disagreed.
I was sitting at a front table. Instead of using the stage, Delaney put his notes, written in red magic marker on the inside of opened manila folder on a table where people were sitting. He told them he needed the space. Nobody disagreed.
At one point, Delaney stopped beside me and clamped his hand on my shoulder. It felt familiar. It reminded me of my dad’s hands. Large, solid and heavy. It was a great performance. The audience drank it all in. A highlight for me was his experience in Iraq where he was asked to speak to the soldiers at the front lines. I can’t repeat all his stories but in summary, I realize how much we really owe the people who wear those uniforms.
My return flight home had a connection. I could not get a direct flight from Tampa to Hartford. Guess where I chose to stop? Some of you who’ve been faithfully reading my blogs might guess right. Wait for it. Wait. I picked Cincinnati.
I chose Cincinnati because the last time I had a connection there I was impressed by the terminal’s cleanliness and friendliness of the people I encountered. Especially Priscilla. To re-read that experience click on Priscilla’s name in the TAGS section on the right hand column on this web page.
So I land in Cincinnati today and walk straight for the Mexican place where Priscilla works and guess what? She was there. She didn’t wait on me though because a supervisor of some kind wearing a tie whisked her off for a conversation. It was enough for me to know Priscilla was still around caring for people as I had witnessed her in action back in May. Before I left she was back to work. I did worry for a minute that the guy in the tie might be there to say goodbye to Priscilla. Thankfully not.
And lastly, the flight back to Hartford. It was a tiny jet with one seat on the left side of the plane and two on the right. I could not stand at my full height at any time in the plane. I was one of the last handful of people to board the plane. I knew I had a B seat. That meant I had the aisle seat on the right side. No one was sitting in the window seat as I slouched down the aisle. A little thrill ran through me.
“Yes!” I thought. “This cabin is so small, any extra space is a major bonus.” I sat down, shoved my carry-on under the seat in front of me and buckled my seat belt. In about 30 seconds the window seat passenger arrived. My extra-space-bubble burst. I tried to stand up but forgot to unbuckle my seat belt. I dropped back into the seat. “What a knucklehead,” I chided myself.
I’ll hit the pause button here. I had a choice to make as I got back in the seat and re-buckled. I could silently sit and mind my own business for the entire flight or do the opposite. I chose to speak. I used a phrase I picked up from my Manager Tools mentors’ rules for airline travel: “Are you heading out or heading home?” From there, the conversation took off as easily and rapidly as the jet.
We chatted through the entire flight. I truly enjoyed the conversation. If you think about it, we have opportunities like this all the time. I know because I struggle with it regularly. “Do I start a conversation or just mind my business?” After the plane ride, the answer for me is easy. You make an attempt at conversation. If the other party isn’t game? No problem. Hey, it could be an experience you won’t soon forget.
Case in point: on December 24th 2010 I drove to an oil change business. I spent the forty minutes in the waiting room swapping Christmas traditions with a total stranger. It was a blast. I can still remember some of the vivid details. And do you know why? We were communicating at a high level.
Even though we were swapping info, we weren’t trying to one-up each other. The listening happened at a level of understanding (yes – another concept I learned recently and do struggle with). I go back to Bob Delaney. He spoke about listening. How important was it to listen when you’re deep undercover within an element that could put a bullet in your brain if you missed a cue. The constant innuendo and threats, traditions and unspoken rules that every real wise guy knew instinctively. But Delaney had to absorb it, learn it and live it on the fly. Even more impressive that he lived through it all.
So, thanks Julie for the great conversation. I hope you and your husband enjoy your trip. May your holidays be safe and happy for all your family. It was a pleasure meeting you.
I’ll wrap it up here. As I was writing, the kids fell asleep during Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special. Time for rest.
Friday, December 9, 2011
From Time to Time
I want you to think about time. Not what time it is or trying to remember that time you did this or that. Just think about the idea of time. I've been doing just that for some time now. :)
Seriously folks, in the past I struggled with using my time wisely. I still wrangle with time today. I bet we all do. Just think about how we talk about time. Here are some examples:
There's not enough time
I ran out of time
You didn't give me enough time
Time is short
You wasted my time
Let's back up for a minute. Ask yourself, what is time? It's really an artificial measurement we assign to the way the present moment bleeds into the next one. It provides perspective when looking into the past and pondering the future. But what is it really?
If we had that answer readily available and could wrap our arms around it with confidence, things would be a lot different around here. That might just be the biggest understatement I've ever written!
Whether we talk about time at home or at work, the essence is frequently the same. We don't have enough of it and that causes us to not get stuff done. It's a default excuse we can use for failure. Everyone can sympathize with you because it happens to every human being on the planet almost every day we're alive.
So why don't we do more with the time we have? Another great question. In this era of distraction there are so many amusements that idle away the hours, forfeiting time is effortless. Even as I type this, I think back on the last two hours that I spent channel surfing. There was nothing of interest on yet I kept flipping.
That benign behavior allows my brain to switch to standby mode and not work very hard. That might be the crux of time wasting. It's easier than doing something productive.
Here's some quotes to get you thinking:
"When people go through something rough in life, they say 'I'm taking it one day at a time'. Yes, so is everybody. Because that's how time works."
"There's not enough time, unless you're serving it."
"Regret for wasted time is more wasted time."
"What mysterious things days were. Sometimes they fly by, and other times they seem to last forever, yet they are all exactly 24hrs. There's quite a lot we don't know about them."
Hopefully that got you thinking. I try to account for every 15 minute block of time at work. I schedule everything, including lunch, e-mail, social media check-in and phone calls. When I stick to it I'm so much more effective. Does it sound restrictive and formal? Yup. But I'm getting paid to be effective and get results. I can be creative at 11:15pm when I write a blog while sipping bourbon.
This won't be my last time-piece ;) but I'm getting sleepy. I want to be up early and attack my available time.
"We say we waste time, but that is impossible. We waste ourselves."
"Someone once told me that time is a predator that stalks us all our lives. I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey, reminds us to cherish every moment because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived." Thank you Jean-Luc Picard. A great quote from an average movie. Till next time, folks.
By the way, one of the coolest jazz artists has a new Christmas album out. Look for Chris Standring's Send Me Some Snow is available at all music outlets. He is really cool and innovative. I hope you check it out and enjoy. And if you like it, double back and listen to his album Blue Bolero. Genius, really.
Seriously folks, in the past I struggled with using my time wisely. I still wrangle with time today. I bet we all do. Just think about how we talk about time. Here are some examples:
There's not enough time
I ran out of time
You didn't give me enough time
Time is short
You wasted my time
Let's back up for a minute. Ask yourself, what is time? It's really an artificial measurement we assign to the way the present moment bleeds into the next one. It provides perspective when looking into the past and pondering the future. But what is it really?
If we had that answer readily available and could wrap our arms around it with confidence, things would be a lot different around here. That might just be the biggest understatement I've ever written!
Whether we talk about time at home or at work, the essence is frequently the same. We don't have enough of it and that causes us to not get stuff done. It's a default excuse we can use for failure. Everyone can sympathize with you because it happens to every human being on the planet almost every day we're alive.
So why don't we do more with the time we have? Another great question. In this era of distraction there are so many amusements that idle away the hours, forfeiting time is effortless. Even as I type this, I think back on the last two hours that I spent channel surfing. There was nothing of interest on yet I kept flipping.
That benign behavior allows my brain to switch to standby mode and not work very hard. That might be the crux of time wasting. It's easier than doing something productive.
Here's some quotes to get you thinking:
"When people go through something rough in life, they say 'I'm taking it one day at a time'. Yes, so is everybody. Because that's how time works."
"There's not enough time, unless you're serving it."
"Regret for wasted time is more wasted time."
"What mysterious things days were. Sometimes they fly by, and other times they seem to last forever, yet they are all exactly 24hrs. There's quite a lot we don't know about them."
Hopefully that got you thinking. I try to account for every 15 minute block of time at work. I schedule everything, including lunch, e-mail, social media check-in and phone calls. When I stick to it I'm so much more effective. Does it sound restrictive and formal? Yup. But I'm getting paid to be effective and get results. I can be creative at 11:15pm when I write a blog while sipping bourbon.
This won't be my last time-piece ;) but I'm getting sleepy. I want to be up early and attack my available time.
"We say we waste time, but that is impossible. We waste ourselves."
"Someone once told me that time is a predator that stalks us all our lives. I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey, reminds us to cherish every moment because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived." Thank you Jean-Luc Picard. A great quote from an average movie. Till next time, folks.
By the way, one of the coolest jazz artists has a new Christmas album out. Look for Chris Standring's Send Me Some Snow is available at all music outlets. He is really cool and innovative. I hope you check it out and enjoy. And if you like it, double back and listen to his album Blue Bolero. Genius, really.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Life in the Traveling Lane
I swerved my car into a rest area off ramp. It was a last second decision that couldn’t have been very popular with the vehicles behind me. I parked and hustled in to use the restroom. On my way back to the car, I enjoyed a wonderful treat.
A man in a shirt and tie, standing beside the driver’s side door of my car was aiming his remote at it. He frantically alternated between aiming and pushing the unlock button and yanking my door handle. The more frustrated he got, the more violently he pointed his remote at the car. “Yes, that helps. Waving the gadget at the car more harder. Gooder thinking, that is!”
So I hit the alarm button on my remote causing him to leap backwards and look around. I peeked from around a large sign that displayed the turnpike route and all the other rest areas, grinning like a child. His car was two spots away. Embarrassed, he slipped into his similar looking car and sped off. What a great way for me to start the day.
A few weeks ago I was killing time in a mall waiting for my appointment at an Apple retail store. I leaned against a railing to people-watch for a spell. I watched a set of grandparents walking towards the entrance to Target with their grandson. This trio got more attention than anyone else in the mall.
The grandparents walked ahead of the boy, measuring their pace so he could keep up. What slowed him was this: the boy who looked to be around 4 or 5 years old was pushing a walker. It was the chrome kind that wraps around you with wheels on the bottom. He would push ahead and step forward, one step at a time.
I watched the reactions of the shoppers as they regarded the boy. Their attention shot past the walker as did mine. What got everyone to do a double-take were the boy’s fluorescent Nike sneakers and lime green prosthetic legs. He had the kind of prosthetics that start just below the knee and re-curve backwards. I thought they were only worn by athletic-minded people. But who is more active than a five year-old boy?
What struck me was his face. He was as excited to be heading into Target as any other kid who wants to ransack the toy department of that store. Being a double-amputee wasn’t even on his radar screen. It was on ours. Everyone who saw that boy had a reaction. One grandmotherly looking woman even covered her mouth with her hand like she just happened upon the scene of a gory roadside accident.
A different day. Super sunny and warm for the season. I drove through a residential neighborhood I was unfamiliar with, until today. I paused at a four-way stop sign. A man on one corner stood with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jacket. A blue satin Dallas Cowboys jacket. It reminded of one my parents bought for me when I was around ten.
He was tall and very thin. He wore no shirt under the jacket so the ample hair on his chest was visible. His legs were mostly straight though his feet were spread further apart than normal. And he rocked and swayed as he stared up at the sun. The sun tried to be powerful on this late fall day. A poor impersonation of its mid-summer muscle. The man’s greasy hair and reflective sunglasses shimmered. I noticed a car waiting patiently behind me. The driver didn’t beep and I appreciated that. So I moved on.
The change oil warning had gone off on my dashboard message center. I definitely needed an oil change, so I tried to remember the last time I got one. I pulled into a Valvoline oil change place; I have had good luck in the few I’ve used.
The manager spoke with me. My first impression of him was a hustler but professional. He spoke politely and quarterbacked his team with practiced ease. But there was one employee who seemed unsure of himself. He moved a little slower than the others and did a lot of standing around. When the manager noticed the employee’s lack of speed, he said “There’s no watching involved in work. Get moving. You don’t want to be known as a 'watcher'.”
I loved it. Sometimes it’s good to be a watcher. Not at most jobs, though. Definitely not at a change-your-oil-as-fast-as-possible business. I get to play a watcher at work sometimes but the amount of time I spend watching decreases every day. It’s more about doing. And luckily I get it.
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