Violence is playing guitar and singing at open mic night at the White Eagle Saloon. In your mind it is supposed to be transcendent but in reality it is killing you. Every millisecond you loose a piece of yourself. One singer-songwriter after the other steps up to the light, like a kamikaze. Huzzah!
Step up! to the microphone and sing your diddy. It sounds so straightforward, so comprehensible. You created something and you want people to hear it so that your creation will live. You are committed to giving your song life. Until, you are standing in front of strangers and you realize how useless it is to care about this life as there will be others. The end is TRUTH. Right about now, you are do or DIE. Art kills. So, you want to die with dignity.
You let your voice S-A-I-L out. You pluck and pull that beat. With each pulse your corporeal essence (your essere) gives way to the sea. Did you know that waves sound like one hand slapping the bar at the White Eagle Saloon?
Margaret had an incredible urge to scream at the Mountain View coffee company for giving her mild Breakfast Blend rather than the anticipated full-bodied French roast. Someone in Flats, California had filled thousands of shiny plastic bags decorated with a generic snow capped mountain logo with the wrong blend of beans. These erroneously labeled bags were then distributed across the country to unsuspecting wholesalers and grocery chain stores. Finally, several boxes of the mislabeled ground coffee ended up tucked away in the cupboard above te kitchen sink of Northwest Care where Margaret was a customer service representative. She spat out the mild brew, just missing Janice, the only Filipina in the office. "This isn't French roast!" she cried.
It offended Margaret that no one had opened a bag and sniffed it before accepting shipment - that would have been a ridiculous waste of time! Unfortunately for Margaret, who was in need of something stronger and not this useless mellow roast, someone else's lack of follow-through was now her reality. Margaret swore loudly and stormed across the hall to the Quiet Room. She needed ten seconds to pummel the idiot in Flats, Kanses who filled the wrong bags with the wrong coffee and ruined her morning; possibly her entire day.
Janice rolled her eyes and used a napkin to wipe up the coffee Margaret had spit all over the floor. It was going to be an interesting day, she thought.
By 12:30 Margaret was stiff-necked and listless. Her first caller was from Russia, was very old, and tool long pauses between every- single- word. Her second call was a serious complaint that made her despair. The member called about his physician on the north side of town who made discriminatory remarks about his sexual orientation during a routine check-up, which took some time to type out, repeat, correct and then explain the complaint process to this tearful member. The call landed her in the Quiet Room for the second time. The rest of her morning was comprised of internal emails, follow-up calls, and a few more member questions.
Margaret kept her eye on the sky the whole morning. First, it was a blanket of grayish cotton. By mid-morning, Margaret could see more blue sky. When a sun break seemed imminent, she logged off her computer, grabbed her parka, and threw her purse over her shoulder, and walked out without a word to her manager.
Walking through the front door of her office building, she realized that if she was going to have any satisfaction the entire day, she needed a great cup of coffee and she knew exactly where to get it - downtown. Margaret felt like an early settler in search of her place in the world as she sped to the MAX, jaywalking and then crossing the parking lot. The light rail cars arrived just as she set foot on the platform, the doors opened, and she glided on through.
A man in a puffy black jacket, dirtied from several nights sleep on the streets, was talking to his red-faced buddy abou this skill as a salesman.
"How many times you sat down on a toilet with your cell phone in your back pocket? I can't tell you how many times I done that. I got the solution and I'm going to sell 500 of 'em today. Right now, in fact, I'm going to St. Mark's and to the Department of Transportation. It's been approved by a scientist, a physical therapist and the Department of Health. This is a genius idea right here! It'll take care of your problems. No more...[makes a sound like straining]. It'll pop the cover right up for ya!"
It tickled Margaret that so many people were obviously annoyed by this man's speech, but too polite to tell him to shut it. This is Portland, not New York City. Portland respects the rights of the other to say what they want, no matter how inconvenient, unnecessary, or inconsiderate the actions of the other are for the rest of us. The people of Portland are tolerant. Margaret was just about ready to turn and tell the potty salesman to keep it down, she was caffeine deprived, when an announcement came over the loud-speaker. The female conductor, in her most professional tone delivered a public service announcement to the riders of her Clackamas Town Center bound train, idling at stop 5416.
"Please do not hold the doors open. The reason for this is that it will disrupt service. When you hold the doors open it delays the train and makes everyone unhappy. So, please do not hold the doors open. Holding doors open can result in a fine and is dangerous as well. Please just wait for the next train. You could delay the train unnecessarily and harm yourself. It is best for everyone to leave the doors alone and let the train keep to its regular schedule. Thank you for your help to keep this train and others safe and on time."
A big smile crossed Margaret's face when a nasal tone rang out from the back, "Shut up!" right in the middle of the friendly conductor's announcement. People in Portland are just afraid to confront anyone to their face, she thought. Or was it that voices of authority were meant to be challenged as was the natural order of things in a democracy? She decided on her first instinct.
Margaret stepped onto the wide, sun-glittered sidewalk downtown. She removed her parka to let the sunlight warm her head and shoulders. A man wearing a shiny blue button-down shirt smiled at her as she walked by. She did not return this smile. People in Portland always seemed to be goading her into a smile and it made her feel like a monkey in a hurdy gurdy costume. Smile at me fancy lady! the people seemed to be saying with their cheerful grins.
Margaret felt a rumble in her stomach. So, she picked up the pace. Her body began to warm up and she welcomed the cool shaded doorway of her favorite coffee shop. Behind the wooden counter, a girl wearing large framed glasses, doning a pixie haircut took her order - a large Americano. Margaret took a seat at the espresso bar and watched the people walking by.
Another customer, a large man, wearing a droopy, grey wool knit cap, suddenly laughed and cried out: "Look at that woman!"
Across the street a woman wearing a tiered top, decorated with an eighties pallet of bright flowers was bent over, head first in the front seat of her car. She pulled out a mint green sweater and hastily covered her white arms.
"Not quite!" the man said gleefully. He took his double shot latte and gave Margaret a wave and mouthed the greeting, "Hey!"
There is nothing more exhilarating than the moment a perfectly pulled hot Americano is delivered to a parched and tired mouth. Margaret purred with satisfaction. She moaned a little. The girl behind the counter had seen it before - coffee euphoria is common in Portland.
Margaret skipped out the door and swung her hips wantonly as she waltzed down the street that had already gone flat from an overcast sky. Her sun break was over.
Thursday in working-bee parlance means, one more day to Friday and Shangri-La or, at least, margari-ta. Being back in an office for nine hours a day has made me face how much my perspective has changed toward work. I spend six hours a day writing in my kitchen without any human interaction and feel more alive than in these past ten days at my temp job. I am grateful for the money. Money buys me a large, airy, comfortable apartment. Money buys me time to write.
During my time at the office, I read at work, news sources mainly, but I have also been reading more about what's happening in the philanthropic world, artist retreats around Oregon and Washington, and Sen. Paul Ryan's "The Path to Prosperity: Restoring America's Promise." Which I bring up not to complain, but to comment that my presence is not exactly profitable for this managed health care company, which grates on me. The non-profit hired a temporary administrative assistant to answer the phone that hardly ever rings or ask a lot of questions that create a lot of circuitous emails, and take notes at meetings mainly focused on improving their productivity and effectiveness within this managed health care operation. If I do next to nothing all day, they are to blame, not me. I am a worker-bee who shows up on time, is pleasant, capable, conscientious, and respectful. Yet, it drives me crazy that the department who hired me does not have the capacity to train me, nor the guts to go back to the temp agency and demand a temp with experience in health care, not some middle-manager who used to fundraise for the arts. So, I go to work ready for nothing really to happen and nothing really does. I leave feeling as though I got next to nothing out of the actual work and neither did my department. Now, imagine if you worked for a major corporation and you felt this way? I know people who do. How utterly futile!
Senator Ryan's aim at fiscal responsibility in Washington is to "restore America's promise." I say, budget cuts alone will not restore what worker-bees in this country need more than anything else - a sense of accomplishment. What American workers need is a sense that what they are doing is SOMEthing. And, I believe, workers should not be punished for accepting less in an existential reward from their job in exchange for the safety and security of health benefits, cost of living increases, and a pension. There is an inherent assumption in Senator Ryan's premise of America's Promise, which is that all men are created equal, but not all men's choices are equal.
I choose (I am fortunate. No sarcasm intended. At. All.) to go to my desk job today. I will probably read more about what is happening in Libya, Japan, and on Capitol HIll. Maybe I'll do something really useful, something that will contribute to the increase productivity of my department today. So, here's to the promise of something!
