Today is the day that people will look at you and say, "Hey, oh wait, sorry...I thought you were someone else."
A day at the office.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
SAGITTARIUS
The thought of stepping outside yourself and taking a good hard look may seem scary. But imagine doing it when you are even uglier.
Bad Coffee
The waiting room wasn't at all what I had expected. Despite all that I had seen to that point, I still held on to the fantasy that the waiting room would be pleasant. I was foolishly certain that it would be a softly lit, comfortable, quiet respite from the trials of the Charles Hacking and Lydia Coughing Memorial wing of Smells Weird General Hospital. While I was imagining Kevin Bacon struggling comfortably alone awaiting the news of Elizabeth McGovern's delivery, the reality was a room full of ill tempered, starkly distraught people staring at bad coffee and life changing news.
More like the waiting room scene from 'Beetlejuice', it was lit like a high school classroom on an overcast day. Each seated worrier was like a 3D cutout on a 2D background. Everything said or done was up a decibel; not because it broke a somber silence, but because everything seemed meant for the room. Everyone seemed so desperate, to me, to want everyone to know about their lives, and their fears and all the things that had brought them here. They wanted Mom and me to find them interesting.
I hated them. I hated their Midwest accents and their stupid Midwest lives. I don't know when I became a snob of this high order; and I may actually not be. But sitting in that tiny, smelly, loud room I hated those people down to the fabric of their souls.
Mom and I, along with finding two seats literally hinged together, also had managed to wrangle some coffee out of the Frank Hardwick Memorial Coffee Machine . We sat and tried to read our books. Hers The Power of Now, mine the first of the seven book Dark Tower series by Stephen King.
This little fucking kid kept running over my foot. Mom watched this with a Grandmother's smile. She was obviously delighted and overtaken by the energy; the 'kid-ness'. I, a single man with no prospects and a displeasure with my life, wanted the little fucker dead. I had even played out the rest his life in my mind. This kid would be kind of an asshole in high school, go to trade school and work on trucks. He'd tip a few at the local every night after work and cheer on the Lions (the closest football team to Toledo). Eventually he'd marry a decent enough looking girl from town and they'd have a couple kids. The wife would blow up to 200 lbs and he'd be chain smoking and drinking more and more and cheaper and cheaper beer. Then, 50 years from now, while he was in getting open heart surgery…his grand kids would be stepping on some other poor bastard's foot in this same waiting room. I wondered if he'd have any fun along the way.
A young woman came in and called our name. "Snyder?", she said. Weird. It had only been an hour or so. The surgery was supposed to take 4 hours. She walked us, and another woman whom she had also called for, into the post-op/recovery ward. Mom and I were confused and perhaps even a bit concerned. Why so soon? What's going on? We passed through the industrial sized, automatic sliding doors and in we went. It was just like the pre-op room. Patient after patient cubed off in their little curtained areas; their bodies wired into bags and machines. The difference here though was that everyone was unconscious. Everything here was quiet, except for familiar beeps and rings. The woman who was called in with us quickly found her loved one and was by his bed in a second. We were looking, but couldn't find Dad. We went to the cubicle where he was supposed to be. It was empty. A man was there mopping the floor. Limp wires hung from silent machines. There was no bed; there was no Vern. My God.
Mom and I stood there in silent panic. Well, I was panicking. We never spoke of this, so I have no idea what Mom was thinking. The young woman who escorted us was at the nurses desk, trying to find out where Dad was. Unbelievable.
Turns out he was, of course, still in surgery. This was all a mistake.
Sitting back in the waiting room, my mood was now much worse. I was almost daring that fucking kid to step on my foot one more time. Please, dick face, just step on me one more time. We can save the health care system the cost of your inevitable bypass surgery.
We got one update. It was to tell he was "on the machine" or something to that effect. I guess this is a critical part of bypass surgeries. The fact that he had lived through them putting him on life support and stopping his heart or whatever the hell happened was good news. It seemed things were fine. It was a little time after this report that two women were in the corner of the room crying. They were saying things like, "I saw him earlier, he seemed fine" and "I guess they just don't know yet".
Finally, we were moved into a smaller, private room. The surgery was apparently over and we were to meet with the doctor to get the status report. Again, I was trying to read every one's body language. They didn't seem to be hiding anything. I was 90% sure Dad was fine. But a few times, I did let the thought slip in that this little room could get really terrible, really fast.
The doctor came in about 10 minutes after we were moved to the little waiting room. Seemed like a nice guy. We shook hands. Even in this situation, I worried that my palms were sweaty. Mercifully, he quickly said that everything went well. He went on to talk about numbers being good and rates being fine and the slight possibility of stroke still existed and so on. But I could tell it was all the standard speak.
Everything seemed silly now. But again, as Mom and I had discovered, we worry most about things we think we can control, and feel fine leaving the rest to fate.
Bad Coffee
The waiting room wasn't at all what I had expected. Despite all that I had seen to that point, I still held on to the fantasy that the waiting room would be pleasant. I was foolishly certain that it would be a softly lit, comfortable, quiet respite from the trials of the Charles Hacking and Lydia Coughing Memorial wing of Smells Weird General Hospital. While I was imagining Kevin Bacon struggling comfortably alone awaiting the news of Elizabeth McGovern's delivery, the reality was a room full of ill tempered, starkly distraught people staring at bad coffee and life changing news.
More like the waiting room scene from 'Beetlejuice', it was lit like a high school classroom on an overcast day. Each seated worrier was like a 3D cutout on a 2D background. Everything said or done was up a decibel; not because it broke a somber silence, but because everything seemed meant for the room. Everyone seemed so desperate, to me, to want everyone to know about their lives, and their fears and all the things that had brought them here. They wanted Mom and me to find them interesting.
I hated them. I hated their Midwest accents and their stupid Midwest lives. I don't know when I became a snob of this high order; and I may actually not be. But sitting in that tiny, smelly, loud room I hated those people down to the fabric of their souls.
Mom and I, along with finding two seats literally hinged together, also had managed to wrangle some coffee out of the Frank Hardwick Memorial Coffee Machine . We sat and tried to read our books. Hers The Power of Now, mine the first of the seven book Dark Tower series by Stephen King.
This little fucking kid kept running over my foot. Mom watched this with a Grandmother's smile. She was obviously delighted and overtaken by the energy; the 'kid-ness'. I, a single man with no prospects and a displeasure with my life, wanted the little fucker dead. I had even played out the rest his life in my mind. This kid would be kind of an asshole in high school, go to trade school and work on trucks. He'd tip a few at the local every night after work and cheer on the Lions (the closest football team to Toledo). Eventually he'd marry a decent enough looking girl from town and they'd have a couple kids. The wife would blow up to 200 lbs and he'd be chain smoking and drinking more and more and cheaper and cheaper beer. Then, 50 years from now, while he was in getting open heart surgery…his grand kids would be stepping on some other poor bastard's foot in this same waiting room. I wondered if he'd have any fun along the way.
A young woman came in and called our name. "Snyder?", she said. Weird. It had only been an hour or so. The surgery was supposed to take 4 hours. She walked us, and another woman whom she had also called for, into the post-op/recovery ward. Mom and I were confused and perhaps even a bit concerned. Why so soon? What's going on? We passed through the industrial sized, automatic sliding doors and in we went. It was just like the pre-op room. Patient after patient cubed off in their little curtained areas; their bodies wired into bags and machines. The difference here though was that everyone was unconscious. Everything here was quiet, except for familiar beeps and rings. The woman who was called in with us quickly found her loved one and was by his bed in a second. We were looking, but couldn't find Dad. We went to the cubicle where he was supposed to be. It was empty. A man was there mopping the floor. Limp wires hung from silent machines. There was no bed; there was no Vern. My God.
Mom and I stood there in silent panic. Well, I was panicking. We never spoke of this, so I have no idea what Mom was thinking. The young woman who escorted us was at the nurses desk, trying to find out where Dad was. Unbelievable.
Turns out he was, of course, still in surgery. This was all a mistake.
Sitting back in the waiting room, my mood was now much worse. I was almost daring that fucking kid to step on my foot one more time. Please, dick face, just step on me one more time. We can save the health care system the cost of your inevitable bypass surgery.
We got one update. It was to tell he was "on the machine" or something to that effect. I guess this is a critical part of bypass surgeries. The fact that he had lived through them putting him on life support and stopping his heart or whatever the hell happened was good news. It seemed things were fine. It was a little time after this report that two women were in the corner of the room crying. They were saying things like, "I saw him earlier, he seemed fine" and "I guess they just don't know yet".
Finally, we were moved into a smaller, private room. The surgery was apparently over and we were to meet with the doctor to get the status report. Again, I was trying to read every one's body language. They didn't seem to be hiding anything. I was 90% sure Dad was fine. But a few times, I did let the thought slip in that this little room could get really terrible, really fast.
The doctor came in about 10 minutes after we were moved to the little waiting room. Seemed like a nice guy. We shook hands. Even in this situation, I worried that my palms were sweaty. Mercifully, he quickly said that everything went well. He went on to talk about numbers being good and rates being fine and the slight possibility of stroke still existed and so on. But I could tell it was all the standard speak.
Everything seemed silly now. But again, as Mom and I had discovered, we worry most about things we think we can control, and feel fine leaving the rest to fate.
A Gift From A Friend
This is a little piece a friend of mine put together to let me know I am always in his thoughts.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
LEO
Free yourself of rules today. Free yourself of your responsibilities. They can only lead to trouble.
Truant
The little girl was Asian. She was reading a book. Just the bright white tips of her red Converse All Stars reached the floor of the subway car. Gus leaned forward a bit in his seat and tried to see what she was reading. It was a hard cover book, red, almost the same color as her All Stars. He couldn't get a look at the title.
Gus suddenly felt self-conscious, realizing he was craning forward, looking at a ten year-old girl on the uptown C train. He knew he wasn't a pedophile or anything, but it's not a thought you want stirring awake sleepy-eyed commuters. He sat back and looked up at the ads begging for attention above the blackness of the train windows. He wasn't really reading them. Gus was trying to figure out what it was about this little girl that had struck him. What had made his stomach drop with nervousness and angst.
Glancing around the train, Gus leaned forward and briefly looked at his shoes, inconspicuously looking to his left to watch the girl. Her olive skin was without blemish. Was that it? Was he taken with her beauty? It wasn't the beauty of a beautiful woman, but more the beauty of a perfect blue sky or a brand new TV. She didn't seem to have a single blemish, as if her skin was yet untouched by the fray. She wore glasses with light brown rims. They were one size too big.
Gus again realized he was staring. Again he sat back and glanced around at the people on the train car. None seemed to notice, yet, his infatuation. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and slowly worked his glance back to her. Why was he looking at this girl? For the life of him he couldn't put his finger on what it was that made him want to study her.
Then it hit him. It was 5 minutes past 10 O'Clock on a Tuesday morning. Why wasn't she in school? Why was she alone? A hundred thoughts hit Gus at once. He imagined the story of a wonderful little girl, ignored by an over worked parent. No, she had both parents. They must have been the ones who ordered the glasses one size too big. She would grow into them. Maybe they were hand-me-downs in a family of immigrants who spoke less English than she did, if any. They had to work 2 or 3 jobs each probably. They couldn't be around much so she had been traveling through this huge city on her own since she started school.
Sitting back, Gus looked up at nothing in particular. He wondered if his imagination had found any truth.
At the 23rd street stop, two police officers got onto the train. Everyone looks at police officers on the train. It is like students straightening in their seat when the teacher walks back in.
Gus looked at the officers, a man and a woman, and then looked back to the girl. She hadn't noticed. He thought to himself now that she hadn't so much as moved. She had just been reading. A little girl, out of school, reading. That was it, he thought. Part of it anyway. She wasn't playing a video game or listening to music. This little girl was reading a hard cover book. It wasn't a children's book. It was a grown up book. A book Gus nor any of the other passengers had probably ever taken the time to read.
Something new had occured to Gus as he now blatantly stared at the girl. She didn't want to go to school. She was, in the eyes of ten year-olds, a nerd. She didn't know how perfect she was. She just didn't want to get off the train today. She didn't want to go to math or science. She didn't want to be purposely ignored by the other kids or worse; made fun of for preferring a book over lunchtime chaos. She didn't want to see the other girls and boys she didn't fit in with. The train must have reached her stop and she must have weighed the moment. The decision was right there and she chose to stay lost in the words and world of an author. She was safest here, in the relative silence of the uptown local C train.
As the 34th Street stop approached the female police officer walked over to the little girl. Gus watched in disbelief. Was she going to ask her what she was reading?
"Where are you supposed to be," the officer asked.
The little girl sat motionless, not looking up. She kept reading.
"Hey," the officer raised her voice a little, "Are you supposed to be in school?"
The little girl looked up. Gus, eyes wide open, was anxious to hear her speak. The others in the train car were looking now.
The little girl spoke, but in such a timid whisper Gus couldn't hear what it was she had said.
The officer leaned in for a moment then straightened and said, "At this next stop I want you to come with us. Get your things."
With her index finger, the little girl pushed her glasses firm to her nose and stood up, turning around to grab her other books and gingerly place them in her yellow canvas bag. Gus hadn't noticed them beside her earlier. The officer, bracing herself with her left hand on the steel pole, grasped the little girl's left arm. The little girl stood with her arms wrapped tightly around her bag, her head tilted slightly down as she looked at her red Converse All Stars. And for the final excruciating minute before the train reached 34th street, Gus watched as a train full of gawkers stared at the sweetest, most perfect little girl in the world. A train full of twelve year-olds, silently picking on the nerd. Gus saw her glasses, one size too big, slide ever so slightly down her nose. A tear hung from the corner of her left eye. She was doing all she could to hang on to it.
As he watched them escort her off the train, Gus realized she wouldn't be alone anymore. Not alone how she had chosen to be. She couldn't be alone. She wasn't allowed. She couldn't read her book. She could no longer sit quietly and safely on the uptown train, with her heroes and friends on pages of white and black.
It was back to the wolves of young life.
Now she'll be late, Gus thought. She'll be in trouble.
Gus sat motionless. He finished his subway ride with a broken heart.
Truant
The little girl was Asian. She was reading a book. Just the bright white tips of her red Converse All Stars reached the floor of the subway car. Gus leaned forward a bit in his seat and tried to see what she was reading. It was a hard cover book, red, almost the same color as her All Stars. He couldn't get a look at the title.
Gus suddenly felt self-conscious, realizing he was craning forward, looking at a ten year-old girl on the uptown C train. He knew he wasn't a pedophile or anything, but it's not a thought you want stirring awake sleepy-eyed commuters. He sat back and looked up at the ads begging for attention above the blackness of the train windows. He wasn't really reading them. Gus was trying to figure out what it was about this little girl that had struck him. What had made his stomach drop with nervousness and angst.
Glancing around the train, Gus leaned forward and briefly looked at his shoes, inconspicuously looking to his left to watch the girl. Her olive skin was without blemish. Was that it? Was he taken with her beauty? It wasn't the beauty of a beautiful woman, but more the beauty of a perfect blue sky or a brand new TV. She didn't seem to have a single blemish, as if her skin was yet untouched by the fray. She wore glasses with light brown rims. They were one size too big.
Gus again realized he was staring. Again he sat back and glanced around at the people on the train car. None seemed to notice, yet, his infatuation. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and slowly worked his glance back to her. Why was he looking at this girl? For the life of him he couldn't put his finger on what it was that made him want to study her.
Then it hit him. It was 5 minutes past 10 O'Clock on a Tuesday morning. Why wasn't she in school? Why was she alone? A hundred thoughts hit Gus at once. He imagined the story of a wonderful little girl, ignored by an over worked parent. No, she had both parents. They must have been the ones who ordered the glasses one size too big. She would grow into them. Maybe they were hand-me-downs in a family of immigrants who spoke less English than she did, if any. They had to work 2 or 3 jobs each probably. They couldn't be around much so she had been traveling through this huge city on her own since she started school.
Sitting back, Gus looked up at nothing in particular. He wondered if his imagination had found any truth.
At the 23rd street stop, two police officers got onto the train. Everyone looks at police officers on the train. It is like students straightening in their seat when the teacher walks back in.
Gus looked at the officers, a man and a woman, and then looked back to the girl. She hadn't noticed. He thought to himself now that she hadn't so much as moved. She had just been reading. A little girl, out of school, reading. That was it, he thought. Part of it anyway. She wasn't playing a video game or listening to music. This little girl was reading a hard cover book. It wasn't a children's book. It was a grown up book. A book Gus nor any of the other passengers had probably ever taken the time to read.
Something new had occured to Gus as he now blatantly stared at the girl. She didn't want to go to school. She was, in the eyes of ten year-olds, a nerd. She didn't know how perfect she was. She just didn't want to get off the train today. She didn't want to go to math or science. She didn't want to be purposely ignored by the other kids or worse; made fun of for preferring a book over lunchtime chaos. She didn't want to see the other girls and boys she didn't fit in with. The train must have reached her stop and she must have weighed the moment. The decision was right there and she chose to stay lost in the words and world of an author. She was safest here, in the relative silence of the uptown local C train.
As the 34th Street stop approached the female police officer walked over to the little girl. Gus watched in disbelief. Was she going to ask her what she was reading?
"Where are you supposed to be," the officer asked.
The little girl sat motionless, not looking up. She kept reading.
"Hey," the officer raised her voice a little, "Are you supposed to be in school?"
The little girl looked up. Gus, eyes wide open, was anxious to hear her speak. The others in the train car were looking now.
The little girl spoke, but in such a timid whisper Gus couldn't hear what it was she had said.
The officer leaned in for a moment then straightened and said, "At this next stop I want you to come with us. Get your things."
With her index finger, the little girl pushed her glasses firm to her nose and stood up, turning around to grab her other books and gingerly place them in her yellow canvas bag. Gus hadn't noticed them beside her earlier. The officer, bracing herself with her left hand on the steel pole, grasped the little girl's left arm. The little girl stood with her arms wrapped tightly around her bag, her head tilted slightly down as she looked at her red Converse All Stars. And for the final excruciating minute before the train reached 34th street, Gus watched as a train full of gawkers stared at the sweetest, most perfect little girl in the world. A train full of twelve year-olds, silently picking on the nerd. Gus saw her glasses, one size too big, slide ever so slightly down her nose. A tear hung from the corner of her left eye. She was doing all she could to hang on to it.
As he watched them escort her off the train, Gus realized she wouldn't be alone anymore. Not alone how she had chosen to be. She couldn't be alone. She wasn't allowed. She couldn't read her book. She could no longer sit quietly and safely on the uptown train, with her heroes and friends on pages of white and black.
It was back to the wolves of young life.
Now she'll be late, Gus thought. She'll be in trouble.
Gus sat motionless. He finished his subway ride with a broken heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)