In the beginning I was sitting in what most people would describe as a
nice office. Two walls of windows, one facing woods, the other the
Willamette River. I had natural light until late afternoon, when the
Oregon sun slid behind the fir trees. That was unless the Oregon sun was
blocked by the rainclouds, such as this morning, which was rather
common.
Sitting here in the hot tub I wondered “who was I
then?” Basically I was a middle aged white guy. I still had a full head
of hair. I was not nor ever had been buff, but I wasn't a fat slob
either.
My professional life had nothing to do with my
education from the University of California, Berkeley, Go Bears.
However, I made a good living in this capitalist world that I thought I
despised back when I was a college radical. So, I was mentally
conflicted. I had become a chameleon, changing my colors to please the
capitalist world. I did this because I knew I wanted to live well
within it. Pragmatism sucks.
I always wondered when the altruism and idealism that boiled in my gut would be set free.
What I did not know is that it was imminent.
Back to the Oregon weather. I did not mind the rain. The rain made
things in Oregon soft, fuzzy. It put crystals on the spider webs. It put
webs between your toes. It prevented me from having to do things like
mow the lawn. If it was a workday, it helped me focus on the job. On a
weekend, the rain made my stone fireplace doubly useful, warmth for
sure, but I could also dry out my socks. And I did not have to mow the
lawn.
I occupied this nice corner office because I was a
department manager. My charges were all twenty to thirty years younger
than me. Most of them had tattoos. Some of the tattoos were
unrecognizable creatures. Some were words in Chinese. I was definitely
out of touch when this tattoo fad started. All I could think was how
permanent the tats were. I mean in my youth, we could grow our hair, and
then cut it. We could wear bell bottoms, and then throw them away. We
could get John Lennon spectacles, and then trade them in for contacts.
But these guys were stuck with the special of the day from a Chinese
restaurant menu written on their arm for life. They all had some
university time in. Some still attending, some graduated, and some drop
outs. I did not care, as long as they met the few criteria I had when I
interviewed them. They had to be able to put up with my bullshit, and
they had to be smarter than me. It made for interesting interviews. It
also made for interesting referrals. “Hey, I have a friend that would
like to work here. He is pretty bright and he does not seem to care what
kinds of crap people make him do at his other job.” I knew I was going
to hire one young man when I stared at the Chinese script on his arm
and said, “Hey, I had that for dinner last week.” His reply was “The
shit is hard to eat with chopsticks I hear.”
The company was a
successful computer game company. It was founded by a man who kept alive
his dream that a company should be a fun place to work. This philosophy
was meant to inspire loyalty and creativity. It worked for the most
part, but I simply cannot be inspired. The Star Spangled Banner only
means that a baseball game is minutes away. While singing it I only look
at the flag to see whether I can expect the wind to carry a ball over
the fence or keep it in the park.
I was a softy. I realized
that my charges would work for me best if I worked for them. I strove to
keep their work interesting and productive. I did my best to increase
their compensation. I had a 24 hour work day policy, meaning as long as
the work got done, it did not matter to me what hours they came in. I
trusted them and they respected me for it. They made me look good to my
boss, and I benefited. I had a mild manner, and was slow if ever to
anger. But I could get really weird some times. This seemed to humor
people around me. It also sent them off in search of sanity at times.
This was the best job I ever had. However, my level of inspiration was
only lifted once a month, on payday. Then it would quickly deflate once I
paid my mortgage, car payment, utilities, and bought my next month's
supply of sinsemilla, a potent type of marijuana.
The grass
kept me in line. With it I was escaping the fact that the Oregon
sunshine was often eclipsed by the clouds. It also made me forget,
almost, that my eyes were getting used to fluorescent lighting in my
office. I was convinced the fluorescent lighting was going to make me
color blind. I was afraid that when I had the acid flashbacks I had been
promised when I was twenty years old, that they would come in black and
white.
Besides the monthly obligatory exodus of money from my
account, I allowed myself one pure fantasy expense, lottery tickets. I
could buy them online and I often did while I was supposedly working. I
would scout the different state lotteries and buy tickets for the
biggest prizes. I figured why fantasize about a 2 million dollar prize
when there is a 40 or 50 million dollar prize floating around. My
chances of winning one was the same as the other, virtually nil. But
like the man said once “somebody has to win, and if you don't play, it
won't be you.” Some of the whippersnappers who worked for me would
scoff and say “Hey man, your chances of winning are like one in 600
million, you could get hit by lightening easier.” You see, they WERE
smarter than me. “Sure” I'd say, “but what fun would it be to get hit by
lightening?” When they walked away without an answer I would chase them
down and demand an answer. “Would you rather get hit by lightening or
win 40 million dollars, tell me.” This is what I mean by putting up with
my bullshit. I am not a true power tripper, but when I want respect, I
demand it in freakish ways.
The California lottery had been at
$130 million on Saturday. I had played my normal numbers, the
combination I was sure would never win but I played it anyway. I played
it all the time, every week, somewhere. It was as good as playing any
other numbers, or as dumb. I always chose the 100% at once payment plan
instead of the plan where they paid you over 20 years. I did not even
have the patience to buy green bananas.
It was a miserable,
rainy Monday morning. Well, maybe not miserable. I mean I had to work
anyway. The rain raised the Willamette over its normal banks. It would
wash down various articles fun to watch float by: the occasional tree,
maybe some country boy's pickup. You never knew what to expect. While
driving in, crossing the Willamette and searching for flotsam or jetsam,
I realized I needed new wipers and that they could not wait for my
monthly arousal of inspiration courtesy of the twelve year old boys who
bought our products. I also knew that my dandy corner office would need
to be lit by the Dutch boys at Phillips, not the sun god of the Incas.
“Shit” I thought “when my flashback comes, the tie-dyes will all be gray
at this rate.” I walked into the office and turned on the 36 inch tubes
that emitted the color robbing electronic vibrations. My depression was
quickly replaced by a mute anger when one of the bulbs started to buzz.
I could have called maintenance and waited all day for them to change
the bulb, but the maintenance crew were union workers and it took three
of them to change a light bulb. So I just shut off the power and sat in
the dim light of a Willamette fall morning.
One of my
employees wandered in undoubtedly to tell me about his latest problems
with his latest girlfriend. I, being their father's age served as the
father figure. I let them blab on unless it bored me. Then I would say
something like “Son, you a churchgoer?” Remember, these were nerds of
the highest order, and with one glaring exception, they were definitely
not alter boys. “No, I’m not. Why?” “Cuz you need a priest, get back to
work.”
This particular morning the young man entered and turned
on the buzz bulbs from the Netherlands. When I gave him a pre-coffee
growl and told him to shut the damn lights off he should have known
better than to tell me that his ‘69 Corvette blew a gasket over the
weekend and he would need some time off to find a mechanic. I said. “My
Honda needs new wipers. Perhaps you should see a priest.” I was used to
my workers mumbling as they left my office, so I did not even try to
hear what he said, but I let my imagination run wild.
I sat
down at my desk and turned on the latest and greatest desktop computer
available outside of NASA or the NSA. Remember, we were a software
company, and on top of that profitable. This thing was extremely
powerful, with all the bells and whistles and faster than Secretariat on
his way to stud duty. My monitor was so large that if I wanted to, I
could open up a blank white page and light the whole room that way. The
only reason I never did was because I was not sure of the possible
consequences. If fluorescent light from Holland would make visions of
Jerry Garcia monochromatic, what would light originating from a 20 inch
article of Chinese origin do to me? My home page was my email list. I
might as well get it over with first thing in the morning. Often I would
look at everything except the emails marked urgent. They never were.
Those I deleted. They were just from co-workers who I ignored. This was a
large subset of the company. A larger group were the people who I told
more than once in response to their need for information, to see a
priest. They stopped writing me altogether unless it was Good Friday and
they were wondering why I was at work.
The website I which
bought my weekly lottery ticket from always told me the result. 99.99%
of the time (or more) it was “too bad, play again?” A few times I had
won 2 or even 10 dollars and immediately rolled it over into more
tickets.
Today, in the half light of a drizzle, a 25 year old
with a tattoo of an aardvark stood in my doorway wondering if he could
have the day off to find a new surfboard. He jumped when I let out a
scream, a shriek, a vociferous exhalation of epic proportions.
“I got hit by lightening” I yelled. People looked worried. “I won't buy
new wipers, I'll buy a new car.” I shrieked. “In fact, I'll pay for a
priest to come here every Friday and listen to you candy ass problems,
I'm out of here.”
With that I left for California to claim the 130 million bucks I had waiting for me under the palm trees.
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