Skip to main content

Story (Work)

She’s moving meetings again.

Your employer wanted a meeting to discuss a recent meeting, so you set up the new meeting. But then that new meeting needed to be shortened, moved, and renamed, and then, on the day of Meeting about the Meeting, there was again a late change, such that the other participants in the meeting, who never wanted the meeting, were flummoxed and disgruntled. “It takes two to tango,” say several sage observers. And: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” But what would the solution be? 

One answer: Make your face very, very blank. In the Tonya Harding movie, the assailant says, “I made myself blank before I went for the kneecap, because when you’re blank, everyone around you calms down.” So: Your employer says, “Write me a reminder to call my dentist. I have a toothache.” Surely this exceeds the parameters of your job description? Surely the toothache is itself its own reminder? Surely a simple phone call, then and there, in the moment, would obviate the need for all reminders? Think none of this. Empty your brain. Privately chant, “Blank face. Blank face. Blank face.” Chekhov says, “In reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.” In your head, chant: “Dignity. Dignity. Dignity.”

Or: There is Raymond Carver, dealing with his senile mother. Late in life, she would always find everything unsatisfactory: The icebox didn't work. The air-conditioner shot out hot air. Carver would exhaust himself with (useless) practical advice--till he recalled what his own father would say when The Ball and Chain would become irrational. He would adopt a soothing tone. He would say, “Dear. Dear, try not to be afraid. Try not to worry so much.”

Spend money. Overeat. Consider new hobbies, or resumed hobbies, such as running! Or making your own YouTube series. A YouTube series! Or: what if you became *politically* involved?

Think too much about death. About the possibility of feeling imprisoned in your own body--having a functional mind and a worthless body, a worthless tongue, a tongue unable to say, “Get me out of here.”

Write it all down, as a source of momentary relief. Sigh. Sip your coffee. Carry on.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more