Yesterday I was in town, and even though I didn’t have the means necessary to pick up my office chair (Husband plus Jeep haven’t both been available on a Physical Therapy day, so my PT could adjust said chair, and…ahh, it’s just too complicated), I thought at least I’d swing by and pick up the smaller things I’d left behind. My spiffy trackball, the exercise mats in the closet, et cetera.
I brought a couple of bags to make this chore easier.
But when I got there, it had already been done for me. The desk had been swept clean and all my stuff – the trackball, the Palm cradle, my footrest, the things from the drawer (hand lotion, various pain-relieving gels, dried fruit and almonds) had been packed in a box and shoved into the corner of the office.
And I know the job was beneath me, and I was unhappy there, and it was a good thing to leave. Intellectually I know all that stuff, but in that instant, seeing the box in the corner, seeing the evidence of somebody already working at “my” old desk (and quite settled in, it seemed), made me feel like garbage. Something bagged up and ready to go out with the trash.
So I made the Prince of Darkness carry everything out to my car.
I hope he pulled a muscle.
No. I don’t really hope that. I just want to move forward, absorb the lessons I needed to learn, and forget the rest.
But maybe one day I’ll get to kill him off in a book.
I used to think, as I leaned against the catwalk railing during my water breaks at the lighting company job, when I was at my most overworked, my most miserable, my most ready to arc, that one day this has to be in a book, and of course, someone would have to die. (a coworker and I used to joke about what we’d do at the company when we’d had too much pressure and arc’ed out (a lighting term for “going postal.”) My favorite scenario was stealing a forklift and driving it through the plate glass conference room wall, hopefully taking a few suits out with me.) (Fictionally, of course. Don’t go setting the cops on my tail, for Christ’s sake) I tried writing about it shortly after I’d left, but it wasn’t coming out the way I wanted. It was kind of sitcom-ish, kind of wimpy. Because I’d forgotten a lesson I’d learned earlier in my writing life. The best perspective comes after you’ve been away from a place for a while. I couldn’t write about Syracuse until long after I’d moved away. (Although I did have to return for a few days just to confirm a few details). I couldn’t write about Boston until I’d left (the follow-up research was far less disappointing). I couldn’t write as well about 60s leftover-nouveau-Jews I worked for in Woodstock until after my job with them dissolved along with their company (for obvious reasons).
The Prince of Darkness is going to have to wait his turn.
Because right now I’m too busy trying to imagine the way the breaking glass would sound when you ram a forklift through a conference room wall.
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4 comments:
I've got nothing to say but it's ok.
(I love the sound of breaking glass too. It's soothing.)
Don't dispair Opus!
One day we'll get you the world's largest piece of plate glass and a suped up (NASCAR approved) forklift and of course a crash helmet - and we'll take care of all those past job frustrations in one rousing spectacularly ugly, earth shattering, shard spiraling, act of Karmatic rectitude!
Careful what you say about Syracuse. Prior to finding River City, Syracuse was the home of my heart, and I'm still a Syracuse native deep in my soul. And, you know, I have very fond memories of the place, and even of certain former dorm rooms there, even if you don't. ;) (Which wasn't my fault, by the way; you were just profoundly miserable back then.)
I've walked away from a great great many jobs, and almost never have I had to go back for any reason. On the few occasions I have had to, it's always been a disturbing experience, seeing 'my' desk or cubie or work area either empty, or with someone else settled at it. Such is the transitory nature of all life, but especially modern American corporate culture.
I've done terrible, terrible things to many, many people who have annoyed me over the years in my fiction. It's a pleasant catharsis, but sometimes I worry that it gives people way more power over you than they really should have, if you're constantly putting the little fuckers into whatever it is you're writing at the time.
In one of my novels, a character bearing an entirely coincidental resemblance to our old mutual friend Kurt has actually conquered the world (by being a manipulative mind controlling creep). Of course, he's going to have to get slapped down hard if I ever write the last book in that trilogy.
And in another one, a similar character gets hammered pretty good by my central villain, who happens to bear an entirely coincidental resemblance to me.
What I found disappointing about my return to Syracuse wasn't the flood of memories (yes, some of them are nice memories) but about how nothing seemed to be where I left it. The houses seemed smaller and darker. The campus looked like something from a Disney set. In the book that I'd written set in 'Cuse, the female protagonist (bearing a remarkable resemblance to me) spends a great deal of time sitting at the crest of the hill overlooking Brewster/Boland contemplating sunsets and her guilt and the bad choices she'd made in her short college career. When I went back, this lovely expanse of grass was now part of an Erector Set of glass and metal attached to some new building. The only character in that book who has bodily harm done to him was an innocent bystander who happens to be one of her bad choices (and who does NOT bear any kind of resemblance to you, coincidental or otherwise.) Hope you're not disappointed.
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