The Sweet Taste of Success

zen

A mysterious fist pounded at the door. Bang, Bang, Bang.  Without carpet or better insulation, the sound reverberated around the room and immediately annoyed me.

“Mrrwhaf?” I yelled through the door with a mouthful of peanut butter.

It was lunch time and there was a sign on the door stating in very neat and uniform letters, “CLOSED,” which did not leave much room for an alternative interpretation.

Bang, Bang, Bang. The knocking continued, shattering the golden silence of noon like an errant bullet through the front window of a retired school teacher, scattering a million shards of glass on the ground where previously there were none.

I bit into a fat baby carrot, severing it in half with my very sharp teeth. It broke with a loud CRACK that was surely heard in the hallway indicating the eating of lunch. Thoughtfully, I rolled the carrot chunk towards my molars for the most efficient mastication of the vegetable.

Then, I focused all of my energy on the door. It was made out of cheap and cracking wood, held together by a coat of white paint, scuff marks were at the bottom from multiple feet.   Narrowing my eyes, I stared with the intensity of a brain surgeon preparing to remove a tumor and fixated on whoever stood on the other side.

I was gratified with a few seconds of silence which were without a doubt too good to be true, as no footsteps followed. At first, I only assumed that the would-be intruder had not vaporized as I intended, which was then confirmed as fact when the aggressive knocking continued.

“Nobody’s home,” I yelled and launched into a period of self-reflection.

Was it selfish to want just one uninterrupted lunch? Was it wrong to take that time back for myself and to declare that it was something beyond want and was actually a need?  I struggled with the boundary of giving and balance of self-care with professional responsibility, recognizing only afterwards when I had nothing left but resentment that I was already to the emotional land of no-return for the day.

At last, the knocking stopped and the sound of footsteps were heard heading out the door.

It was a small victory, fleeting and hard fought which somehow made the rest of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich taste that much better.

Advertisements

A Seed of Promise

Luck

A  massive apple seed fell onto the floor from under the pillow.  It was brown and flat, still and unassuming.  Perfect for planting. What luck!

However, when the  seed stretched out its legs and started walking, several things became known at once.

The seed would never produce a healthy tree and give shade to weary passerby or a juicy, ripe fruit to satisfy an empty stomach.  It would never send roots down into the earth to bully the worms or stretch its branches up towards the sky for birds to take shelter from a storm.

The seed that held such promise turned out to be a bedbug. Perhaps it was one of many, all living off of the life blood of its gracious host, destined to feed and breed and wait for death.

Isn’t that life?

 

apple s

.

 

The Guilty Witness

“Before we get started, I want to say that wasn’t a crack pipe in my suitcase.”

This was not a good way to start an interview, especially with a detective, I thought as I casually eavesdropped on the men. I peeked around the corner and then returned to my position, busily typing away at pointless notes, listening all the while.

A good natured detective sat next to the man. He held his thumb on the record button of a slender, silver device while the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. He had yet to ask any questions and already the information was pouring forth, and like a tipped over bottle of malt liquor, it stunk.

“Ok,” the detective agreed. “We are in agreement that the pipe found in the suitcase was not used for smoking crack. Can you explain what it was used for?”

They reached a consensus so quickly, I marveled. It is easier to swim with the flow of the stream rather than to resist it.  There is a Buddhist quote in there somewhere.  I made a search of the internet of swimming upstream and found reference to a crappy Australian movie.

“Weed,” the man said with a nervous laugh. “I smoke weed.”

Oh great, that’s much better than crack. I rolled my eyes and continued my search.

Found a better quote, “Three things cannot be hidden long: the sun, the moon and the truth.”

“I see, you smoke a little reefer,” the detective said with a nod.

The tugging at the corner of the detective’s mouth gave way to a smile. He had nice clean teeth, all accounted for in a straight line of healthy white.  He was really jiving now, pulling out his street lingo for drugs.

Suddenly, the man received a message on his phone. He got up and announced, “I’ve got to smoke a cigarette.  I’ll be right back.”

He went across the street, forgetful or unaware of the window through which the detective was able to watch him walk up to a car and make mysterious transaction and return without once lighting a cigarette.

Namaste, little brother, the truth will almost certainly not set you free and it will all be known soon enough.

 

 

Dancers and Fighters

fire

“The guy was here and you blew him off.”

“No, I didn’t. The guy never showed.”

“Yes, he was here; his name was on the sign-in sheet.”

The two spar back and forth, dodging shots to the head and heart.

As luck would have it, they are seated next to each other. It’s easier to engage this way. Red spreads across the man’s eyes and brain; he flares his nostrils as he passes the blame to the blameless.

“He was here, he told me you forgot about the appointment,” the woman continues.

Others sat on either side of the pair, secretly hopeful for a Jerry Springer type of escalation in which no less than one chair was thrown by the end.

They are close to yelling now but neither are listening, both firm in their righteous indignation. Still the others watch as curious spectators and cautious observers, complacent with the new status quo of alternative facts and disenfranchised minorities.

The rhythm is off as they dance around the growing fire, unaware of the flames, or of the short and temporary separation from savagery that they have traversed only so very recently.

Rhythmic

The Airing Of Grievances

The large conference room was filled with angry faces. Several tables were configured in a semi-circle around the accused and her comrades, who happened to be the management.  The workers were on the edge of turning savage; they snarled and breathed heavily as they prepared for the meeting.

It was an airing of grievances, of which there were many.

Icily the accused stared out at the workers, refusing to look away. She sat with her straight back in perfect composure.  There was no reason for her to answer to these swine.  In front of her, she had neatly folded her hands one over the other, which would have been non-confrontational, if she hadn’t been wearing a pair of tight, black leather gloves.

Everything else about her was normal; light pink blouse, pleated slacks, modest, black heels and a dainty gold chain that lay softly over her collarbone and around her neck. She wore just a hint of makeup and kept her intricately braided hair pulled back with a clip.

Everything but those damned black leather gloves said she was willing to make peace.

Almost certainly, it was the gloves that tipped the workers over the fine line of decency. The gloves proved that she had something to hide, a reason to veil her dishonest hands and a lack of shame that anyone else was implicated.

The first stone was thrown, followed by another and then another. Her comrades stepped away, unwilling to risk being struck as well.  Out of respect, they lowered their eyes, unwilling to participate in the violence but unable to stop it.  Small pebbles grew into rocks with the workers’ confidence until finally a boulder was pushed over onto the accused.  She held her hands up to shield the blow; the gloves did nothing to save her but they did send her out in criminal style.

gloves-2

 

Bad Attitude

kings
Slowly

“Earl, come back already,” I groaned.

I slowly pulled the heavy bag of trash half-way out of the silver trash can. A clear liquid leaked from the bottom corner and dripped onto the top of my sandaled foot, landing with a splash.

“It burns,” I screamed and then realized it wasn’t burning. It was just gross. I dropped the bag back into the can to recoup and asked myself, why am I doing this? Isn’t there someone else to whom I could delegate this task?

“No, Puney,” I answered myself in a stern voice. “There is no one else and shame on you for looking for someone.  You only have to do it this one time and Earl will be back on Monday.”

I countered in a whine, “But it is so disgusting. What about that homeless-looking guy who walks up and down the street? I bet he would take it out for a buck.”

“Puney…” I said in that low throaty you-are-about-to-disappoint-me-unless-you-make-a-better-decision tone.

“Fine,” I agreed with a huff.

I pulled the bag the rest of the way out and tied it off with a knot. Gnats hovered around the bag and flew past my face as I hefted the still-dripping bag and carried it outside with a scowl.

If anyone would have approached me, it would have gone something like this.

“Hey lady, you got any change?”

I growl and bare suspiciously fang-like eye teeth and sum up the petitioner.

An innocent enough man in a tank top with jean shorts, floppy tennis shoes and nappy hair unaware of the trap into which he just walked.

“How about a bag of trash? Would you like that?”

I throw the bag into his chest and stomach and he takes a step back.

Liquid starts leaking from the bag onto his jean shorts and down his skinny legs and into his floppy tennis shoes.

Fortunately, no one approached me and the trash was successfully delivered into the dumpster. I returned to the office where the gnats expressionlessly greeted me and continued to float and fly around my head.

I scanned through the rest of the to-do list.

“Not going to do that, or that, or that.” I checked off the items; done and refused to be done were basically the same thing and taken down one by one until the list was completed.

I added a last and final task, perhaps the most difficult: Improve Attitude.

“The world is so full of a number of things. I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.”

                                                                                                              –Robert Louis Stevenson

On Keeping Cool

ac

Empty

The only noise in the office this morning is the humming of an over-worked air conditioner. The struggling appliance is perfectly wedged into place and secured by a single pane window on top. Our clever maintenance man hammered a nail into the window frame so the window cannot be lifted from the outside by a nefarious passerby and the a/c unit stolen, again.  Unfortunately, it also means that I am unable to lift the window to escape in the case of an emergency, most likely a fire.

The maintenance man addressed my concerns as adequately as possible.

“Just go out the door if there’s a fire.”

Ahhh, yes. The infinite wisdom of the maintenance man.

Underneath of the a/c unit, its electrical cord dangles listlessly like the tail of an exhausted beast with almost nothing left to offer. Yet, it must keep giving or it will face a fate worse than the broken vacuum, a fate on which nightmares are built, a final meeting with the most nefarious of the nefarious, Junkman.

Junkman is always on the search for devices and appliances with precious metals inside. He drives a rusted out pick-up truck with wooden rails rising from the sides of the back of the truck, obviously to increase his junk load capacity. Once in the dirty and callous hands of Junkman, the air conditioner will be smashed open and its guts ripped out to be scrapped.  The rest will be tossed into the nearest alley, left for the city or conscientious neighbor to pick up and properly dispose of in the dumpster or recycling bin.

The thought of this ending makes me sad. As I dwell on thoughts of this air conditioner and air conditioners of days gone by, like the ones that were stolen from the basement or the ancient unit that used to cool my childhood house, I hear heavy footsteps. Someone is rustling around in my co-workers desk and opening his candy dish. The office is not empty and I am not alone.

Maintenance people are here. Their numbers are multiplying and have doubled as of late, while office staff members are dwindling.  It is a disturbing trend especially as the building crumbles around me.  The bricks are falling from the exterior walls a few at a time.  New cracks appear in the plaster on a daily basis and connect with old cracks.  A mega crack is being formed in one of the hallways, perhaps too great for maintenance men to handle.  However, with all of the extra maintenance men tromping around in their muddy boots and dirty t-shirts, one might think the decomposition of the building would slow.

Alas, this is not the case. More building problems only means more maintenance workers and less time to spend enjoying the hum of the window air conditioner in a dilapidated and almost empty office.

Old G

Playful

Old G is far from playful these days.  He is, in fact, downright grumpy. 

Just today, I walked into the office and was greeted with a bah-humbug-its-Monday type of hello. It’s nothing new or surprising.  This endearing mix of a grunt and a one handed wave of recognition is what welcomes me into work most lately.  It is also what triggered an increase in my time dedicated to casually observing/spying on my co-worker.

spy

 

My study of the indigenous male, known as Old G, revealed the following:

He starts the day by staring at his email on the computer screen for a few hours.  This gets him through to lunch. The screen rarely changes.  A spam email occasionally pops up.  When this happens, Old G slowly raises his head from his chest and brings his hand to the mouse to open the important message with savings from Kohl’s or a change in the member benefits from a gym to which he does not belong. He clicks on the delete button and returns to his previous position. 

Sometimes I send him a test email to see if he is awake.  When he doesn’t look up, I question whether the test is still effective.  Then I call him on the phone from a blocked number. *67 or is it *69?  I get the numbers mixed up which skews the test results. 

Old G sees its me calling and asks, “Puney, what do you want?”

I have to play it cool and say, “My bad,” and wait until he falls back into his relaxed state so I can resume the study.

He gets other calls through the day from his wife, cousin, mother, mother-in-law, ect.  The list is quite extensive of these personal callers to whom he always speaks in the same secretive and hushed tones, perhaps afraid of someone eavesdropping on his boring conversations.  He forgets that I have excellent hearing, especially when it comes to listening to his personal phone calls.  If I had more time, I would inventory these callers and the nature of the calls but I have the work of two people to keep up with while he naps and whispers the day away.

Fortunately, I have broad shoulders on which to bear this burden.  All I want out of the deal in which I do all of the work and Old G chills out at his desk is a little smile and friendly wave.  My study concludes with the certain knowledge that Old G is capable of at least this much.

Done

Fork

Dark clouds are forming overhead and the wind is picking up.

The weather is threatening to ruin our little cookout.

No matter, the rain cannot spoil the day.

Hotdogs, coleslaw, chips and cookies. We even have condiments and cheese.

What else could possibly be missing?

Ah yes, it’s the people we need to eat the forty fresh and ready hotdogs that are sizzling on the grill.

I see the people, plain as day. They are smoking up against the building, tentatively looking in our direction.

Take the bait, come and sample our delicious dogs. I try to lure them with my mind powers.

It’s all to no avail. They throw down their cigs, white flags of surrender in the grass.

Still no takers and a pile of hotdogs to disperse.

Go ahead. Stick a fork in me.  I’m done for the day.

Monday, we’ll try again.

 

 

Be Here Now

Countless

clock

“Sorry I’m late,” the woman said with a wheeze as she set multiple plastic bags on the ground.

A loaf of white bread tried to escape from one bag and a suspiciously trumpet shaped form bulged from another. The bags overflowed with goodies and random trash she had acquired from her daily travels.

The bags surrounded the woman like a hoop skirt forming a wide base from which the rest of her slender, emaciated body emerged.

I looked at the clock on the wall, faithfully ticking forward, minute by minute; it kept track of the time that no one else minded.

The clock’s plain face and black hands represented order and social responsibility that belonged to another world, another place and definitely a different time.

“Want to reschedule?” the woman generously offered as she watch my eyes travel from the clock to my appointment book and back to the clock.

A quick mental calculation left me with approximately 12 minutes before the next person was expected to be 20 minutes late.

Sweat beaded from the edge of the woman’s scalp. Her eyes darted nervously back and forth.

She wore a purse strapped across her chest which she deftly opened with one hand and checked on the contents with a quick glance. Satisfied, she looked back at me.  I assumed from the gentle and loving look in her eyes, she was caring for a baby bird and ensuring its little feathers remained unruffled.

“No,” I said, summoning the strength to be present.

“Let’s meet now.”

Previous Older Entries

Blog Stats

  • 6,268 hits