Finely Aged

About a week before my last day at work, I was in the break room chatting with a coworker--one of the good ones. She asked me where I was headed. I answered that I didn't really know yet.

"I just know I've been here long enough," I continued. "I gave the better part of my twenties to this place. I'd rather not spend the remainder here."

She didn't respond immediately, but I saw on her face that forced smile I recognized, as though she were straining to hold back words of disapproval. I was prepared for that reaction. I knew my decisions would strike most people as irresponsible in this economy.

Finally, she said, "Well, I understand. I'm a lot older than you." Then she walked past me back to work, and I was left feeling rather like a child.

A few days later, I found out that her birthday had just passed. Oh crap, I thought to myself, as I reflected on what an ass I had made of myself.

After work that day, I headed out to pick up a birthday card for her. The first one to catch my eye made mention of fine wine, cheddar, leather, and friendship as things that got better with age. Open it up, and on the inside it read, "And so do you." Yes, that will do, I thought. Let her know that I appreciate how she improves with age in the manner of a good cheddar.

And so I grabbed the card and was about to check out, when, at the last minute, sense gripped me, and I realized what a terrible idea that would have been. It occurred to me that, if she were really self-conscious about her age, it would probably be best to say nothing about getting older at all, especially as I was younger than her and had no idea what she was going through.

So I grabbed a different, more innocuous card, wrote a few words, and left it on her desk the next morning. She seemed to genuinely appreciate it.

Another few days, and it was time for me to go. As I got up to make my final exit, she came up and handed me a card from her. It was signed by several coworkers, but it had been her idea.

She was one of the good ones.

Final Impressions

As I headed into the office one final time, the older security guard greeted me as on any other morning. I didn't love that job, or that company, but the people . . . I knew I would miss them, this security guard included.

"My last day," I informed him.

He uttered an expletive, then asked, "Wait, you mean 'last day,' like you're going overseas on assignment? Or you mean 'last day'?"

I clarified that it was the latter. He swore again, before asking, "So what are you gonna do?"

I had anticipated the question. It's the first thing everybody wonders. On the other hand, nobody asks why you're leaving, probably because everybody understands wanting to get away. They just can't see a way out for themselves, so, when you get out, what they want to know is how you did it.

And so I had given great consideration to all my options . . . for how to respond to that question, I mean. People are always stressing the importance of first impressions. Now, here at the other end, far too late to worry about that, I at least wanted people's final impressions of me to be good ones.

Wanting to sound cool, I ran through assorted cliches in my mind:

"My best."
"Survive."
"What I always do--my best."
"What I always do--survive."
"My best to survive."

Eventually, I just kept things simple with the truth: "I'm not sure yet."

"Well, you're single, right?"

I nodded.

"You should get out there, see the world, try everything. Hell, I wish I were young and single like you."

I felt as though we'd had this conversation many times over the last five years . . . because indeed we had.

"So, you're married?" I asked him.

"Thirty years," he said.

"Happily?"

He reflected, apparently wanting to send me off with a thoughtful and honest response this time.

"Well, I got married because I needed to change my lifestyle," he began. "When I was young, I used to go to those orgy houses and all that. Those were the herpe-free days. Then, when stuff started going down, I knew I needed to change my lifestyle. So I needed to find myself a woman who liked to get busy, only not with everyone, like how I was doing. Right after that is when the whole AIDS thing happened, so I really got married just in time."

As he spoke, I could not help focusing in on his teeth. He was missing his first premolar on the left side. I had never noticed that, and yet I got the feeling it had been missing for as long as I'd known him. He didn't look any different to me on account of that new observation, but rather it was simply as though I were seeing a fuller image of him than I had before. Quite frankly, it was more than I wanted to see.

"And I have a son," he added finally. "That's really the best part about getting married."

The Double Eyelids Nonsense

My coworker was sharing with me her feelings on the Korean pop star and actor Rain.

"I used to think he was ugly, but now I think he's handsome."

Um, sure, that's great.

She then proceeded to relate to me this Rain guy's sad story of having been born with single eyelids.

"A lot of people get surgery to make double eyelids, but he didn't want to get the surgery. I don't think people should have to get the surgery. That's not right. You know?"

I nodded.

Actually, I had no idea what she was talking about, with these "single eyelids" and "double eyelids." But it was too late in the workday, and I did not have sufficient mental energy left to endure one of her typically meandering, broken English explanations. So I simply nodded.

Afterward, I went home and looked up this "double eyelids" nonsense. Turns out, my coworker was not making this up at all, as the "double eyelid surgery" is, according to Wikipedia, one of the most common cosmetic procedures in Taiwan and other parts of East Asia. I had to look up some photos even to see what the difference was, and I found that the "double eyelid" description was apt. All my life, I had never before been consciously aware of the difference between single and double eyelids, although I suppose I had always intuitively noticed that different people (and, to generalize, different races) had different-looking eyelids. My coworker was also right that it was a pretty stupid and needless surgery, the cultural prejudice against single eyelids entirely unjustified.

As for this Rain guy, it's also true that, early in his career, he was repeatedly rejected in auditions because he did not have double eyelids. It says so right in his Wikipedia entry, so it must have been a big part of his life story.

Reading that, I found myself seething, but not because of the injustice done unto Rain. Rather, it was because the whole thing sounded like the most unbelievably ridiculous nonsense I had ever heard, and yet the guy's fans, including my coworker, apparently take it as a very sad "aww"-worthy story.

So, let me get this straight, this Rain guy's MAJOR ordeal . . . IN. LIFE. is that he was born without the double eyelids? No, don't even deny it. It's right there in his Wikipedia entry, under the "Early life" section. And now he's a millionaire pop singer and movie star, adored the world over, probably lives in a mansion. And I'm supposed to feel sorry for this guy?

Okay, okay, I kid. No, I don't feel sorry for Rain, but neither would I want to trade lives with him. It's ridiculous to me that this "double eyelids" obsession is such a thing that for him to not get the surgery was a big deal. But I don't suppose that's in any way his fault.

The Gay Friends Episode

(Names changed to protect the innocent.)

I had the most uncomfortable workplace conversation ever the other day. It was the end of the day, and people were getting ready to leave, or else had left already. Susie, my neighbor at work, was telling me about some Taiwanese drama. Apparently, there's a homosexual character on the show, which led Susie right into asking me directly whether I had any gay friends.

The question took me by surprise, although it probably shouldn't have; my coworker is always asking me these very direct, often personal, and entirely random questions. I mean, I like her very much, but sometimes it's as if she has no filter, and so expects other people to be just as open and forthcoming with every detail of their lives.

I pretended to reflect, but I actually knew very well that my answer would be no. No, I don't have any gay friends. This is not due to any homophobia on my part, but more so it reflects the special value I invest in the word "friend," which I personally reserve for only a very select few individuals with whom I have felt a strong sense of camaraderie. By that definition, I would say that I can probably also count on one hand the number of heterosexual friends that I've had in my entire life.

I was probably considering the question more deeply than it deserved. I've had gay classmates and coworkers with whom I've been on friendly terms. I suppose, in the broader sense of the word, they would qualify as "friends."

Anyway, it hardly mattered. Susie was a little surprised that I didn't have any gay friends. Then, as if conducting a survey, she turned to another coworker, Colleen, and asked her if she had any gay friends. Colleen, not quite understanding the question, raised an eyebrow and turned to me. I just shrugged and restated the question: "Do you have any gay friends?" No, we're not at the uncomfortable part yet, but almost.

Colleen, now realizing that this was not a joke, casually named one of our male coworkers.

"Who?!" asked Susie quite loudly.

Colleen repeated the name, only this time she leaned in and whispered it, whereas she had spoken it in a normal tone the first time. I couldn't understand it at first. If our male coworker was openly gay, then why were we whispering as though it were some shameful secret? If it was a secret, then maybe it wasn't such a good idea for Colleen to be outing this guy to the one person in the office with almost no filter nor any sense of boundaries.

Sure enough, upon hearing the name more clearly, Susie responded, "Kevin is gay?!"

As she practically yelled out her question in astonishment, I immediately wished we could go back to whispering. And as Susie proceeded to repeat "Kevin is gay?!" several more times, mixing things up with the occasional "I didn't know Kevin was gay!" as well, I did not want to be anywhere near that conversation anymore.

Of course, Colleen didn't help things much. Even though she appeared to be just as embarrassed as me, that didn't stop her from naming all the other gay guys at our workplace. Some were news to me, some I already knew. Somehow all of it was shocking to Susie, who continued to loudly express her astonishment.

I wondered under what circumstances Colleen even came by all this intel. And as for Susie, she seemed so out-of-touch with who was and wasn't gay in the office, I seriously wondered whether she herself had any gay friends. I might have turned the tables and asked her, but, really, I didn't want to prolong the conversation any further.

Beastiality

A coworker was telling me how she wanted to see Disney's Beauty and the Beast 3D. She hadn't seen it since her childhood, and she remembered it as "the most romantic cartoon ever." I could agree that it was a fine film, but I remembered it somewhat differently . . . .

Me: No, I don't think Belle had romantic feelings for the Beast.

Coworker: But that was the whole point. He had to make her fall in love with him in order to break the curse.

Me: Did it say she had to fall in love with him? Or just that she had to love him? Like, as a friend? I think they just became friends.

Coworker: OH. MY. GOD. That was the whooooole point. You missed the whooooole point of the story, Henry!

Me: I don't think so. First of all, there's no way she could have been attracted to him. Also, I don't remember them sharing a single romantic moment together. I certainly don't remember her singing any songs about it.

Coworker: THEY KISSED.

Me: Well . . . I don't remember that . . . . I could be wrong. It's been a long time since I've seen it. I was a different person then.

Coworker: *groan*

Yes, I could be wrong. But I don't think I am. If my coworker is right, however, then it was a lesser film than I remember. Thoughts?

The Princess Bride

My coworker stationed across from me had an amusing/annoying ritual of saying random words with a fake speech impediment throughout the day. She joked that it was a coping mechanism of making fun of herself in order to get over her own traumatizing past of having to wear a speech-crippling retainer. Usually it would just be any random long “s” word that she found funny to say with a lisping “th” instead. But other times, again for no apparent reason, she would go into quoting the clergyman character from The Princess Bride, who memorably could not pronounce the letter “r.”

Again, these were not conversations. She would just utter things randomly without any provocation. Headphones on, I made every effort to appear as though I was paying attention to my work and not to her. Yet the less distracted I made myself appear, the more she would try to directly distract me, waving her hand and yelling "Hey!" to get my attention, then saying, "You get it, right?" as if there were anything really to get from such surface-level humor as pronouncing words incorrectly. And so, just to make sure that I was on the same page with the Princess Bride quotes (as if my following along with her running gags was somehow of more importance than either of us getting any work done), she asked me whether I was familiar with the movie.

Indeed, I had seen the movie many times as a child and had once counted it among my favorites. It has probably been close to twenty years since I last saw it, however, and I don't remember too much from it.

What most struck me as a child (and what I most remember now) were the darker moments of the Cary Elwes character being tortured, apparently to death, and of the Robin Wright character, believing her love and all hope lost to her, resolving upon suicide. These moments of despair made it all the more blissful, of course, when the heroes were reunited, and love and goodness prevailed. And yet, I'm not sure whether it was that final promised hopefulness or rather the despair itself that so drew my young self. But even at that age, I could recognize a thematic trend in the material that most consistently engaged my attention.

There was that similar moment, previously discussed, in Disney's Robin Hood, for example, when Robin Hood appeared dead, and these anthropomorphic cartoon animal characters were so masterfully drawn and animated that one could precisely discern, just from their exaggerated facial expressions, the very moment of their hearts breaking at the realization of the loss of their leader and dear friend. No matter how many times I watched these movies, no matter that I knew that of course there would be a happy ending, nevertheless these scenes never lost any of their emotional power over me as a child.

Perhaps it was because, for me, it was in those moments of witnessing the despair of those left behind that I understood best and felt most acutely the intensity of their love for the one they believed lost to them, as though pain and grief over the dead were just more “real” to me than romance and warmth between the living. Perhaps this reflected a secret wish that, like Tom Sawyer, I could somehow attend my own funeral, and only then determine how people truly felt about me. Or perhaps there was a sadomasochistic streak in me that demanded to see people in pain, because grief was the only emotional high that could move me one way or another . . . .  Hrm, no, let's go with the first theory.

Living the Dream

It is maybe ten, maybe twenty, maybe even forty years in the future, though I do not feel physically any older. My life is much the same as well, with one major difference: there is no one else in the world but me.

And yet I do not alter my routine in any way. I go to the same workplace every day that I do now, although, in this future, it is completely abandoned. There are no people inside, no cars in the parking lot, not even any security personnel. Yet somehow I am still able to get inside. My keycard still unlocks all the doors. The lights are on inside. I go to my desk and turn on the computer, which still runs, for some reason. But there's no one to actually assign me any work, so I just sit at my desk and wait.

This being a dream, there is no proper observance of the passage of time, and though my body rests for only eight hours, it feels infinitely longer for my sleeping self. In the dream, I sit there for hours, day after day, for what feels like years. What am I waiting for? I don't think the question ever even occurs to me. In the dream, it all just seems to make sense to me. This is my life.

When my “shift” ends, I go home, just as I do now in my real life. The house is also empty. There are no messages. I sit and wait some more. The process repeats, day after day, as it does now in my real life.

Yes, it goes on for years. Then, randomly, someone else finally shows up at work. She walks by toward her old desk, then, a few seconds later, is headed back out. As she's leaving, she notices me. She smiles and tells me she came to pick up her jacket (left there years ago?). I notice that she's accompanied by a small child. She introduces him as her son. Or maybe it was her grandson, although she herself looks exactly the same as she does today. I never say a word, but I wave. The kid waves back. Then they're gone, and I'm back to waiting.

This goes on for years. Nothing else happens. There's not even an end. I just open my eyes eventually and wake up to a life that is maybe not so very different from my dream.

If I ever get out of here

While at work the other day, I overheard two people discussing the lottery. Earlier this month, the multi-state Mega Millions lottery, having reached a jackpot of $380 million, was split between two lucky winners. Even split in two, that is, of course, more money than the average person would even know how to spend over their lifetime. It’s something to dream about. I’m not sure, though, whether the dream is made any more or less tangible by the fact that, a few years ago, someone at work actually did win the lottery. It was a much smaller jackpot—about $4 million, I think—but still several times more money than most of us will ever see at once.

I must admit, the moment I heard the news, my heart began to race as I considered what his winning could possibly mean for me. It settled down quickly enough, however, as I recognized that it didn’t mean anything for me. I could only try to feel glad for my coworker, actually a supervisor, who had often loudly complained about being too old to stay until 5 PM, about his arthritis in both hands, and about wishing he could work from home, “minus the work part.” I don’t really know what he’s doing now, but he certainly didn’t stick around long after winning. From conversations I overhear, I gather that he’s basically using the money to enjoy retirement, still occasionally having lunch with former coworkers, inviting them to shoot pool, letting them bask in his newfound fortune and comfort.

Yes, I think being so close to that money, without actually being able to touch it myself, does encourage me to dream a little more, despite the fact that I didn’t play the lottery then, and still don’t play it now. Maybe it’s the same for some of my coworkers, or maybe they don’t need extra encouragement to thus fantasize.

The guy who brought up the jackpot the other day is actually also a supervisor, of a higher rank than the guy who won the $4 million. I used to sit next to this guy, and I would overhear his conversations about buying vintage cars and parts to work on, or about his thirty acres of land at home for the dogs to roam. I couldn’t really picture it, but thirty acres sounded pretty big, and I got the impression that he was rather well-to-do. On the other hand, he also works much harder and much more than I do. Also, our company is officially a non-profit, so it’s hard to comprehend how anyone could get rich doing what we do. Maybe his money, if indeed he has any, comes from his wife. Even if they do have money, however, it’s not so much as to spare him from dreaming of a more comfortable life. Reflecting on that $380 million jackpot, he mused, “With that kind of money, I could probably disappear.”

It got me thinking too. It was an appealing idea. Years ago, working the late shift at my previous job, my coworkers got into a discussion over our ideas of “the perfect day.” It took me a good long while to come up with an answer—I’m a guy without any goals or prospects, after all—but in my very uncertainty lay my answer. For a man who could not think of anything to desire, perhaps the dream was really a life apart from everything. I would find a place far from other people, and I would just stare out the window all day with a glass of juice in my hand, caring nothing about the world, and the world caring nothing about me.

I don’t know if my supervisor was thinking along the same lines when he spoke of “disappearing,” but that’s what I pictured as my own dream. I thought to myself, if I ever had enough money, I would find a nice house out in the middle of nowhere, to spend the rest of my days doing nothing, seeing no one. It’s merely a dream, not a plan, and probably, if I ever did come into such a large sum of money, my conscience would forbid my spending it so wastefully.

I read a news story recently about a man who wrote a $10,000 check to the state of California. Dennis R. Ferguson was retired and living in South Carolina, but, seeing California in its current budget crisis, he felt compelled to give a little as “repayment” to the state that, almost fifty years ago, helped him through a tough couple of weeks with unemployment checks.

I thought it an extraordinary story, though it didn’t make “front page” news and was quickly bumped by other articles. Of course, practically speaking, that $10,000 is nothing against the state’s budget issues. Even $380 million would hardly put a dent in our deficit. But it made me think. For it will never be the money that solves our world’s problems. Money has been the source of our problems, not the solution. Truly, Ferguson’s newsworthy gesture is of greater benefit than the actual dollar amount of his contribution. By that, I mean that, in showing such admirable character and selfless generosity, Ferguson might have inspired a lot of people, and the fruits of his seemingly small act might ultimately have been much more than his $10,000 check.

Daydreaming about the Mega Millions lottery at work, and recalling Ferguson’s check, I thought about what an inspiring story it would make, if someone were to win some $380+ million and then donate every last cent to charity. In fact, my imagination perhaps got a little carried away, as I began to think seriously about how it would go down.

Ferguson’s story certainly inspired me, but unfortunately it did not make huge waves in the media. Sadly, I don’t think he made any practical difference. But a man donating the entirety of his nine-figure lottery jackpot to a good cause—surely the world could not ignore such a deed. At least, I would hope that people would be inspired and motivated. Because, again, even nine figures is practically nothing against the bigger issues of today’s world. But it would seem a lot to the average person. It would make headlines, hopefully for more than one day. Hopefully, people would see that this man, being not some exceptional genius, was no different from them, but only luckier. And if he could give away all of luck's spoils separating him from them, then surely they too, having hearts, had the capacity for charity. And if everyone gave just a little, the amount would quickly dwarf the original contribution. More important than the money collected, however, would be the good feelings cultivated, that positive drive to do for one another. Much more than any amount of money, to generate and then spread that kind of active positivity would go a long way toward fixing our world.

I suppose I’m still dreaming. But as I sat there grinding out the day at work, I made a silent commitment. I don’t know to whom, but I vowed that, if I were to somehow win that jackpot, I would do exactly according to that dream. I have no idea to whom I would give all that money, but again the gesture would be more important than the details. If it made the news, then people, seeing the gesture, and having their hearts magnified by it, would in turn magnify the details by spreading more money to more causes. But I would have to give every last cent. If I kept even a little for myself, it would be a very different story. People would see the giving, but they would also note the saving for self, and I think it would give them sufficient excuse not to follow, but to instead conclude that I, being so lucky unlike them, could afford to give, because I had plenty to spare. No, in order to make any real difference, the sum would have to be massive, first of all, in order to make people notice, and it would have to be everything, so as to leave no easy excuses.

And I continued to think about it. And I realized that, truthfully, I couldn’t be that guy. I have too many flaws, too many weaknesses of character. The media, after raising me up for my good deed, would then dig up dirt to tear me down, as it ultimately tears everyone down. And, once again, the people would have their excuse not to follow, not to change, not to try. Martin Luther King, Jr., great American that he was, also had his weaknesses. Just the other day, my brother, responding to a news segment reflecting on King’s achievements, again pointed to the man’s philandering, which is not very much disputed. Does it take away from the good that King did? I guess not really. But it’s pretty bad. And it made me think, when people can point easily to such flaws in their would-be heroes, as my brother did with King, that again grants them an excuse. They see that they are justified in being as bad as their heroes, instead of trying to be as good.

Well, it’s only a dream.

No Such Thing

Stopping by the workplace commons to refill my water, I spotted the off-duty older security guard sitting by himself and staring out the second-floor window. Alerted by the gurgling of the water cooler, he turned to stare at me. I smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, as is my usual response, and prepared to make my exit back to work.

He had other ideas, however, and stopped me to ask whether the office would be open on the day after Thanksgiving. Employees are of course given that day off, but in past years, when the workload has allowed, management has encouraged people to come in and earn overtime. There had been no official word yet for this year, and it was highly unlikely that I, as unconcerned low man on the totem pole, would be informed before security, for whom, if operations are running that day, coming in is maybe not so voluntary.

I told him that I hadn't heard anything, but that, in any case, it hardly mattered to me, because I would not be coming in either way.

"Lucky rascal," he said. "Going home, or staying local?"

For me, home was local, but he didn't need all the details. I answered, "I'll be here. I just won't be here."

"But you're still single, right?"

This seemed to me rather a non-sequitur, but I indulged him and answered in the affirmative.

"Lucky rascal," he said again.

He was being playful of course, and now looked away as if to indicate that he had had his fun and I was free to go. But something compelled me to carry on a little longer.

"Are you married?" I asked him.

"Thirty years," he said.

"Happily?"

"No such thing!" he answered triumphantly, as though he had been the one all along steering us to this punchline.

But I was heading in a different direction: "You know, I think maybe you're the lucky one."

He straightened up and smiled more sincerely then. "You've got time," he reassured me, and we both left that as the final word.

And I went back to work and he went back to staring out the window of the empty break room.

No, of course I didn't mean it. I would not trade my life for his for anything. But it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

Hot-N-Ready

I don't know why, but there was a stack of pizza boxes, presumably empty, in the corner of the restroom at work.  It made the restroom smell like pizza . . . topped with the usual urine and feces. I don't think I liked it.

Battle of the Sexes

"If Muggsy Bogues could play in the NBA, then why shouldn't women be allowed?" asked the guy across from me.  "Are you telling me that Muggsy Bogues is better at basketball than Lisa Leslie?"

What had begun as an already depressing discussion concerning the legitimacy of women's MMA had somehow come to this.  Some coworkers around me had begun to debate whether there should be more cross-gender competition in professional sports, since evidently nobody cared about the women's leagues.  While certainly no one wanted to see Brock Lesnar beat up Gina Carano in the ring, I personally felt that, if Serena Williams wanted to enter the men's tournament at the US Open and was able to qualify, then she should be allowed in.  My feelings were somewhat different, however, when it came to team sports.

The guy did have a point about Muggsy Bogues and Lisa Leslie.  The 5' 3" Bogues would be considered short in civilian society, yet he was able to compete at the highest level in a sport of giants.  He worked well with the diminutive frame he'd been given, but even though he was the same gender as the 7' 1" Vlade Divac, surely they were nowhere close to being in the same division physically.  Lisa Leslie, at 6' 5", should theoretically have been more a peer than Bogues for the average NBA player.

Yet when the dude posed the question, the first thing that came regrettably to my mind was that awful John Travolta movie, The General's Daughter (1999).  I decided not to bring it up, however, for fear that I might have had to explain it, in case nobody else had seen it.

Kings

2007.  I've just started training at my new job.  My fellow trainees and I are chatting idly during a break.

Jewish male: Russian women are not to be messed with, huh?  Like Maria Sharapova.

Russian female (who, no offense, looks nothing like Maria Sharapova): Giggle giggle.

Jew: Do you like tennis?

Russian: Oh, yes!  You know Marat Safin?

Jew: (blank stare)

Russian: He's a Russian tennis player.  He's sooooo handsome.  Of course, I like Andy Roddick too.

Jew: (bored expression on face)

Me: What about Roger Federer?

Russian: Who?

Me: He's the number one player in the world.  He's Swiss.

Russian: Oh, he's okay.

Me: Hmm . . . Nikolay Davydenko?

Russian:  Eww, he's nasty.

Sorry

Me: I'm sorry I'm not Superman.

Old Man: So then you're not working Saturday?

Me: No.  I am not.  Also, I'm taking tomorrow off.

Old Man: *sigh* Kids these days.  What ever happened to taking pride in your work?

Me: Well, there is that.  On the other hand . . . "Don't hurt yourself."

A Hole in the World

Had to sit through a lengthy PowerPoint presentation about our 401(k)s.  Nothing actually new to report.  Wished I could have brought my laptop, spun it around to interrupt, and shown them a few slides of my own.

As some crazy veteran once told me, "Better just buy all that stuff you want right now, while your lives and money are still worth a damn."  Maybe he wasn't so crazy after all.

What Goes On

I sometimes feel that we are capable of being only as great, or as good, as the occasion. Surrounded for most of every day by my fellow taxpayers at work, "good" seems ever more an archaism. I wish I were a good person, but what does that even mean?

I've been at my current job for nearly three years. In that time, there have been few new hires--understandable given the economy--so you might think that I should be fairly well acquainted with everyone by now. That's not exactly the case. Most of the faces are familiar to me, but there is limited occasion for interaction with co-workers not seated within the immediate vicinity of my desk, and even those conversations tend to be brief and of an extremely superficial nature. Then, every few months, new seating arrangements are assigned, and I find myself in the company of neighbors with whom I may be more or less compatible.

In these circumstances, I find that there are not very many opportunities for making a good impression. Because I am quiet and keep to myself, I suspect that, for most people, I come across either as a dullard or a creep. A few older ladies will think that I am sweetly innocent, like a fresh young babe perhaps. I will admit to being dull, maybe not worldly wise, and I can't really help it if I somehow exude a creepy aura. Extended exposure will reveal that I am utterly harmless, and I don't so much mind the other misconceptions. It is maybe not an ideal situation, but I can hardly resent others for failing to see beyond the surface, when I myself make so little effort to invite them in. Indeed, I regret that, whenever someone does show an interest in getting to know me, I am usually the one failing to show equal interest in them. Moreover, I am no less prone to forming opinions of others based on little personal familiarity.

There is one co-worker in particular that I took an almost immediate disliking to. He looks like a hippie Jesus with poofy hair. I'm not personally a fan of big hair, especially on men, but perhaps the Jesus part is by design; he also sports a chain necklace with a steel crucifix resting on a bed of his highly visible chest hair. I don't understand why he is permitted to persist in his incomplete button job, which I find obscene, but I'm not one of those dress code narcs. Perhaps he gets away with it because he is generally well-liked around the workplace. The supervisors will tell you with much affection that he's "a good guy"--words I rather doubt they would use to describe me.

Given, as stated, how little opportunity there is for truly doing good in this environment, I'm not sure what the basis of this prevailing opinion is. Frankly, there isn't much that he or anyone else there actually does, period. Rather, he is a popular fellow, I suspect, because, quite unlike myself, he speaks often and he speaks well. I do not mean that his speech is eloquent or his statements perceptive. But he must be charismatic, because I am always hearing girls complimenting him on his opinions or giggling at his witticisms. I am not certain what exactly he is saying that so impresses these young lasses that are his preferred company. I am usually busy doing my job while all this goes on, and only the shriller voices make it across to where I'm sitting. But I am sure that it is not just the girls indulging him out of pity or politeness. They are the ones stopping by his desk several times a day for the pleasure of his company.

The work sometimes requires that he consult with the supervisor seated closer to me, and it is then that I am witness to some of his act. He'll insert himself into any conversation that catches his ear along the way, boldly stating his hackneyed opinions as though with biblical authority ("James Cameron is a hack," "Clapton is the greatest guitarist of all time," "We started this war for oil," etc.). Perhaps he'll spot a music CD on someone's desk, at which point he'll be happy to recommend a new and better band that you've never heard of. And he should know what he's talking about because, after all, he sings and plays guitar for a band of his own. It is a manner that can easily intimidate more fragile egos into acquiescence. (Perhaps, given the girls' reactions, I should say "impress" rather than "intimidate," although I do believe "intimidate" is accurate, whether or not the girls realize they are being intimidated.)

I do not consider myself a superior judge of character, nor do I mean to boast by suggesting that I am uniquely immune to his charms. Seeing as how I am not a pretty female, his performance is obviously not meant for me. And even if it is a performance, which is merely my suspicion, that does not preclude his being in reality possibly more intelligent than me. In fact, I should think it rather a compliment to him that his appeal seems beyond my understanding. That said, while I may or may not be justified in finding his behavior irritating as so far described, what I actually feel is a more intense dislike. Allow me to elaborate with some additional observations, though I cannot guarantee that they will make my position any more rational.

The door-opening scenario may be the one daily opportunity to do a trivial bit of good. In the case of this Jesus, I have found that he is admirably consistent in his habit of holding the door for pretty young ladies, to which they may respond with a "What a gentleman!" or some similarly flirtatious expression of gratitude, which is then met with a cute "You're only just noticing?" Considering that I've witnessed this same scene with the same players well over a hundred times, the girl must indeed be some kind of mental retard. But that's not the only thing I notice.

We work the same shift and on the same floor, so quite often he and I will be approaching a door at the same time. In this case, when he is ahead, he will brusquely proceed forward without any acknowledgment of any man behind him. Conversely, many times have I been the one holding the door for him. For this, I get no thanks and again not even a glance in my direction as he steps through without any hesitation.

None of this especially bothers me. There are some people who just won't hold the door for others. Perhaps they lead hurried lifestyles. I can understand and accept that, and it's not as if I am old or infirm so as to actually require anyone's assistance with opening a door. If they have to get somewhere, or even if they just think they do, then I would certainly not want to slow them down at all.

But let's examine another common situation. What about when there is a girl thrown into the mix, in addition to us two guys? Suppose he is first to the door, and it is an inward-swinging door. He will pull the door open and we will both see the girl pass through first, but then, as I approach to follow, he will step in front of me and leave me to catch the door on my own before it swings closed behind him. What is up with that?! How much time could he be losing by continuing to hold the door for one more person? Mind you, this happens almost every day.

Now, etiquette demands that a man hold the door for a lady, but maybe the rule is hazier when two males are involved. I suppose one could see it as emasculating for a man to have a male peer holding the door for him. That could explain both his disinclination to hold the door for me and his lack of appreciation when I hold it for him. That is not how I operate. That is not how most guys there seem to operate. Timing has sometimes even resulted in a lady holding the door for me, to which I offer, not an apology, but my heartfelt thanks. Perhaps this Jesus is just eccentrically old-school. But I cannot properly play the prosecution and the defense.

Based on the limited data collected, how then should we assess his character? When his day of reckoning comes, will he be seen and judged as the image of goodness that he projects to most people for the better part of every day? Or does his senseless discrimination, admittedly minor and ultimately inconsequential, reveal something critical about his nature? His girlfriend(s) may truly love him and think him a man of good heart. But how does he act when there is not a pretty female to impress? I cannot accept him as a "good guy," because I perceive truth only in his rudeness, but am I seeing too little or too much? Mercy is a virtue, and perhaps my way is too harsh. Perhaps there is no practical difference between the appearance of virtue and the reality of it. In that case, if he appears good most of the time, then perhaps that's good enough.

Henry in Real Time

Woman A: Okay, so you're an Aquarius? And what's your boyfriend's sign?

Woman B: Virgo.

Woman A: Ooh, that's trouble! Is he a real homebody?

Woman B: Actually, yeah, he is. So that guide is pretty right-on, huh?

Astrology. Utter trash. It is nothing more than the power of suggestion. Woman A's magazine tells her that Virgos are homebodies, and then she goes looking for examples among the Virgos she knows. The problem is that, while she may think she's testing the theory, in pursuing the possibility of any connection between an individual and one specific zodiacal symbol, she has actually already fallen into the trap. Because when you're determined to spot patterns, you're liable to interpret them even where none exist.

While real people tend to be complexes of many and sometimes contradictory aspects, most astrological profiles are brief and one-dimensional yet also deceptively generic. A normal person is most likely a combination of the collective traits describing all the signs. So, really, most individuals could probably be described by any of the sign profiles. After all, they're more like moods that we all go through than fully fleshed-out personality types.

Woman A: Yeah, I've dated a lot of Virgos before. They never like to go out or do anything. I'm a Leo, so I'm really active, and I need a guy who can keep up.

Maybe her Virgo ex-boyfriend was too tired to go out on one occasion, but because that example is all she'll be looking for, that's all she'll see. If I were to shuffle all the profiles around without her knowing it, Woman A would probably still manage to find evidence supporting those manufactured connections.

Woman B: Ha, I think you're right. My sister's a Leo and she's the same way.

Woman A: Yeah, Leos and Virgos just don't work. Virgos are real homebodies. They never go anywhere with you.

Okay, this is getting downright offensive. Time to set the record straight.

Me: I don't think that's true.

Woman A: Oh? You don't believe in astrology?

Me: No, I think it's just the power of suggestion.

Woman A: What does that mean?

Here we go . . .

Me: The problem is that those descriptions don't really say anything. People are too complex to be summarized like that. I mean, those are more like moods than personalities. Probably, you could find an example in anybody's life to support a profile of them as a homebody. The whole trick is that any of the profiles can match any of us. If I switched them all around without telling you, you would probably still think they made sense.

Woman B: Yeah, I see what you mean.

I rest my case. Right?

Woman A: So what's your sign, Henry?

Hmm, this could be a good chance to shatter her preconceptions about Leos and Virgos, while also proving my point about the power of suggestion.

Me: I'm a Leo.

Ha! She'd be the first to insist that we two Leos are nothing alike. So what does she have to say about this?

Woman A: Really? Me too! When's your birthday?

Crap! I'm actually a Virgo. And maybe a bit of a homebody.

Me: I don't know.

Woman A: You don't know your own--

Me: I was adopted.

Argh! This is not going the way I planned. Now my thoughts are lagging behind my rapidly deteriorating speech. Dare I continue down this course and attempt to keep up with my own lies? This cannot possibly end well.

Woman A: So, wait, you don't have a birthday?

Me: No, that's a lie. I'm actually a Virgo.

Damn it all! I should have made her use her stupid guide to guess my sign!

Woman A: Aha! I thought so. Yep, you are definitely the Virgo type.

That's what you think! But what if I just change my sign again with another lie? So much for my being a "Virgo type" then.

Me: Maybe.

Alas. You win this round, pseudoscience.

Woman B: Haha, that was funny.

Avoiding the Issue

I generally don't like to complain about my job, for although it may not be the most fulfilling, I can think of plenty worse, as well as plenty that may be better but also far more demanding. Really, the only thing my work requires is a high tolerance for tedium--I basically repeat the same five-minute process for eight hours per day, day after day. So maybe I could do with a little more excitement in my life. Unfortunately, recent "developments" at the office have introduced entirely the wrong kind of excitement, bordering more on terror.

For over a month now, contractors have been working to renovate the roof. Management warned us that we might have to bear with some loud banging and perhaps the smell of chemicals throughout the duration of this process. They did not mention anything about the peculiar leaks from holes in the ceiling all along the outside perimeter of the building.

These holes are not cracks or any other kind of damage; they look like open pipes, and they have always been there, though I never really noticed them until they started leaking. I don't know whence they originate, nor am I adequately educated in plumbing as to guess the reason for them to be protruding out of the ceiling and facing down where people would be walking, but most of them are easy to steer clear of and therefore harmless enough. The one dastardly exception happens to be positioned right above the entrance to the building.

Dripping directly in my path, there is only a very narrow gap around the leak itself, while the puddle below extends across the length of the doorway and must practically be hopped over. That's disturbing enough, but after it had been brewing for two days, by the third I could not help but notice the foul yet familiar stench that had developed around the area. I really didn't want to believe the worst, especially as I still didn't understand why these pipes were in the ceiling instead of harmlessly underground. After about the first week, however, someone set down a bucket to catch that liquid, and sure enough, it's a sickening brown-yellow color.

Yes, for over a month now, every day as I arrive at work, I have had to dodge urine dripping from the ceiling. Leaning as far as I can toward the wall, even while pushing the heavy door open, I then have to make a big sideways step over the overflowing bucket and across the puddle of urine below.

I suppose I must look like a fool to anyone watching, but these are the desperate measures the situation has driven me to. I cringe when occasionally I see co-workers indifferently stepping into the puddle, or even allowing a drop to splash upon a shoulder. Do these people not have noses and/or eyes?! Can they not tell that it is pee?! Just as management has failed to address it at all beyond laying down that insufficient bucket, I suppose these civilians would rather not face reality. But in that case, tell me, which of us is truly the fool?

It's all just too much. I need a vacation.

Not Safe For Work

Woman A: So how was Where the Wild Things Are? You know, my son is just crazy about that book.

Woman B: Yeah, me too blah blah blah but I think the movie's probably too scary for little, little kids. You should probably wait till he's grown-up. Then it'll be like the movie grew up with you. I think it's really for grown-ups, but for the kid in you, you know?

Woman A: Uh-huh.

Johnson (which is not his real name): He calls me "daddy," but I swear, Officer, he's older than I am!

The preceding was overheard while attempting to enjoy my mid-shift break.

This was the first time I'd seen "Johnson," the resident lovable flaming gay guy, since he was moved out of the main lab ("gen pop," as I call it) months ago. Despite his time away, he was clearly as sharp as ever, as he wasted no time butting in just to crack an obscene joke to climax someone else's conversation.

I had to excuse myself from the break room right then and there, but even I could not deny how practically perfect the witticism was on reflection. I would never have spotted that one, but even if I had, the joke would not have meant as much coming from me, nor from anybody other than Johnson. Now, thanks to him, I'll never be able to hear the expression "the kid in you" without it conjuring up horrible images.

A Dirty Job

Have you ever wondered about the process of the restroom sanitation staff? If your answer is no, then you had better stop reading now. It's not a profession often examined closely in film or television, or even reality TV. After suffering some unsettling close encounters, I can understand why.

Some months back, I happened into the workplace restroom while Alberto of the cleaning staff was in the middle of a job.

Usually they have up a "closed for cleaning" sign while they are working, but there was no such notice this time. I wondered if perhaps Alberto (which is his real name) had simply forgotten, if perhaps I should not have been there. I took in a quick view of the room, however, and I concluded that this was not a full job; he had his cart of water with him, but he was not mopping or doing anything else that should have required a traffic-free environment. No, Alberto was busy scrubbing a urinal, and since I was only there to wash my hands before going to lunch, I decided it was fine for me to be in and out quickly.

With the sinks opposite the urinals in this arrangement, I could see Alberto's back in the mirror. He was working with a conventional toilet brush. I noticed that he was dipping the brush into the bowl's own water and using that to scrub the walls of the urinal.

I must confess, I don't do a lot of toilet cleaning myself, so I was surprised to learn that this was how it was done. What was the use then of that tub of water he dragged along, which I had always assumed was filled with cleansing chemicals? But I couldn't think of any approach that would have been much more sanitary, and Alberto was a professional after all, so I wasn't about to tell him how to do his job.

Then I caught something more disturbing. From scrubbing the urinal interior, Alberto then proceeded directly to use the same toilet brush and the same toilet water on the flush lever.

Okay, so the urinal is dirty, and the urinal handle is also dirty. That's not news, am I right? That's why the last thing we do in there is wash our hands.

Well, not quite, and it was my next restroom run-in with Alberto that I witnessed something truly scary. He was using the same toilet brush to scrub the restroom door's steel push plate! Not only would a simple towel have been a more efficient instrument for this job, but the use of the toilet brush effectively negated any benefit from washing one's hands before exiting. And the audacity of Alberto to do it right in front of me!

Yes, I already knew that the push plate was also dirty. Dirty people put their dirty hands on it after all. That's why I always used a paper towel to handle any restroom door. Now I knew I was not being excessive. If anything, I may not have been cautious enough. From that day forward, I made sure, given the option, to only exit the restroom by using the kick plate. With my foot, I don't possess the same level of precise control as I would with my hand, so anybody on the other side had better watch out, but these are the methods that ugly truth has driven us to.

Today I ran into Alberto again in the restroom. This time, he was not just the custodian but also a "client," so to speak. After he finished enjoying the fruits of his labor, he walked directly out--no flush, no hand washing. These are the people that we trust to keep our workplaces clean. Perhaps he knew better than to touch anything in that restroom (although he still had to push the door to exit).

In a somewhat related grievance, the management promised us months ago, after requiring us to clear our desks of personal items, that a benefit would be that the custodial staff would be better able to clean our areas in the evenings. Well, I've had to watch the dust pile up on my practically empty desk several times now, each time ultimately cleaning it myself. So what did we gain?

Yes, it's a dirty job all right.

House of Mirrors

So I'm washing my hands at the restroom sink at work. There are three faucets, and, as always when possible, I take the leftmost one against the wall, because it is farthest from the stalls and closest to the paper towels.

As I pre-rinse my hands before applying soap, another man emerges from one of the stalls and takes the rightmost sink. Other guys in the men's bathroom are of no interest to me, and I try to avoid eye contact. I hear a giggling to my right, however, and I cannot help glancing down the mirror to glimpse a disturbing image. It seems we've both come to work dressed in the same clothes--a white-and-blue pinstripe dress shirt and black trousers. He also happens to be one of the handful of other Chinese guys at work, so it's almost like seeing a taller, lankier mirror image of myself.

There's really no salvaging such a situation, but I think, in polite society, the preferred course of action is to pretend that there is nothing at all amiss. Neither man is more at fault than the other, so we should just part ways in silence and try to avoid one another for the rest of the day.

That's what I'm thinking, but he apparently doesn't understand. He just keeps giggling, and all I can do is offer a faint sideways smile in his direction to let him know that, yes, I get it, and he need not draw any further attention to this embarrassment.

I'd like to get out of here now, but I do think it always important to wash one's hands thoroughly, and the job is not quite done. As I work my way through rinsing the soap off, only then do the powers that be bring the cosmic joke to its final punchline: a third Chinese guy takes the center sink, and he too is dressed in a white-and-blue striped shirt and black pants.

WHY?! The chances must have been about one in a million. Yet here we are--three dudes in an office bathroom, all of us dressed in the same non-uniforms.

This third guy is like the shorter, fatter, balding and bespectacled version of me. Also, his are not proper pinstripes but rather grotesquely thick vertical stripes. In fact, had it just been me and him, the similarities might very well have gone unnoticed, or at least very easily overlooked. A true professional, he acts completely oblivious to the two dudes to his sides.

That will not do, however, for the giggler, who can no longer suppress his urge to point out what is shamefully obvious.

"Haha, funny--all in blue shirts, stripes, with black pants!"

Yeah, very funny. Life is just one big joke. Now get me the hell out of here.