I WENT to visit my body to see how it was doing; it was not very responsive. It pretended I wasn’t there. That’s acknowledgment, a response, isn’t it? A step forward. You wouldn’t pretend if nobody was there. You’d just be you. Your normal, non-observed you. It was definitely pretending.
I know what was going on. The whole thing is a sad cliché. New managers come in, devise new plans, everything changes.
They wrote new contracts. There would be no lay-offs. Everybody would keep their jobs. They said. The new contract had to be obeyed to the letter. That was their ask.
In the contract, the new management team inserted new specifics. New twists. The old management, they claimed, had caused a toxic atmosphere by being too lenient, not following proper HR policies.
My body and its coworkers had no idea what the new management was talking about. They had wonderful relationships with the old management. They were like a family. A family that occasionally struggled but took care of its own in uncaring times. Small company and all that.
The new terms of expected behavior included mandatory cheerfulness, consistent positivity toward the new managers. “On entering the company premises, greet managers with smile, express gratitude.”
Small-print: Positivity to be observed in all manner of communications, no matter casual or formal; including, but not limited to, communications styles deemed oratorical, deliberative, consultative, interactional, familiar or intimate.
“No ‘issues’ shall be raised”, stated the contract. ‘Issues’ are anything capable of inviting disagreement. Of any kind. Raising of any ‘issues’ = a breach of contract.
The new policies and requirements for retaining were not taken without grumbling or raising of concerns.
My body, after consultations with coworkers, wrote up a list of concerns the new management needed to consider. The letter, signed by all retained employees, insisted they were not raising any ‘issues’ but concerns. All in absolutely positive spirit of facilitating a smooth transition for the company and its shareholders as well as stake holders.
My body was laid off for violation of contract.
It was thinking. “The new management put in a mandatory ‘cheerfulness’ clause for Christ’s sakes? How’s that even legal?”
Sitting there on the couch, it was daydreaming itself as a lower ranked detective in a TV police drama. The much cleverer, smarter, sharper, better-educated and far-better-read detective that has to work for a less competent, less imaginative, less skilled, very obtuse and ignorant boss with a dictatorial bent, and the unfeeling, grinning viciousness that goes with it.
It was laid-off for breach of contract. As it should have been. It deserved it. God only knows how many times I warned it. The egotistical asshole thinks it can get away with anything.
It was depressed. Naturally. Wouldn’t talk to me. Not even me. It was brooding. It makes sense. I was against its move from the start, nagged it to death not to do it. That damned letter! What was the use? Fucking idiot.
When I got there, as I got in, I said as cheerfully as possible, “Hey there, buddy! How’s it goin’?” It said nothing. Just gave me a side glance, shrugged and returned to looking at the floor. It was sitting in its favorite side of the couch, right elbow resting on the armrest, hand holding a beer. Empty, it seemed.
It was watching TV. Evening local news. Some apartment building in a poor neighborhood was on fire. People were outside, standing around in the cold, wrapped in blankets, watching the fire department do its job. My body was thinking: Why is it that only poor neighborhoods have apartment fires?
The reporter in front of the apartment building was reporting the obvious.
The painting of Van Gough with his right ear bandaged, blue hat with black fury lining, green overcoat buttoned up was staring back from above the TV. The only art on the walls. My body was smoking.
All the previous grievances with the world were moving in, piling on top of this last humiliation; all manifest on its face. I couldn’t stomach looking at its face.
I looked down at the floor. It had not been vacuumed in a while. Breadcrumbs, peanut shells on the rug. My body was blowing smoke in the direction of Van Gough. The TV news was still covering the local apartment fire, now from a helicopter camera. Firehoses bestowing water all over the building, the fires still raging high, giving the finger to the firefighters. Back to the street-level reporter, she was now reading from notes prepared after interviewing a fire department official. No casualties. Cause of fire not determined. Too soon to tell. The residents were now homeless and would be looking for shelter on this cold winter night.
I stuck around a while, thinking some companionship would help. I tried to cheer it up by going through some of the fun times we had had together. I sang its favorite songs out loud. I acted out some scenes from its favorite sitcoms. I talked about the cross-country trips we had enjoyed, back when we were together. Especially the one to the Four Corners. We stood in two states at the same time, then the other two.
The mention of the times when we were together brought a frown to its face. I should not have mentioned that.
“What am I supposed to do at my age?” it said under its breath. “Too old to retrain, too young to retire. And what retirement? Why lay me off? It’s not like I am incompetent. I’m the best they’ve got. They just hired a bunch of fresh-faced pasted smiles who know nothing. They have to be trained for the next God knows how long. It’ll take ‘em years to get to where I am.”
I could not say or do much to cheer it up. I left it be and went back to my place.
***
BACK HOME I couldn’t stop thinking about its mental state. Would it try to kill itself? Why was I even thinking that? Would it go to work and try to ‘talk sense’ to the new management? What futility! And then what? Does it think they’ll just hire it back?
Contracts are contracts. Contracts are omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient. Violate the letter and you violate the spirit. Contracts are Contracts. With Capital C. Judging you every working moment.
But, was this even a ‘con.tract’? ‘Tract’, root word, meaning, ‘pull’. ‘Con’, root word, meaning, ‘with’. This new contract violated the most basic part, the ‘con’, the ‘with’. It was dictated, not negotiated. It was an edict.
These were crazy thoughts. My body was having crazy thoughts. It had to be stopped. It would never do any harm to others. It couldn’t. Too weak. But, harm to self? That, I couldn’t be sure.
I had to stay away, though. I could play no part in any of it. Best stay away. It would eventually calm down. Maybe I could move back in then. Not yet, I know. But maybe soon.
It does help to visit once in a while. Just to check in.
***
I GOT a call, so I had to go back and check on it.
Apparently, it had gone in to talk to the new top dog, Bob, Bob something. My self-righteous body had gone in to give him more detailed, unsolicited ‘feedback’ on where they would likely fail. It had told Bob that it didn’t matter if they hired it back or not. It just wanted to give them some good advice from a seasoned professional with high expertise in the field.
I knew it was going to do something stupid. Idiot. Never learns. It just doesn’t learn. I had to say something. I had to. That’s what friends do. I didn’t raise my voice, spoke very calmly, but I was firm:
The new management knows what they’re doing. They milk the cow to the last drop, sell whatever’s left of the cow ... Then, declare bankruptcy. That’s it. You just thought it would never happen to you. They’re here to cash out. There’s not a god damned thing you can do about it. Just get a grip and move the fuck on.
Almost immediately, I regretted lecturing it. I did have to go over to see how it was doing, but I didn’t have to lecture it. It’s not like it didn’t know. It knows more than I would ever.
Especially after it was thrown out of the premises in such humiliating fashion. It had only delivered half its speech to top dog Bob when security had arrived. It continued shouting its advice as it was being pulled away, as it continued grabbing onto the chair it was sitting in, pulling the chair with it on the way out. The security had had to pause at the door of the plush corner office to dislodge my body from the chair.
It had been humiliatingly distressing. My body was pulled, kicking and screaming, through the length of the rows and rows of cubicles. The elevator had taken a while to arrive, and all the while my body continued delivering its speech-advice to its former coworkers. What a scene!
Now sitting on the other end of the couch, I asked how it was feeling. It just stared at the floor. Its new hobby: Staring at the floor. Took a sip of the beer. Lit a cigarette. Did its best not to acknowledge me. Eventually, it darted a sideway glance my way and shrugged slightly. It was OK.
The TV was on, but on mute. It doesn’t like commercials. Those jingles get stuck in the head. All through the night, dreams and nightmares get mixed with those jingles. It wakes up in the morning, and those jingles are still running through its head. It’s even worse now. The Christmas Season. Everywhere you go, they’re playing them. It’s especially necessary to keep the TV on mute during commercials around this time of year. My body has an idea that the next step in TV production is to get rid of the mute button. It could be. If that does happen ... I don’t know. It can’t not have the TV on. The place is too quiet without some noise. Its head filled with horridly manic thoughts without background noise to distract it. Its head would explode or something.
I’d better not move back in now. Not yet. Definitely not yet. Not sure I can bear living in that kind of extreme stress, 24/7, no breaks, no breathing time. I would have a heart attack.
After trying some hours to get it to talk, seeing that it was of no use, I left.
On the way back, I felt Peace. Peace with capital P. At least for now. For the night. The stars were visible. Oh, the serenity. Could see Orion’s belt in the eastern sky. By morning’s first light, it would have slipped below the western horizon. Moon would be coming up soon, more than half full. The cold evening air was calming. Some people were rushing back home from shopping, others getting home from work. I was taking my time taking in the air.
***
I WENT to pay it a visit and saw sister’s car in the driveway. I stayed out of sight. Didn’t want to interfere.
My body is not political, but sister is, and she hates the president. She was on a rant about how the president is destroying the country. The rant went on for a while. My body seemed to nod in agreement for the most part. The rant just kept on going. The TV was on, a sitcom was on; stupid laugh tracks were jarring, but my body was trying to follow the storyline.
“Those voters who put him there are blind!” sister was saying. “Don’t they see what he’s doing? How many people’s lives he’s destroying? What a fucking asshole!”
My body just had to erupt. “Look, you think that dickwad in the White House is an asshole? Sure, he is! He’s been one forever! But what about ... Look ... Have you looked at your boss closely? How many bosses have you worked for? THEY are all royal assholes. But nobody pays any attention to THEM. There are millions of assholes and dickwads that run our lives. Nobody curses them. They’re destroying tens of millions of lives every day. Do you ever read headlines about them? NO! But, one of them gets into the Oval Office, and all hell breaks loose! You guys are the fools! You guys ... you are the blind ones.”
I had to intervene. The whole thing was getting absurd. Here was my body, just made redundant for lack of respect for contracts, and it was having an argument over politics with its sister? Over politics, a thing it never ever gave a fuck about. I had to step in:
“You haven’t told her yet, have you. Go ahead, why don’t you tell her?” I said, daring it.
“You stay out of this,” it shouted out, looking up at the ceiling.
Sister looked confused. “Who ...? What ... did you...? Are you talking to me? Stay out of what!?” she looked confused, distressed and concerned. “You OK?”
My body was embarrassed. It was talking to me in front of sister. Openly. Fully acknowledging me in the presence of others. And not just any others. The ultimate acknowledgment.
I didn’t know if I should laugh out loud or cry. I was confused. I was elated. I wanted to hug my body. Finally, united at last. Maybe this was the point of return? Time to move back? Time to reunite? These were troubled times. My body needed me. Obviously. It was reaching out. That was its way of reaching out.
But the moment passed.
I left.
***
I HAD to rush to the local jail.
“You, stupid asshole!” I said out loud. “Now, we are no more.”
Before ending up in jail, my body had decided it was not worth pursuing the matter with the new management. It could not appeal to their better side. They didn’t have a better side.
It resolved to retrain in carpentry and took up pottery as a hobby. It got a job with a small construction company and made pottery in its free time. It was on the way to being happy.
I was planning to move back in.
But the way it was laid off from its old job still hurt. The ache wouldn’t go away. My body, it seemed, just had to do something. Something to Bob, the face of the new tyranny. They took everything away just like that. And they were smug about it, smiling as they did it.
We think that future is an extension of the same thing that’s going on right now. We think whatever is happening now will keep on happening, and in exactly the same way that’s been happening. For no rational reason, we assume that. But things change all the time. Not just some things. Everything.
My body pulled a juvenile gag on Bob. It just had to. It printed two hundred fliers with Bob’s face on it, with a short caption: Little Dick-Tatar. It put up the fliers all over the company, on all office doors, in all cubicles. It didn’t stop there. It collected a few bags full of dog shit, placed one in front of Bob’s house, one on the floor at the foot of his gym locker and one inside the locker. It had a good laugh doing all that. Probably the last hearty laugh it would ever have.
The police tracked it all back to my body, and now it was sitting in jail.
I finally had to decide. I departed for good, one last time. There is no going back. It is decided. It decided it.
At some level, I could sympathize with it. These days, most things are either petty and stupid or vicious and stupid. My body had a stupid petty last laugh in response to viciousness. I’d take petty over vicious too. We’re not that different.
***
THERE IT was. Totally unresponsive. I tried my best. I did. I really did.
When I arrived, I could smell it from the driveway. My heart skipped a beat. I rushed in.
“Are we really going to do this?” I said.
It clearly was past the point of having any regards for loyalty, for things promised, for plans made, for futures imagined.
It was a strong smell. A cigarette was burning in the ashtray, the smoke whirling upward in a steady column at an angle toward the window. My body was staring at the floor. The TV was on. The news was on, 4 o’clock news. A mass shooting at a local school. Frantic parents, unable to talk coherently to reporters, whaling and screaming. One was screaming, “Why?”
Kept repeating, “Why?”
There’s never a good reason. Motive unknown but the means available in plenty. There’s no way of telling why, in the immediate aftermath. Sometimes ever. Jealousy? Envy? Rejected by a girl? Not let into a clique? Failed a test? Racial hatred? For the hell of it? Just to see terror in other people’s eyes?
The shooter was a known loner, the reporter was saying. It’s never a socialite, is it?
That pungent, oily smell of kerosene. Not so much an acidic fume, but it burns the lungs. And then, the smell of cigarette smoke. Toxicity multiplied.
The look on my body’s face was senile. “What’s it all mean, anyway?” it said out loud. Was it addressing me?
“We just think we mean a thing. Ego. Just that. Ego speculating, wishing. That’s all. What fucking egotistical assholes we are.” It was mumbling incoherently.
I made a run for the cigarette. It was quicker; snatched the cig out of the ashtray before I had a chance to take two steps, flicked it on the floor, and as it did so, it turned to me. That was its one last acknowledgement. It smiled at me. He released us. He made us whole. He brought us together. Together again at last.