Some days I am convinced the office janitor, whom I’ve never met face-to-face, knows more about me and my life, than the people I live and work with every day. Glancing at my glaring computer screen I realize it’s only 10:17 and yet I can’t count on one hand how many times this morning I’ve been asked the cordial, but arguably meaningless question, "How are you today?"
Oddly, not one person who uttered this ritualistic greeting has any more insight into my state of being than they had before asking it. I’ve tried mustering more than a simple "fine," but its funny how folks are halfway down the hall just as I start to open up—and I don’t want charity sympathy anyway. Nothing’s worse than opening up to someone who could care less because they’re late to a meeting
Doing fine," I always say. Making a mental note to ponder later whether I’ve just told a lie which should be repented of in confession.
Yesterday wasn’t one of my most beautiful days at work. I wondered what it was with Mondays. I was beginning to believe they were all cursed and it seemed there was no avoiding it. Even holidays and birthdays, where you’d expect a good chance of having a good day, anything on a Monday seemed to be screwed up, no matter how hard I worked against it. I’d concluded Mondays weren’t good for anything except breakfast gin and tonics.
By the end of the yesterday my waste bin was full of junk food wrappings. My garbage always seemed to reveal the kind of day I’ve had, thus giving the janitor a bit more insight into me. Tossed in first was a very empty, super size cheez-it bag, the breakfast of champions according to me. I ate to help calm my nerves, and after blowing the presentation I made to the change committee (whatever the hell that is) which included the high-strung, anal honcho my boss reported to, I certainly needed a release of adrenaline. It was my best effort to sell a service improvement, which one of my more high maintenance clients was demanding.
It was long before noon yesterday when I deleted the second departmental memo of the day from my inbox. I heard a joke awhile back about fruitcake—supposedly only one exists—It just keeps getting passed around. I was beginning to think this companies memos were like fruitcake, recycled. "Work smarter, not harder," they repeated. "Focus, focus, focus." You would think that since it was a given they were going to propagandize us every single week they could at least spice the notes up to keep our attention. But although the memos were near worthless in effecting change, at least they brought a smile to my face. And eating a jelly donut while reading them never hurt either. Thankfully, the agonizing Monday had passed quickly.
I was determined that today would be more successful than yesterday, and so far, I had resisted partaking from the commonly available pile of greasy donuts. It seemed there was a never-ending supply of sugar around the office. Returning to my desk from a trip to the cafeteria’s coffee pot, I glanced at the 3x5 photo of Catie and I, displayed to the left of my monitor. Our skin tan, smiles glowing, matching chocolate brown hair and blue eyes—we looked young, alive and blissful as we sat on the nearby Redondo beach enjoying the summer sunset. Thoughts of dinners and weekends with Catie kept my workdays manageable. We were a classic example of opposites attracting. Catie was usually optimistic and a dreamer. Full of energy and destined to be dealt a good hand in life.
My thoughts were interrupted by Joe, my cubicle neighbor.
"How’s it going Charlie?" he asked.
"Doing fine Joe, just fine… Trying to make some headway on this to do list," I chimed
Joe went on to tell me about the progress he was making on the policy he was drafting and how management was eating up all the changes he was proposing. I had a sneaking suspicion his changes were the driving force behind the increase in memos. Of course, I couldn’t prove it, but I believed Joe was hired as the company’s solution to avoid an argument between certain members of management on whether or not to give me a shot at being promoted to Joe’s current job.
Joe had been on board just two months and he had already been tasked to oversee a major initiative and manage all seven people working on it. He had the ear of a senior vice president and was making a hundred fifty thousand a year, plus a few perks. He was a fresh new face. I was equal to last year’s overstocked merchandise, at best.
At age thirty-three, I’ve learned a thing or two about success and how to achieve it. You just gotta be a damn working fool. Sure, I likely could have landed a six figure job had I been willing to live and breathe Sumptor Financials vision, whether it be Monday morning at eight am or a sunny afternoon during my "vacation". Heck, like anyone I get some satisfaction out of satisfying company clients, but not that much. And being a financial advisor there was never an absence of work to do, if I was willing.
Last summer I had begun really giving work my all for several months, putting in a minimum fifty, sixty hours a week. I began trading in my Friday night pool games and Saturday workouts for dates with Sumptor client portfolios. As I saw it, I was well on my way to being recognized by the people that mattered, at least professionally speaking.
Week after week I canceled dates with Catie; surprisingly she grumbled little, busying herself with friends, adjusting to support me. I wondered why she put up with me. If it had been the other way around I’d have been ticked after a week or two and demanded she put work on the back burner. I knew I owed her big time, she was an angel. Catie’s ability to be supportive and forgiving was so overwhelming, at times it irritated me. I hated feeling so guilty.
It was then, during my efforts to dedicate myself to Sumptor that my mother dramatically, but not surprisingly, arrived on the scene. Marge had never been an average, predictable sort of mother. Her character often appeared oddly entertaining from a distance, but at a minimum irritating to anyone who needed anything from her, like her children. Her moods were always on a rollercoaster, but with many more valleys than peaks.
Last fall brought a huge dip, as she began rapidly leaving the world of normal thought as we know it. It was always a challenge determining whether to baby Marge or let her fend for herself. My instincts were to keep my distance; not only because of the fact I didn’t really like her very much, but because I was afraid if I didn’t distance myself she would drag me down with her and God knows living with her the first eighteen years of my life had already screwed me up enough.
My mother had given birth to her two sons back in the seventies. Like many people in the seventies she had joined the masses of free loving people which resulted in what I believe were thousands of "unwanted" children. In Marge’s case she was a young eighteen year old when she became pregnant with me; her age only added to the tragedy; though I would say Marge really shouldn’t have ever had children.
My younger brother Harry, aspiring to make a living by acting—like thousands of other people—was currently living in a dirt-cheap, neglected studio apartment somewhere outside Hollywood waiting for the big career making opportunity he was confident would come. Harry and I rarely saw eye-to-eye on things; but although I often accused him of living in denial, I’ll admit he was more successful than I at moving on into adulthood and living his life. Harry was sure I was destined to have the average career and average life, raising two point three children. He said he had always known he didn’t want that life and was working hard to avoid it. I didn’t know yet what I thought of his predictions for my future. What a reassuring thought to know how hard he was working to avoid the life he predicted I would have.
It didn’t surprise me that Harry had pursued acting. Hell, both of us had experienced enough just living with mother to make us Oscar worthy. Marge’s life was the stuff network mini-movies were made of. Harry and I were floating on driftwood from the wreckage of her life; just hoping the waves would carry us to a resort island sometime soon.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in late November, and after several months of constant overtime, I was pretty happy with my progress and feeling optimistic and it was an unusually bright and warm day for the Seattle area. It was then that my mother made an entrance, demanding my time and energy. I returned to my desk at the office after an hour-long meeting to find my message light blinking, which in and of itself was nothing out of the ordinary. I dialed in. "You have three new messages." I listened, erased and continued on to the second message and then the third. Not surprisingly, all three were from my mother. The messages were short but revealing. On top of the fact that she was in a tizzy trying to reach me, her voice sounded awkward and fearful. Within the messages I had managed to gather that someone was coming for her and something about how the cars driving by her house were spying on her.
I knew by instinct that this was not a real life emergency. Marge had never been the type who would ever be nominated for "mother of the year." She was fifty going on sixteen, and that was on a good day. Some of us just never want to grow up and she never did. Harry and I had always known that the only inheritance we would ever receive from our parents was a lifetime of required therapy sessions, anxiety disorders and various addictions. I wasn’t a big believer in the stereotype that with gray hair comes wisdom.
Once in awhile when I was feeling really sorry for myself I would imagine what my life would’ve been like had I been born to a "leave it to beaver" kind of mother. I imagined the smell of warm chocolate chip cookies welcoming me as I came home from school, and evenings spent helping her make dinner. I imagined her arriving early to my band recitals to make sure she would hear every note of my trumpet solo. I imagined her planning birthday parties for Harry and I; and bringing homemade cupcakes to school for the class. I pictured her telling dad how well I was doing in school and what a fine young man I would become.
I pictured her pursuing hobbies, making friends and not worrying about who was driving by. I imagined her reading to us, just sitting still once in awhile. Marge was a woman who never sat in peace for long and yet with all her moving about, she never accomplished much.
I had thought over her voice mails and pondered whether to call her back while at work. It was always an interesting event trying to keep my voice low as I attempted to convince her that the celery in her refrigerator was not sending her messages and that I was sure the doctor had not placed a camera in her brain during her last routine check-up. It was always hard to get her off the phone.
"Charlie" she’d say, "don’t you care that they are coming to get me?
I knew her well enough to be pretty certain that the mail was piling up in her mailbox and that the cat probably hadn’t been let out for days. Two weeks ago when I visited last, she made sure I parked a block away and snuck in through the back door out of fear that "the people" who watched her every move would see me drive up, follow me in and take her away.
Somehow she just knew her bank was collaborating with her doctor and the images being scanned in her brain by the camera they’d inserted were going to bring her demise very soon. She told me she was afraid to think out of fear they were writing down her every thought to later use against her. Renewing her meds was hell; she hated the doctor since she couldn’t trust him. It was huge ordeal getting her in the doctor’s office and once there she would smile and chat only about the office décor, which she declared was lovely.
I sometimes wondered if the doctor thought I was the one who was crazy. Marge always had a really crafty way of appearing fairly normal to those who had yet to experience first hand her odd behaviors. Her ability to blend into certain situations made me wonder if I underestimated her intelligence, which in turn made me wonder what she was really all about. It maddened me that I couldn’t decide whether she even somewhat understood what she put other people through or whether she was truly oblivious as to the drama her life brought to all who knew her.
I wanted to ask Marge why she thought anyone would be so preoccupied with detaining her that they would be willing to devote 24 hours of seven days a week just to keep surveillance on her front door waiting to arrest her. Marge was the sole star in the soap opera drama her life had become. The whole damn thing, written by, directed by and starring Marge Duece. Turmoil seemed to be the fuel that kept her life running. Never a days rest for Marge. I mean after all, her thoughts were so darn valuable “they” had planted talking celery in her fridge in effort to get her to divulge her secrets.
After listening to her voice mails, I glanced around the office to take stock of who was within earshot. My boss was across the way but engulfed in a friendly "get-to-know-you" conversation with a senior vice president discussing what their upcoming holiday plans were; so it didn’t appear his attention would be diverted my way anytime soon. I decided I had better check in with my mom; I knew well enough that I couldn’t avoid her.
I picked up the phone, dialed and waited. It rang five times before the answering machine picked up. Her message hadn’t changed since she got the machine four years ago; and for that matter, nothing inside her small three-bedroom condo had changed either. Whatever domestic ability she had years ago, was no longer present. Wall hangings in colors from the seventies covered her walls, and what little furniture she did have looked exactly like what could be bought for five dollars at the local thrift store. The fact that her place was adorned with so many things from my childhood only made it more difficult to visit. I had no nostalgia to draw upon.
A few seconds after the fifth ring, a high-tech altered female voice came on and indicated that I should leave a message and that it would be returned promptly. I spoke knowing my mother was home and could hear me.
"Hello… this is Charlie," I had said.
Before I could go on, she picked up the phone and began cluttering my mind with facts she had gathered that proved people were in cohorts against her. There was a yellow car parked outside her neighbors house, she had noticed it while peeking through a slit in her dining room blinds, and she knew her neighbor didn’t own a yellow car; and on top of that when she woke up this morning she found her jug of milk in the pantry closet and knew she had not moved it from the fridge.
"They were inside my house last night," she cried.
I knew I would end up making a visit to her house tonight. Harry didn’t generally receive these kind of phone calls as he had strategically moved out of state after high-school making it very inconvenient for him to visit Marge. I guess Harry was smarter than I gave him credit for.
I talked softly and slowly, attempting to convince Marge that it was possible that maybe she had accidentally put the milk in the pantry. "No", she said. "I wouldn’t have done that; I always put the milk back in the fridge." I didn’t push the issue any further; knowing I wasn’t going to make any headway. I resisted the urge to suggest that maybe the produce in her fridge had told her to put the milk in the pantry. I smiled and wondered how she would’ve responded if I had said that.
Part of me believed having a husband around would’ve relieved the pressure Marge put on Harry and I. It seemed likely to me that our father divorcing Marge after eighteen years of marriage aggravated her oddities and dementia. Take her drama queen personality and cross it with the genetic make-up she’d been dealt and it equaled a story ready for the local evening news.
My father had always been a passive person. Looking back he did what anyone married to Marge would have had to do, he lived a detached life. Oddly at times it was his personality I found more frightful. I never really knew him, never knew what he was thinking. Often we see the silent volcano’s do the most damage. No one is prepared. Ever notice how folks in the wid-west deal with huge amounts of snow better than folks on the west coast who get an inch or two? I’ve learned it’s all about expectation and responsive preparation.
I suppose if I had to give Marge credit for something, atleast I always knew what was on her mind, which aided a bit in dealing with her. Not to say I understood what was on her mind, that was certainly not true.
Our phone call lasted twenty minutes, and finally I was able to place the phone back on the receiver. It seemed I could never say the right thing to comfort her and yet if I didn’t say anything she got riled up even more. The conversation ended with me promising to stop by tonight after work.
"Charlie, could you bring some cat food when you come?" She had asked.
I felt sorry for that cat, but I knew if I tried to rescue it, she would lose it all together and ask to move in with me, heaven forbid. I tried not to think about how long the cat had gone without food. But regardless, I was sure it was getting better care than us kids had ever gotten growing up. Marge was the kind of mother who thought children were old enough to be left home alone at the age of eight. And after all, what did we need her for? We had seen her make dinner enough times that we should be able to recreate her "masterpieces" as she called them. Steak tartar, which featured raw hamburger, was her favorite. I called it the "lazy mans gourmet," believing that people who ate raw meat only did so to avoid babysitting dinner on the stove.
Living with Marge made me understand the adage "if I had a dime for every time…" So often family, friends, even co-workers had offered me naïve advice on how to "handle" my mother. Funny thing was, none of them had any experience living or dealing with anyone even close to the likes of Marge. "Just commit her," they’d say. Or, "there are so many homes for the elderly around here." The advice I hated the most was, "Tell her how you feel. Surely if she knew how much she impacts you she would care enough to change." It was aggravating advice like that that really made my blood boil; as if I was stupid enough to never have tried to have a “heart-to-heart” with my mother in all my thirty three years.
It was as though people thought that dealing with Marge was as easy as calling animal control. I laughed to myself and imagined such a scenario. "Yea, I’ve got a stray mother here, if you could just come and pick her up…thanks." I wish. Today’s laws were designed to defend Marge, not the people who take care of and have to deal with her. I’d like to know what idiot drafted rules that require cooperation from a crazy person in order to treat them. Sure didn’t make a heck a lot of sense to me. A few years ago I had looked into finding a home where Marge would be supervised. I soon gave up when I realized I’d have to get her to sign papers that basically stated she was crazy and needed help. Marge was her own biggest fan and was convinced she was as normal as anyone else and didn’t need any supervision.
Her phone calls to me at the office had become a daily ritual. Soon my overtime dwindled, replaced with stops at her place every evening. It wasn’t that I was a devoted, selfless son. I think it was more that a part of me wanted a distraction from work. My desire to pursue the promotion at work was feigning. I knew I had a lot of competition and I hated that; and more so I was tired of kissing ass, pretending to respect the guys above me just for the sake of networking. I gave into the temptation to put work aside and divert my career frustrations by focusing on my mother for awhile. It was typical of me to take on something with full force, like my aim at a promotion, and get burned out trying within three months or so.
And so I took on the battle with Marge, trying my darndest to get her to accept help; but she was as adamant as ever that she didn’t need anything from anyone. A quick search around her house revealed the trigger of this last trip downhill. I always knew where to look. Her prescription bottles were pretty full. I asked her if she had been taking her pills every day; all the while knowing she wouldn’t tell me the truth. Despite what she said, I gathered she hadn’t. I gave her a speech about how she needed to take them everyday, even when she thought she felt great and didn’t need to. Her thoughts and actions were always ten times as wild when her body was screwed up from not having a daily dose of medication.
Eventually, after weeks of visits and well-crafted comments on my part, I was able to influence her to work her medication back into her daily routine. Slowly her behavior went from utterly insane to manageably crazy; and visits to her house slowed to a weekly occurrence. I was free to take up work again, but I had lost my edge and my competition had forged ahead. Joe was on board.
I took a deep breath and silently coached myself on how to focus my thoughts on the pile of work before me. I settled into my fifty-nine dollar office chair and determined I would focus intently and accomplish an item or two on my to do list before leaving the office, which wasn’t all that easy to do with Joe babbling on into his receiver behind me. After a slurry of emails, phone calls, and a few visitors, the second working day of the week came to a close. I placed the client files I had worked on throughout the day back in their alphabetical homes in my steel locked cabinet. I shut down my laptop and muttered a "good evening" to Joe as I walked past his cubicle. He replied with a cheery smile and wishes for me to have a nice evening.
It didn’t seem to bother him that he would be at work through the dinner hour with just a sparse few overachieving employees and the office white noise. I wondered how long his optimism would last. Walking past the elevator I took the two flights of stairs down to the front lobby. Walking past the receptionist’s desk, I muttered a greeting to Fred, our night-shift security guard. He replied with a weak "good evening." I sure hoped the building never experienced a real life emergency on Fred’s shift. He was in his late sixties and walked with a limp. I headed out through the wide glass entrance doors and glanced around the immediate rows of reserved parking spaces filled with expensive cars that belonged to people like Joe.
Walking quickly past the trophy cars I caught sight of my four year old silver civic two rows back. I walked toward it making sure to keep my gaze forward, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the parking lot out of fear of getting drawn into a dry, work related conversation during my off hours.
Walking up to my car I turned off it’s alarm, climbed inside and quickly left the parking lot, hastily joining the crowd of other stressed, speeding drivers on the interstate freeway. With my right hand I reached over to the seat and fished around in my briefcase for my cell phone. Flipping the top open, I awkwardly dialed Catie’s cell number with my eyes darting back and forth from the road to my phone’s keypad. After five shrill mechanical rings her voice mail picked up. I left a short message asking what her dinner plans were and inviting her to join me at my place if she was free. A likely scenario was that Catie was putting finishing touches on prep work for the next school day at Biever elementary where she taught restless third-graders.
In my mind teaching was a crazy profession for anyone to voluntarily sign up for. I’d sooner hang myself before offering to rear thirty hellions day in and day out for a measly check that barely covered rent and the cost of extra necessary items purchased with my own money in effort to keep the classroom afloat. I didn’t understand her dedication and continued energy, but it made her close to a saint in my book. I all the two years I’d known Catie, she was consistently one of those uncommon people who spent her life on other people rather than to achieve a personal agenda.
With my eyes on the road I reached over to crank up the radio. Pushing my stereo’s preset buttons I moved from one stations traffic report to another; finally settling on a less preferred station, but one that was actually playing some damn music. I wondered who actually listened to the radio before making driving decisions. I didn’t, which meant I didn’t need to hear a traffic report telling me about the traffic jam I was sitting in.
My car slowly inching forward in the right lane, I maneuvered my way toward the inside lane of the freeway in an attempt to avoid shifting this way and that as waves of cars entered and exited the freeway ahead of and behind me. The 5 heading north was a guaranteed rush hour headache, everybody heading out of Seattle up north. Ever working to be more optimistic, I coached myself on appreciating the view of the bay, the needle and all that made Seattle the unique city it was--all of it was close enough to be seen from the freeway.
Trying to take my mind off the road I thought about the work day that had just passed. I thought about whether it had amounted to much. Another nine hours spent bending the truth, covering my ass and waiting for 5 o'clock to come. In moments like these when no one was around I'd become my more vulnerable self and ponder about what it must be like to work with someone like myself. I'd like to think I didn’t fall prey to common tricks that offered the easy way out, but I wondered how often I gave in and just passed the buck. It was difficult to know the truth since my perspective was usually self-serving.
The way I see it there are only a handful of facts about life that are indisputable. One of which being that no one is perfect. Whatever the hell perfect is anyway. Armed with that knowledge it's pretty hard to hold grudges against other people. It seems everyone learns fairly early in life that one skill every successful person must have is the art of blame. Being able to craftily blame other people for everything gone wrong is critical to corporate success. The only exception being the occasional person who makes a lucky draw and climbs their way to the top of the corporate ladder by accident.
Glancing to the right of my car I saw a suited driver, likely in his mid fourties, jerking his black convertible BMW Roadster forward a few inches at a time. Though he had the top up I could still hear his music, which sounded like the Rolling Stones. His cars appearance was pristine and must've recently been washed and waxed. As far as I was concerned that automobile symbolized all that every American wanted, or thought he needed--I guess. I wondered where the bloke driving it was headed and whether his house was comparatively as nice. I wondered what his family thought of him or if he had family. I wondered if he thought he had it all and concluded he likely thought he had very little. I wondered why I cared. I had a sneaking suspicion his life wasn't quite as carefree as a naive envious person like myself might think; but I still wanted to trade places, so I could thoroughly decide after first hand experience.
The traffic was heavy as ever, and by the display of purple and gold window clings I surmised there was a football game either just ending or beginning soon. Trying my best to keep my blood pressure level, I sat back in my seat and relaxed my legs hoping it would help me be less irritated with the habitual lane changers and careless A type drivers. Focusing forward, through my front windshield I noticed the car ahead of me had a bumper sticker that read, "Mean People Suck." I wanted to know who didn't think mean people sucked. Why would anyone devote space to proclaim such an obvious fact? I didn't get it, with all the unique things an individual could declare…
Ahead to the right I noticed the black BMW Roadster had managed to gain a whole 20 feet on me. All his jerking this way and that didn't seem to me to be successful, but who was I kidding, I was usually that kind of driver. But strangely, I often drove less aggressively after a stressful day at work. I guess the energy just wasn't there.
Forty minutes later I hit my exit, and veered to the right heading into the Northgate area and down the main street to my gated apartment complex. As I pulled into space #37, my cell phone rang. It was Catie. I made effort to greet her politely, which wasn’t always my nature, asking how her day was and what her dinner plans were. More often than not I overlooked her feelings, and so I had to consciously work to focus on her over myself when talking.
"I've got alot of prep work to do for mandatory testing in class tomorrow," she said.
She asked me if I would be OK with spending the evening alone. I told her I'd manage. I wasn't very good company after a day of work like today anyway. I often felt an expectation that Catie and I should spend more time together. Sometimes friends or co-workers would make comments about my independent nature and I'd gather that there was something wrong with me. It made me question my ability to be a good partner. But I didn't often try to explain away my need to spend hours on end by myself. The effort required in explaining myself wasn't worth it. I was a classic introvert, end of story.
With my car parked in it's narrow space, I slowly squeezed out, hit the keyless entry to lock it and headed off to the right to my mailbox. The box for apartment G5 held nothing exciting. A heating bill, phone bill, coupons for 10 percent off at the local pizza joint and an ad trying to convince me to buy a "dent-b-gone" for my car. "Gotta buy today--only 500 remaining--and they'll go fast at only $27.95 each." I wanted to know who the hell it was that responded to these kind of ads. I'd like to think no one, but that couldn't be true since flyers like this made up most of the mail I received regularly.
Balancing the pile of mail, I slowly loosened my silver and navy blue tie and headed back toward building G. The parking lot sat inside the rectangle of gray-blue, four-level apartment buildings and was usually fairly empty until 9pm when the cars would come flooding in. I guessed it was the single tenants returning from dinners with friends or the few parents with young kids after a shift of playing taxi driver for their children.
A few steps from the stairway that led to my door I passed Mrs. Henderson a widowed woman in her sixties whose home was on the bottom floor apartment below mine. She was often out for a slow stroll with the purpose of chatting with whomever crossed her path.
"Hi Charlie," she said.
"Hi." I replied.
"Did you get new shoes?" she asked.
"Nope, I've had these things for a year or so." I said flatly.
"Oh. Well they're quite nice--I saw some like them on the home shopping channel today." She declared.
"Oh." I said, trying to smile.
“Only $48 dollars too.” She exclaimed as though truly amazed.
Mrs. Henderson went on for a few minutes telling me about what she was going to plant in her small garden and what a chore it was to try to keep the neighborhood cats out of her freshly planted petunias and lilac bushes. She made a joke about wishing she could teach the cats to weed while they were passing through. I tried to muffle a polite laugh. She invited me over for dinner and I told her I'd have to pass but that someday I'd take her up on it. She had often raved about how she made quite tasty peppered mashed potatoes and gooey pecan pie. I figured it would be nice of me to actually spend a few hours with the woman, but small talk chatter became a huge annoyance after 10 minutes or so.
Trying not to rudely cut her off I waited until she finished complementing my choice of tie and I promised to have dinner with her sometime. We said goodbyes and I headed up the narrow stairs to my apartments front door. The young couple that lived across from me in G6 appeared to be on vacation as their doorstep now contained three days of newspapers and a small Fed-Ex box. It seemed strange to me that they hadn't asked me to check their mail or anything, but then again I probably hadn't projected myself as the friendly, house sitting neighbor type.
Thinking it might be an appreciated gesture, I picked up the newspapers, turned the key in my door and once inside dropped the papers beside the front door. It wasn't likely that anyone would wander up the second flight of stairs to find their home vacant, but it seemed like it would be courteous to take the precaution.
My apartment was nothing I considered unique, but never-the-less comfortable to me. Off to the left was a 250 square foot living room that had a five-year-old black leather couch and matching armchair with an ottoman. In between the two pieces of furniture was a coffee table that held a picture of Catie and her two nieces that she had framed and given to me, along with a quickly growing ivy plant that required more repotting than I was apt at keeping up with.
Against the wall which was close to the front door, sat a fairly new purchase, a 42” plasma TV. One of my favorite past times playing video games for hours on end, the older simpler kind; accompanied by a large bag of cheetos or some other snack; and the plasma screen only added to the experience. The TV was purchased to enhance game graphics, but usually the sound was kept on mute as I wasn’t big on all the kooky sound affects. An hour or two of TV seemed to generate all the extra noise I needed in one day.
On the left wall was a sliding door that led to a tiny balcony. It held a wicker lounge chair and small table. Often on sunny evenings I would sit outside—just the sunset, a beer and me. Though I didn’t much enjoy social situations, people watching was always a great past-time. From my balcony I could see the kids, who lived upstairs, making use of the open grassy area, playing tag, digging in the dirt, picking clovers, collecting worms. I suppose I would spend a lot of time outside as well if I had 2-3 siblings and lived in a small apartment.
My parents never reached the average income growing up, and from time to time our groceries were bought with food stamps. So often I was greatful I had only one brother. And yet, the little neighbor kids often looked as though they’d forgotten their playtime buddies were their siblings.
Inside the apartment on the wall beside the sliding door was an autographed photo of Bono. I had won, kind of by accident, entrance tickets to meet Bono at a private Tacoma restaurant a few years back when he was in town to play at the Tacoma dome. I took advantage of getting his autograph though I wouldn’t have considered myself a big fan at that point. Oddly enough, the longer it sat on the wall, the more U2’s music crept into my play list—it seemed it was growing on me bit by bit.
To the right of the sofa and TV sat my dining room, which was roughly 200 square feet in size. It held a waist-high bar with two bar stools that separated the dining area from the small kitchen. I had purchased the circular glass dinner table along with the set of steel chairs a few years ago at a popular import market store. I wasn't a bargain hunting kinda guy, but rather just bought what I liked and needed and kept my home furnishings simple.
Heading down the short hallway to the right I stepped into the master bedroom and sat down on my unmade bed long enough to slip out of my shoes, tie and irritatingly stuffy work clothes. My bedroom wasn't what one would consider tidy. Clothes seemed more difficult to keep organized than dishes or other stuff. My bedroom door faced the spare room across the hall, which I used mainly as a place for my computer and miscellaneous junk. It was inevitable I suppose that when I moved in 1,000 square feet felt like plenty of space and yet three years later it now held more than it should—atleast from my perspective, I hated clutter. Sure I’d leave my clothes strewn about and dishes messy, but I didn’t see the point in hanging on to knick-knacks or sentimental items, things I might look at or use 2-3 times in my lifetime. I made a few exceptions for Catie who once in awhile managed to successfully hang a picture or two around the place without my objection.
Feeling comfortable in my baggy NIKE t-shirt and elastic wasted navy blue running pants I headed to the kitchen to scope out dinner. I settled on spaghetti and set a pan of water on the stove and opened the freezer to search for the bag of precooked meatballs. Pouring a few into a frying pan I reached for my cocktail shaker and mixed a shot of vodka with cranberry juice and poured it all into a large martini glass. To me everything tasted better in a martini glass, though strangely you would never see me drinking from one in public, something about martini glasses just didn’t seem manly, unless you were Dean Martin, which I sure wasn’t.
The cool sharp vodka soothed me as it trickled slowly down my throat. I had weeks where I wouldn’t drink at all, but when stressed--nothing had the ability to make me leave the present like a stiff drink or two. Setting my glass down I realized the water was boiling. I dumped in a large serving of noodles. Within minutes my simple cuisine came together with the addition of a small jar of tomato sauce, salt, pepper and a large heap of grated parmesan. I turned off the stove and returned the vodka to the fridge. Carefully balancing my plate and martini glass, I grabbed the day’s mail, set it all on the dinner table and rifled through the flyers, envelopes and postcard sized ads. Mindless reading was to me always the perfect accompaniment to eating.
As I sat my mind was half on the contents of the mail pile, and partly on various other things. I thought about how it had been awhile since I had talked to my brother Harry. I wondered what he was doing and whether he was relatively happy. I wondered whether he had talked to mom lately and whether his conversations with her were as odd as mine. Even though Harry and I were so different, I wished we were better friends. Life always seemed to throw other things at me and so I would set aside my goal to work on our relationship. There just seemed to be too much between us to work through.
After opening and inspecting my cable bill to make sure I agreed with the balance, my thoughts moved to Marge. I had the awful feeling that some time in the coming years I would be forced to merge households with her. The weekly trips were needless to say annoying, and the daily check-ins periodically mandated by her chemical swings were quite taxing, but not as much as being with her day in and day out. Living at home eighteen years was more than enough and I wasn’t ready to go back to that life. I resented Marge for having taken my childhood from me and I wasn’t about to let her have my adult years too. But I wasn’t totally removed and uncaring, so I knew I have to find a way to ensure her long-term well being.
Eating slowly wasn’t my forte and within ten minutes the plate of pasta was empty. Getting up to pour myself a second vodka cranberry--I took a deep breath, stretched a bit and lifted my plate walking around the barstools to the kitchen. A now full glass in hand I headed to the living room and took a seat on the couch. I loved being able to sprawl out lazily, taking up the whole couch. Wondering what the time was I looked above the TV at the steel square clock, which gave 6:47 as the time.
The coffee table next to the couch was littered with everything from a few remote controls to a wooden coaster. Setting my glass on the coaster I picked up the remote and flipped on the TV. My choices were no different than any other week night—the evening news, re-runs of saved by the bell, and an array of other less than captivating sitcoms and infomercials.
I settled on an evening news consumer report that was sure to give me insight into one more way I as a mindless consumer was being duped out of my money by heartless corporate deviants or how I was unknowingly giving up my rights to privacy to big brother. Tonight’s topic centered around conflicts of interest in the health care industry—why doctors preferred some patients over others, billing scams and other scandalous common occurrences.
After veging for over an hour and determining I had not stored any of the information just put before me, I decided to move on to something else. I wandered into the bedroom and picked up the clothes off the bed separating those needing washing from those needing to be re-hung. Sifting through the closet I found a few empty hangers and placed the clean shirts back in the closet.
Carrying a pile of dirty clothing I headed to the hallway where a small dorm sized washer and dryer were nestled in the wall stacked on top of each other. I dumped the small load of clothing, I’d heard once something about separating dark colored clothing from light, but far be it from me to remember details such as that. I dumped in a bit of powdered soap, set the dial on the wash cycle and as with every load, hoped for the best.
Leaving the laundry to run, I spent the next hour tidying the house a bit. It was my MO to go a three or four days without cleaning at all, and then I’d get disguisted by the clutter and clean until the place was spotless and overcome with the smell of citrus-y or bleach-y cleanser.
The wash and spin cycle now complete, I moved the load to the dryer and headed to the bedroom, grabbing a book before sitting on the newly made bed. Reading novels wasn’t one of my favorite was to pass time, but it was effective at calming my thoughts and I liked being distracted without added noise. Absence of noise was a daily necessity for me. I’d guess I would do more reading if there were more good books out there to be read—this coming from a guy who’s skeptical about U2’s music. I knew what I liked in a good book and few authors fit the bill, at least enough to buy their books—and I sure as hell didn’t belong in a library. I never felt comfortable there and didn’t like the constraints of having to remember to return the books within a week.
My head resting on my down pillow I stretched my legs out and delved into a best-selling fictional novel about an inter-city lawyer. It still had my attention a few dozen pages into it, so it seemed like a winner.
I woke up and glanced at the clock, which read 6:11 am and determined I must’ve fallen asleep while reading. The book had fallen to the left of me on the bed, closing shut. I hurried off to the shower working to make up for the half hour I’d overslept due to not setting the alarm.
Emerging pink and damp from the warm shower I quickly dressed and moved to the kitchen to forage an easy breakfast. Grabbing a bagel and downing a glass of water and a few probably useless vitamins I grabbed my coat off the back of the dining room chair and my keys and wallet from the kitchen counter. I headed out into the cool morning air, my feet moving quickly down the stairs to the car. The morning commute was usually somewhat enjoyable. Reason being, I liked starting my day with a little music and the 35 minute ride provided time to settle into the day. Per the usual routine I skipped back and forth between stations avoiding commercials, traffic and weather reports as best I could.
Thinking ahead to the work day that laid ahead I remembered I had a meeting scheduled at 10 to discuss our companies new service offerings in China. New, relaxed regulations and requirements had opened up investing opportunities that our clients would likely be interested in and I’d determined I’d best get ahead of the game in an effort to make proactive suggestions on their portfolios versus them coming to me to suggest a change.
Working in the financial industry could never be called boring. Every day brought a new opportunity to learn. Managing client satisfaction was always cyclical in terms of whether I was successful at it; and thankfully the latest trend was that the companies I serviced were for the most part pleased and not looking to shake anything up in the near future. For many reasons, including the fact that my salary was raised and lowered based on client satisfaction and related revenues, the upward trend brought peace of mind.
Arriving at the Sumptor building at 8:35 I found it difficult to find a space reserved for it’s employees. After a few circles around the building I found an unmetered spot and made my way into the office, which was a good 2-3 blocks from my car.
Passing the large marble sculpture of the company logo, a massive off-kilter “S”, I entered the glass doors—flashing my badge for the arguably awake security guard. Making my way to the third floor I settled into my cubicle and flicked on the monitor and PC beginning to delve into the few emails that awaited from folks like Joe who’d drafted notes well past 5:30pm yesterday.
The office was abuzz with visiting employees from our office in Beijing. China’s economy growth rate being the hottest—networking between this office and Asia was now more important than ever. An invitation to a welcome lunch at the local upscale burger joint was circulated to the department by email. Apparently the many visitors had proclaimed a good burger was difficult to find back in China and so when in the states meals were to be spent wisely, taking in an American favorite or two. Having a faint memory of the last visit colleagues from Beijing had made I was grateful to not revisit the nearby sushi house having had my fill of raw tuna and the occasional exotic side dish like jellyfish. It was unlike me to even agree to taste such un-American foods, but with coworkers eager to take advantage of having regarded experts here to guide us through the optimal seafood experience I’d succumbed to peer pressure.
I wasn’t big on lunching with large groups of co-workers, but with my luck, if I didn’t go I’d miss out on important conversation whether it management chit-chatting about weekend hobbies or serious networking and brainstorming. It’s the informal conversations that often give up important details on the higher ups—details that come in handy should you later find yourself at a late night working dinner and need a witty introduction such as, “How’s remodeling going on that new sailboat of yours?” as you saunter up to the high society well-suited manager with the free company beer in hand.
Behind me Joe was hosting a small meeting in his cubicle, and I could hear chatter between him and a sharp looking guy named Leo. While they bantered on about how to improve the company’s offerings to internationally focused clients, the hallway continued to lend itself to introductions and small talk.
In an effort to get the working day underway I drilled in on the emails waiting to be opened letting the noise in the walkway drift out. Responding to the lunch invitation with a yes I moved on to delete the corporate compliance update which no doubt held some reminder on not using email for personal use or tips on how to protect intellectual property. It wasn’t that I didn’t support careful use of company assets, but memos like those never reach the right folks. I would consider myself on average the type of employee who rarely forwards junk mail, doesn’t spend hours a day emailing my long-lost college buddy, and those who did? They’d never be influenced by a company reminder such as the one I’d just deleted.
The clock reading 9:20 I returned a few client calls and made headway on solving a service hiccup or two. Once in awhile I’d come up with a solution that was really innovative after which I‘d feel completely gratified and bask in the temporary harmony allowed by happy customers
Ever trying to remain aware of current issues I logged on to the Wall Street online update perusing for today’s hot topics. Front page showcased news of Jacque Chirac and the reworking of controversial labor laws in France and tracking of the Avian flu. It always boggled my mind how even natural disasters and epidemics posed an opportunity for even the small investor to make money. Something in me felt guilty when reading the article advising how I could adjust my investing scheme to take advantage of the impact the Avian flu would have on the economy. Seeing as how this advice was given by on again off again financial experts I secretly hoped this time they’d miss the mark and lose money having bet on speculation of an unfortunate medical epidemic.
Also found were the always-present articles on mergers and acquisitions, some in the pipeline, some underway, some speculative. I always enjoyed reading stories of internal turmoil, insider trading or some company stealing a rivals chief officer of this or that department. Competition and mayhem are a given in the financial world. By nature every facet of a financial companies offerings had to be competitive. The market, the economy is unforgiving; always offering your customers something new, which perpetually kept me on my toes.
I’d never intended to enter the world of investment and wealth management. I suppose I wasn’t uncommon. I’d guess the majority of folks didn’t exactly pick and choose their career paths either, but I’d always envied those who did. Once in awhile you meet someone who somehow right out of high school latched onto a vision of the perfect career and spent the next 4-6 years obtaining the necessary degree. Some people made it look so easy. I however, fell into the category of blokes who felt incredibly intimidated just stepping onto the college campus. The intimidation began with the sight of too many friggin’ buildings, and dozens of class times and subjects. At some point more choice only becomes more headache. Despite any good grades I might’ve received in grade school and high school I felt reduced to an idiot who needed constant hand holding just to get the first quarters itinerary settled.
I eventually got myself enrolled and started the first daunting quarter at age 22. It was oddly perhaps the perfectionist side of myself that kept me from delving into college sooner and once I did the voice only echoed that I was behind the game by three years. While working for a sporting goods company preparing basic documents for audit, I carried myself through night school achieving what I considered the safest degree, one in business administration. Far be it from my skeptical personality to take a risk and spend four years studying something that perhaps might’ve been more interesting, but more risky come interview time.
In my junior year in college Sumptor had sent a senior strategist to the campus to speak to a group of us enrolled in a statistics class. Along with motivating us to new heights of love for statistics he’d come with the goal of recruiting a future graduate or two. Having his business card and his word that Sumptor was a booming company with ever expanding career options, I couldn’t resist the invitation to atleast consider the companies opportunities.
Armed with a lack of motivation to look elsewhere, a few months later I applied for a client service position and a junior advisor role. I got a call to interview and thankfully managed to impress the hiring managers enough that I began the junior advisor position a week later.
Six years later and I was now a senior advisor doing relatively the same job just for more pay. Like most financial companies Sumptor offered a few more vacation days each year and good health benefits which kept the average employee like myself relatively satisfied. Last year I’d been given the heftiest bonus yet at Sumptor and I surmised the bonus budget had likely been settled during my fall season sprint as an ultra dedicated employee.
Having had my fill on today’s market happenings I turned my attention to the local news website. Around here it was regarded as critical to stay up on the news whether it be in local, country-wide or worldwide. If pressed I could probably find a link between the performance of my client’s portfolio and the release of a big pop star’s next album. Everything had some effect, some connection, the challenge was just figuring out how much and mitigating significant or more direct negative effects. The weather report announced clouds were expected today and throughout the week. Next were first hand stories from eyewitnesses of a 12 car pile-up n the 5 during rush hour last night just south of Seattle in Tukwila and a report on a local non-profit World Vision’s and their work to educate the world about AIDS. Apparently the major fundraiser was working with politicians to lobby for government funding to help stop the spread of AIDS.
I read on out of a desire to not feel so removed from what was apparently a global epidemic. The spokeperson for World Vision commented on how “American’s are sometimes hesitant to fund relief efforts in Africa, perhaps based on a perception that [their] money isn’t fueling any progress or that the money could be better spent here in the US.” He went on to say, “One problem is that, before people can even get their minds around the scope, the impact this epidemic—the AIDS virus—has had on families and communities globally, they’ve already decided their neighbors in Africa aren’t as deserving as those in their backyard, regardless of who needs the health care, education or fiscal assistance more immediately.”
It seemed difficult to avoid that statement hitting home a bit. I briefly wondered about my loyalties to US citizens and whether I showed a preference to helping local people even when tragedy struck a massive blow elsewhere. It was by no means an easy topic to delve into, but I made a mental note to pick-up the topic later in effort to become a more informed and open-minded citizen.
Quickly my focus left the article and I zeroed back in on my office surroundings as I heard Joe chuckle loudly as he stood up from his chair guiding his visitors out of his cubicle and back into the hallway. They carried on with lighthearted laughter; something about a competitor’s careless actions and how regulators were jumping all over the mishap. I figured I’d later need to revisit Wall Street online to find details that would explain their jovial discourse. Joe, Leo and a colleague I’d not yet met made their way to the donut pile and in the distance I could hear Leo commenting on how large the pastries were. “You American’s know how to enjoy yourself.” He said. I wondered if that was just a nice way of stating that he, like many other foreigners had noticed we don’t take too well to skimpy portions.
Noticing that the clock was approaching 10am I gathered my thoughts and notes for the meeting, which would brief us advisors on Sumptor’s new offerings in China. Notepad and questions in hand I headed off with 3 minutes to spare. Unlike the norm at many other companies, folks here were more apt than not to show up to a meeting on time. I suspected that more likely than the fact that our office was blessed with a high percentage of time management experts—this phenomenon could be explained by our departments Sr. VP having made it known that he hated late arriver’s. Armed with that knowledge, even those who would normally have thought themselves too important to be bothered with managing a few lost minutes here and there made it a point to not be seen entering a conference room already full of people with group discussion well underway.
I arrived just in time to find a few open chairs avoiding the not surprisingly available seat next to Frankie Delgatto a 15-year veteran of the company. Frankie was a chatty, perpetually boastful guy who didn’t think twice about weaving heavy amounts of fiction into his weekend stories should he find himself without a perhaps somewhat factual story to nauseate the entire office with. I’d made the mistake of introducing myself to Frankie several years ago only to find myself held hostage as he took advantage of my new employee status and pumped me full of accounts of his conquests with the office ladies. Frankie had made a point to highlight his most scandalous achievement, which he regarded as fantastic—he’d been involved with Candice York, who he proclaimed with glee, was married. He went on to recount that although she was 36—which was a bit old for his liking and had two small children, she was a tall athletic brunette who’d been an avid runner all her life. It didn’t take much to determine what motivated Candice to leave the company two years ago.
In addition to his debatable charm with the office ladies Frankie’s resume included a 10-year stint working for Sumptor’s biggest competitor—a company that likely didn’t consider us a competitor as the assets we managed and consulted on amounted to a small blip in their budget. His experience as Vice President, Head of Trade and Operations was a fact he didn’t hesitate to share should it provide him clout in a debate with colleagues.
The meeting promptly began with many of us likely in similar sorts, forcing ourselves to remain alert and inquisitive for the benefit of our clients. The leader of the meeting Kyle Dean, had joined Sumptor 5 or 6 years back, around the same time I had. He was a co-worker I’d consider a workplace friend though our activities outside of work were limited. From time to time we’d meet up for a coffee run to Starbucks to catch up on the latest details of work and personal life. Kyle was a white water rafting fanatic and a year or so ago had convinced me to join him on a few rafting trips after which I determined I didn’t need any additional adrenaline—or unrivaled excitement—as Kyle called it, in my life. But although I didn’t share his interest in considerably risky sports, I admired his enthusiasm for life and he seemed to have a knack for keeping work and fun in balance.
Finding a moment of pause in the meeting of 20 or so people was challenging to say the least; so at the first sign of silence I jumped in with my questions on the published investment limitations I’d read of earlier and asked Kyle for clarification around legal ownership of the securities when working with a custodian. After discussion and note taking ensued, the meeting ended 50 minutes later when the agenda topics had been touched on to the satisfaction of most attendees.
Grateful to have the meeting over I quickly headed out of the conference room in hopes of avoiding Frankie and anyone else who might want to waste my time with reports of weekend parties. On top of that, at last months department meeting I’d been given an action item that I hadn’t made much progress on. I’d been asked to tackle some significant number crunching after a higher up had pushed for more specific transaction data to be tracked, and of course it was proving impossible to calculate using information which had been inconsistently recorded over the past year or two. Eager to avoid questions on the status I squeezed through the crowded hallway and made my way back to my cubicle.
Setting my notebook down on my desk I dialed in to retrieve a voice mail, which had apparently been left during the meeting. The message was from Catie.
“Just calling to say hi,” she said. “Wondering how your morning is going.”
She went on to say that she gotten testing underway, in the classroom, which might mean I’d get her and not her voicemail, should I call back soon as the kids were temporarily occupied.
Happy to hear her voice I promptly dialed.
I was quickly greeted with “Hello, Catie speaking.”
“Hey, it’s me. How are things?” I replied.
“Good, the day seems to be going fine. Of course, I’m hoping I did an OK job prepping these kids for the test. It’s hard to tell sometimes what is sinking in.”
Showing my best effort to reassure her I commented that as she’d put a lot of time into prepping for the test I was sure her class would show better than average scores.
She replied with a thank you and we chatted about dinner plans.
“Can we meet for dinner?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” I replied.
After exchanging a few more details on how our days were progressing we made plans to meet at 6 o’ clock at Stortini’s, an Italian restaurant that was known for their heaping portions of pasta topped with the families traditional recipe for tomato bolognaise. My conversation with Catie ended with her promising to call in reservations.
Hanging up the phone I turned around to find Joe standing in the entrance of my cubicle.
“How is Catie?” he asked.
“Doing well, still managing to stay afloat with her group of squirmy eight and nine year olds.”
“Ah, good. So are you joining us at lunch? Leo and I are leaving in a half hour if you wanna carpool.”
“Yea, I’m going. Sounds good.”
Not surprisingly the hour of absence from my desk had brought with it a handful of emails from clients. Servicing clients was a job that required thick skin. Most of the calls and emails I received were to inform me of problems--whether they be with our reports, trading procedures or some other function. Not that I didn’t expect clients wouldn’t call should we not be providing the services paid for—but feedback on things done right was of course nice, but rare.
To be continued...
