Wearing Safe Shoes
for Gareth (I have found all that shimmers in this world is sure to fade.)
I can't seem to shake my reputation.
I am a menace.
My persona is not optimal.
I have a perforation in my sum and total.
My boss seems to believe what he is being told about me. He says, “Do something about it. You scare people. People are complaining. They’re becoming irritable. Fix your shit. Jesus Christ, what are we running around here?”
I say to my boss, “You're being thrown a curve ball. Things may not be the way they seem. To be threatening - to be intimidating, menacing, implies malicious intent. I don’t try to be these things. These things are not me. I am not these things. I can’t fix something I have no control over.”
My boss stops and stares, as is his character when he is about to make a comment. He sits in his red vinyl chair, snug. He says, “Stop with the excuses, already. Excuses don’t pay the bills.” He leans forward, for affect. He says, “Pay attention to yourself. Your shit is out of whack. Whack it back into shape. I don’t need this aggravation. Stop aggravating me.”
I leave his office, wearing my new label like a crust.
Because I am not convinced that I can find answers within myself, I begin my investigation by first peeking through the door of the rumor mill. I can see, lying amidst the grist, my reputation as an anomalous man is founded.
The tittle-tattle is true, as true as tittle-tattle can be.
When I burst through the door of the rumor mill, people scatter. Some remain to tell me what they know, people who courageously tell me bits and pieces about who I am and what my character is composed of. They say, “Can we talk?” and I say, “Sure, what’s on your mind?” They say, “I don’t want to be a third party in your character appraisal, and you didn't hear this from me, but it seems people are dialoging. They are debating and concluding. It seems that people have concerns."
I say, "What exactly are their concerns? What is it about me that rises to such an occasion? Give me some facts. Or maybe just a clue or two. Something."
"I don't know what it is," says my confidant. "It's just something about you that just turns people off."
When it is boiled down, when the horse is out of the gate, when the wax becomes a ball, it appears that I have not been behaving well at all, but for unknown reasons. I learn that, in order to overcome my shortfalls, to satisfy people, I should become someone with whom they can feel more comfortable. If I repudiate, if I renounce my accusers, if I wash my hands of the matter, I will be jeopardizing my comfort zone. I will be reduced to rubble.
I am told to become a voracious reader of self-help books.
I am told to keep copious notes.
So, I am taking stock and making a mental checklist, in order to avoid this kismet.
I am talking to friends and drawing conclusions.
Julia and I sit together on the sofa, reading magazine articles to one another. I tell Julia what is said about me, at work, and she says, "They're stupid. I told you the people you work with are stupid. Dumb as stumps. This is only grist for the mill." I decide that now, this precise moment in time would be the perfect occassion to get her reaction to something I have had on my mind for a month. I say to Julia, "Have you given any thought to New Year's Eve?" Julia says, "Not really." I say, "What about bowling? Have you ever thought about bowling?" Julia laughs. She says, "Silly boy." She thinks I am joking with her."
Julia has known me only two years. She is tall and thin. She has long blond hair. She has narrow, willowy fingers that she uses to push her hair behind her ears, whenever she wants to make a subtle change to her appearance. I’m not sure what color her eyes are, but they have never impressed me as anything but eyes without defect. The color of Julia's eyes isn’t especially essential to the point I’m trying to make.
Suffice it to say that Julia has all the standard gear.
Her presence, in my opinion, speaks of sophistication. My friends tell me that Julia is “Hot”. I smile, partly out of an allegiance to being noncommittal in matters related to sexism, and partly because I believe Julia is more intelligent than well designed.
I say, “But it would be surreal. It would be Camus-esque. A bowling alley? New Years Eve? Do you get it? It’s too bizarre. The balls glow in the dark. It's sort of like disco bowling. My other friends are going.”
Julia thinks for a moment, pushing the hair back around her ears with her long fingers. She isn’t going to freely commit to my offer to be atypical for a few hours. She says, “What ever happened to flying to Times Square, getting a room, dancing at the Waldorf? Who else will be there?” Then, like a holiday cheese ball being rolled over walnuts, her concern takes on a whole new character.
She contorts her face.
“Which of your friends will be there? I didn’t know you knew any bowlers.” She pauses for my reaction before continuing. “I would feel more comfortable understanding all the parameters and corollaries. I need to consider each of the ramifications. We are talking about you and I going to a bowling alley that has balls that glow in the dark, after all. We are talking about my reputation, here. We have to move with caution.” She stares at me, like a child begging for understanding. “I have never even been in a bowling alley, never mind actually bowling. Bowling alleys and I have never crossed paths. Don’t you know about those people - bowling people? Don’t you watch TV?”
Julia sends me to the bowling alley to reconnoiter, to scout - to draw conclusions based on my experiences. She is concerned with the sequence of events she can anticipate. “How does one enter a bowling alley?" she says, “What does one say to people in order to obtain a place to shoot the balls? Will the area be exclusive to our bowling, or would we have to share the alley with anyone?” She pauses for a moment and says, “Another thing: Will I meet the other bowlers, before committing to anything? Will I have to bring bowling shoes? Where do you buy such things? Will I have to bring my own ball?” She adds that if I could determine the method by which the alley operated and how she would maneuver in that environment, she would consider the idea, further.
Being satisfied with my research of the bowling way of life, Julia wears a pink mini skirt and matching scarf she bought in New York. She carries a black silk, fringed handbag and black leather riding boots.
I wear some jeans and a shirt.
We jump in the car.
Julia and I are off to bowl-in the New Year.
There are more of my friends at the bowling alley than Julia’s. In fact, Julia’s friends don’t arrive, at all. They are concerned that the bowling shoes that are handed out may contain viruses. They choose to stay at home for the evening, wearing safe shoes.
“She seems nice,” I say to Julia about Vicki, a forty-ish mother of two who has been assigned to our team. “Her husband is a dentist. Look, she has a Halston handbag and perfect teeth. I don’t think her diamonds are real, but they certainly look like they are.” Julia pauses. “I want bumpers,” she says. “I have never done this before. I need bumpers.”
I set up the bumpers in the gutter, preventing Julia’s ball from ever missing its target, and Julia inches her way to the bowling ball launch pad.
“She’s a child,” Vicki says, her cubic zirconias catching the flashing disco lights overhead. “Bumpers are for children. She’s making us all look foolish. I wish I could get off this team. Her skirt is a bit short, don’t you agree?” Vicki looks over at her dentist. “She’s a fucking child,” Vicki says, brushing by me to retrieve her ball. “I’ll put an end to this in short order. There will be an end to this and I will bring it.”
After finishing the string, Vicki leaves the area and returns to her dentist. Soon, Vicki and her dentist are removing their bowling shoes and replacing them with their own. “But you’ll miss the midnight champagne,” I say. “The midnight champagne is the frosting on the cake. You can’t have a new year without champagne. It’s just not done. Won’t you stay? Won’t you be missing out?”
Vicki zips up her child’s jacket. “We have had enough.” She looks in Julia’s direction and then back at her dentist. “I’m up to here with it. Up to here is where I am with it.”
For the nearly two years, Julia and I have been friends, I learn to love her more, after each encounter. Her personality is unique and cannot be predicted. During those same two years, the years I have known Julia, I have been rising in the morning at 6:00 a.m., Monday through Friday, to the beeping of my alarm clock. I immediately become aware of the presence beside me in the bed.
I give myself a snooze or two, and cuddle.
Ten minutes later, I rise to begin my dressing ritual.
I leave at precisely 7:23 a.m.
There are times when I oversleep, and I am rushed. I cut corners in my grooming. I sometimes forget to take my pills or roll antiperspirant under my arms. I sacrifice these rituals, in order to arrive at work on time. One thing I never sacrifice is kissing my partner good-bye, before leaving. He lies in bed, fitted comfortably like a foot in a fur lined bedroom slipper, his face half covered by the sheet.
I pull the sheet away from his face and expose his lips.
I kiss him gently, muss his hair.
I never leave for work without first committing to this ritual.
He is the essence of my character.
He is my life and I wouldn’t change a thing about that.
I can't seem to shake my reputation.
I am a menace.
My persona is not optimal.
I have a perforation in my sum and total.
My boss seems to believe what he is being told about me. He says, “Do something about it. You scare people. People are complaining. They’re becoming irritable. Fix your shit. Jesus Christ, what are we running around here?”
I say to my boss, “You're being thrown a curve ball. Things may not be the way they seem. To be threatening - to be intimidating, menacing, implies malicious intent. I don’t try to be these things. These things are not me. I am not these things. I can’t fix something I have no control over.”
My boss stops and stares, as is his character when he is about to make a comment. He sits in his red vinyl chair, snug. He says, “Stop with the excuses, already. Excuses don’t pay the bills.” He leans forward, for affect. He says, “Pay attention to yourself. Your shit is out of whack. Whack it back into shape. I don’t need this aggravation. Stop aggravating me.”
I leave his office, wearing my new label like a crust.
Because I am not convinced that I can find answers within myself, I begin my investigation by first peeking through the door of the rumor mill. I can see, lying amidst the grist, my reputation as an anomalous man is founded.
The tittle-tattle is true, as true as tittle-tattle can be.
When I burst through the door of the rumor mill, people scatter. Some remain to tell me what they know, people who courageously tell me bits and pieces about who I am and what my character is composed of. They say, “Can we talk?” and I say, “Sure, what’s on your mind?” They say, “I don’t want to be a third party in your character appraisal, and you didn't hear this from me, but it seems people are dialoging. They are debating and concluding. It seems that people have concerns."
I say, "What exactly are their concerns? What is it about me that rises to such an occasion? Give me some facts. Or maybe just a clue or two. Something."
"I don't know what it is," says my confidant. "It's just something about you that just turns people off."
When it is boiled down, when the horse is out of the gate, when the wax becomes a ball, it appears that I have not been behaving well at all, but for unknown reasons. I learn that, in order to overcome my shortfalls, to satisfy people, I should become someone with whom they can feel more comfortable. If I repudiate, if I renounce my accusers, if I wash my hands of the matter, I will be jeopardizing my comfort zone. I will be reduced to rubble.
I am told to become a voracious reader of self-help books.
I am told to keep copious notes.
So, I am taking stock and making a mental checklist, in order to avoid this kismet.
I am talking to friends and drawing conclusions.
Julia and I sit together on the sofa, reading magazine articles to one another. I tell Julia what is said about me, at work, and she says, "They're stupid. I told you the people you work with are stupid. Dumb as stumps. This is only grist for the mill." I decide that now, this precise moment in time would be the perfect occassion to get her reaction to something I have had on my mind for a month. I say to Julia, "Have you given any thought to New Year's Eve?" Julia says, "Not really." I say, "What about bowling? Have you ever thought about bowling?" Julia laughs. She says, "Silly boy." She thinks I am joking with her."
Julia has known me only two years. She is tall and thin. She has long blond hair. She has narrow, willowy fingers that she uses to push her hair behind her ears, whenever she wants to make a subtle change to her appearance. I’m not sure what color her eyes are, but they have never impressed me as anything but eyes without defect. The color of Julia's eyes isn’t especially essential to the point I’m trying to make.
Suffice it to say that Julia has all the standard gear.
Her presence, in my opinion, speaks of sophistication. My friends tell me that Julia is “Hot”. I smile, partly out of an allegiance to being noncommittal in matters related to sexism, and partly because I believe Julia is more intelligent than well designed.
I say, “But it would be surreal. It would be Camus-esque. A bowling alley? New Years Eve? Do you get it? It’s too bizarre. The balls glow in the dark. It's sort of like disco bowling. My other friends are going.”
Julia thinks for a moment, pushing the hair back around her ears with her long fingers. She isn’t going to freely commit to my offer to be atypical for a few hours. She says, “What ever happened to flying to Times Square, getting a room, dancing at the Waldorf? Who else will be there?” Then, like a holiday cheese ball being rolled over walnuts, her concern takes on a whole new character.
She contorts her face.
“Which of your friends will be there? I didn’t know you knew any bowlers.” She pauses for my reaction before continuing. “I would feel more comfortable understanding all the parameters and corollaries. I need to consider each of the ramifications. We are talking about you and I going to a bowling alley that has balls that glow in the dark, after all. We are talking about my reputation, here. We have to move with caution.” She stares at me, like a child begging for understanding. “I have never even been in a bowling alley, never mind actually bowling. Bowling alleys and I have never crossed paths. Don’t you know about those people - bowling people? Don’t you watch TV?”
Julia sends me to the bowling alley to reconnoiter, to scout - to draw conclusions based on my experiences. She is concerned with the sequence of events she can anticipate. “How does one enter a bowling alley?" she says, “What does one say to people in order to obtain a place to shoot the balls? Will the area be exclusive to our bowling, or would we have to share the alley with anyone?” She pauses for a moment and says, “Another thing: Will I meet the other bowlers, before committing to anything? Will I have to bring bowling shoes? Where do you buy such things? Will I have to bring my own ball?” She adds that if I could determine the method by which the alley operated and how she would maneuver in that environment, she would consider the idea, further.
Being satisfied with my research of the bowling way of life, Julia wears a pink mini skirt and matching scarf she bought in New York. She carries a black silk, fringed handbag and black leather riding boots.
I wear some jeans and a shirt.
We jump in the car.
Julia and I are off to bowl-in the New Year.
There are more of my friends at the bowling alley than Julia’s. In fact, Julia’s friends don’t arrive, at all. They are concerned that the bowling shoes that are handed out may contain viruses. They choose to stay at home for the evening, wearing safe shoes.
“She seems nice,” I say to Julia about Vicki, a forty-ish mother of two who has been assigned to our team. “Her husband is a dentist. Look, she has a Halston handbag and perfect teeth. I don’t think her diamonds are real, but they certainly look like they are.” Julia pauses. “I want bumpers,” she says. “I have never done this before. I need bumpers.”
I set up the bumpers in the gutter, preventing Julia’s ball from ever missing its target, and Julia inches her way to the bowling ball launch pad.
“She’s a child,” Vicki says, her cubic zirconias catching the flashing disco lights overhead. “Bumpers are for children. She’s making us all look foolish. I wish I could get off this team. Her skirt is a bit short, don’t you agree?” Vicki looks over at her dentist. “She’s a fucking child,” Vicki says, brushing by me to retrieve her ball. “I’ll put an end to this in short order. There will be an end to this and I will bring it.”
After finishing the string, Vicki leaves the area and returns to her dentist. Soon, Vicki and her dentist are removing their bowling shoes and replacing them with their own. “But you’ll miss the midnight champagne,” I say. “The midnight champagne is the frosting on the cake. You can’t have a new year without champagne. It’s just not done. Won’t you stay? Won’t you be missing out?”
Vicki zips up her child’s jacket. “We have had enough.” She looks in Julia’s direction and then back at her dentist. “I’m up to here with it. Up to here is where I am with it.”
For the nearly two years, Julia and I have been friends, I learn to love her more, after each encounter. Her personality is unique and cannot be predicted. During those same two years, the years I have known Julia, I have been rising in the morning at 6:00 a.m., Monday through Friday, to the beeping of my alarm clock. I immediately become aware of the presence beside me in the bed.
I give myself a snooze or two, and cuddle.
Ten minutes later, I rise to begin my dressing ritual.
I leave at precisely 7:23 a.m.
There are times when I oversleep, and I am rushed. I cut corners in my grooming. I sometimes forget to take my pills or roll antiperspirant under my arms. I sacrifice these rituals, in order to arrive at work on time. One thing I never sacrifice is kissing my partner good-bye, before leaving. He lies in bed, fitted comfortably like a foot in a fur lined bedroom slipper, his face half covered by the sheet.
I pull the sheet away from his face and expose his lips.
I kiss him gently, muss his hair.
I never leave for work without first committing to this ritual.
He is the essence of my character.
He is my life and I wouldn’t change a thing about that.