Writing
There are 10 minutes to burn out these words, to start this book, to tell this tale. There is no more time and there is no less time. This is another piece hacked out in silence, amid the din, except this tale has no plot, so it’s not really a tale. However, it’s still a beginning to a book that no one else wanted to begin.
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How many times can you keep turning to the same blank page before you give up hope? How many stares can you give someone before he or she realizes it wasn’t accidental? Where then does the conversation take form? I can only envision it stewing inside, breeding in that dark abyss. It is there that it begins writing the perfect script.
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You are every actor in your play and you can’t escape from a character you conceived of by classifying the story as “fiction,” yet still you need to know that you are not alone on this stage we call life.
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In just 10 minutes, you can find out that even though the curtain has been drawn, and the spotlight dimmed, backstage, the person who pulled down the curtain smiles at your back—just waiting for you to turn around.
It was another routine cleaning at The Home Depot, and I’d just arrived at the final register on that day’s cleaning list. It was a simple procedure, involving showing up at the register, notifying the store’s employee that I would need access to the register for the next 5-10 minutes, and then informing them that they’d want to step back while the cleaning was occurring.
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We weren’t even bothering to shut the machines down in order to perform the cleanings, as this would involve too much downtime at the stores. We were averaging around six of these per store each time out, so each trip wasn’t taking more than around an hour to complete.
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Today, I was at the last machine, and as I brought the Shop-Vac out from the orange-branded Home Depot cart, I then informed the gentlemen behind the register that I would be cleaning his register, and that he would want to step back for the cleaning. After I informed him of this, the Home Depot employee spoke.
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“I’m actually fine,” He responded.
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I gazed back at the man, puzzled to not receive an “O.K.” or something along those lines, followed up with him moving out of the way.
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“It’s going to be really dirty,” I added. “You definitely don’t want to be standing next to the register while I’m doing the cleaning,” I told him.
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“I’m good,” He said tersely.
His arms were crossed and he was simply staring back at me at this point. He wasn’t budging, either figuratively or literally. Was this guy serious? I watched as he was firmly planted six inches in front of the register, orange apron and all. I then put my surgical mask on.
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“O.K. this is your last chance,” I said. Still nothing. This guy was going nowhere fast. With that, I pulled the Shop-Vac closer to the register and then I flipped the button from normal mode to reverse mode, since I was going to be blowing the register out, instead of vacuuming it out.
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I then hit the power button. It was at this point that I directed the hose hard against the black steel computer case. Immediately, I could hear the sound of dirt, dust, and other miscellaneous residue that had collected inside that computer case over what must have been several years, then clinking around the inside of the case.
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I then made my way with the hose around the air vents, and as I did, soon a giant dust cloud accumulated in the air, right in front of the employee’s face.
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I continued, just as years of Home Depot’s finest grime began to grow into a larger and larger dust cloud. The roar of the Shop-Vac drowned out all other store sounds in the immediate vicinity, and soon several other store employees were drawn to the din.
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They now gazed at the Home Depot employee, just as refuse from The Paint, Home & Garden, Plumbing, Electric, Lumber, & Seasonal aisles further accumulated in the employee’s face. His face soon began to disappear. Soon there was a small crowd gathered at the register, staring on in horror, as a dust cloud of biblical proportion continued to drown out the stubborn employee’s face and upper chest area.
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Still though, he continued standing there, arms crossed against his orange Home Depot apron that was becoming increasingly gray. I also continued on, making sure my job was completed as thoroughly as possible. After all, we were there to make sure that The Home Depot received only the highest level of service, and I’d be damned if they did not receive the highest level of service. There were no exceptions. I figured another 15-20 seconds of the onslaught would be enough for this particular Home Depot employee to fully absorb the highest level of service that we had to offer.
______________________
I finally turned the Shop-Vac off, and then a few seconds later, I took the surgical mask off too. The store was now eerily quiet, and The Home Depot employee was still standing in the same spot, some six inches in front of the register, only he had grayed considerably in the last 10 minutes. If you can imagine one of those America’s Most Wanted age progression photographs, this was the closest approximation to this particular Home Depot employee’s face at this point in time.
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He then let out a large cough and then with both hands he wiped his face to clear his eyes from the accumulated register contents. There was a pause, and then he looked at me and said, “Well, that was pretty bad.”
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“I told you that it was going to be bad,” I responded.
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“Well, had I known it was going to be that bad, I would have moved,” He replied.
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It was another great moment in Home Depot history, although I’m glad that this Home Depot employee had learned his lesson, that of which being, when someone tells you that they’re going to be cleaning a register at The Home Depot, that you’re going to want to move away from that register, as this register is located in The Home Depot, and there’s no way to know what exactly you’ll find in that giant dust cloud that forms when someone pulls out a Shop-Vac and puts it into reverse mode.
Ghost Mall
Now it’s just a ghost mall-another shadowy building melting into the cold night atmosphere. Every business, except for one or two, lies dormant silently sitting beneath a few scattered lights that form a dim hall.
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Ten years gone since the halls spoke and carried a hum. Now the fountain, the tall stone one, sits alone guarding barred windows and dusty signs. Before, the water flowed through the fountain to its peak where like stairs the water would drop down to the next saucer-like level. The little kids would jump up and pull on their mother’s long black coattails screaming, “Mom, look at the fountain!
Can I please have a penny to put in there, please?” Then soon and surely the mother would reach into her pocket and extract a shiny or worn penny and give it to their son or daughter. Upon doing so, the child would hail the circular metal piece into the large fountain structure, eyes lighting up all the way. Gravity would then pull the piece down; the ones that didn’t reach the saucers would fall towards the blue tiled floor that shone beneath the rushing water.
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Pretzel places and fast food joints lit up the air with fantastic aromas. Oh, and the candy shop with all its flavors and colors like a rainbow was always popular, but now it too, one of the oldest places, lies bare of sweet treats. Only dusty display cases that used to be filled with chocolate balls and candy worms and other treats lie dormant and dusty inside of the silver gated shop. Now a dim light from the hallway is the only thing that illuminates its ghost-like shelves and containers.
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The once futuristic-looking tables and chairs of the food court sit in a now dark and desolate room. No sound reverberates within its chamber. The pizza place, Mexican place, and Chinese place no longer exist. Even the A&W is now gone. Each one is boarded up with gray metal panels. The once vivid, moving, almost living counters no longer bustle with excited children grabbing root beer floats to slurp down. The smell of grease and MSG is absent from the premises, as is the hamburger foil and half-eaten fries that often accompanied them.
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A long time ago the mall was said to be part of a “new horizon,” but its spirit died long ago. You can only now imagine this sentiment by looking from the main floor down at the stagnant and dark escalators. This great vision now seems silly.
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The planners wanted this mall to be a unique suburban place that would always keep people in the area. However, the southern sprawl slayed this Utopian outpost. What caused its death was a larger, newer mall to the south. People abandoned this mall, but only temporarily, to “check out” the new mall.
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Soon, the people rendered the old mall obsolete because it was no longer new and cutting edge like the new mall, yet the new mall lacked the style of the old mall, but the new mall had different shops. After all, the people near the old mall were tired of going to the same old shops; they just needed a new mall to open up for them to realize this.
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The newer, but poorer replication killed it as the planners never anticipated. Soon, the shops began to drop. One by one they closed their doors. The vision of the old mall began to fade as more people continued to abandon it. One mall died to birth a new one, yet what had the community accomplished in doing so? The vision of the new one was said to improve upon the old one, yet the planners of the old mall had said the same when they decided to build it. Too much wishful thinking and too much optimism were involved, for of course the new mall would too collapse as the people ventured further south for “better things” and “new horizons.”
What they didn’t know was that the only way that things would be better was if this vision was greater than the last. Only time decided who progressed. Would their life crumble as the old mall did? And as they left, would the things they left behind be nothing more than forgotten relics? Would their life mirror that of a forgotten dream or failed experiment?
Who would write them a story or sing them a song as they abandoned the place they loved so much in search of something better? Perhaps no one would, or even if someone did, nobody would read about it or hear about it anyways. Their ideals were lost when they started their arbitrary hate.
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The mall did not cry or complain as the people forgot it and moved on. It did not feel and did not care as the people did. The mall was like one frame edited out of a film and thrown away. The projector traveled too fast for the human eye to notice its absence, but someone who stooped to pick it up could notice its absence after seeing the film.
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The film is over for the people who worked on it, but the audience hasn’t left the theater. Like a ghost, the mall haunts people’s memories. Once it’s there it urges them to remember it for what it was, but also what it should have been. It may be dead, but it still exists in some mind somewhere. It cries out, wanting to be more than a memory, wishing to be a breathing reality. It does not want to live in its current shackled state. Oh, and all the ghost mall wants, like anyone else, is to be sustained-for the better.
Bagels & Lox
For a while, I was on a bagel and lox kick. It was two, three, four nights a week at one point. The sandwiches started out pretty basic, with cheap grocery store bagels and lox, cream cheese, tomatoes and some onions. I’d toast the bagel beforehand to get some additional crunch in there. This was good enough for a couple of months, but increasingly, I realized I needed to up my bagel game. There always seemed to be something missing.
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The grocery store bagels had a somewhat flat and bland taste to them. This was especially evident against the taste of the smoked salmon. It was a bit like eating McDonald’s in a Rolls Royce. Enter, Meshuggah Bagels.
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Meshuggah Bagels has mastered the art of the bagel. Each bagel is flavorful, and not too hard and not too soft. They have a variety of types of bagels, some of my favorites include garlic, everything, & onion, although I’ve never had a bad Meshuggah Bagel.
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They also make a bagel and lox sandwich, which I’ve had a few times. It’s phenomenal and it is also a phenomenal way to go broke very quickly. Soon realizing this habit was completely unsustainable, I began limiting myself to only a half dozen bagels on most visits. On rare occasions, I’d also get a bagel and lox sandwich while there, as I simply couldn’t resist.
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To say that first bite of that sandwich each time was a religious experience, is no exaggeration. Likewise, it is of my opinion that it is long overdue, that Meshuggah Bagels needs to officially establish The Church of Meshuggah Bagels. The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster could use the competition, and quite honestly, Loxafarian has a nice ring to it, but I digress.
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A brown bag stuffed with bagels in hand, I’d then make my way from Meshuggah, and then back to the house and then into the kitchen. I now had the platform upon which I’d build my next bagel and lox rendezvous.
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Taking that premium bagel out of that brown bag for the first time and setting it down on that plate, I then realized two things. One: This shit had finally gotten real & Two: How was I going to top this now?
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It was late again one night, and I was craving another bagel and lox sandwich. Suddenly, another one from my distant past floated into my mind. I couldn’t place where exactly, or when exactly I’d had the sandwich, but I’d remembered the fried egg sitting on top of it. At the time, it seemed totally unnecessary, ostentatious, and even vulgar. What was it even doing sitting here on a bagel and lox sandwich? I could see it as a side, but on the sandwich itself?
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Then, I decided to take a bite of it, ready to dismiss it and then move on. At first glance, it seemed like another, “Let’s put a jalapeno on sushi” moment to redefine what sushi was. However, suffice to say, that first bite of that fried egg bagel and lox sandwich was explosive—both literally and figuratively.
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As the gooey yolk spilled out of the egg, it toned down the saltiness of the fish, and also made the toasted bagel a bit easier to eat in the process. It also enhanced the other flavors of the sandwich. Why had I not started doing this sooner, and who had come up with this idea? Clearly, this was not the jalapeno sushi guy.
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Around the same time I implemented the egg optimization, I also had to reconcile my laziness over not including lettuce on the sandwich, with the fact that it was a staple of the bagel and lox sandwich. The truth was, that I just didn’t think I’d be able to get through an entire head of romaine lettuce in a week, so I hadn’t been buying lettuce as a result of this. Finally, I decided to add in a salad or two each week to resolve this issue. The lettuce finally made its way to the sandwich. There was still one other major missing ingredient though—capers.
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I held out for a while on the capers. It seemed like too much work to hunt them down, and especially for such a small ingredient. They were really just extra salt anyways, and the salmon was already salty enough. That was my rationalization at least. It was also something Aldi didn’t have, which also made it easier to avoid going out to get them, as I’d need to go to a separate grocery store to pick them up. I eventually relented on the capers though. At was at this point that I knew I was in deep.
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So there I was, alone late one night traversing the aisles of Hyvee under its harsh fluorescent store lights. Thirty year-old pop-rock songs hummed over the poor quality speakers overhead. I was on the hunt and my prey was stored in a small glass jar.
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Around a half an hour after aimlessly wandering down several aisles, I finally located the capers. I could’ve just asked someone where they were, but I didn’t want them to know that I was an addict, deep in the throes of a bagel and lox addiction.
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Sitting here tonight, remembering back to that first night of that caper caper, I recall that small glass bottle costing around $5, but that I didn’t care. I was ready for my next score, and the exorbitant price tag wasn’t going to dissuade me.
I then made my way to the check out aisle, paid, and then left. The little glass jar was now safe in my reusable shopping bag. I had enough capers for a few months of bagel and lox sandwiches, but I knew that I’d be back for more. I had everything I needed now to construct the ultimate bagel and lox sandwich. As I left the store, my stomach was rumbling and I was ready to eat.
Tribute to Clam Chowder
“Mankind is only as good as its appreciation for a good mollusk.”-Nick Mangiaracina (1987-)
Oh clam chowder, you are the one I love. Now let me tell you all the reasons why I do.
One reason I love you is because you are inimitable. Unlike ranch and ice-cream, a third rate version of you does not exist.
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Also, when you are poured into a bowl, you don’t so much as fill it, as you define it. Fresh notes of the sea emanate from the steam that rises from your creamy body. Coaxed away from the table, suddenly I’ve traveled to a faraway beach, where now just twenty feet in front of me, an endless cascade of breaking waves beckons me onwards to dive head first into the next one. What other soup so moves me? Still though, your viscous embrace sits silent, awaiting the arrival of the next spoon.
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You are also an iconoclast, unremitting to repressive rules and dogmatic ways of thinking. Also, unlike chicken soup, you have no book series named in your honor. You write your poetry alone, and only share it with your inner circle. Thus far into your existence, you have also remained totally unconcerned with receiving a book deal and the possibility of an Oprah promotion. Your modesty is likewise admirable.
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You are not perfect though—nor do you think you are. If you were either, then you would be annoying. Even when you’re garnished with herbs, deep inside of you, I know that at least one grain of sand lurks. However, before I can digest it, it gets caught in my teeth, and I then must spit it out. That nearly microscopic grain then quietly rests on the table, until I can then brush it onto the floor. Though this is a hassle, this imperfection makes you more real and more relatable.
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Something I’ve also noticed about you, is that the hotter you are, the more desirable you are. However, I often forget that if you are too hot, I will get burned if I get too close too soon. This is your way of telling me that you’re not ready for me, and that I should work on other soups in the meantime. I’ve followed your advice, but each time I find myself only reaching the same conclusion, which is that no other soup compares to you, clam chowder. Even chili is no match for you, no matter how spicy its blend.
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You are not for everyone though. Vegans and the lactose intolerant despise you. Seafood haters also find you of no interest. Although, this hatred just makes you stronger and you refuse to apologize for being different. You are an adult presiding over a room of children.
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Over the years that I’ve returned to you, I’ve noticed that your recipe has changed, but only in subtle and insignificant ways. What I’m trying to say, is that the soup has remained the same. It is this perhaps more than anything that I love about you clam chowder—especially in an increasingly fragmented, chaotic, and ephemeral world.
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It’s now ten minutes until close at the all-you-can-eat buffet. The steam is slowly dissipating into the orange glow of the buffet’s outdated heat lamps. In the corner sits the clam chowder, stewing quietly, while covered in a hazy film. Several people approach its stainless steel bin, although its ladle sits stagnant, and then they blaze onwards towards the other soups.
So the clam chowder continues to wait—for someone to stir it up, to bring out its beauty, and to fill someone else up.
Puggle Country
“Is this still Nick?” Amanda’s text read.
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There were many times I’d asked myself the same question, although in this moment, Amanda was asking me if this was still my phone number, and the answer to that was a resounding, “Yes.”
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As we began to text, I found out the reason for her reaching out to me. Her beloved puggle, Tbear, had passed away, and she had wanted to thank me for those photos I’d taken of him, now almost a decade ago in that house just off of 59th St. and Paseo Boulevard in that tiny backyard. As Amanda put her dog to rest, all that remained now were those photos and those memories from their life together.
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For Amanda, this was a substantial loss, and suddenly those few months we spent together started rushing back to me.
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To begin to understand Amanda is to first know that Amanda’s mom died of cancer when she was 16. It was something she’d told me about a month into dating, and it helped me understand her a lot more. I’d asked her if she was close to her mom and she grew quiet for a while and then told me that she was. It was really hard for me to see Amanda in so much pain, but I told her I’d also lost my mom when I was 7, although I’d lost my mom to mental illness.
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I wasn’t as close to my mom as Amanda had been to her mom, but both us had struggled to navigate life without our moms. I think it was harder for Amanda in some ways though because she was closer to her mom and she’d built a stronger relationship over a much longer time period. In other ways, in was harder for me though, because I was still dealing with the inability to move on from the situation, as there was no ending to my story—at least yet. What we had in common was that the dead and the insane are both unreachable—just in different ways.
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Amanda’s nickname was red. She was a fiery long red-headed Aries. She was a massage therapist by day, and by nights and weekends she liked to hula hoop, attend festivals, and smoke copious amounts of cigarettes and weed and do whippets and binge drink. Likewise, as you may have discerned, Amanda was rarely sober.
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Amanda was polyamorous and she was adamant about not having kids. Her puggle was as close as she’d ever get to having a child. Looking back now, I think the death of Amanda’s mom as a teenager had a profound impact on her lifestyle as an adult.
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I’d also been a puggle caretaker in my previous relationship, so we bonded over all things puggle life. It was something that brought us closer together. I remember asking Amanda if she’d taken many photos of her puggle, and she said she hadn’t. Being heavily into photography at the time, I decided to reconcile this situation, so I took a bunch of puggle pics. One of those photos that I took many years ago was the one staring back at me today—of Tbear sitting in the backyard in the Paseo, with that particularly confused puggle look as to why anyone would be concerned with puggle life, as puggle life is no concern to anyone other than puggles, thank you very much!
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It had been a least a couple of years since I’d heard from Amanda. The last I’d heard she’d told me she was “living the quiet life,” somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Missouri. By this time, she’d long ago left that house on the Paseo. It was a huge relief that she’d finally moved, although to what city I forget the name of which, although it was like 200 miles from Kansas City.
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I still remember telling her that it was too dangerous living over there on The Paseo and that she needed to move. Amanda kept telling me that it was fine and nothing bad was going to happen and that I was worrying too much, as usual.
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I still remember that day when Amanda texted me, again out of nowhere. She told me that she had just been carjacked. I asked her what happened, and if she was alright, and where it had happened at. It was just up the street off of Charlotte St. Her words were frantic and she was rattled. I called her and we talked a bit over the phone. I wish she’d listened to me and Amanda had left that house on the Paseo sooner. She told me she was moving out of there soon. Amanda was stubborn.
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There was never a huge fight, thrown chairs, or copious amounts of crying involved in our breakup, like in the movies. However, Amanda did leave me for a guy from St. Louis. Likewise, St. Louis has lost some respect as a result. Perhaps more surprising was that she told me that we needed to break up because he wanted the two of them to be monogamous, which this coming from Amanda was like if your most monogamous friend one day out of nowhere decided to start dating ten different people at once. In most cases, you’d think Amanda was on drugs, which was true, although in this case, this was not an explanation for the behavior. Likewise, I replied with an, “O.K. I understand,” and that was the end of our romantic relationship.
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There was so much about Amanda that was good, which made living for her, so hard. She’d constantly fight for what was right. If someone was being mistreated at work, or a policy was unfair, she’d bring it up with management. Even outside of work, if she noticed something was wrong, she’d speak up about it. Her morals and ethics were some of the strongest I’d ever seen, although I think it took a toll on her. It was very much Amanda versus the world. I respected Amanda’s deep penchant for justice and recognized the same affinity for it within myself.
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Sometimes, I think about Amanda and where she’s at now. I’d like to think that by now she has her own home with a vast open yard that stretches on towards the horizon. I’d like to think that just as she opens her backdoor to her porch, there’s a rumble from downstairs, followed by a loud clacking against kitchen tiles. Just then, there’s a jangling of a collar, just as Amanda’s new dog springs out through that wide open door into another mid-morning Missouri summer’s day.
Supernova
There is nothing stopping the world from hearing your voice,
But the thought that you are the only one escaping from silence.
However, take these words from me as proof that you are not alone,
So be my supernova tonight.
The rising heat and crushing pressure strips you of your stability,
But just as it does,
You transcend into the fourth state of being.
Now the world gathers to gaze upon you,
As you’re no longer exiled to a distant place in space light years away.
Likewise, your destiny in no longer a misplaced fate--
This mistake has been corrected for the record,
As your name is now in bold,
With capital letters,
And spelled correctly in life’s ledger.
And to the untrained eye,
Your arrival originates from nowhere.
Though it’s true that for the longest time,
You existed in that place,
Where no one knew your name,
I wanted you to know,
Your growth didn’t go unnoticed,
For my lens is long enough,
To draw you close enough,
Where you are more than just another smudge marring the Milky Way’s great display,
On life’s great inverted canvas.
And you were ready to explode long ago,
But this is no matter now,
So seize the stage to sing your siren song,
And strum the strings of your guitar—
Like you, and only you can do so.
Let the audience hear your vocal chords grow enmeshed with the guitar’s metal ones.
Feel the droning sustain resonate in your ears,
And the breaking awakening waves of sound,
As they reverberate inside your wandering heart.
Watch the distance between the artist and the instrument vanish with the collision of notes,
While those notes composed of paper,
Silently await you in that forgotten box in that dank basement.
Cast off the lid of that mildewed cardboard box,
Then take the time to unfold each memory contained within.
Embrace the echoes of the past,
As only you can.
Find something amid nothing,
For there’s always something there.
Assemble those shattered dreams,
Then recognize that this foreign handwriting,
Was the work of the same hands that now share this space,
And look at how your handwriting has improved!
After that,
Peer upwards at the desolate darkness of tonight’s sky,
And just then you’ll see a panoply of vivid colors exploding there.
The images they form are of your life tonight,
So bright are those wondrous moments that they resurrect the day,
And the crackle crackle crackle of its death rattle,
Make even the most cynical feel alive tonight—
Goosebumps, a shiver, and a sigh, take it all in.
Now you’ve broken through the maddening facade of the day to day—
Cutting against the deep decay of those ambling among the living—
Though these zombies are in fact real.
This is not a TV show,
But they will devour your brain,
While drawing comfort in mutual hollowness.
It’s always easier to stagger than to walk,
Though stagger for too long,
And you won’t remember what it means to walk anymore.
Your antidote is the best defense against this plague.
And you must conjure it by letting your mind wander.
Your imagination is the key to outrunning them.
So creation is now banging hard on death’s door,
Daring it is in its defiance,
In its will,
In its want,
In its reverie of the knock against another locked door.
Keep pounding long enough,
Hard enough,
And fast enough,
And the latch will begin to turn.
Its metallic clink,
Is your signal that you can come in,
Yet unlike a vampire,
Your will is enough of an invite,
That you no longer must struggle to open that door.
And you’re far too human now,
To serenade the myth-makers anymore.
And it’s time for you to make your own myths now.
And you’re too beautiful to be a monster,
And your face smiles so brightly,
That there is nowhere I’d rather be,
Than on the other side of that door,
To return your vibrant smile with my own.
And at that exact moment,
My supernova,
Only one question will come to mind,
And that question will be,
“Where have you been all of my life?”
Rebecca
Outside on a winter's night you approached me,
Red hooded-jacket emerging from the blackness of the night,
Short dark hair emanating from it.
A warm smile and a “Hey!” greeted me before I could turn away from the brilliant LCD screen of my phone.
The two of us ordered our food.
I paid for myself.
You paid for yourself.
I grabbed a booth in the center of the narrow room.
Two strangers munched on strange food—
A salmon sandwich and a Teriyaki pizza.
Neither is that good,
But we kept eating nonetheless.
It was something to do.
The two of us sat down at the plush fake leather booth--
An island oasis,
And only feet from the soft-drink dispenser.
Your face was scarred and stretched.
You sat behind black thin-rimmed glasses.
You were terse and reserved at first,
But then slowly became more verbose.
I coaxed you out of your shell,
For that short while.
___________
By now we’ve had too much wine,
So I watch you closer as a result.
It is then that I see you falling down, down, down.
You tell me that you are done at 30—
And that there will be no kids,
And you tell me you are going to live with a bunch of dogs and your sister.
You tell me you will not find the one.
You tell me how you always lose interest with whoever you’re with.
You are convinced there is no one left for you.
And that's the end of that thread,
Although there is plenty of yarn left.
After another gulp of wine,
You stare off into space.
You are lost there,
And you’re wondering and wandering.
​​
Working, working, working, on the weekdays.
Playing, playing, playing, on the weekends.
Typing and filing and answering phones by day,
Going out to eat with friends at night.
Every day is a copy of the last,
With a different date scrawled out at the top of the page.
Every day of work brings you closer to nothing.
You tell me that you’re happy for the stability,
And the glass of wine is mostly drained now.
“Is your boss still hitting on you?” I ask you just then.
“Yes, and it's creeping me out.
Yesterday he asked me to spend the weekend with him while his wife is away.”
And Rebecca signed a contract for the job.
And she can't leave or she'll get fined thousands of dollars.
“It's a job,” She says.
She takes another sip of wine,
And then stares off into the bustle of the restaurant.
Later, the conversation is lighter.
I reach out and push her arm after making a joke.
She does not react to my motion.
I gaze deep into her eyes as she speaks,
Drowned as much in the words as I am the wine.
I am swimming around her eyes,
And she continues on about how different she was just a few years ago.
She talks about how she used to be fat and alone,
Although that this is no longer the case.
And she tells me how much she likes the increased attention.
___________
And her ex-boyfriend proposed to her yesterday—
Over the phone.
“And did you accept?”
“No,” Rebecca replies, while half-smiling.
“I have had the habit of guys falling all over me after a couple of dates,” She says.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don't know,” She says.
And my thoughts now drift towards that one-word question: Why?
I don't know her enough at this point.
We are still on the first date, sitting in the bright lights of the restaurant as the employees start emptying the trash, sweeping the floor, and counting down the register.
“I should really get going,” She tells me,
Just as I pour the rest of the wine into my glass.
“I am getting tired,” She adds.
She lets out a big yawn.
It is not a prompted yawn,
And her eyes are sunken and her face sags.
She gets up from the table,
Then latches the golden latch of her cheap purse.
It clicks hard,
And after that she says, “Goodnight.”
As she turns towards the door,
She’s straight-faced.
Her footsteps thud into the distance—
Never for me to hear that pattern again.
Ballad of Elizabeth Holmes
From just the prick of a finger,
You’ll be amazed at what we can find out about you.
There’s no other test like it,
So step right up,
And we’ll show you how we do it.
This is our little machine,
And one drop of blood is all we need,
To change the world together.
I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.
Welcome to Theranos.
Oh, and by the way,
My name is Elizabeth Holmes.
________________
​
See the world in a drop of blood,
With $9 billion reasons to follow.
You had so many of the rich & powerful convinced that you were the real deal,
That they couldn’t all be wrong, right?
There was Rupert Murdoch & Larry Ellison,
And Henry Kissinger & Jim Mattis.
And the list goes on and on.
And let’s not forget Walgreens too.
However, it was only a matter of time before this charade became unglued,
And it was by the reporting of that one man: John Carreyrou
And eventually your bad blood became the book, Bad Blood.
No turtleneck could protect you from the legal onslaught that would follow,
And the media firestorm that accompanied it in its wake.
The tech world was shocked and everyone was left wondering,
“Why did you do it, Elizabeth?”
Fabricated documents,
Faked test results,
Broken promise after broken promise,
And lie after lie,
Lead to your perilous downfall.
Now Amanda Seyfried is playing you on Hulu,
And Jennifer Lawrence was going to be playing you too,
Although she decided Amanda did such a good job,
That now a movie about you is no longer necessary.
And now people are whispering about how much you’ve set women back,
Women in tech,
And women founders too,
But I’m still wondering,
How much will this set you back?
You always said that Steve Jobs was your idol—
His life was your template for your life,
And for your company—
Theranos.
And Steve did change the world at Apple.
Design was never the same after the Mac,
Music was never the same after the iPod,
And phones were never the same after the iPhone.
But Steve was wrong about a lot of things—
Like how iTunes should of only ever been on the Mac,
Like how people should be content with platform lock-in
And being prevented from fixing their own machines,
And how price didn’t matter if the device was good enough.
And perhaps Steve’s greatest hubris,
Was that he knew better than his doctor on treating his pancreatic cancer,
Which lead to his death,
As his holistic treatments failed to yield any results.
Steve Jobs built so many of these walls of imprisonment,
And people are just now waking up in the dawn of this Web 3 morning.
What would Steve Jobs say to you, Elizabeth,
If he were here today?
Do you think he’d be happy you found your way into a literal prison?
You were hungry,
And you were foolish,
So in that regard,
I suppose you’ve fulfilled Steve’s wishes from his Stanford commencement address.
I think more about your two children than Steve Jobs though,
And how for the next 9 years,
They’ll tell the kids at school that their mom is in prison.
I think about all the weird looks they’ll get from other kids when they find out their mom is Elizabeth Holmes.
“Oh, you mean That Elizabeth Holmes.”
“Yeah, that really sucks.”
“What’s it like having a mom who is a criminal?”
So, May 30th of 2023,
Was the day this drama finally ended.
The arc from Stanford dropout,
To convicted criminal was completed.
Your final destination was a minimum security women’s prison in Texas.
They gave you 11 years,
But I’ve read you’re getting out early now due to “good behavior,”
Although, what does that even mean now?
After all, you still owe $452 million in restitution for all of those investors you defrauded.
Now you’re just another white collar criminal.
Welcome to an elite boy’s club, Elizabeth.
Some of the members are Martin Skrelli, Jordan Belfort, Billy McFarland, & Sam Bankman-Fried.
_____________
More than anything,
What I still wonder today,
Is do you still believe you can change the world, Elizabeth,
Even now,
From behind those walls,
From within your prison cell,
Or, has the world finally changed you?
Right Now
Everything starts right here and right now,
So stop what you’re doing,
And let this interruption transport you to another place--
A place far away from the mundane, the practical, and the rote.
Tell me what has brought you to this place,
And what now moves you from it?
Show me something different
Show me something real.
Start to show me who you are,
While I will do the same.
The greater the reflection,
The greater the connection,
So the answer to what I want,
Is always now,
And forever,
The person I wish to be.
The vision of that person,
Which is also an approximation of you,
Is a person that stands at peace with palms up,
And that person is a person that pushes you—
Towards an exploration of this world,
As well as the one inside your mind.
Right now,
These words on this page are the words I want to say to you.
I want to tell you that I often find the responsibilities and expectations of life suffocating.
Life is more than a series of roles in a series of plays where the character you’ve been cast as bears no resemblance to the person staring back at you from your mirror.
The space in between the lines is where you find life staring back at you.
And,
If right now,
This life were a play,
Then this would be Act 3—
Ascendance from the ashes of Act 2,
Exploding onto the scene,
A virulent soliloquy emerges from the shadows,
As the audience whispers,
Who is that?
And it’s taken me the longest time to let go of those I no longer know,
But from knowing nothing of you right now,
Who you are to me can only grow from here,
As the same applies to me from you.
Right now,
As I write these words,
I think about that day we meet
Is it over coffee, a concert, or something else entirely?
And why now do I hack these words out at this machine?
Even though I’ve been told there is no right time,
Over time, I’ve found that this is wrong,
Yet to mean anything that time must be right for you too.
And as summer strums another suspension chord,
Let it reverberate inside your head,
Feel the exhilaration of the moment right before you dive off that precipice.
Feel the air rush past you—
First you’re flying,
And then you’re falling,
Although fear not,
For today there are no rocks below.
You torpedo into the water,
Splashing downwards a few feet,
Just before your feet begin to push back against gravity.
Soon, you are emerging while wiping your eyes of this newfound solution,
And as your eyes open,
You smile under the sun.
And my eyes are as tired as yours are rested,
And likewise,
We’re both dead in different ways,
So let’s burn down the rest of the day together.
What grand plans do you have that can’t be postponed?
Tomorrow is tomorrow,
And today is happening right now.
Think about your last perfect day.
How much of it was planned?
This is madness,
As much as it’s madness to struggle to find those perfect days amid the stacks and stacks of ordinary ones.
And today could be just another day--
Or it could be the first day of the rest of your life.
Hello World
Hello world.
I know it’s been a long time since we last spoke,
But the truth is I’ve lost track of you amid the digital deluge,
And I’m just now peering out above this frigid water.
Today when I venture out of my house,
The people I see stare down at little slabs of metal, plastic, and glass.
And when the screens grow dark,
As they always do,
The reflections that stare back,
Are washed out renders—
Ghosts of ourselves,
Forgotten by the ravages of time.
___________
Hello world.
I’m signing in for the first time.
Can someone help me?
Sure, let me show you the ropes.
Two people at two machines,
“Interact” alone in two rooms.
Yet what good are we as 1s and 0s,
When our code is DNA?
_____________
So log into your social media platform of choice,
And as you do,
Another black box algorithm drives another like, another comment, and another follow.
Although who follows whom,
When the product is you?
What is your brand?
And your posts are as much their posts as they are yours,
And the owner’s name is insidiously written at the top of the page,
With your glossy photos posted underneath.
And another unread EULA floats out into cyberspace.
So just click “agree” and just move on.
From there,
You’ll find yourself behind the brick fortress of another walled garden.
And locked away behind its wrought iron gates,
Another amoral algorithm awaits you.
And it lusts after your deepest desires,
And it is ravenous for your darkest despairs,
And it’s fully prepared to love the hatred that writhes within your soul—
No matter how twisted, how depraved, how warped, or how totally fucked that is.
And the algorithm's appetites are insatiable,
And it’s ready to devour you.
___________
“Hello world,”
Says the teenage girl,
As she posts another selfie,
And another picture of her hanging out with her friends,
And then another product she’s just bought.
And she’s posted all the right emojis and all the right hashtags.
Just make sure to like and subscribe.
Maybe someday she’ll be rich.
Maybe someday she’ll be famous.
Maybe someday she’ll be an influencer—
Bought and paid for--
The American Dream!
And for an instant after her last post,
She’s happy not to be invisible anymore,
But as she scrolls into that bottomless feed,
She soon realizes she’s no more than another drop,
In an ocean of endless information.
Suddenly, the lighting could have been better in that last shot,
And on second thought,
That outfit was a bit outdated,
And she could have bought a better phone to get a better result.
Maybe that trip wasn’t that great
She thinks as she stares back at her vacation photos.
It could have been better if only….
And then an avalanche of What Ifs cascades upon her.
Soon, tears begin their inevitable descent from her eyes.
And the cries that follow reverberate a muffled tone into her pillow.
_______________
“Hello world,”
Says the seven year-old boy,
Just as he finishes typing in his pass-code into his iPad.
And he travels from icon to icon,
From game to game,
For hours after hours.
“It’s time to turn it off,” His parents proclaim.
“No, just a little bit longer!” He protests.
“I said now!” His father yells.
His son then throws the device on his bed.
His sandcastle has been crushed by giants,
And the rest of the world awaits his next move,
Even though he’s the one who has set it to standby mode—not them.
And his return is always more of a struggle,
The greater the time and the space has elapsed since he’s last known this place.
____________
“Hello world!”
Shout it from the rooftops,
And when you do,
Ask yourself,
Who is listening?
In a world exponentially accelerating,
The frenetic pace is dizzying,
And with it the nausea arrives,
And soon we’re bedridden,
So weak, so confused, so sick.
And where do we go from here?
Welcome to the 21st Century,
A place where your 15 minutes lasts 15 seconds.
Hurry, that’s all the time you have to say what you need to say,
For the show must go on,
As the next video is in queue!
____________
Today, when I peer down from the clouds onto the social media landscape below,
What I see are broken promises, quiet disappointments, tribal vitriol, missed connections, fabricated information, manipulated elections, tired eyes, bigotry, misogyny, homophobia, faulty logic, anti-intellectualism, and rampant consumerism.
And as the rate of digital change accelerates,
It’s growing harder to connect, physically.
So it has come time for a new message,
And that new message is Goodbye World.
So cut down the vines that grow larger and more complex,
Just as their grip grows tighter,
For there is no engineering solution to this human problem.
And the greatest app ever written will be a black screen.
When you load it,
There will be no sounds, no hyperlinks, no options to like it, and no options to comment on it.
Black is nothing and black is everything--
A void and a portal into infinity--
A glimpse into your wildest dreams and your darkest nightmares.
​
Black is the color of the universe,
The background of the sky at night,
And the beginning and end of everything.
Black is the color of black holes.
Cross the event horizon and everything fades--
To black.
Not even light escapes a black hole.
And as each person opens the app,
All emotions will flow into it--
Anger, boredom, happiness, sadness, tranquility,
And on and on and on,
Forever.
And it won’t just be the best app--
It will be the last one too,
For after you see that reflection,
You’ll realize you no longer recognize it.
The hideousness of seeing someone else,
As you peer into that black mirror,
Will be too much for you,
So then you’ll cast the device aside,
And then open up your door.
The daylight will be blinding at first,
But your eyes will soon adapt,
As they evolved to do so.
“Hello world”
You’ll say,
But it will be wonderfully different this time around.
Tell Me
Tell me that you love me.
Tell me that you care.
Tell me that when I need you,
Tell me that you’ll be there.
Tell me about your greatest hopes and about your deepest dreams,
And tell me about all your most wild and imaginative fantasies.
Tell me about who you were so many years ago,
And who you are now sitting here with me.
Tell me something sad,
Tell me something sweet,
And tell me something that made you angry,
And may you recite that story in a bellicose tone.
Tell me of your wild speculations,
And of who you’d like to meet.
Tell me something special,
And something that time has forgot,
Tell me something sacred,
Yet too sacred to remain secret,
That it is not.
Tell me a story about the last person who changed your life,
And what now does this mean to you?
Tell me about your last fall from grace,
And what did it take to rise again above the sea?
Tell me about the last time that you cried,
And where were you when those teardrops fell,
Down, down, down?
And when you wiped your eyes for that last time then,
What was the first thing you did when your cheeks turned dry?
Tell me a secret,
One buried deep within your soul,
And when you do,
Find solace in knowing that I’m here for you.
Tell me about your first love.
Tell me, how long did it last?
Tell me next why your paths diverged.
Then tell me what did you take away from it,
Outside of a broken heart?
Tell me about your first kiss,
Then tell me more about that scene,
Describe to me what it felt for you,
To experience desire for the first time.
Tell me about your last love,
And how long is it that you’ve been alone?
Tell me how much you’ve changed since then,
And tell me how much that you’ve grown.
Tell me about the last great night of your life.
Tell me who you spent it with,
And how everything did unfold.
Tell me if you expected it,
Or was it a complete surprise?
Tell me more about the madness of those moments,
And then tell me what does perfection mean to you?
Tell me about the last time that you felt all alone.
Tell me, what events brought you to this state?
Tell me of the seemingly limitless sadness,
And what was it that made you so irate?
Tell me how long was it that darkness festered in your soul?
And tell me what was it that finally ended this nocturnal refrain?
Tell me about an ancient memory,
And why do its echoes still resonate with you?
Tell me of the years elapsed since then,
And tell me what gifts has time since brought?
Tell me what is it that you love to do?
And with it,
Tell me who you are.
Tell me what it was that moved you towards these things,
And tell me now,
How these things have moved you.
Tell me about one of your favorite songs,
And if it has words,
Then sing me a few bars completely off-key.
If it is voiceless,
Still tell me about the place that it takes you to,
And if that place you arrive at is home,
Then tell me what “home” means to you?
Tell me all about your favorite foods,
And what is it that draws you to them?
Tell me how you’re addicted to one or two,
Yet though you’re embarrassed to admit it,
That you’ll continue to chomp away.
And tell me just one more thing,
For this I have wondered for so long.
If my hand were to reach out for yours,
Would you clasp it back?
Now let your sparkling smile be my signal to draw you closer to my wandering heart,
For then the rest of world will fade to only static on the radio,
Yet we’ll be in tune to a frequency that only we can hear.
Show me that you love me,
By beginning the journey,
With those three words,
Just tell me:
I love you.
Our Story
On a dark late winter’s night,
Two strangers meet by chance,
And after they do,
Awkward outbursts arrive.
Soon however,
Their awkwardness subsides into smiles,
And each soon finds one another in sync with each other.
And soon their words come at a frenetic pace.
Two separate stories end,
Just as one begins.
And it’s as surreal as Dali’s clocks,
And it’s as intense as Durer’s etchings.
Equally delightfully unexpected,
Tender voices now meander in the night’s air,
Before resting like ornaments suspended from space,
The stretched strings made of two heart’s sinews.
Tonight is bound by the limits of time,
But this memory is a snow globe forever shaken.
Each cascading flake captures the energy of a singular moment,
But will this too be only another One Act Play?
____________
As the mercury tonight falls,
My heart rises.
Suddenly, my breaths grow more frantic,
As my pulse begins to race.
Carpe diem reigns supreme.
And this day has been seized,
As my hand extends outwards,
Awaiting the grasp of skin.
And as I feel her hand clasp mine,
It’s as if the floor has been tilted down,
And then back up again--
Psychotic motions from a mad puppet master.
And then the ground is level again,
So I then exhale.
She glances over at me just then,
But then only squeezes my hand harder.
Now our waltz begins--
1,2,3, 1,2,3, 1,2,3.
We are no dancers,
But tonight we have found the rhythm.
​
It’s as if just then that the walls and roof overhead rip apart,
And it’s just us standing together alone on that boat underneath the stars.
Just after the orchestra’s conductor signals the start of this piece,
We begin to sway with the music,
A raucous BOOM BOOM BOOM emanates from the drums,
And just as they dissipate,
Sweet violins begin to flow.
If we could sail into infinity,
Now would be that time.
As we continue dancing,
I gaze behind us.
I watch as the cool dark water devours the thick braided old rope.
We are no longer docked.
Dense fog now surrounds us,
But there is no alarm,
For kisses of mist are enough to drown out the din of the rest of the world.
And five feet of visibility is enough for two faces within this radius.
And just then above the horizon,
Dawn finally begins to break,
And with it, the fog dissipates into the atmosphere.
We are composing a masterpiece,
One note at a time and impromptu as such,
Yet each note struck is a first draft written in pen,
No cross-outs and no ink blots to mar each page.
And the orchestra furiously swipes page after page on their music stands.
And as our dance continues,
I want this night to be as perfect for her, as it is for me.
After all, people always ask, “So, how did you meet?”
So why wouldn’t you want that story to be perfect?
And it’s one you’d tell a thousand times.
And in this story,
There would be a man to give,
And there would be a woman to receive.
And these two motions would continue on for the days and weeks, and months, and years to follow,
Until both hands would grow cold,
Magic not in the end, as ever,
But from that ephemeral beginning,
With the madness starting from one person daring to close their book to look up at someone else’s face.
And we’d call it, “Our Story,”
And forever it would be our story,
Because it would be the only one exactly like it.
The Woman in the Blue Cap
She entered the coffee shop wearing a blue Royals cap, and after I flagged her down, she sat down at the table with me. We’d “met” online, but now was the first time we were meeting in-person.
​
The conversation wasn’t particularly groundbreaking, with a mix of typical first date questions to follow such as, “What do you do?” “What do you like to do for fun?” “So, do you come here often?” and “What’s your favorite color?”
​
The banter continued and soon we found a rhythm. She’d laugh and I’d speak and then I’d laugh and then she’d speak. We mirrored each other back and forth like the motions of oars in a row boat. Likewise, everything was surprisingly smooth, until I asked her about the cap.
​
“So you’re a Royals fan?” I asked.
​
“Yeah, about that….” She trailed off as her eyes peered downwards and then darted quickly back up.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” She added.
​
“O.K. what’s up?” I asked.
​
“I’m dying,” She said.
​
“You’re not serious, are you?” I asked. “I mean, I’m not ready to re-enact A Walk to Remember right now.”
​
She let out a little laugh and then said, “I’m serious.”
“So, what’s going on?” I asked her.
​
There was a pause and then she said, “I’m not going to tell you what I have, because if I tell you what I have then you’re going to look it up.”
​
“Why wouldn’t I look it up?” I asked.
​
“I don’t want you to look it up,” She repeated.
​
“O.K. well how bad is it then?”
​
“It’s pretty bad,” She said.
We continued talking and just moments later she started telling me a story and completely lost her train of thought.
​
“Oh yeah,” She said. “I remember now.”
​
“Is this part of your condition?” I asked.
​
“Yes,” She said. “I am having a lot of issues with speaking and memory lately, and it’s been getting worse.”
​
She could usually make it 10-20 minutes before completely forgetting what she was talking about. I’d then remind her of what she was talking about and then she’d say, “Oh yeah, that’s right,” and then continue talking. It was like a game after a while, and although it wasn’t any fun, it did make me feel closer to her.
​
“Are you hungry?” I asked as the conversation waned.
​
“Yes,” She said.
​
“Well let’s go get some food then. Do you want to go to the place next door?” I asked, not wanting to travel too far from the coffee house.
​
“Yes, that sounds good,” She said.
​
We arose from the table and headed outside the coffee shop towards a bar/restaurant combo.
The food was your typical bar fare: chicken wings, hamburgers, side salads etc. We both ordered burgers and fries and some waters.
​
The more we talked the more I began to feel that that we’d started out in completely different places, yet somehow had managed to end up in the same place. Somewhere in the way she smiled back at me told me that the two of us would have mutually ignored each other in high school. The way she spoke to me she sounded like a fallen insider.
​
We texted a bit after the date, with some light general banter. Then, she texted me what her illness was. I remember the words hanging on the screen, as if in slow motion: GLIO-BLASTOMA. Before I could respond, she again encouraged me not to look it up, which of course I looked it up.
​
On the first date, she’d told me that she’d been dealing with her illness for a year. From what I read, it appeared that she had less than a 10% chance of surviving past the 2 year mark. I didn’t text her that, but there was something about the situation where I felt we needed to meet again.
__________
She wanted to go to an Indian restaurant for the second date. I waited for her by the entrance, and soon enough she arrived, with her blue cap on her head.
​
We chowed down on some Indian food and talked about life, love, the pursuit of happiness, and whatever else came to mind. I then broached the topic of her illness and asked her if it was true that she most likely had about a year left to live.
​
“See, this is why I told you not to look it up!” She shot back at me.
​
“I just wanted to get a better idea as to what’s going on,” I said.
​
There was an awkward pause and then we changed topics, and then all was well again.
We then headed back to her dad’s place and talked some more in her room. She told me she was living with her dad due to her condition, of which I assured her that this was totally fine. It was surreal to me that she felt she needed to explain to me why a woman in her late 20s who had brain cancer was living with her dad.
​
We sat on her bed and she finally took off the cap. Her head was heavily swollen, but she seemed relieved to have the cap off.
​
I remember at some point I asked her what she was looking for relationship-wise.
​
“I’m looking for a serious long-term relationship,” She said.
​
It wasn’t the serious portion that I questioned, but the long-term portion. Sure, anything could happen, but the odds were heavily stacked against her. I also wasn’t ready to spend the next year watching her condition steadily deteriorate—not that anyone ever is, but when you have the option to not be in that situation, it’s hard to choose to be there.
​
In that moment, I wondered if I’d continued on with her, how long would it be before she no longer remembered me, or anything that we’d shared together? Moreover, how long would it be before her memory failed entirely? I thought about all of those stories that would be lost and with it all of those moments that made her who she was that I’d never know about. Who she was would become only what she was in that moment. She’d become a prisoner to the present. Was there enough time left for her to share enough for me to know who she was, or still was?
​
I also imagined all of the hospital visits and long car rides that would follow. I thought about the machines she’d be hooked up to and how her warm smile would fade to no more than a hollow nothingness. I also thought about the ragged, worn, alien face of my great-grandmother in her final hours. I also thought about the looks of anguish on her parent’s faces as they would watch their daughter grow weaker and weaker—a slow waltz towards death. It was all overwhelming.
​
The only thing that I could say was “goodbye,” and then I left. We sent a couple more texts to each other after the date, including one where I told her how I didn’t think it was going to work out, but that I wished her the best—with whatever would follow.
​
I never saw her again, and the truth is, I don’t even remember her name. What I do remember are those two nights and that blue Royals cap. I also remember her big smile and gentle laugh. There was also a beautiful peace in her eyes and in the way that she moved—however clumsily. Most importantly though, I remember her being present with me the entire time we were together, before and after I knew she was terminally ill. She was finally there with me as an outsider, and when two outsiders come together in shared conversation, the rest of the world fades to background noise—and that’s really something to be thankful for.
The Chair in the Living Room
It was only after that day when I realized that there was not even a remote possibility that remained of me making it as an interior decorator. The deep sadness still haunts me to this day—just as equally as those times when I realized I would not be making the NBA and that my male modeling career had forever stalled out.
​
As she ambled towards me, I queued up a shortlist of responses to common questions such as, “Do you have any papazan chairs?” “Where are the candles?” “Can I use more than one coupon on the same item?” and many others.
​
“How do you think this chair would look in my house?” She asked, pointing at the chair.
​
“I’m not sure. Do you have a picture of the room where you’d like to put it in?”
​
“No, I don’t,” She replied.
​
There was a pause, and then she responded. She began by informing me that the living room was next to the kitchen and that it was a large living room. In the living room itself, she told me sat a large beige leather couch. It was something she’d picked up at Nebraska Furniture Mart with her husband for 25% off and had the option to recline. The chair in the living room would be sitting next to this couch, which sat against a wall.
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“Do you think the chair would look better on the right side or the left side of the couch?” She asked me.
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There were too many unanswered questions. First, how many sides were there to the room? Also, assuming four sides, were we talking about a rectangular-shaped room or a square room?
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Also, what size was the TV? Was the TV near the couch? How near was the couch from the TV? Did the chair need to face the TV, or was it O.K. to face away from the TV (assuming there was a TV in the living room in the first place)? If there wasn’t a TV in the living room, then what would the chair be primarily used for? Would this be a reading chair, a lounging chair, or a decorative chair? As such, would the chair need to be labeled for what its purpose was, or was its purpose understood? If the chair would need to be labeled, how was it going to be labeled, where was it going to be labeled, and who was going to be doing the labeling?
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Moreover, who was going to be using the chair? Was the chair for adults, children, pets, or some combination of the above? As my mind raced, I stood there frozen.
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She proceeded to tell me about the color of the carpet and some additional furniture already in the room. It was then that she informed me that there was another chair already in the room, so this chair would actually be the second chair in the living room. Likewise, I wasn’t prepared for a scenario where a chair was being added to a living room where another chair was already present. Our training and the employee handbook was of no use at this juncture.
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Noticing my lack of a response, she stopped describing the room and then blurted out, “You know, I don’t even know why I’m asking you?! After all, you’re a man. You wouldn’t know anything about interior decorating!”
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She had me cornered. There was no way for me to assist her, as a man. Much like childbirth, interior decorating was solely in the domain of women. How had I not realized this sooner?
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Just after giving birth to this “ah ha moment,” she stormed off across the store, seeking help from one of the female employees.
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She proceeded to describe the room to her in great detail and then paused for a response.
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“Do you have a picture of the room?” She asked.