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I returned to the water this afternoon, after weeks and weeks of dipping my toes in to test the temperature, only to find it disappointingly cold. I don't know what changed today - the water was still cold and the despite the sun, the air was cooler than it was yesterday, when my cousin came over to lay out with me. There was a slight breeze in the air, and I, alone today, plugged my ears with Matt Kearney and fell asleep in the yogic dead pose.
I slept until my skin, on the verge of burning, tingled my nerves. The skin on my thighs felt as though on fire. The backs of my hands seemed ten thousand years older, I was afraid to look. I'm well aware of skin-cancer dangers - but like millions of women who would rather be tan than not, I eat plenty of vitamin c and cooked tomatoes and take my chances.
The water glistened, glittered, batted its watery lashes at me and said, "Today is the day. Come cool off."
I dipped my foot in and it felt wonderful, the soothing coolness on my hot skin - but years of experience taught me that my extremities were more tolerant of cold than the rest of my body. But I felt like moving. Summer turns me into a semi-athletic human being whereas in the winter, you might as well call me Brown Bear Betty.
The wait is over, I declared. I have been patient long enough. Last summer seems so long ago - between then and now I transformed into a pale office rat. Swimming in the sun is now a weekend activity. I pushed myself up from the towel and walked to the edge of the water. Would I enter the slow, cautious way, step by step? First the ankles, then the knees, then the thighs and eventually, gingerly up to my chin?
The thought of it felt like torture, and a surefire way to never go completely in. It left too much room to back out in cowardice and retreat indoors. I wanted laps. I wanted to stretch out, to kick, to pulse through the water in my best impression of someone who knows how to swim. When I was young I pretended I was a mermaid. I let my hair down and kicked with my legs glued together. But today I was all business. I wanted laps.
I backed away from the edge of the pool. Turned to see my dad sleeping in the living room, the sound of the television playing faintly in the background. Somewhere, my neighbor's dog barked. A car door slammed. A bird chirped and cars rushed down in the street below.
No more waiting. I ran towards the water and jumped.
Sunday Afternoon Blather
I'm always thinking about writing, but lately, not writing much. I start and stop, start and stop. Stop. And. Stop.
I get into the swing of things - concentrate on not making dumb mistakes at work, which makes me a little sad to see how much brain power it takes. I often wonder how thinly I'm slicing my attention-span, and realize that even when I have down time, my mind is spread over so many things that I can't even read an entire article in the NY Times without having to blink and ask myself, "Did I absorb any of that?"
I can blame the internet. Twitter. Before, I didn't understand its draws until I slowly started to follow more and more people, who also give me a complex with how much content they can churn out even there. It's like, "Oh great. All these other greater, better Tweeters..." I am now suffering writer's block on the 140-character level.
Hopefully what I believe is true and not just a little lie I tell myself to prevent the one morning and find that my soul's been crushed (okay, that's as little dramatic), but I tell myself that I'm collecting stories. One day, everything I see, smell and hear will come pouring out of me in not just one but many great works. In this day and age, I'm not even sure I'm talking about paper and books - perhaps just the next great blog entry, waiting to be circulated, reblogged, retweeted, liked.
A few months ago I reached out to the assistant before me for some question I hope she had the answer to. The question itself wasn't important - I finally had an excuse to cyber tap her on the shoulder and say, "Hey, why didn't you stay?"
The answer is obvious, to anyone who's been in this position, but at the same time I am in this position and I am still here, and willing to stay too, at least for a while.
She replied, "I had a great time there. Your boss is really cool to work for and I made a lot of great friends. The atmosphere was good, but I didn't want to stay somewhere just because I was "comfortable."
Her reply was gracious, considering some of her ex-workers were not exactly kind to her legacy, but it made me think. She went on to say that she was actually pursuing her dream career in marketing and that she was looking forward to getting her MBA at UCLA. To her, those were the markers of personal success - finding herself in her chosen field, getting the requisite degree to add another 20-30K to her salary, and hopefully, a few years down the line, the ability to look back and say, "I've done what I wanted to do."
A few years ago, I made a promise to myself: No Regrets. As a writer, this is of paramount importance. Every "mistake," every "detour" is a story. It was around the time I was enrolling at Berkeley, filled with anxiety for the coming semester, wondering if I could still hack it as a college student at a big university. A masochist, I logged onto Facebook and saw the graduation postings and congratulations of my old roommates at NYU - they had stuck it through and were now best college girlfriends. I examined their bright eyes, their similar outfits and mused about their plans after graduation. I wondered. Had I stayed, would my face have been in those photographs, stuck close to theirs with a giant, triumphant grin? (Probably not, as they were whiter than white, from Texas and Connecticut).
I let my imagination go - I imagined making arrangements for my mom and brother to attend the graduation (my father doesn't do these things) and picking which restaurants to take them too and filling them in on my recent interviews... what would I have majored in? I could picture all the fun stuff no problem, but the key components I had trouble filling in - it was like watching a movie with poorly developed characters and no plot. I backed away then, realizing I couldn't imagine a whole other life for myself because I was very solidly and happily (if not somewhat anxiously) planted in the one I was living.
So. No Regrets. I said it out loud and pushed forward.
A few years ago, I made a promise to myself: No Regrets. As a writer, this is of paramount importance. Every "mistake," every "detour" is a story. It was around the time I was enrolling at Berkeley, filled with anxiety for the coming semester, wondering if I could still hack it as a college student at a big university. A masochist, I logged onto Facebook and saw the graduation postings and congratulations of my old roommates at NYU - they had stuck it through and were now best college girlfriends. I examined their bright eyes, their similar outfits and mused about their plans after graduation. I wondered. Had I stayed, would my face have been in those photographs, stuck close to theirs with a giant, triumphant grin? (Probably not, as they were whiter than white, from Texas and Connecticut).
I let my imagination go - I imagined making arrangements for my mom and brother to attend the graduation (my father doesn't do these things) and picking which restaurants to take them too and filling them in on my recent interviews... what would I have majored in? I could picture all the fun stuff no problem, but the key components I had trouble filling in - it was like watching a movie with poorly developed characters and no plot. I backed away then, realizing I couldn't imagine a whole other life for myself because I was very solidly and happily (if not somewhat anxiously) planted in the one I was living.
So. No Regrets. I said it out loud and pushed forward.
"The boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"
-Edgar Allan Poe
Drafts
My list of drafts is getting longer and longer. With blogging, there is this expectation to be timely. I can't very well post an essay about donating blood, which I did almost a month ago, especially not when it begins with, "I donated blood today."
But if I tweak it to fit the present, that's sort of like lying.
A coworker messaged me today.
"Word on the street is that you're looking for something bigger and better."
I was bewildered, considering I'd never before mentioned my intention to pursue a graduate degree in Creative Writing. People at work - bless their hearts - take you for granted after a while. Or do they? Sometimes I think my boss wants to strangle or throw the quartz paperweight on his desk at me, but then he gets strangely polite at times, tiptoeing on the phone when he calls, saying, "Is this a bad time?"
The absolutely honest answer is, "Yes." But the other absolutely honest answer is, "No. You're my boss. I'm your assistant. Call me whenever the hell you want."
And seriously, he can. When I read the job description I had raised an eyebrow at the "24/7" part, knowing in my heart that I'd interviewed with someone who seemed rather personable and had more than an ounce of humanity in him. He wouldn't abuse that privilege and certainly, he hasn't. He called me at 7PM today, 1.5 hours after our standard 5:30PM "I'm outta here" time, and sounded positively awkward.
"Is this...are you...busy?"
I was sitting where I sit now, at my brother's desk, reading the paper from two weeks ago (I have a perpetual back log of periodicals waiting to be read. I "catch up" by reading the news from two, sometimes three weeks ago. It's absurd), and instead of saying, "Yes, I'm reading my backlog," I sat up and laughed.
"Of course not. What's up."
He wanted me to cancel a flight, yada yada yada. The details of which are not important - but this is what kills me.
Word on the street is that it looks bad if your assistants are constantly leaving.
Though I've been here for almost eight months now, and truly, everyone whom I need to know knows me as well, I still get the occasional phone call looking for Bonnie. Sometimes, a character not unlike Rip Van Winkle calls asking for Gina, the very first assistant who I think quit nearly three years ago. Or was it two? I don't know - but at the Company, a year is like dog years. 8 months is like 5 years. At the Company, I am almost a Veteran.
Well, until they ask me about stuff that happened in the Gina Era. Anyway. There were more than a few times when a gentleman called and thought he was being glib by saying, "Whoa, another new assistant? What's he doing over there, scaring all you young girls away?"
And I laugh hollowly into the headset thinking, "Whatever, it's none of your business," but inside I'm wondering too.
The thing is, I'm doing a little survey now. I've come to know more and more EAs and when the conversation goes there, I always ask, "How long have you been working for so and so?"
And it amazes me, the devotion some of these women (always, they are women), have to the man or woman they are assisting. A few of my boss's acquaintances have EAs that have been with them for nearly twenty years. TWENTY YEARS! That's...almost as long as I've been alive. Most of the other EAs, while not twenty years in, are running the same marathon. Four to seven years - much longer than I've ever done anything in my life. I try to see myself in four years and the picture is almost blank. I try to see myself next year, in 2013. I think I'll still be at the company in March, but like a watercolor brush at the end of the stroke, there's not quite enough pigment to form a clear picture. It peters out - the page is white.
I perpetually waffle back and forth between loving my job, then despising the mistakes that I make which lead to my belief that I'm not cut out for this kind of work, then loving it again, because my boss forgives me and then asks me ever so politely to do things that I ought to do. It's not just him - my other boss, David, the guy who's utterly self-sufficient, also has his moments. In the beginning I accused him of having low expectations. He practically applauded when I printed an excel spreadsheet for him and glued it together.
"So smart!" he said, when I presented him with one long sheet, "Great idea!"
But I took advantage, began building decisions on past exchanges and at some point, decided it'd be okay to make certain choices for him.
Terrible idea.
He called me from a different time zone this afternoon and said, quite angrily, "Don't ever make a decision like that for me again! It's my prerogative to do this! It's my prerogative! Why can't you just follow instructions!"
I said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I'll change it," and did, but wondered what had brought on such a strong reaction.
Miranda the new EA downstairs just happened to stop by my desk.
"Is everything okay?"
I looked at her face. She wore no makeup today. She seemed stressed. I was stressed. No need for a stressed out vomit fest. I shrugged and said, "David just yelled at me, no biggie."
"Why?" she said.
I thought about it for a minute. He was jet lagged, definitely. And if he slept poorly on the plane, then he was probably damn exhausted. He went from plane to train to meeting. Not exactly a recipe for bubbles and sunshine.
"He's probably tired. I get snippy when I'm tired too."
She smiled, "Oh tell me about it."
But still. I don't like getting yelled at, especially not at the end of the day. I went home, my exhaustion compressed with my irritation and throughout dinner my parents chided me to keep an open mind. Look how I was acting now, and someone had cooked dinner for me! Was going to pack my punch for me! And I was there, pouting because my boss had yelled at me.
My phone pinged.
It was David.
"I'm sorry." He wrote, "It was my fault for not reading your first email carefully. Normally I would not mind you making that decision for me - but I have been traveling so much and am tired."
My heart melted, the smile poured back onto my face. I was still exhausted - but it helped knowing that David was even more exhausted and that he had taken the time to apologize. It's stupid. Petty. Selfish. But I collect these little moments because it proves to me that we are humans working with humans. It keeps me sane and helps me stay one more day.
Bigger and better things for me are on the horizon. But for now, this will suffice.
But if I tweak it to fit the present, that's sort of like lying.
A coworker messaged me today.
"Word on the street is that you're looking for something bigger and better."
I was bewildered, considering I'd never before mentioned my intention to pursue a graduate degree in Creative Writing. People at work - bless their hearts - take you for granted after a while. Or do they? Sometimes I think my boss wants to strangle or throw the quartz paperweight on his desk at me, but then he gets strangely polite at times, tiptoeing on the phone when he calls, saying, "Is this a bad time?"
The absolutely honest answer is, "Yes." But the other absolutely honest answer is, "No. You're my boss. I'm your assistant. Call me whenever the hell you want."
And seriously, he can. When I read the job description I had raised an eyebrow at the "24/7" part, knowing in my heart that I'd interviewed with someone who seemed rather personable and had more than an ounce of humanity in him. He wouldn't abuse that privilege and certainly, he hasn't. He called me at 7PM today, 1.5 hours after our standard 5:30PM "I'm outta here" time, and sounded positively awkward.
"Is this...are you...busy?"
I was sitting where I sit now, at my brother's desk, reading the paper from two weeks ago (I have a perpetual back log of periodicals waiting to be read. I "catch up" by reading the news from two, sometimes three weeks ago. It's absurd), and instead of saying, "Yes, I'm reading my backlog," I sat up and laughed.
"Of course not. What's up."
He wanted me to cancel a flight, yada yada yada. The details of which are not important - but this is what kills me.
Word on the street is that it looks bad if your assistants are constantly leaving.
Though I've been here for almost eight months now, and truly, everyone whom I need to know knows me as well, I still get the occasional phone call looking for Bonnie. Sometimes, a character not unlike Rip Van Winkle calls asking for Gina, the very first assistant who I think quit nearly three years ago. Or was it two? I don't know - but at the Company, a year is like dog years. 8 months is like 5 years. At the Company, I am almost a Veteran.
Well, until they ask me about stuff that happened in the Gina Era. Anyway. There were more than a few times when a gentleman called and thought he was being glib by saying, "Whoa, another new assistant? What's he doing over there, scaring all you young girls away?"
And I laugh hollowly into the headset thinking, "Whatever, it's none of your business," but inside I'm wondering too.
The thing is, I'm doing a little survey now. I've come to know more and more EAs and when the conversation goes there, I always ask, "How long have you been working for so and so?"
And it amazes me, the devotion some of these women (always, they are women), have to the man or woman they are assisting. A few of my boss's acquaintances have EAs that have been with them for nearly twenty years. TWENTY YEARS! That's...almost as long as I've been alive. Most of the other EAs, while not twenty years in, are running the same marathon. Four to seven years - much longer than I've ever done anything in my life. I try to see myself in four years and the picture is almost blank. I try to see myself next year, in 2013. I think I'll still be at the company in March, but like a watercolor brush at the end of the stroke, there's not quite enough pigment to form a clear picture. It peters out - the page is white.
I perpetually waffle back and forth between loving my job, then despising the mistakes that I make which lead to my belief that I'm not cut out for this kind of work, then loving it again, because my boss forgives me and then asks me ever so politely to do things that I ought to do. It's not just him - my other boss, David, the guy who's utterly self-sufficient, also has his moments. In the beginning I accused him of having low expectations. He practically applauded when I printed an excel spreadsheet for him and glued it together.
"So smart!" he said, when I presented him with one long sheet, "Great idea!"
But I took advantage, began building decisions on past exchanges and at some point, decided it'd be okay to make certain choices for him.
Terrible idea.
He called me from a different time zone this afternoon and said, quite angrily, "Don't ever make a decision like that for me again! It's my prerogative to do this! It's my prerogative! Why can't you just follow instructions!"
I said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I'll change it," and did, but wondered what had brought on such a strong reaction.
Miranda the new EA downstairs just happened to stop by my desk.
"Is everything okay?"
I looked at her face. She wore no makeup today. She seemed stressed. I was stressed. No need for a stressed out vomit fest. I shrugged and said, "David just yelled at me, no biggie."
"Why?" she said.
I thought about it for a minute. He was jet lagged, definitely. And if he slept poorly on the plane, then he was probably damn exhausted. He went from plane to train to meeting. Not exactly a recipe for bubbles and sunshine.
"He's probably tired. I get snippy when I'm tired too."
She smiled, "Oh tell me about it."
But still. I don't like getting yelled at, especially not at the end of the day. I went home, my exhaustion compressed with my irritation and throughout dinner my parents chided me to keep an open mind. Look how I was acting now, and someone had cooked dinner for me! Was going to pack my punch for me! And I was there, pouting because my boss had yelled at me.
My phone pinged.
It was David.
"I'm sorry." He wrote, "It was my fault for not reading your first email carefully. Normally I would not mind you making that decision for me - but I have been traveling so much and am tired."
My heart melted, the smile poured back onto my face. I was still exhausted - but it helped knowing that David was even more exhausted and that he had taken the time to apologize. It's stupid. Petty. Selfish. But I collect these little moments because it proves to me that we are humans working with humans. It keeps me sane and helps me stay one more day.
Bigger and better things for me are on the horizon. But for now, this will suffice.
Because Milan Kundera Does It Better: "The Hitchhiking Game"
From Milan Kundera's short story "The Hitchhiking Game," in that book I'm reading right now. A crazy creepy sad love story - you know it will end badly because he doesn't bother to name his characters. Remember that movie "Closer" with the most menacing Clive Owen, sexual Julia Roberts, spineless Jude Law and saddest Natalie Portman you've ever seen? The story is kind of like that. I recommend it, but not if you're in a relationship.
Raise your hand if you've ever felt like this:
"She always blushed in advance at the idea that she was going to blush. She longed to feel free and easy about her body, the way most of the women around her did. She had even invented a special course in self-persuasion: she would repeat to herself that at birth every human being received on out of millions of available bodies, as one would receive an allotted room out of millions of rooms in an enormous hotel; that consequently the body was fortuitous and impersonal, only a ready-made, borrowed thing. She would repeat this to herself in different ways, but she could never manage to feel it. This mind-body dualism was alien to her. She was too much at one with her body; that is why she always felt such anxiety about it.
"She experienced this same anxiety even in her relations with the young man, whom she had known for a year and with whom she was happy, perhaps because he never separated her body from her soul, and she could live with him wholly. In this unity there was happiness, but it is not far from happiness to suspicion, and the girl was full of suspicions...She wanted him to be completely hers and herself to be completely his, but it often seemed to her that the more she tried to give him everything, the more she denied him something: the very thing that a light and superficial love or a flirtation gives a person. It worried her that she was not able to combine seriousness with lightheartedness."
Raise your hand if you've ever felt like this:
"She always blushed in advance at the idea that she was going to blush. She longed to feel free and easy about her body, the way most of the women around her did. She had even invented a special course in self-persuasion: she would repeat to herself that at birth every human being received on out of millions of available bodies, as one would receive an allotted room out of millions of rooms in an enormous hotel; that consequently the body was fortuitous and impersonal, only a ready-made, borrowed thing. She would repeat this to herself in different ways, but she could never manage to feel it. This mind-body dualism was alien to her. She was too much at one with her body; that is why she always felt such anxiety about it.
 |
| Rene Magritte The Rape, 1934 |
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| Rene Magritte The Lovers, 1928 |
2 Truths, No Lie
"If I had been like you when I was younger, I would have been much happier."
It would have been a very sweet thing for my boss to say if he hadn't meant that I was hopeless. Happiness = foolishness. Inept. Didn't think things through.
"You aren't happy now?" I asked.
"Oh I'm happy now, but when I was working, I wasn't like you. I was afraid to mess up. So I thought things through. I would never come to my boss like you come to me now, just talking."
I laughed because it was funny and because it's what I do when I have nothing to say.
"Your parents gave you a good brain," he said, "Didn't you do well in school?"
Yes.
"Then why don't you use it?"
Should my confidence at work, or more specifically, in front of my boss be charted or graphed, it would look like a rather unstable company's stock ticker. Up and up when I'm paying attention, writing things down, listening. Reading my damn emails. Down and down when I don't do any or just half of that. I am one person inside his office, then once I step through the glass doors and am back at my desk, my spine curves a little. Certain muscles loosen - and if the brain is a muscle, that's the very first one to go slack. I forget who I'm working for and busy myself with other things, other executives, and Gmail. And this tumblr.
My boss wants me to be a better person. I know and appreciate this. He asks me to raise the bar for myself by using my brain in relation to getting his affairs in order. As getting his affairs in order is 99% of my job description, this is not much to ask. Sometimes I even get his affairs in order. In a good week, his affairs are 90% in order. In a bad week, I've let what seemed like 50% of things fall to the wayside and he, with his razor sharp memory (don't be fooled by his calm, sleepy demeanor and his perpetually reclined posture), shoots me little daggers of reminders.
"What happened to this and this?"
"Where are we on this and this?"
"When is this meeting I asked you to schedule?"
And with each ping comes a little zap to my heart and I want to die because goodness how could I have forgotten that! And that! And this! What the hell am I doing in this chair? Why hasn't he stormed out to replace me already?
The worst (and funniest) is when I go in and speak to him because it's my best version of firefighting - better talk to him in person than ping him back with my shortcomings - and he looks up, mildly surprised to see me in the flesh because he expects me to hide behind a giant screen of lost productivity. He adjusts his eyes to my grim, exhausted expression and asks point-blank: "Who's the assistant here. You or me?"
"I am."
"Then why the hell am I the one reminding you to remind me about things? Do you want to sit in this seat? You want my job? Because I can do yours a helluva lot better than you do it."
Instead of reply with words, I just sigh and throw my hands up. My signature - the "I'm sorry, boss. I'm a dud. You hired a dud. And now I'm just going to throw my hands up and make the universal sound of tired defeat. Sigggghhhh."
-----------------------------------------------------
When I've gone old and hoary and have had children more productive than I, and they have children more productive than I, I'll relish telling them the story of grandma's first real job.
"I was the executive assistant, kiddies, it was my job to help my boss, the company's biggest cheese to keep his appointments and remember important things."
"But grandma, your memory sucks. You can't even remember our birthdays."
"I know, but back then it wasn't so bad."
At which point my daughter will pop her head in and say, "Mom, please. You never remember MY birthday and you gave birth to me. I doubt you could remember anything for your boss."
Then I'll sigh and shrug, a mischievous grin on my face. I'm always one for a story.
"Did he fire you?"
"Oh no," I'll say, (hopefully this will be the truth), "He thought I was useless, but I like to think that he liked my personality."
"Did you make him laugh?"
This question will catch me off guard, but I will answer honestly.
"No, I did not. I made a lot of other people laugh, but I did not make him laugh. More often than not, he made me laugh."
The grandkids will be perplexed, why keep a clown around when she can't even make you laugh?
"Then...what did he like about you?"
And I'll answer as truthfully as I can.
"I don't know. Perhaps nothing. Sometimes, you can't ask for love or even like, and you wouldn't ever ask for hate. I think he just accepted me. Hiring me was his decision and he stuck by it. You don't give up on people."
"That's why he told you over and over again to think things through, right Grandma? That's why you tell us too, right?"
"Yes. In his strange, borderline indifferent way, he didn't give up on me. Never exploded in my face. Never complained about his mouth going dry giving me the same lecture over and over, almost once a week. Sometimes twice a week, for over a year."
"So he was a good boss."
"Yes, he was."
"Then why did you leave?"
And here, I'll tell them two truths: one about myself and one about life. The first was that their grandmother was not good at very much, but she was quite adept at quitting. Quite. It could be masked this way or that: getting out while she was ahead, or just stopping something before she reached what would eventually be a dead end...but the fact of the matter was that she abandoned paths almost just as quickly as she began new ones. It was not always a bad thing, but certainly, many doors remained closed to her because her stride never quite hit the threshold. What's more, it was written on her palm, in her life path line, which was not one line but many, tiny fine lines that crossed and recrossed so that it formed a chain down the middle, to her wrist.
The second was that for all her boss's talk about using her brain, he had neglected to mention - not that he needed to, because wordlessly, by his constant presence and visible devotion the Company he created, demonstrated - that she should evaluate too if her heart was in it. For the old woman looking back, the two were never meant to be separated. A job without the other is just that: a job.
"Head and heart, darlings. Head and heart. It is not too idealistic, no matter what people tell you, to work with both."
And my grandkids will nod and say, "That's why you write, right Grandma?"
"That's right. That's why I write."
It would have been a very sweet thing for my boss to say if he hadn't meant that I was hopeless. Happiness = foolishness. Inept. Didn't think things through.
"You aren't happy now?" I asked.
"Oh I'm happy now, but when I was working, I wasn't like you. I was afraid to mess up. So I thought things through. I would never come to my boss like you come to me now, just talking."
I laughed because it was funny and because it's what I do when I have nothing to say.
"Your parents gave you a good brain," he said, "Didn't you do well in school?"
Yes.
"Then why don't you use it?"
Should my confidence at work, or more specifically, in front of my boss be charted or graphed, it would look like a rather unstable company's stock ticker. Up and up when I'm paying attention, writing things down, listening. Reading my damn emails. Down and down when I don't do any or just half of that. I am one person inside his office, then once I step through the glass doors and am back at my desk, my spine curves a little. Certain muscles loosen - and if the brain is a muscle, that's the very first one to go slack. I forget who I'm working for and busy myself with other things, other executives, and Gmail. And this tumblr.
My boss wants me to be a better person. I know and appreciate this. He asks me to raise the bar for myself by using my brain in relation to getting his affairs in order. As getting his affairs in order is 99% of my job description, this is not much to ask. Sometimes I even get his affairs in order. In a good week, his affairs are 90% in order. In a bad week, I've let what seemed like 50% of things fall to the wayside and he, with his razor sharp memory (don't be fooled by his calm, sleepy demeanor and his perpetually reclined posture), shoots me little daggers of reminders.
"What happened to this and this?"
"Where are we on this and this?"
"When is this meeting I asked you to schedule?"
And with each ping comes a little zap to my heart and I want to die because goodness how could I have forgotten that! And that! And this! What the hell am I doing in this chair? Why hasn't he stormed out to replace me already?
The worst (and funniest) is when I go in and speak to him because it's my best version of firefighting - better talk to him in person than ping him back with my shortcomings - and he looks up, mildly surprised to see me in the flesh because he expects me to hide behind a giant screen of lost productivity. He adjusts his eyes to my grim, exhausted expression and asks point-blank: "Who's the assistant here. You or me?"
"I am."
"Then why the hell am I the one reminding you to remind me about things? Do you want to sit in this seat? You want my job? Because I can do yours a helluva lot better than you do it."
Instead of reply with words, I just sigh and throw my hands up. My signature - the "I'm sorry, boss. I'm a dud. You hired a dud. And now I'm just going to throw my hands up and make the universal sound of tired defeat. Sigggghhhh."
-----------------------------------------------------
When I've gone old and hoary and have had children more productive than I, and they have children more productive than I, I'll relish telling them the story of grandma's first real job.
"I was the executive assistant, kiddies, it was my job to help my boss, the company's biggest cheese to keep his appointments and remember important things."
"But grandma, your memory sucks. You can't even remember our birthdays."
"I know, but back then it wasn't so bad."
At which point my daughter will pop her head in and say, "Mom, please. You never remember MY birthday and you gave birth to me. I doubt you could remember anything for your boss."
Then I'll sigh and shrug, a mischievous grin on my face. I'm always one for a story.
"Did he fire you?"
"Oh no," I'll say, (hopefully this will be the truth), "He thought I was useless, but I like to think that he liked my personality."
"Did you make him laugh?"
This question will catch me off guard, but I will answer honestly.
"No, I did not. I made a lot of other people laugh, but I did not make him laugh. More often than not, he made me laugh."
The grandkids will be perplexed, why keep a clown around when she can't even make you laugh?
"Then...what did he like about you?"
And I'll answer as truthfully as I can.
"I don't know. Perhaps nothing. Sometimes, you can't ask for love or even like, and you wouldn't ever ask for hate. I think he just accepted me. Hiring me was his decision and he stuck by it. You don't give up on people."
"That's why he told you over and over again to think things through, right Grandma? That's why you tell us too, right?"
"Yes. In his strange, borderline indifferent way, he didn't give up on me. Never exploded in my face. Never complained about his mouth going dry giving me the same lecture over and over, almost once a week. Sometimes twice a week, for over a year."
"So he was a good boss."
"Yes, he was."
"Then why did you leave?"
And here, I'll tell them two truths: one about myself and one about life. The first was that their grandmother was not good at very much, but she was quite adept at quitting. Quite. It could be masked this way or that: getting out while she was ahead, or just stopping something before she reached what would eventually be a dead end...but the fact of the matter was that she abandoned paths almost just as quickly as she began new ones. It was not always a bad thing, but certainly, many doors remained closed to her because her stride never quite hit the threshold. What's more, it was written on her palm, in her life path line, which was not one line but many, tiny fine lines that crossed and recrossed so that it formed a chain down the middle, to her wrist.
The second was that for all her boss's talk about using her brain, he had neglected to mention - not that he needed to, because wordlessly, by his constant presence and visible devotion the Company he created, demonstrated - that she should evaluate too if her heart was in it. For the old woman looking back, the two were never meant to be separated. A job without the other is just that: a job.
"Head and heart, darlings. Head and heart. It is not too idealistic, no matter what people tell you, to work with both."
And my grandkids will nod and say, "That's why you write, right Grandma?"
"That's right. That's why I write."
C.S. Lewis Gives Good Advice
From a new favorite website: www.brainpickings.org
Remember that there are only three kinds of things anyone need ever do. (1) Things we ought to do (2) Things we’ve gotto do (3) Things we like doing. I say this because some people seem to spend so much of their time doing things for none of the three reasons, things like reading books they don’t like because other people read them. Things you ought to do are things like doing one’s school work or being nice to people. Things one has got to do are things like dressing and undressing, or household shopping. Things one likes doing — but of course I don’t know what you like. Perhaps you’ll write and tell me one day.
Nearly a decade later, in a letter dated July 18, 1957, Lewis revisit the subject of duty’s false deities with another little girl, Joan:
A perfect man wd. never act from a sense of duty; he’d always want the right thing more than the wrong one. Duty is only a substitute for love (of God and of other people), like a crutch, which is a substitute for a leg. Most of us need the crutch at times; but of course it’s idiotic to use the crutch when our own legs (or own loves, tastes, habits etc) can do the journey on their own!
Kharma 1
We're not a religious family. Once, when my Christian friends in elementary school asked why it was that I slept in on Sundays rather than attend church, I shrugged and said, "I go to Chinese school on Saturdays."
They stared at me blankly and said, "Yes, but that's not the same thing." And hearing them talk about their church activities and romances and holiday festivities, it didn't sound like the same thing. They seemed to enjoy church and I, at least on Saturday mornings before I arrived, did not enjoy Chinese school. It was not my religion. It was the linguistic and utterly necessary (now when I look back) facet of my culture. That wasn't a distinction I was wise enough to make as a child.
So my friends went to church on Sundays while I slept in. One Sunday (or perhaps it was another day, but for narrative's sake, let's pretend it was Sunday), I asked my father, "Why don't we go to church?"
Without looking up from the TV he said, "You can go if you like."
"I know," I said. My parents were very open that way. They encouraged me to try this and that, at least my father did, because it meant I would have less time to pester him during the Taiwanese news.
"But why don't you go to church?"
"I don't need it," my father said shortly. I didn't see him move, but I detected a slight increase in the volume of the television. A young, pretty Taiwanese news anchor rapidly announced the evening's headlines. It never seemed strange to me that my father was always watching the news in Taiwan. Because we had a fancy satellite dish, we got it in real time. I grew up with the sharp voices of young female anchors in the background.
I asked my father what was then, for a 9 year old, a very thoughtful question, "You don't need church or you don't need religion?"
"Neither," he said, "But if you want to go to church, go." He raised the volume one notch more before I could ask another question. I'm sure my father would have asked me to go to Church at that moment juts to stop bothering him.
Later, I posed the same question to my mother, who answered more thoughtfully: "I'm not religious, but if I had to align myself with a particular faith, it would be Buddhism."
This made perfect sense. We celebrated Christmas, but not because of Jesus or anything, and I think the only times my mother stepped inside churches were weddings or the time she visited Europe. "That's all they have in Europe," she said, "Giant churches that all look the same. And pigeons." A few years later, when I was going through a shoebox of photos from that trip, on which she'd gone to 8 or 9 different countries, I asked her where a few of them were taken. "It's written on the back," she said. I turned the photographs over and saw that she'd written "Europe" on all of them.
Aside from Christmas and the odd Easter dinner at so and so's house, we really didn't do anything else remotely religious. At least not in America.
Aside from Christmas and the odd Easter dinner at so and so's house, we really didn't do anything else remotely religious. At least not in America.
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| Rene Magritte Golconde ,1953 Oil on Canvas. Houston, Texas, The Menil Collection |
Apparently you have more than one plaque, because families, as you know, can be quite complicated. We had one for my grandma and her aunt, an old woman with no teeth who came to Taipei from Shanghai and helped raise my dad and uncles. They called her, in Shanghainese, "Nn'na." I think their plaque is under "Hu," my grandmother's maiden name (some day my parents will read this and tell me, ashamedly, that I got everything wrong). For many years their plaque was displayed at a temple that wasn't very good about the upkeep. As happens with limited storage space, more nameplates kept on crowding in because other people in other families kept dying and pretty soon the "Hu" plaque was pushed back to a dark, dusty corner of the display case. Also, people weren't too good about paying their rent - either that or the nuns at that temple were just lazy jerks and just let things fall to the wayside. Whatever it was, my grandma's spirit was getting really sick of it. My grandma wasn't a flashy woman, but she had been the proud matriarch - mother to three well-to-do sons and the third wife of a well-to-do customs' agent who, even if he didn't bring home too much bacon, made enough so that she could invest it in property. The property passed down to her sons, who built things on it and sold the things to people who needed such things (namely, housing and office space) and yeah, she was kind of proud of all that.
It made perfect sense that a woman who had built a small fortune around property should be in want of good real estate, even long after she'd left earth. She was disappointed with the set up her sons had left her in and decided to do something about it.
This is where things get weird. In Chinese numerology people born on certain days at certain times are said to be "lighter" in spirit than others. Their spiritual "weight" is lighter than average, meaning they can, if they're not careful, drift to and fro between realms. I'm not explaining it too well, but I'll quantify it with two stark examples. If 1 were extremely light and 10 was extremely heavy, my father, the man who doesn't need religion but isn't quite an atheist, would weigh in, spiritually, at around 7 or 8. Oddly enough, he studied numerology on a whim in his late twenties and, when my brother was born, predicted his son's future physical attributes and certain personality traits quite accurately. By the time I came around he'd lost the instruction booklet.
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| Rene Magritte The Beyond, 1938 L'au-dela Oil on Canvas Private collection |
If a spirit floated into the room where my mother and father sat watching television, the spirit would have a better chance getting my mother's attention because a.) my mother doesn't really watch too much television and b.) my father would, should the spirit successfully make faint contact, just turn up the volume. Even if the spirit happened to be his own mother.
Sunday Night Blather: The Difference
I'm currently reading My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead, an anthology of great love stories selected by Jeffrey Eugenides, one of my favorite writers now though I've yet to finish either of his novels.
In the book's elegant introduction, Eugenides differentiates the subject of love, and the love story:
What is this thing called a love story?
...When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession (true, true). The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims - these are lucky eventualities but they aren't love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name.
We value love not because it's stronger than death but because it's weaker. Say what you want about love: death will finish it. You will not go on loving in the grave, not in any physical way that will at all resemble love as we know it on earth. The perishable nature of love is what gives love its profound importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn't hit us the way it does.
I've never thought about it like that, but my goodness he's right. All the greatest love stories I know come to an end when the couple ends up together - then it becomes not a story, because really there's no more rising or falling action but just the straight line of the rest of their lives. Not that that segment of the story is not worth telling, but it is far less interesting than how they came to be together.
And that's why I love asking people how they met. That's the love story - the obstacles two people face when they want to come together, but aren't exactly sure how - or maybe each is sure in his or her own way, but their methods differ and outsiders watching the story unfold can only hope they meet in the middle. And sometimes they never do meet in the middle. Something happens. Someone goes away for school, gets another job, changes their looks, their values, their taste. Or an overbearing family member (usually the mother) intervenes and even though their love is strong, "real-life" and all its responsibilities are stronger and you end up marrying a man or woman you were never attracted to while the love of your life goes the other way.
Those are stories I've heard quite often - they make me sad and tempt me to resign myself to fate, the kharmic "it is written," but also enliven me because behind every failed romance is a lesson.
Anyway, it's strange to be reading good, strong fiction again. The last bit of fiction I read was The Hunger Games and before that, there was a considerable dry spell. I wondered if I'd ever read fiction again, but there's nothing like a great anthology of love stories to bring me back. I dove in the volume this afternoon while sunbathing by the pool and felt like I was coming home.
I'll leave you with this haunting passage from David Bezmogis' "Natasha":
For context: the sixteen year old protagonist realizes he's fallen in love with his 14 year old step-cousin, who initiates him sexually one summer in his parents' basement. He falls in love with her, but his age prevents him from becoming someone who can truly protect her from her abusive mother and overall dire situation. He tries his best, but it's not enough and she tells him she's leaving for a safer place, another state. But he finds a few days later that she never left the town, but has instead moved into his drug dealer's home.
Not the best summary - but seriously, read the story. I highly recommend it.
In another country, under another code, it would have been my duty to return to Rufus's with a gun. But in the suburbs at the end of my sixteenth summer, this was not an option. Instead, I resorted to a form of civilized murder. By the time I reached my house everyone in Rufus's yard was dead. Rufus, Natasha, and my stoner friends. I would never see them again. By the time I got home I had already crafted a new identity. I would switch schools, change my wardrobe, move to another city. Later I would avenge myself with beautiful women, learn martial arts, and cultivate exotic experiences. I saw my future clearly. I had it all planned out. And yet, standing in our backyard, drawn by a strange impulse, I crouched and peered through the window into my basement. I had never seen if from this perspective. I saw what Natasha must have seen every time she came to the house. In the full light of summer, I looked into darkness. It was the end of my subterranean life.
In the book's elegant introduction, Eugenides differentiates the subject of love, and the love story:
What is this thing called a love story?
...When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession (true, true). The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims - these are lucky eventualities but they aren't love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name.
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| Edward Hopper Summer Evening |
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| Edward Hopper Room in New York, 1932 Oil on Canvas University of Nebraska Art Galleries |
And that's why I love asking people how they met. That's the love story - the obstacles two people face when they want to come together, but aren't exactly sure how - or maybe each is sure in his or her own way, but their methods differ and outsiders watching the story unfold can only hope they meet in the middle. And sometimes they never do meet in the middle. Something happens. Someone goes away for school, gets another job, changes their looks, their values, their taste. Or an overbearing family member (usually the mother) intervenes and even though their love is strong, "real-life" and all its responsibilities are stronger and you end up marrying a man or woman you were never attracted to while the love of your life goes the other way.
Those are stories I've heard quite often - they make me sad and tempt me to resign myself to fate, the kharmic "it is written," but also enliven me because behind every failed romance is a lesson.
Anyway, it's strange to be reading good, strong fiction again. The last bit of fiction I read was The Hunger Games and before that, there was a considerable dry spell. I wondered if I'd ever read fiction again, but there's nothing like a great anthology of love stories to bring me back. I dove in the volume this afternoon while sunbathing by the pool and felt like I was coming home.
I'll leave you with this haunting passage from David Bezmogis' "Natasha":
For context: the sixteen year old protagonist realizes he's fallen in love with his 14 year old step-cousin, who initiates him sexually one summer in his parents' basement. He falls in love with her, but his age prevents him from becoming someone who can truly protect her from her abusive mother and overall dire situation. He tries his best, but it's not enough and she tells him she's leaving for a safer place, another state. But he finds a few days later that she never left the town, but has instead moved into his drug dealer's home.
Not the best summary - but seriously, read the story. I highly recommend it.
In another country, under another code, it would have been my duty to return to Rufus's with a gun. But in the suburbs at the end of my sixteenth summer, this was not an option. Instead, I resorted to a form of civilized murder. By the time I reached my house everyone in Rufus's yard was dead. Rufus, Natasha, and my stoner friends. I would never see them again. By the time I got home I had already crafted a new identity. I would switch schools, change my wardrobe, move to another city. Later I would avenge myself with beautiful women, learn martial arts, and cultivate exotic experiences. I saw my future clearly. I had it all planned out. And yet, standing in our backyard, drawn by a strange impulse, I crouched and peered through the window into my basement. I had never seen if from this perspective. I saw what Natasha must have seen every time she came to the house. In the full light of summer, I looked into darkness. It was the end of my subterranean life.
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| Rene Magritte The Threatened Murderer (L'assasin menace), 1926 Oil on Canvas, New York, Collection MoMA |
Sunday: The State of the Desk
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| State of the Desk: Sunday, April 8, 2012. 1:12PM |
For my birthday two years ago my brother bought me a Kindle - he assumed I was running out of shelf-space (I was), and that, being the voracious reader I was, needed a one stop shop for all the books I had yet to read but had no room for. I played with the Kindle for all of twenty minutes before becoming frustrated with the functions. I knew from reading reviews that it was considered extremely user friendly and provided the ability to highlight passages and make notes...but typing on the tiny keys and navigating back and forth between slow-turning digital "pages" was not something I could ever integrate into my reading habits. I apologized for being an ungrateful sister and handed the Kindle back to him.
My brother was a bit surprised, but then shrugged. "Well, cool. I'm gonna use it then because I like it."
To each his own medium.
I've long been "the library" to many friends and family, because when I enter a bookstore (and god help my bank account if it's a used bookstore), I sweep up books as though 1984 was right around the corner. In Berkeley, even knowing full well I had an already overburdened bookshelf back home, I bought books by the dozens, quickly filling up the rickety IKEA bookshelf my father and I assembled when I first moved there. When it was time to move home I had a mild panic attack, wondering how I was going to make room for the books at home - but I made some edits and donated some paperbacks to the local library. It hurts to get rid of books, but sometimes I buy books like I buy clothes: for occasions that will never ever happen, and the dress or platform heels or derby hat gathers dust in my closet until some five years later I suck it up and give it away. It was never meant to be. Books can be like that - I think I bought a couple thick, really serious novels thinking it would push me towards becoming a (hopefully not too thick) really serious thinker/writer, but I'd open up the first page and find my eyes getting heavy even before I'd finished reading the first paragraph. Alas, Margaret Atwood and Wallace Stegner, we were just not meant to be.
Even after the edits, my bookshelf is as full as my closet, if not more so. The sad thing is, I've read, like really READ from cover to cover, about 15% of the books on my shelf. I'd estimate I have about 300 books on my shelf, which means I've read about 45. Wait. I have definitely not read 45 books from my bookshelf, but I definitely have about 300 books... I think the percentage is closer to 3. I've read about 10 of the books, cover to cover. The rest I've paged through, skimmed, started and stopped about 4 or 5 times or have just picked up and put right back. It's embarrassing because I write and I do read, just not books from my library, and when people come into my room, they see the desk, the bookshelf and say, "Whoa, this is SUCH a writer's desk. You've read so much!" And I only nod vaguely and say, "Yeah...." and pray they don't ask me to give them a run down of Edith Hamilton's Mythology or Alice Munro's The View from Castle Rock.
But that's about to change. Or so I hope. I've stopped going to the local library, not because I've outgrown it, but because it's never open when I need it to be. The government's budget chopping cut weekend hours altogether and shortened Monday and Friday closing time to 8PM. If it's one thing I can't stand, it's being rushed at the library. So I don't even bother. And why should I - I have a fine personal library that sits virtually unused except by others (though the bulk of my most loyal patrons have slowly slipped away into Kindle-land), and it's high time I started reading from my own shelves.
I'm starting small - short stories and such. Moby Dick and Jane Eyre...I'll see you guys in a few months...
Currently reading:
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This Is Not a Love Story
"Write something, even if it's just a suicide note."
-Gore Vidal
My writer's block persists. Thankfully, so do I, to some extent.
Last night I went on a date on second street in Long Beach. S and I met at a club last Saturday night where he'd gone with his younger sister and her boyfriend, all three of them needing a drink after they'd narrowly escaped with their lives. On their way home from dinner, a drunk driver ran a red light and nearly hit their car in an intersection - S saw his life flash before his eyes as the cars headlights flooded his peripheral vision, but at the same time, his foot never left the gas, only pressed harder and a millisecond later they had cleared the intersection, were still breathing and still alive.
I had gone out with my cousin Kathryn on a whim. It was Saturday night, which I had planned to stay in for, but when she suggested we go out, I thought, "I'm twenty-six. I ought to go out and do young people things." We chose Busby's, a convenient combination club/sports/dive bar that had good music (for us this means top 40's), cheap parking and no cover charge, the same things that attracted other young people (who I think are mostly younger) wanting to go out but not spend a ton of money or worry about what to wear. I had stood in front of my closet wondering how "jazzed up" I wanted to be when I decided it was not one of those Saturday nights. I wore what the editors of People Magazine would have labeled "steasy" - (Stylish and Easy, if you're dumb), a silk shirt and hoodie, a tight skirt and boat shoes. No jewelry, no makeup, freshly washed hair.
S came up to us dressed like a college kid - a purple hoodie, v-neck shirt and dark almost skinny jeans that tapered off into a pair of beat-up Vans. He was a good dancer and social too, though not knowing the story of how he'd just escaped with his life, I thought it was strange that he'd go to a club with his sister and her boyfriend. The young couple stood off to the side making out by the door while S danced with me and my cousin.
I gave him the look I normally reserve for extraterrestrials, "What are you, the world's happiest third wheel?"
He shook his head, "I knew you were gonna ask me that," then said enigmatically, "Look, we just came out to celebrate life right now."
I thought he had a gay touch (I'm not a fan of v-neck t-shirts on guys) and that he might still be in college, but nodded kindly and didn't ask any more questions. We danced, the three of us, though not even awkwardly as S was a good and lively dancer and seemed to be making friends all over the dance floor. A couple of Africans were celebrating a 21st birthday (I think they were lying), and at one point, asked S if they could take a photo with his "girls," meaning my cousin and I. They were so drunk they wanted photos with the only two girls not wearing any makeup. I said sure, and while S gamely took the photo for us, I made sure to smile like a maniac. Let the birthday boy go through his photos tomorrow and think, "Jesus what was I thinking."
My cousin and I didn't plan on staying too late, so around 12:30AM we gave each other the "It's time to bounce" look and turned to go.
S glanced at his sister then at me, "You're leaving? We're about to leave too, I think."
"Yeah, it was nice meeting you, S." I stuck out my hand, which he shook and then pulled me in for a hug.
"Give me your number," he said.
I pulled back and gave him the ET look again. Wasn't he gay? The word "beard" flashed in my head. Oh whatever. He was nice. Kinda skinny, kinda pasty, but nice. I gave him my number.
"I guess he wasn't gay," I said to Kathryn as we got into the car.
He asked me out to dinner the next day. I was then, more or less as I am now, in the business of being open minded. I wonder if with every bad or "eh" date, something narrows, but I think not - it's a learning process. I said, "Sure." He suggested Long Beach, a midpoint between Pasadena, where he lived and Orange, where I live. I thought, "Snoop Dogg's hood. I'm down."
We texted a bit before the actual date, and he called a few times. He had a nice voice but always sounded sleepy - he was an analyst at a small bank in Pasadena, but clarified saying that it was just a job title and what he really did was pull a lot of data for a lot of people, because they had recently laid off an entire department and expected him and his coworker to pick up all the slack.
"I hate it," he said, "But honestly, I don't know what I'd do otherwise."
I said he'd figure it out and asked him what he majored in in college.
He paused for a minute then said, "I didn't go to school."
"Oh, then how'd you get a job at a bank?"
"I started out as a temp, doing like admin paper pushing stuff, then they fired all the other temps and I was the only one, and I was sort of eager in the beginning. I wanted to learn as much as I could. Then they realized that I'd been temping for a year, so they gave me a full-time position."
I nodded, imagining the disapproval on my parent's faces. We weren't a super judgmental family, having a handful of pretty successful individuals who had never gone to college - and indeed I myself had come pretty close to being a permanent college dropout, but still, we are nothing if not hypocrites. My parent's judgmental expressions were pretty vivid during this conversation.
Later, the night before my date with S I saw the expressions form live.
"Oh honey," my mother said sadly, "Don't waste your time with this one."
"It won't go anywhere," my dad said gruffly, "Raise the bar for yourself a little bit, will you?"
"He's nice," I said. Had I still been a rebellious teenager I would have lied and said we were close to becoming engaged, but I knew from the few conversations S and I had had that it really wouldn't go anywhere. It wasn't one of those, "Oh you never know," things - I had outgrown those a few dates back. What I hadn't outgrown or gotten rid of was the tendency to, once the conversation had started, to go on dates out of courtesy. But I'm a writer. Everything is copy. So I went for the copy.
I turned a thirty minute drive into forty minutes because I got lost and got on the wrong freeway. He was running late too. I was listening to rap music, hoping it would put me in a long beach state of mind. We had decided to meet at a Mediterranean restaurant called Open Sesame and I got there before he did, scoring a prime parking spot right in front of the restaurant, which was bursting at the seams with people. When he walked up the certainty of my knowing it wouldn't go anywhere was only compounded. He was too skinny. Skinnier than I'd remembered and his jaw tapered down almost to a sharp point. He had bad skin. His teeth were crooked. He wore a checkered shirt and white v-neck t-shirt underneath. There was something gaunt about his eyes, which weren't hungry but tired and defeated. Without the loud music and the energy of having just escaped with his life, S was much more subdued. Shy, even. He apologized profusely for being late. I shrugged, saying I had been late too. Calm down.
The wait at Open Sesame would be thirty-five minutes. It was already 9PM and I wasn't in the business of eating too much, too late. He didn't know what to do and put his name down and was about to reach for the buzzer when I said, "I don't want to wait thirty-five minutes, let's go somewhere else."
He nodded and then proceeded to point to every restaurant on the street, "How does that one look? Or that one?" I said nothing until we walked in front of a sushi restaurant. It was mildly packed. "Here," I said. He opened the door.
I answered some work emails while he debated between halibut and cod.
"Get both," I said, then, glancing down at my phone, "I'm sorry, my boss is mad at me about something and I really just want to get it done right now."
A perky waitress with a thick Japanese accent came to take our order. At the last minute I ordered freshwater eel and a seaweed salad. Might as well. I smiled at her and said thank you when she brought our tea.
"You're so nice," he said.
I thought, "No, you are."
When the waitress brought the seaweed salad I pulled apart my disposable chopsticks and felt a splinter. The restaurant was dark though, so I couldn't see it, only feel it and was then consumed by it. I nodded absent-minded as he told me about his day and asked me about my job. I wanted nothing more than to have a pair of tweezers and a brighter light.
We ate and I, intermittently rubbing where the splinter was, asked probing questions about his family, which he answered willingly and honestly. He was half Chinese and half Mexican and came from a broken home. His parents had divorced when he was one, his mom remarried a man he disliked and gave birth to two daughters, his half sisters with whom he had alright relationships with. He disliked his stepfather who disliked him back. His biological father was a seventy-year old Chinese man with a predilection for marriage. He had married four times. They were never close, but recently, his dad was diagnosed with colon cancer which made S realize he should reach out a bit more. Pity the man.
He told me all this and I nodded, admiring the fact that he was trying to patch things up with his father and that he made an effort to spend more time with his sisters, especially the younger one, whom he'd gone to Busby's with.
"What about you?" he asked, "Are you close with your family?"
"Yes," I said shortly. The splinter was really irritating me.
"That's so great."
"It is."
He ate slowly for a minute, searching for something to say while I studied my hand. My phone pinged and I reached for it. It was my boss again, nothing urgent, but I didn't like to leave his messages unanswered for too long. I responded, then went back to hunting for the splinter.
Finally, I spied it - the tiniest sliver of balsa wood, or whatever those cheap disposable chopsticks are made of, sticking up across the smooth inside curve of my hand. I pinched it out and felt ready to smile again.
"I got it," I said.
"What?"
"The splinter. The chopsticks, they gave me a splinter."
He looked relieved, "Oh, why didn't you say something earlier? I could have helped you get it out."
I looked at him, thinking back to a random factoid my cousin had once told me. If you leave a splinter in and it works its way into your veins and bloodstream, it could pierce your heart and instantly kill you. But I would live another night. I saw in his earnest expression the image of his head bent over my hand, the glistening sushi sitting patiently near our elbows, waiting to be consumed with cheap disposable chopsticks. I was certain he would never touch my hands. I would never see him again, like so many others, after this night, and maybe he felt the same way about me. But we were still sitting across from each other at a sushi restaurant in Long Beach.
"It's okay," I said, "I got it out."
"That's good. Those things can be pretty painful."
I laughed, "Yeah."
"So it's all good. Everything's good. No more splinters."
"Everything's good for now, " I said.
He asked for the bill and when it came, paid it swiftly.
"You can get next time," he said.
I smiled and stood up. "Thank you, I'll get dessert."
-Gore Vidal
My writer's block persists. Thankfully, so do I, to some extent.
Last night I went on a date on second street in Long Beach. S and I met at a club last Saturday night where he'd gone with his younger sister and her boyfriend, all three of them needing a drink after they'd narrowly escaped with their lives. On their way home from dinner, a drunk driver ran a red light and nearly hit their car in an intersection - S saw his life flash before his eyes as the cars headlights flooded his peripheral vision, but at the same time, his foot never left the gas, only pressed harder and a millisecond later they had cleared the intersection, were still breathing and still alive.
I had gone out with my cousin Kathryn on a whim. It was Saturday night, which I had planned to stay in for, but when she suggested we go out, I thought, "I'm twenty-six. I ought to go out and do young people things." We chose Busby's, a convenient combination club/sports/dive bar that had good music (for us this means top 40's), cheap parking and no cover charge, the same things that attracted other young people (who I think are mostly younger) wanting to go out but not spend a ton of money or worry about what to wear. I had stood in front of my closet wondering how "jazzed up" I wanted to be when I decided it was not one of those Saturday nights. I wore what the editors of People Magazine would have labeled "steasy" - (Stylish and Easy, if you're dumb), a silk shirt and hoodie, a tight skirt and boat shoes. No jewelry, no makeup, freshly washed hair.
S came up to us dressed like a college kid - a purple hoodie, v-neck shirt and dark almost skinny jeans that tapered off into a pair of beat-up Vans. He was a good dancer and social too, though not knowing the story of how he'd just escaped with his life, I thought it was strange that he'd go to a club with his sister and her boyfriend. The young couple stood off to the side making out by the door while S danced with me and my cousin.
I gave him the look I normally reserve for extraterrestrials, "What are you, the world's happiest third wheel?"
He shook his head, "I knew you were gonna ask me that," then said enigmatically, "Look, we just came out to celebrate life right now."
I thought he had a gay touch (I'm not a fan of v-neck t-shirts on guys) and that he might still be in college, but nodded kindly and didn't ask any more questions. We danced, the three of us, though not even awkwardly as S was a good and lively dancer and seemed to be making friends all over the dance floor. A couple of Africans were celebrating a 21st birthday (I think they were lying), and at one point, asked S if they could take a photo with his "girls," meaning my cousin and I. They were so drunk they wanted photos with the only two girls not wearing any makeup. I said sure, and while S gamely took the photo for us, I made sure to smile like a maniac. Let the birthday boy go through his photos tomorrow and think, "Jesus what was I thinking."
My cousin and I didn't plan on staying too late, so around 12:30AM we gave each other the "It's time to bounce" look and turned to go.
S glanced at his sister then at me, "You're leaving? We're about to leave too, I think."
"Yeah, it was nice meeting you, S." I stuck out my hand, which he shook and then pulled me in for a hug.
"Give me your number," he said.
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| Rene Magritte The Treason of the Pictures (This is Not a Pipe) 1928-9. |
"I guess he wasn't gay," I said to Kathryn as we got into the car.
He asked me out to dinner the next day. I was then, more or less as I am now, in the business of being open minded. I wonder if with every bad or "eh" date, something narrows, but I think not - it's a learning process. I said, "Sure." He suggested Long Beach, a midpoint between Pasadena, where he lived and Orange, where I live. I thought, "Snoop Dogg's hood. I'm down."
We texted a bit before the actual date, and he called a few times. He had a nice voice but always sounded sleepy - he was an analyst at a small bank in Pasadena, but clarified saying that it was just a job title and what he really did was pull a lot of data for a lot of people, because they had recently laid off an entire department and expected him and his coworker to pick up all the slack.
"I hate it," he said, "But honestly, I don't know what I'd do otherwise."
I said he'd figure it out and asked him what he majored in in college.
He paused for a minute then said, "I didn't go to school."
"Oh, then how'd you get a job at a bank?"
"I started out as a temp, doing like admin paper pushing stuff, then they fired all the other temps and I was the only one, and I was sort of eager in the beginning. I wanted to learn as much as I could. Then they realized that I'd been temping for a year, so they gave me a full-time position."
I nodded, imagining the disapproval on my parent's faces. We weren't a super judgmental family, having a handful of pretty successful individuals who had never gone to college - and indeed I myself had come pretty close to being a permanent college dropout, but still, we are nothing if not hypocrites. My parent's judgmental expressions were pretty vivid during this conversation.
Later, the night before my date with S I saw the expressions form live.
"Oh honey," my mother said sadly, "Don't waste your time with this one."
"It won't go anywhere," my dad said gruffly, "Raise the bar for yourself a little bit, will you?"
"He's nice," I said. Had I still been a rebellious teenager I would have lied and said we were close to becoming engaged, but I knew from the few conversations S and I had had that it really wouldn't go anywhere. It wasn't one of those, "Oh you never know," things - I had outgrown those a few dates back. What I hadn't outgrown or gotten rid of was the tendency to, once the conversation had started, to go on dates out of courtesy. But I'm a writer. Everything is copy. So I went for the copy.
I turned a thirty minute drive into forty minutes because I got lost and got on the wrong freeway. He was running late too. I was listening to rap music, hoping it would put me in a long beach state of mind. We had decided to meet at a Mediterranean restaurant called Open Sesame and I got there before he did, scoring a prime parking spot right in front of the restaurant, which was bursting at the seams with people. When he walked up the certainty of my knowing it wouldn't go anywhere was only compounded. He was too skinny. Skinnier than I'd remembered and his jaw tapered down almost to a sharp point. He had bad skin. His teeth were crooked. He wore a checkered shirt and white v-neck t-shirt underneath. There was something gaunt about his eyes, which weren't hungry but tired and defeated. Without the loud music and the energy of having just escaped with his life, S was much more subdued. Shy, even. He apologized profusely for being late. I shrugged, saying I had been late too. Calm down.
The wait at Open Sesame would be thirty-five minutes. It was already 9PM and I wasn't in the business of eating too much, too late. He didn't know what to do and put his name down and was about to reach for the buzzer when I said, "I don't want to wait thirty-five minutes, let's go somewhere else."
He nodded and then proceeded to point to every restaurant on the street, "How does that one look? Or that one?" I said nothing until we walked in front of a sushi restaurant. It was mildly packed. "Here," I said. He opened the door.
I answered some work emails while he debated between halibut and cod.
"Get both," I said, then, glancing down at my phone, "I'm sorry, my boss is mad at me about something and I really just want to get it done right now."
A perky waitress with a thick Japanese accent came to take our order. At the last minute I ordered freshwater eel and a seaweed salad. Might as well. I smiled at her and said thank you when she brought our tea.
"You're so nice," he said.
I thought, "No, you are."
When the waitress brought the seaweed salad I pulled apart my disposable chopsticks and felt a splinter. The restaurant was dark though, so I couldn't see it, only feel it and was then consumed by it. I nodded absent-minded as he told me about his day and asked me about my job. I wanted nothing more than to have a pair of tweezers and a brighter light.
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| Rene Magritte Discovery, 1927 Oil on Canvas. Brussels, Private Collection. |
He told me all this and I nodded, admiring the fact that he was trying to patch things up with his father and that he made an effort to spend more time with his sisters, especially the younger one, whom he'd gone to Busby's with.
"What about you?" he asked, "Are you close with your family?"
"Yes," I said shortly. The splinter was really irritating me.
"That's so great."
"It is."
He ate slowly for a minute, searching for something to say while I studied my hand. My phone pinged and I reached for it. It was my boss again, nothing urgent, but I didn't like to leave his messages unanswered for too long. I responded, then went back to hunting for the splinter.
Finally, I spied it - the tiniest sliver of balsa wood, or whatever those cheap disposable chopsticks are made of, sticking up across the smooth inside curve of my hand. I pinched it out and felt ready to smile again.
"I got it," I said.
"What?"
"The splinter. The chopsticks, they gave me a splinter."
He looked relieved, "Oh, why didn't you say something earlier? I could have helped you get it out."
I looked at him, thinking back to a random factoid my cousin had once told me. If you leave a splinter in and it works its way into your veins and bloodstream, it could pierce your heart and instantly kill you. But I would live another night. I saw in his earnest expression the image of his head bent over my hand, the glistening sushi sitting patiently near our elbows, waiting to be consumed with cheap disposable chopsticks. I was certain he would never touch my hands. I would never see him again, like so many others, after this night, and maybe he felt the same way about me. But we were still sitting across from each other at a sushi restaurant in Long Beach.
"It's okay," I said, "I got it out."
"That's good. Those things can be pretty painful."
I laughed, "Yeah."
"So it's all good. Everything's good. No more splinters."
"Everything's good for now, " I said.
He asked for the bill and when it came, paid it swiftly.
"You can get next time," he said.
I smiled and stood up. "Thank you, I'll get dessert."
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