Margaret walked her sister to the door and closed it behind her. She leaned against the doorframe for a moment. She took a few mind-relaxing breaths and determinedly headed for the telephone.
“Mom?” she mumbled. “Can I talk to you about something?”
Margaret sat down on her bed and absent-mindedly allowed her hand to caress the cashmere throw her grandmother had given her years ago. She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose; the corners of her mouth reached for her ears as though the memory of that day were being relived in her mind.
“Mags, are you all right?” her mom asked worriedly. There was a short silence heard on the other end of the phone, and then a soft cry. “Mags, you can ask me anything. But ask me- you’re scaring me. What is it?”
Margaret opened her eyes. She moved the phone from her right to her left ear. She held it tightly. “This might seem out of nowhere, or maybe- maybe you won’t want to talk about it,” she spoke quickly and nervously. “Joni just left. I was trying to explain to her why Ryan and I split up. I told her it was because I never got over certain things from my past. Our past. I remember so many things, so many times, so many,” she breathed. She breathed again and continued, “I remember dad being a jerk. I remember him being a jerk to all us. He was aggressive and violent and so-,” she interrupted her own thought with a cry.
A few seconds passed and her mom said, “Mags, honey, slow down. Calm down. Now start over.”
“Dad did throw the toaster at Joni, didn’t he? He hit you, right? He would scream- all the time. He screamed, right? Joni says I’m making it all up and that none of this happened. I mean she said that you guys would fight, but who doesn’t fight? Everyone fights she says. She said that you and dad would have your moments but toasters would never fly and hits were never taken. She told me that he didn’t do any of those things. She said her was a great father, to both of us. Am I crazy mom? Did I make it all up? Am I crazy?” Margaret was wailing at this point. Tears were streaming down her face, soaking through her sweater and hitting her throw blanket at a swift pace.
Her mother could hear her heaving on the other line. At a loss for words, her mother just kept repeating, “shh, shh.”
“Every time I fight with Ryan I think ‘oh no, he’s yelling, oh no, he’s dad, he’s gonna hit me,’ every time, mom, every time,” Margaret stopped for a moment. She breathed in and breathed out. Breathed in and breathed out.
“Mags, you are not crazy. Shh, shh- not crazy Mags, breathe,” Margaret’s mother said to her in a soothing voice. “Joni is right. Well, she isn’t right- but- she’s right, ok Mags? Joni remembers somewhere deep inside of her, somewhere hidden, that dad did- did get violent at times, but Maggie, she has chosen to forget. She has chosen so indomitably that the memory has been erased. It might not be the best therapy I have ever imparted, but Mags, it works. She’s happy. Don’t push her.”
Margaret was sitting on the edge of her bed still obliviously stroking her blanket. Her head was dropped and her breathing was methodical.
“As for you Mags, yes. A part of you needs to deal with the things you saw when you were younger. But baby, don’t let your memories get the best of you. They are past. Ryan may be yelling. But Ryan isn’t dad. He won’t do to you what- he won’t do that to you. Listen, Mags, are you listening?”
“Yes mom,” Margaret answered.
“Your father loved you. He loved Joni. He loved all of us. But he’s gone now. He may have gotten the best of us while he was living, but you can choose how you want to remember him. That day that he brought that new toaster home and Joni was finger painting our brand-new white kitchen cabinets a bright shade of pink- dad didn’t get mad. He let the toaster slip between his fingers and it hit the floor. He and Joni spent the day laughing and playing outside on the slip-n-slide,” her mother let out a little laugh as she convincingly retold the tale that had haunted her daughter for years. “Choose your memories darling. And choose carefully.”
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Ink Stains
“Stop writing,” yelled Penny from the ink her pen spilled. “Stop writing! Stop writing this instant. I will not be victim to this. I am not accountable for – enough is enough.”
Geraldine dipped her pen in the pot before him. As she blotted the ink from the tip, she tried to ignore the voice that was begging her. “She loved him from the depths of her soul. Without him she could not breathe,” she smirked with content as she lifted her pen.
“It’s not true. I don’t love him. I don’t need him. I can breathe fine without him. Oh! Would you please stop,” her voice wailed, but Geraldine ignored her.
“She reached out for his hand and at the touch of his skin her fingers traced the figure of infinity along his forearm. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, but after what she had done to him, there was little she could do to convince him that she was truly sorry.”
Geraldine uttered these words at the volume of a whisper; she didn’t want Penny potentially convince her to stop. Penny needed to understand that she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She was sorry. She needed to apologize and Herald had to forgive her.
“Herald, I know you believe that what I did was done to you. But that is not true. In my wildest dream I would never have imagined how much pain I have caused you. Believe me, I am sorry,” Geraldine replaced her pen in the pot and replenished the ink that would stain the pages before her.
“Geraldine, I didn’t imagine how much pain I would cause him because I didn’t even take him into consideration. Don’t you see how that is even worse? Please, Geraldine. You need to stop. You don’t mean this. I don’t mean this. I knew what I was doing; I meant to do it. You are going to ruin everything.” Penny implored her author, but her pleas went unheard. Geraldine was convicted; she had to set the story straight. She had to set her story straight.
Two plotlines: one woman. Penny saw where she began and where Geraldine ended, but Geraldine, poor Geraldine, she confused herself with her character and was using her Penny’s life as a forum for her own confession.
“Don’t have me bear your burden. Geraldine you may have been wrong, you may still want your lover, but I don’t. Herald doesn’t deserve my penitence. I rightfully wronged him. Let me go- don’t write this ending. Don’t make me do this.”
“She had to let him know how ashamed she was. Her life without him was no life at all. With all my heart I am-” Geraldine stopped. She looked at the last line. Wrong pronoun. Must have been an oversight.
“I know what you’re thinking Geraldine,” Penny exclaimed. “It isn’t a mistake. That was not a mistake. This is not your story- it is mine. Put your pen down. Put it down.”
Relinquishing her sword to her protagonist, Geraldine obeyed Penny. “Step back from the pages that tell your story and think- think about me. What would I say? What were my intentions when I hurt Herald? Did I suffocate his daughter as an act of love, or did I do it because I hate him and had to see him in pain? Think Geraldine. Me. Not you. What would I do?”
Geraldine stepped away from her desk. Walked over to her bedroom and reached into her night-table drawer. She took out a tightly bound leather notebook and turned to a blank page. She began:
“I’m sorry I took her that day, Jasper. We were just going to run some errands. I didn’t see the other car. I wasn’t driving fast. I was paying attention. I’m sorry-,” she covered her eyes as they began to well up. “Will you ever love me again? Can you ever forgive me?”
From the pages of her story, Penny sighed with relief that she no longer had to pay for Geraldine’s mistake. Two plotlines: two women.
Geraldine dipped her pen in the pot before him. As she blotted the ink from the tip, she tried to ignore the voice that was begging her. “She loved him from the depths of her soul. Without him she could not breathe,” she smirked with content as she lifted her pen.
“It’s not true. I don’t love him. I don’t need him. I can breathe fine without him. Oh! Would you please stop,” her voice wailed, but Geraldine ignored her.
“She reached out for his hand and at the touch of his skin her fingers traced the figure of infinity along his forearm. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, but after what she had done to him, there was little she could do to convince him that she was truly sorry.”
Geraldine uttered these words at the volume of a whisper; she didn’t want Penny potentially convince her to stop. Penny needed to understand that she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She was sorry. She needed to apologize and Herald had to forgive her.
“Herald, I know you believe that what I did was done to you. But that is not true. In my wildest dream I would never have imagined how much pain I have caused you. Believe me, I am sorry,” Geraldine replaced her pen in the pot and replenished the ink that would stain the pages before her.
“Geraldine, I didn’t imagine how much pain I would cause him because I didn’t even take him into consideration. Don’t you see how that is even worse? Please, Geraldine. You need to stop. You don’t mean this. I don’t mean this. I knew what I was doing; I meant to do it. You are going to ruin everything.” Penny implored her author, but her pleas went unheard. Geraldine was convicted; she had to set the story straight. She had to set her story straight.
Two plotlines: one woman. Penny saw where she began and where Geraldine ended, but Geraldine, poor Geraldine, she confused herself with her character and was using her Penny’s life as a forum for her own confession.
“Don’t have me bear your burden. Geraldine you may have been wrong, you may still want your lover, but I don’t. Herald doesn’t deserve my penitence. I rightfully wronged him. Let me go- don’t write this ending. Don’t make me do this.”
“She had to let him know how ashamed she was. Her life without him was no life at all. With all my heart I am-” Geraldine stopped. She looked at the last line. Wrong pronoun. Must have been an oversight.
“I know what you’re thinking Geraldine,” Penny exclaimed. “It isn’t a mistake. That was not a mistake. This is not your story- it is mine. Put your pen down. Put it down.”
Relinquishing her sword to her protagonist, Geraldine obeyed Penny. “Step back from the pages that tell your story and think- think about me. What would I say? What were my intentions when I hurt Herald? Did I suffocate his daughter as an act of love, or did I do it because I hate him and had to see him in pain? Think Geraldine. Me. Not you. What would I do?”
Geraldine stepped away from her desk. Walked over to her bedroom and reached into her night-table drawer. She took out a tightly bound leather notebook and turned to a blank page. She began:
“I’m sorry I took her that day, Jasper. We were just going to run some errands. I didn’t see the other car. I wasn’t driving fast. I was paying attention. I’m sorry-,” she covered her eyes as they began to well up. “Will you ever love me again? Can you ever forgive me?”
From the pages of her story, Penny sighed with relief that she no longer had to pay for Geraldine’s mistake. Two plotlines: two women.
Family Matters
“Ah! He is creeping me out.”
“Stop staring at him then,” Florence paused a moment. She tried to keep from staring herself, but the odds of this man perturbed her. “Let’s just get off at the next stop,” she told Alicia.
“Fine,” Alicia agreed. She sat staring at the middle-aged man clutching the Bible to his chest. On their way home from school that day, Alicia and Florence rode the 158 bus together. They planned on going shopping for a father’s day gift at the mall near their house. Florence, the older of the two, had this great idea that since they hadn’t had much of a chance to see their dad since the divorce, they would buy him all kinds of little gifts to show their affection.
The girls normally took the bus right after school, but class let out late, so they took the bus that came an hour after, which meant that they were on the bus with all the nine to fivers. The bus was even more packed than usual. Stuck standing right over the middle-aged man in the blue scrubs, clutching his worn out Bible, the girls were a bit creeped out by the sight of him. Scruffy, unkempt and smelling of Hennessey; everything from the man’s butterfly pin on his left-breast pocket, to his dirt-filled toe nails grossed the girls out. He bothered Alicia more than Florence.
“He is too strange Flo. Look at him,” Alicia nodded her head toward the man, using her eyes to point out to her sister what was going on in this man’s lap.
It was subtle, but to the girls who had spent the last 18 minutes or so standing over him in an over-crowded bus, it couldn’t be more obvious.
Staring at a ‘Butterfly Exhibit’ pamphlet from the Museum of Natural History, the man had his right hand down his pants. He was stroking himself. Pleasuring himself right there in the middle of the 158 bus.
“Oh my god! Is he jerking off?” Florence whispered into her sister’s ear, trying to hold back the disgust. “This man is too creepy,” she continued. “He’s so old and gross. A nurse, doing this, right here, like that. Ugh! He’s wasted, and nasty. I can’t- ugh!”
“Let’s just get off the bus at the next stop, we can walk the rest of the way,” Alicia replied.
Alicia, holding onto the bar at the top of the bus, had been hovering over the man the entire ride, she was in some hypnotic trance; she couldn’t stop staring. As the bus pulled over to the next stop, her hand slid. She lost balance and ended up on his lap. Tears started to pour out from utter mortification.
“Dad?” Alicia cried as she looked up at the man’s face. “Dad?” She repeated again as she realized that the weird man was her father.
“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Alicia said as her father helped her up off the bus-floor. “You were- right there- in public-” Alicia couldn’t get her thoughts together. She just stared at her father in utter disbelief, sickened by what she had just witnessed. Trying to change the focus from the awkwardness that was lingering, Alicia asked: “Why are you in a nurse’s uniform, aren’t you an accountant?” She stared at their father with a look of revulsion.
In the meantime, Florence had already made her way to the door and started off the bus.
“Florence!” Eli yelled nervously after his daughter. “Florence! Wait up,” Eli and Alicia caught up with Florence. “Stop! I can explain everything,” he continued, looking at his daughters apologetically. “I was nervous. I was just-”
“Dad?” Alicia said looking up at her father. She ruffled her nose and winced, “Aren’t we Buddhist?”
Reaching out for her sister’s hand, Florence and Alicia stared at their estranged father.
“Let’s just go home,” Florence said to her little sister as they walked away, “We’ll go to the mall some other time. Oh and dad, we’re sleeping at mom’s tonight.”
“Stop staring at him then,” Florence paused a moment. She tried to keep from staring herself, but the odds of this man perturbed her. “Let’s just get off at the next stop,” she told Alicia.
“Fine,” Alicia agreed. She sat staring at the middle-aged man clutching the Bible to his chest. On their way home from school that day, Alicia and Florence rode the 158 bus together. They planned on going shopping for a father’s day gift at the mall near their house. Florence, the older of the two, had this great idea that since they hadn’t had much of a chance to see their dad since the divorce, they would buy him all kinds of little gifts to show their affection.
The girls normally took the bus right after school, but class let out late, so they took the bus that came an hour after, which meant that they were on the bus with all the nine to fivers. The bus was even more packed than usual. Stuck standing right over the middle-aged man in the blue scrubs, clutching his worn out Bible, the girls were a bit creeped out by the sight of him. Scruffy, unkempt and smelling of Hennessey; everything from the man’s butterfly pin on his left-breast pocket, to his dirt-filled toe nails grossed the girls out. He bothered Alicia more than Florence.
“He is too strange Flo. Look at him,” Alicia nodded her head toward the man, using her eyes to point out to her sister what was going on in this man’s lap.
It was subtle, but to the girls who had spent the last 18 minutes or so standing over him in an over-crowded bus, it couldn’t be more obvious.
Staring at a ‘Butterfly Exhibit’ pamphlet from the Museum of Natural History, the man had his right hand down his pants. He was stroking himself. Pleasuring himself right there in the middle of the 158 bus.
“Oh my god! Is he jerking off?” Florence whispered into her sister’s ear, trying to hold back the disgust. “This man is too creepy,” she continued. “He’s so old and gross. A nurse, doing this, right here, like that. Ugh! He’s wasted, and nasty. I can’t- ugh!”
“Let’s just get off the bus at the next stop, we can walk the rest of the way,” Alicia replied.
Alicia, holding onto the bar at the top of the bus, had been hovering over the man the entire ride, she was in some hypnotic trance; she couldn’t stop staring. As the bus pulled over to the next stop, her hand slid. She lost balance and ended up on his lap. Tears started to pour out from utter mortification.
“Dad?” Alicia cried as she looked up at the man’s face. “Dad?” She repeated again as she realized that the weird man was her father.
“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Alicia said as her father helped her up off the bus-floor. “You were- right there- in public-” Alicia couldn’t get her thoughts together. She just stared at her father in utter disbelief, sickened by what she had just witnessed. Trying to change the focus from the awkwardness that was lingering, Alicia asked: “Why are you in a nurse’s uniform, aren’t you an accountant?” She stared at their father with a look of revulsion.
In the meantime, Florence had already made her way to the door and started off the bus.
“Florence!” Eli yelled nervously after his daughter. “Florence! Wait up,” Eli and Alicia caught up with Florence. “Stop! I can explain everything,” he continued, looking at his daughters apologetically. “I was nervous. I was just-”
“Dad?” Alicia said looking up at her father. She ruffled her nose and winced, “Aren’t we Buddhist?”
Reaching out for her sister’s hand, Florence and Alicia stared at their estranged father.
“Let’s just go home,” Florence said to her little sister as they walked away, “We’ll go to the mall some other time. Oh and dad, we’re sleeping at mom’s tonight.”
I Don't Want to and You Can't Make Me...
I don’t want to and you can’t make me…
I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I tossed and turned thinking about all the different scenarios that might play out. I kept imagining what I would say to the kids. Will they like me? Should I carry a knapsack or a briefcase? Should I bring a lunch or buy a lunch? Will the teachers like me?
I was halfway between nervous and just flat out insecure; no matter how many jobs I’ve had, or how experienced I am, I still look like a teenager?
I decided to get out of bed; sleeping wasn’t happening. I decided to be productive and make lunch after all. I cut up some tomatoes, threw them in a bowl. I sliced through an avocado, traced lines through each half and spilled the contents into the bowl. I reached for the half-lemon in my fridge, and placed it on my head. Then I began to peel a Spanish onion. Normally the lemon trick keeps the tears from flowing, my mom taught me that. But today- today was different. I could’ve had six lemons on my head and it wouldn’t have mattered; the tears wanted out. As I lay on my kitchen floor, lemon on my head, onion in one hand, knife in the other, I cried. I cried. I cried.
I cried until 6:45. And then I cried some more. I would’ve kept crying all morning but I didn’t want to look all puffed up on my first day of school. It didn’t matter how big my glasses were: they couldn’t hide the evidence. I got up off the floor and continued to dice the onion. Tears kept flowing but I wiped them away. I was thankful I could use the onion as an excuse to keep crying, even if it was just a little. I smushed the contents together and voilà! I smeared some guacamole on some bread, cut it down the middle, and then again to make four little triangles. Paper towel. Aluminum foil. Done.
Getting dressed is usually a simple task, a mindless task. Not that day. I dreaded that day. I wanted to get back into bed and sleep. I was so tired. I wasn’t ready. I wished I had had one more day to prepare.
Enough. Grow up. Enough. Just get dressed and get to school. I kept chanting ‘enough, great dressed’ over and over in my head.
Black pants, white shirt, camel sweater vest and heels. High heels. No. Short heels. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Briefcase. Definitely briefcase. I kind of looked like a lawyer, or a waitress. Whatever. One quick look in the mirror and I was on my way.
I got into my car, turned on the engine, placed my hands on the wheel, closed my eyes and prayed: don’t cry Zoug. Please don’t cry.
Enough was enough. I was acting like a baby. I was on my way to my first day of a really important job and there I was crying like a little baby. Why was I crying? I could handle this- I had done this before. Enough was enough.
I parked my car and walked up to the school. Opened the doors, took a deep breath in and smiled. Forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. That’s not true. I was happy: nervous, but happy. I walked down the hallways thinking, ‘I’m going to be walking down these hallways everyday this year, maybe next year too. Ugh! I really am excited!’
I walked over to 3A. My classroom. My classroom! I opened the door, walked in; the room was already packed with students. I walked right up to the front of the classroom, placed my briefcase on the floor beside the desk, looked around at the nervous teenaged faces and smiled. I was going to be fine.
“Hi everyone. My name is Alecs Kakon and I will be your teacher this year.”
Looking back on that first day of school makes me think about how far I’ve come and how great I did that year teaching Spanish. I think about how nervous I was and about how the nerves were a necessary part of the day. If I hadn’t been nervous then I wouldn’t have over-thought every single thing that I had done. Everything from my attire to my lunch was integral. That guacamole sandwich saved me.
At lunchtime, in the teacher’s lounge, I took out my aluminum foil-wrapped sandwich. As I lifted the first triangle to my mouth I noticed a young man, in a suit, head down, staring at the table in front of him. I walked over to him and asked if everything was all right. He told me that he had forgotten to pack a lunch- I guess he was just as nervous about his first day as I was. I went to the other end of the table, grabbed my sandwich and sat down next to him. John and I became quick friends as we sat there, on our first day as teachers, sharing my guacamole sandwich.
I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I tossed and turned thinking about all the different scenarios that might play out. I kept imagining what I would say to the kids. Will they like me? Should I carry a knapsack or a briefcase? Should I bring a lunch or buy a lunch? Will the teachers like me?
I was halfway between nervous and just flat out insecure; no matter how many jobs I’ve had, or how experienced I am, I still look like a teenager?
I decided to get out of bed; sleeping wasn’t happening. I decided to be productive and make lunch after all. I cut up some tomatoes, threw them in a bowl. I sliced through an avocado, traced lines through each half and spilled the contents into the bowl. I reached for the half-lemon in my fridge, and placed it on my head. Then I began to peel a Spanish onion. Normally the lemon trick keeps the tears from flowing, my mom taught me that. But today- today was different. I could’ve had six lemons on my head and it wouldn’t have mattered; the tears wanted out. As I lay on my kitchen floor, lemon on my head, onion in one hand, knife in the other, I cried. I cried. I cried.
I cried until 6:45. And then I cried some more. I would’ve kept crying all morning but I didn’t want to look all puffed up on my first day of school. It didn’t matter how big my glasses were: they couldn’t hide the evidence. I got up off the floor and continued to dice the onion. Tears kept flowing but I wiped them away. I was thankful I could use the onion as an excuse to keep crying, even if it was just a little. I smushed the contents together and voilà! I smeared some guacamole on some bread, cut it down the middle, and then again to make four little triangles. Paper towel. Aluminum foil. Done.
Getting dressed is usually a simple task, a mindless task. Not that day. I dreaded that day. I wanted to get back into bed and sleep. I was so tired. I wasn’t ready. I wished I had had one more day to prepare.
Enough. Grow up. Enough. Just get dressed and get to school. I kept chanting ‘enough, great dressed’ over and over in my head.
Black pants, white shirt, camel sweater vest and heels. High heels. No. Short heels. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Briefcase. Definitely briefcase. I kind of looked like a lawyer, or a waitress. Whatever. One quick look in the mirror and I was on my way.
I got into my car, turned on the engine, placed my hands on the wheel, closed my eyes and prayed: don’t cry Zoug. Please don’t cry.
Enough was enough. I was acting like a baby. I was on my way to my first day of a really important job and there I was crying like a little baby. Why was I crying? I could handle this- I had done this before. Enough was enough.
I parked my car and walked up to the school. Opened the doors, took a deep breath in and smiled. Forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. That’s not true. I was happy: nervous, but happy. I walked down the hallways thinking, ‘I’m going to be walking down these hallways everyday this year, maybe next year too. Ugh! I really am excited!’
I walked over to 3A. My classroom. My classroom! I opened the door, walked in; the room was already packed with students. I walked right up to the front of the classroom, placed my briefcase on the floor beside the desk, looked around at the nervous teenaged faces and smiled. I was going to be fine.
“Hi everyone. My name is Alecs Kakon and I will be your teacher this year.”
Looking back on that first day of school makes me think about how far I’ve come and how great I did that year teaching Spanish. I think about how nervous I was and about how the nerves were a necessary part of the day. If I hadn’t been nervous then I wouldn’t have over-thought every single thing that I had done. Everything from my attire to my lunch was integral. That guacamole sandwich saved me.
At lunchtime, in the teacher’s lounge, I took out my aluminum foil-wrapped sandwich. As I lifted the first triangle to my mouth I noticed a young man, in a suit, head down, staring at the table in front of him. I walked over to him and asked if everything was all right. He told me that he had forgotten to pack a lunch- I guess he was just as nervous about his first day as I was. I went to the other end of the table, grabbed my sandwich and sat down next to him. John and I became quick friends as we sat there, on our first day as teachers, sharing my guacamole sandwich.
The Impossible
I spent one summer years ago, tree planting. Not your typical seed planting. Actual, full-size, tree planting. Seriously. Me. Skinny, little, weak, me. My job was normally to dig the soil and pat down the roots. But, I remember one day, I got to work and my boss told me that Javier was sick, so I would have to fill in. Um yeah, Javier’s job was to hold the tree, along with two others, and keep it in place, as straight as possible, while little people like me would solidify the whole root thing.
The duties of Javier’s part of the job didn’t confuse me- simple enough: hold the tree; don’t let it fall. The part that confused me was the whole ‘hey Zoug, I know you’re like 42 kilos and what not, but here, grab this massive apple tree and um, yeah, be sure not to let it fall.’ Ha! All righty then. I remember thinking ‘these people are nuts, but here goes nothing!’
I got in line with a few other people (all extremely large men, of course) and I stood in the middle, hands wrapped around this massive trunk, all weight leaning on my right shoulder. It wasn’t so bad. Well, it wasn’t so bad for the first ten seconds, but the next hour got a little gruesome. Coughing, sneezing, scratching, breathing… these were just a few among the many things I dreamed of doing but couldn’t, because I was holding a massive tree. I kept thinking to myself that I was never coming back to work again. ‘Quitting tomorrow. Quitting tomorrow. Just hold on one more second Zoug, you are quitting tomorrow.’
When we finally got the tree rooted and planted, I didn’t, not even for a brief moment, feel any gratification or pride from having successfully completed the act in one, human piece. What I felt was exhaustion and pain. Images of bubble baths and massage oils kept floating through my mind. Mmm. Bubble bath.
I walked over to my boss, with full intentions of quitting, and asked him, “Will Javier be back tomorrow?” He looked at me, laughed and replied, “With a force like you, who needs Javier?”
I was much smaller and weaker than Javier, so I knew he was teasing me. But I couldn’t help it- I couldn’t help thinking: ‘I hope Javier doesn’t come back tomorrow, I can totally hold that tree again.’
OK, fine. I felt a little tinge of pride.
The duties of Javier’s part of the job didn’t confuse me- simple enough: hold the tree; don’t let it fall. The part that confused me was the whole ‘hey Zoug, I know you’re like 42 kilos and what not, but here, grab this massive apple tree and um, yeah, be sure not to let it fall.’ Ha! All righty then. I remember thinking ‘these people are nuts, but here goes nothing!’
I got in line with a few other people (all extremely large men, of course) and I stood in the middle, hands wrapped around this massive trunk, all weight leaning on my right shoulder. It wasn’t so bad. Well, it wasn’t so bad for the first ten seconds, but the next hour got a little gruesome. Coughing, sneezing, scratching, breathing… these were just a few among the many things I dreamed of doing but couldn’t, because I was holding a massive tree. I kept thinking to myself that I was never coming back to work again. ‘Quitting tomorrow. Quitting tomorrow. Just hold on one more second Zoug, you are quitting tomorrow.’
When we finally got the tree rooted and planted, I didn’t, not even for a brief moment, feel any gratification or pride from having successfully completed the act in one, human piece. What I felt was exhaustion and pain. Images of bubble baths and massage oils kept floating through my mind. Mmm. Bubble bath.
I walked over to my boss, with full intentions of quitting, and asked him, “Will Javier be back tomorrow?” He looked at me, laughed and replied, “With a force like you, who needs Javier?”
I was much smaller and weaker than Javier, so I knew he was teasing me. But I couldn’t help it- I couldn’t help thinking: ‘I hope Javier doesn’t come back tomorrow, I can totally hold that tree again.’
OK, fine. I felt a little tinge of pride.
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