I clock out of work at 10:55 p.m. because it's the earliest I can. I don't feel bad about doing so because I got to work early. I feel a little bad about doing so because I took a longer-than-normal dinner break to watch the Red Sox win the World Series. But still, I'm out of work on Sunday night and walking to the bus stop. It doesn't make a difference when I leave my workplace on 10th and Burnside so long as I'm at the bus stop at Couch and 4th by :21 after the hour, so leaving work at five til is slightly nonsensical but I don't want to be there any more and don't have to so I leave.
To kill 26 minutes I make a phone call. I don't have much to say except to say that I left work and that I'm walking to the bus stop, which you know but the person on the other end of the line didn't but figured out because I was calling and then said so. The call took up maybe four minutes but could have taken six or seven and by then I've walked the six blocks (city blocks are super-short in Portland) and it's just after 11 p.m.
I'm not listening to my headphones this night, which I usually do but am not because my ipod wasn't charged when I left for work, and anyhow I brought a book and don't really need both but often have. This night, however, I don't have the buds in my ears and am exposed to the sounds of Chinatown, a colorful and vibrant part of Portland. It's here you can watch prostitution transactions but more likely drugs deals especially between the blocks of Park and 4th, which is where I'm walking through, all set to wait the 20-some minutes for the bus.
A man in a mechanical wheelchair calls my attention. He wants to know if I have a cigarette and I tell him I don't smoke. He mumbles about how proud he is of me. This is something he's said before. He's mumbling a script of lines he knows and no longer puts much feeling into, I can tell. He's just trying to get to the next part of his monologue which is that he wants money from me. I don't normally give change out because I'm not a rich man and it's hard choose these days who deserves it more than others so I just don't -- most days I don't even carry change around. Tonight, I know I have two quarters in my pocket because I didn't have enough to get a snack out of the vending machine at work, and so I offer the man in the mechanical wheelchair the fifty cents, telling him that's what I have. I put the two coins in his black, rough paw and before I pull my hand back he asks me for a dollar fifty. I told him that was all I had and turn my back to wait for the bus a half block away and thinking this is why I don't give out change.
I'm reading my trade paperback at the bus stop and every paragraph or so I look up to see the man in the mechanical wheelchair saying something to passerbyers who don't pay him much attention. I don't even get done with two pages before he cranes his next around and calls out to me, "Hey man." I look up but don't take an immediate advance until he calls one or two more times and holds up that black paw and physically signals that he needs something.
When I approach carefully he doesn't say anything I can understand. He's mumbling and I turn my head so my hear is at least facing him and push my neck forward. My body is still a few feet back but my attention is closer. I still can't understand him. He stops mumbling and makes this sound with his mechanical wheelchair:
Click, click. Click, click.
Without explaining it to me it is apparent that he's got no more juice for his electronic-powered wheelchair. He mumbles something I do understand about a cord in the back of his chai, in a pouch, which I locate and pull out and to show him that I understand. What I don't immediately understand is where exactly he wants me to plug in this three-pronged cord. And he doesn't either. But mumbles how I should wheel him to a bar that's on this block, just on the other side of my bus stop.
The bar is Pala and on Friday nights when I'm waiting for the bus after work I notice well dressed people coming and going from it, waiting to stand in this establishment for a ten-dollar cocktail. I've never been in but the man in the mechanical wheelchair says he's charged there before, that if I wheel him over there he'll be able to do it. He motions to the back wheels and it's clear I have to pull a lever on one side and then the other to put the chair from its electronic operation into the free-wheeling motion. It's easy to do so and in no time, I have the mechanical chair's headrest in my hands and have control of the chair and of this man's movement.
It's Sunday, however, and Pala isn't open. There's a gate that's closed in front the two of us. The man in the mechanical chair and I stare at the situation for some time. I notice hanging behind the locked gate is a power strip. The strip hangs up the wall some 9 feel and plugged into it are two strands of Christmas lights. I wonder briefly if I can reach it, if the Christmas lights would come unplugged, if the power strip would be low enough for the wheelchair's plug to reach, if there is even power flowing into the power strip (The Christmas lights are not on). I pull on the gate. It's locked for sure but there's a bit of a gap. I suppose I could wedge myself between the wall and the gate. I could reach for this power strip. This could be possible. I'm looking for a security camera. I see a sign about illegal parking. I wonder what time it is and if my bus will get here soon. I look and it's only 12 after. I have eight or nine minutes.
"I don't think I'm going to be able to get the strip," I tell the man in the mechanical wheelchair. He mumbles something I make out to be: Don't leave me here, man.
So I survey the intersection we've come from. There's a construction site across the street and a bar that's open named Dixie opposite us, which I've never been in but have heard they have a mechanical bull like the one in Urban Cowboy, which I don't find ironic until now, having written the phrase "man it a mechanical wheelchair" now a half dozen or more times.
I push the man in the mechanical wheelchair diagonally across the street but in doing so his paralyzed leg, extended, gets caught up in our descent of the curb's ramp and his left shoe comes off. I'm going to have to stop and pick up the man's shoe and I have to put it one his foot because he sure as hell can't do it. I put the tied shoe over his toes and jack the heel of the shoe up and onto his feelingless foot. I wedge it on and the man wants me to lift his leg so it's perched onto the chair's footrest. His leg is stiff and I try bending the the knee. Push as hard as you can, the man says, I can't feel shit. So I do and he adjusts himself and I'm looking at him, really noticing his state: This man's wearing blue sweatpants and they are damp. I have no doubt that he's pissed himself, he reeks of it.
We passed Dixie to another bar that I have been in exactly once called the Tube. What you should know about the Tube is that it doesn't get more hipster than the Tube and that there is some sort of musical performance this night and a guy standing outside who is too hip for his own good. Still, I push the man in the mechanical chair up to the Tube and before I say anything to the guy at the door he's shaking his head "no." He's got one of those sideways smirks I hate -- he's smirking at me and the sucker I've become, pushing around this man in the mechanical wheelchair. I tell him the story: All this guy needs is an outlet so he can plug his chair's cord into for a little while. "I don't know," the guy says. "You don't know anything?" I respond because I'm eager at this point to leave this man in the mechanical chair plugged in somewhere so he can zip around where ever his black paw directs. "Yeah, I don't know anything," the fucking hipster with the smirk says a little too sarcastically.
The man in the mechanical wheelchair asks him if he at leasts has a cigarette he could buy off him. He gets one and the next guy that walks out of the Tube lights it for him. I don't know what to do at this point because the man in the mechanical wheelchair has what he originally wanted from me, a smoke. I ask him what else I could possibly do for him and he mumbles something I understand to be that he needs to get in there. There's no way they are going to let this guy in the bar and I tell him that. He says I should just give him thirteen dollars. What?
Click, click. Click, click.
And he says nothing else. I need to catch my bus, so I walk back to the intersection and to the construction site. There's an extension cord behind a temporary fence, which has on it a reward sign claiming money for turning in wokers who don't wear hardhats. I'm still looking for ways to help this man, the man in the mechanical wheelchair. I've left him in front of the Tube, he's somebody else's problem. I didn't really help but with my two quarters he's bought a cigarette and maybe another. He'll be temporary subdued down here in Chinatown but with no juice for his wheelchair. I wonder what he did to deserve this.
I get on the bus and the bus passes the scene. Someone has wheeled him against the wall. He's out of the way, smoking his cigarette down to the filter and wondering who will help him get to an outlet, who won't abandon him like I did.
Dear reader,
Somehow you've found me and that's great. I mean it. Just not with exclamation points, or marks if you prefer. You are reading this because you've come here before and for some reason decided to check back in again. Maybe you've RSS-fed this site, which I've heard about but no little about.
I think you should know that I've lost contact with many people of my past and that this site is how they might find out about my doings. Maybe that's you. I think in some way's we've all gone through some turbulent times as of late. And by as of late I mean right now, a culmination of the time so far.
At points we might have lost purpose. We might not have been sure what the purpose was. Maybe we've given up in some ways. Settled with who we are, who we listen, talk to. We've grown comfortable with the lives we have. They are, after all, ours.
Some of us have shut others out from our immediate circle. We don't call or send care packages nearly enough. It didn't occur all at once, or maybe it did -- some of us don't forget, some would rather forget things. But what's lost in not communicating is everything we once had and the chance for anything we might have again.
There are reasons for how it got this way: it's easier to not talk and at the the same time hard to get back to get back in touch. We lose numbers or haven't dialed them in too long a time, so it's hard to do so. And, we don't have time, none of us. We make excuses. We factor in time zones, work hours, and the significant others of others.
However.
Next month I will have been in Portland for three years. I'll also turn 28-years old. Or 28-years-young if you want to put it in that middle-aged-woman (truth too trite to say) way. Moving here I left behind a previous life to reinvent myself in this new environment. In many ways I've done that, but I have left behind who I once was. Part of that has been meeting new people. Allowing them into my life. In doing so I've lost contact with the old people, not seeing or visiting with friends and family I've had. Fortunately, they haven't died (yet), they're just (as I quote from the Sapranos, even though I never watched) "dead to me." But not really. Just a phone call away. Or email. Or, let me look for my address book, letter.
As I get ready to turn another year older I can't help to think about who I was. That person "I", the "me" back then. Who was that character who called himself "Kit" then "Carson"? Who was he who left his hometown? Who stopped calling people?
But I know better now than ever who I am.
So, If you are looking for something to get me for my birthday you can get a hold of me. Talk to me. Email me or write me a letter. Tell me who you are, and let us catch up. We'll remind each other of who we once were.
I'm selfish, of course, I'm asking this of you. But you know what? If this is enough, reading what I've written on this blog since I've moved to Portland and you'd rather not contact me, you don't have to -- I won't know and you'll rest in my memory folder labeled "then" -- but maybe this will inspire you to contact someone else: a former girlfriend or boyfriend, a father, a mom, a brother or sister, a grandmother, a grandfather (RIP), a cousin, an uncle, a friend, a closer being who you've been thinking of calling but have not in a long time. When you were someone else.
I think you should know that I've lost contact with many people of my past and that this site is how they might find out about my doings. Maybe that's you. I think in some way's we've all gone through some turbulent times as of late. And by as of late I mean right now, a culmination of the time so far.
At points we might have lost purpose. We might not have been sure what the purpose was. Maybe we've given up in some ways. Settled with who we are, who we listen, talk to. We've grown comfortable with the lives we have. They are, after all, ours.
Some of us have shut others out from our immediate circle. We don't call or send care packages nearly enough. It didn't occur all at once, or maybe it did -- some of us don't forget, some would rather forget things. But what's lost in not communicating is everything we once had and the chance for anything we might have again.
There are reasons for how it got this way: it's easier to not talk and at the the same time hard to get back to get back in touch. We lose numbers or haven't dialed them in too long a time, so it's hard to do so. And, we don't have time, none of us. We make excuses. We factor in time zones, work hours, and the significant others of others.
However.
Next month I will have been in Portland for three years. I'll also turn 28-years old. Or 28-years-young if you want to put it in that middle-aged-woman (truth too trite to say) way. Moving here I left behind a previous life to reinvent myself in this new environment. In many ways I've done that, but I have left behind who I once was. Part of that has been meeting new people. Allowing them into my life. In doing so I've lost contact with the old people, not seeing or visiting with friends and family I've had. Fortunately, they haven't died (yet), they're just (as I quote from the Sapranos, even though I never watched) "dead to me." But not really. Just a phone call away. Or email. Or, let me look for my address book, letter.
As I get ready to turn another year older I can't help to think about who I was. That person "I", the "me" back then. Who was that character who called himself "Kit" then "Carson"? Who was he who left his hometown? Who stopped calling people?
But I know better now than ever who I am.
So, If you are looking for something to get me for my birthday you can get a hold of me. Talk to me. Email me or write me a letter. Tell me who you are, and let us catch up. We'll remind each other of who we once were.
I'm selfish, of course, I'm asking this of you. But you know what? If this is enough, reading what I've written on this blog since I've moved to Portland and you'd rather not contact me, you don't have to -- I won't know and you'll rest in my memory folder labeled "then" -- but maybe this will inspire you to contact someone else: a former girlfriend or boyfriend, a father, a mom, a brother or sister, a grandmother, a grandfather (RIP), a cousin, an uncle, a friend, a closer being who you've been thinking of calling but have not in a long time. When you were someone else.
First-person eye
I was at Reynolds Optical replacing my eyeglasses, when I started thinking about why I need glasses in the first place. Some time ago someone struck me with a stick, and now I’m thinking about what happened then, who this guy is now, and if he remembers what he did to me.
I didn't know his name until I ask my mother to riffle through files—mental and medical—and to search for the name of the kid responsible for my partial blindness. Surprisingly, she came up with a name indicated by our insurance company as the party responsible.
“But the claim is not against him,” Mom says. It was an accident.
I write down the name anyway, and take it to my computer. I go to Google and type in the last name in the query box, then the first name. I use quotations marks so the names come back together. I’m not having much luck. The search hits, and, even though the name is unique, there are others just like it. I go to Peoplelookup.com. My initial search is free and comes back with the name I’m looking for. For a fee the phone number and address(es) are offered. The reason I know this name is right is that the city is in the region I know he’s from. Relatives are listed as well as their ages. A name is linked to the name I have that’s close to mine in age and I figure that’s who I’m looking for. I had the name of the father; my insurance acknowledged the boy's guardian as being the party relieved of responsibility. I begin a new Peoplesearch for the guardian's son name that's close to mind in age and find more. I can’t afford to pay for specifics but with this name I’m directed to an alma mater, a filed patent registration, and a Toyota truck club blog posting. The blog posting is consistent with the location of the alma mater in the region I know he’s from, but it hasn’t been updated in years. But the person I’m looking for has an email address in his profile, which I pan over with my cursor and copy. I open my email account and compose a new message. I paste the email address in the “to” field.
In the summer of 1989, at Camp Chimney Spring on the first full day of camp I hiked into the woods with a group of boys I befriended at breakfast. We wandered along a road, and off the road we explored down into a ravine. One of us started throwing pine cones. The next thing: sides were picked and pine cones and sticks and dirt clods were being used as weapons. We were fighting. It wasn’t a serious fight. I think we were just trying to peg each other. No one hated. This was church camp.
Truce was called. I remember retreating. Walking up an embankment and heading back to the lodge, someone called something that made me turn around. I looked down at who was remaining when something hit me right in the face. Whatever hit me knocked me down. I remember being on the ground. I tried to open my eyes, but only my right eye let light in. I thought I couldn’t open my left eye, but I did. And I cried. I didn’t cry because of the pain--I was in shock--but from what one of the boys said aloud: Dude, your eyeball is bleeding. Tears mixed with blood. The boys were above me looking down in a scene I see in retrospect. I told them to get my mom. I was at camp; the boys didn’t know for sure how that was possible. But my mom came because she was the camp’s director.
The nearest town was an hour away. My mom drove me to the hospital there and I stayed the night. They next day, after CAT scans and dilation, the doctor told me my retina tore, that now I had a cataract, that there was permanent damage, and that I probably wouldn’t be able to see out of my left eye again. We went back to camp. Fellow campers were hiking and playing volleyball, while I remained alone in the infirmary wondering what a dark world it could be. Eventually, my grandparents picked me up and took me home.
I begin typing: “In 1989, at Camp Chimney Spring, I left camp because I was blinded. I was taken to the hospital, and then taken home by my grandma. You did this to me. ”
Sitting and staring at my screen, I highlight and cut. I’m looking at the blank body of the message yet-to-be-sent. The truth is I know little of this person other than his engineering skills and his 4x4 hobby. And though I haven’t spoken the individual since the morning of the accident now 18 years later (I'm not even certain we spoke then), I’m certain I have the right guy, and his email address in front of me. From this distance when I close my right eye and look at the computer screen, a dark spot covers a third of the screen. The periphery is grayish. I remove my finger from my right eyelid and let light back and begin typing.
“If this is the Justin M. that attended Camp Chimney Spring in the summer of 1989 keep reading,” I begin. “You are the 10-year-old who threw a stick that hit me in the eye; you are the reason I’m now buying eyeglasses. My name is Carson Smith, and you probably don’t remember me. I went by Kit back then. I’ve been mad at you for so long. Early in the camp week a group of us went into a ravine and started throwing sticks and pine cones and dirt clods at each other. We were messing around, really. “You were still at war after we called truce, though; you pegged me and knocked me down. You took away my perfect vision. You threw a stick or something that hit me in the face. It struck me in the eye. You blinded me but should know that I did get some of my vision back. I wear glasses now and it helps, but it’s not perfect. I’ll never forget you because being impaired made me depressed and vengeful. I was angry for a long time at you and at the situation. But I’m writing you this email because I know you didn’t mean it. It was an accident and not your fault. If you remember any of this or care you can write me back but don't have to. I understand. Okay Bye, Carson.”
I’ve had nine email addresses in my life. I currently check two: my school address and my yahoo account. One account from my undergrad college is forwarded to my yahoo. That leaves six addresses that I’ve given out that I do not check and which may no longer exist.
In my email message to Justin M. for fun I BCC my six former accounts. Four come back with mailer-daemon messages. The other two must have gone off into oblivion. I did not get a mailer-daemon message from Justin M.'s address. I’m not expecting him to pay for the glasses I’m buying, but I thought I should let him know I thought about him and what happened.
Far too often I think of someone from my past and do nothing about it. There, the memory rests. It doesn’t go anywhere and nothing happens. To expunge this from my mind I did an investigation and sent an email. One gets a satisfying feeling sending on an email that might just might wind up in a cyber black hole.
I didn't know his name until I ask my mother to riffle through files—mental and medical—and to search for the name of the kid responsible for my partial blindness. Surprisingly, she came up with a name indicated by our insurance company as the party responsible.
“But the claim is not against him,” Mom says. It was an accident.
I write down the name anyway, and take it to my computer. I go to Google and type in the last name in the query box, then the first name. I use quotations marks so the names come back together. I’m not having much luck. The search hits, and, even though the name is unique, there are others just like it. I go to Peoplelookup.com. My initial search is free and comes back with the name I’m looking for. For a fee the phone number and address(es) are offered. The reason I know this name is right is that the city is in the region I know he’s from. Relatives are listed as well as their ages. A name is linked to the name I have that’s close to mine in age and I figure that’s who I’m looking for. I had the name of the father; my insurance acknowledged the boy's guardian as being the party relieved of responsibility. I begin a new Peoplesearch for the guardian's son name that's close to mind in age and find more. I can’t afford to pay for specifics but with this name I’m directed to an alma mater, a filed patent registration, and a Toyota truck club blog posting. The blog posting is consistent with the location of the alma mater in the region I know he’s from, but it hasn’t been updated in years. But the person I’m looking for has an email address in his profile, which I pan over with my cursor and copy. I open my email account and compose a new message. I paste the email address in the “to” field.
In the summer of 1989, at Camp Chimney Spring on the first full day of camp I hiked into the woods with a group of boys I befriended at breakfast. We wandered along a road, and off the road we explored down into a ravine. One of us started throwing pine cones. The next thing: sides were picked and pine cones and sticks and dirt clods were being used as weapons. We were fighting. It wasn’t a serious fight. I think we were just trying to peg each other. No one hated. This was church camp.
Truce was called. I remember retreating. Walking up an embankment and heading back to the lodge, someone called something that made me turn around. I looked down at who was remaining when something hit me right in the face. Whatever hit me knocked me down. I remember being on the ground. I tried to open my eyes, but only my right eye let light in. I thought I couldn’t open my left eye, but I did. And I cried. I didn’t cry because of the pain--I was in shock--but from what one of the boys said aloud: Dude, your eyeball is bleeding. Tears mixed with blood. The boys were above me looking down in a scene I see in retrospect. I told them to get my mom. I was at camp; the boys didn’t know for sure how that was possible. But my mom came because she was the camp’s director.
The nearest town was an hour away. My mom drove me to the hospital there and I stayed the night. They next day, after CAT scans and dilation, the doctor told me my retina tore, that now I had a cataract, that there was permanent damage, and that I probably wouldn’t be able to see out of my left eye again. We went back to camp. Fellow campers were hiking and playing volleyball, while I remained alone in the infirmary wondering what a dark world it could be. Eventually, my grandparents picked me up and took me home.
I begin typing: “In 1989, at Camp Chimney Spring, I left camp because I was blinded. I was taken to the hospital, and then taken home by my grandma. You did this to me. ”
Sitting and staring at my screen, I highlight and cut. I’m looking at the blank body of the message yet-to-be-sent. The truth is I know little of this person other than his engineering skills and his 4x4 hobby. And though I haven’t spoken the individual since the morning of the accident now 18 years later (I'm not even certain we spoke then), I’m certain I have the right guy, and his email address in front of me. From this distance when I close my right eye and look at the computer screen, a dark spot covers a third of the screen. The periphery is grayish. I remove my finger from my right eyelid and let light back and begin typing.
“If this is the Justin M. that attended Camp Chimney Spring in the summer of 1989 keep reading,” I begin. “You are the 10-year-old who threw a stick that hit me in the eye; you are the reason I’m now buying eyeglasses. My name is Carson Smith, and you probably don’t remember me. I went by Kit back then. I’ve been mad at you for so long. Early in the camp week a group of us went into a ravine and started throwing sticks and pine cones and dirt clods at each other. We were messing around, really. “You were still at war after we called truce, though; you pegged me and knocked me down. You took away my perfect vision. You threw a stick or something that hit me in the face. It struck me in the eye. You blinded me but should know that I did get some of my vision back. I wear glasses now and it helps, but it’s not perfect. I’ll never forget you because being impaired made me depressed and vengeful. I was angry for a long time at you and at the situation. But I’m writing you this email because I know you didn’t mean it. It was an accident and not your fault. If you remember any of this or care you can write me back but don't have to. I understand. Okay Bye, Carson.”
I’ve had nine email addresses in my life. I currently check two: my school address and my yahoo account. One account from my undergrad college is forwarded to my yahoo. That leaves six addresses that I’ve given out that I do not check and which may no longer exist.
In my email message to Justin M. for fun I BCC my six former accounts. Four come back with mailer-daemon messages. The other two must have gone off into oblivion. I did not get a mailer-daemon message from Justin M.'s address. I’m not expecting him to pay for the glasses I’m buying, but I thought I should let him know I thought about him and what happened.
Far too often I think of someone from my past and do nothing about it. There, the memory rests. It doesn’t go anywhere and nothing happens. To expunge this from my mind I did an investigation and sent an email. One gets a satisfying feeling sending on an email that might just might wind up in a cyber black hole.
Press Release
For Immediate Release
October 4, 2007
PORTLAND, Ore. -- Powell's Books announced today that Carson Smith will begin his permanent schedule starting on Monday October 8.
Last month Smith was named a Generalist for the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world. The contract agreement for the promotion weren't immediately released but were some have said that Smith's income would double, while others have suggested that the prestige alone is worth the new Generalist's weight, which has been reported to be upwards of 150 pounds.
"I've asked management to drop this ist and just call me General," Smith deadpans.
A General(ist) for those unaware has been called a "jack of all trades" by some that have coveted the position. Basically Smith will be responsible for all that goes on in the city-block bookstore. And while Smith refuses the attention that comes with the promotion, he's humbled by his new title and credits many in his recent and seemingly sudden escalation in the bookstore business.
"I certainly couldn't have done this without the support of my family," Smith said. "And by family I mean..."
The fact that Smith worked in the book industry for last three years, getting this promotion doesn't surprise many. Having heaved books for a corporate sinking ship that doesn't deserve blog type, Smith learned the book business by shelving, sorting, and most importantly reading.
His recent involvement in a small press, and that press' recent release of a book Smith worked on, along with his pursuit in a master's degree in publishing could all be credited for his well-padded resume and could have added to the talking points of what must have been a good job interview.
"Well, there was that," the modest Smith said.
Working full-time, while finishing his graduate work, Smith fits in a small writing session for this page. "Well, I've been doing this a while and people still seem to be interested for what ever reason. I'll try to do better. Now that I have a permanent schedule I'll be able to organize my time better.
Smith begins his permanent schedule Monday working 3-11 p.m. And can be reached through this blog on his off hours.
October 4, 2007
PORTLAND, Ore. -- Powell's Books announced today that Carson Smith will begin his permanent schedule starting on Monday October 8.
Last month Smith was named a Generalist for the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world. The contract agreement for the promotion weren't immediately released but were some have said that Smith's income would double, while others have suggested that the prestige alone is worth the new Generalist's weight, which has been reported to be upwards of 150 pounds.
"I've asked management to drop this ist and just call me General," Smith deadpans.
A General(ist) for those unaware has been called a "jack of all trades" by some that have coveted the position. Basically Smith will be responsible for all that goes on in the city-block bookstore. And while Smith refuses the attention that comes with the promotion, he's humbled by his new title and credits many in his recent and seemingly sudden escalation in the bookstore business.
"I certainly couldn't have done this without the support of my family," Smith said. "And by family I mean..."
The fact that Smith worked in the book industry for last three years, getting this promotion doesn't surprise many. Having heaved books for a corporate sinking ship that doesn't deserve blog type, Smith learned the book business by shelving, sorting, and most importantly reading.
His recent involvement in a small press, and that press' recent release of a book Smith worked on, along with his pursuit in a master's degree in publishing could all be credited for his well-padded resume and could have added to the talking points of what must have been a good job interview.
"Well, there was that," the modest Smith said.
Working full-time, while finishing his graduate work, Smith fits in a small writing session for this page. "Well, I've been doing this a while and people still seem to be interested for what ever reason. I'll try to do better. Now that I have a permanent schedule I'll be able to organize my time better.
Smith begins his permanent schedule Monday working 3-11 p.m. And can be reached through this blog on his off hours.
Mondays with Maury
My life is a cliche and here's a day. But first I'll say yesterday (fuck, I'm rhyming) was a strange one.
You have these days: they're all the same. Combine instances from several and put it all into one and you've got a pretty interesting dinner-table conversation, albeit fiction. But, if there was one interesting day of many you might want to write it down for yourself or for others to figure out that all the bland-full, typical days among your many, make it seem kind of unusual and sad. It puts your others in perspective and helps you realize what's important and what you should really be thankful for (ice-cream), or what you should really get pissed about (not the dirty dishes).
I continue to type by starting off asking the question: What day does your week start? (Since I am the only one here to answer that question.) I say Monday. While many continue to state that Sunday is the start of the week, I say Monday is the start of the work week.
Monday is where I begin.
I recently began a shaving schedule that puts the blade to my face exactly two times a week. I learned this from a profile of an online friend I have. Monday is a great day to shave-- Thursday's another. It really does mean it's time for business.
But I didn't shave this particular (Mon)day because Thursday I was sick and didn't work, nor did I shave.
I've been going on walks upon awakening. For my dog and to stretch my often aching body. What's helped has been the ipod I recently got in the mail. It's like my leash.
I take piss, put on shoes, put on ipod, plastic bag, leash, ChuckIt, and go--these are my weekdays!
Monday (yesterday, I guess, depending when you read this, depending also on how long this has been up) I woke up earlier than I wanted to to open the garage for M, who was riding her bike to work. My job (one of my jobs) is to close the door after she leaves (I'd like to think it makes her feel less bitter for having to wake up earlier than me and go to work).
I returned to bed, though (because like I said I wasn't ready to get up, so I didn't). I read a bit from this novel I checked out and fell back asleep for another hour. When I woke up I put on my shoes and set forth like I do and said I do.
Returning, I usually take the headphones out of my ears, wash my hands, and start boiling water for the power breakfast.
I made breakfast.
The following recipe was given to me by my brother: One cup oatmeal mixed in boiling water with one egg. In bowl mix oatmeal/egg concoction with walnuts, crasins, honey, and soy milk. Eat. When I had it this Monday, I put a dollop of peanut butter, which goes well with anything but especially oatmeal. I like to eat my breakfast in the company of Heidi, who I will feed after I am done, with a newspaper if I have one, or with Maury, who I like to watch and laugh at.
With my laughter I'm trying to wake up Barry, whose room borders the television room and who hates it when I watch Maury in the morning. And, it is the natural reaction to viewing paternal results coming in on national television--in most cases.
But Barry had left the house while I had left for my walk. So I sat alone, ate, fed Heidi and got ready for work(s).
On Mondays I ride my bike downtown, usually before 11 a.m. This begins my 12-hour workday, consisting of the two jobs I currently have.
My back, however, has been hurting recently so I've been riding the bus, which has helped (my back still hurts but I think it's getting better (others aren't so sure)). I realized I didn't have any money but managed to "find" some change.
Not eager to work but willing to find Barry, I walked by the coffee shop we often go together. This day he was there with another (if you can believe it) and I didn't like the looks of what was going on when I saw him there with his ex-girlfriend in the window, so I walked on by.
First, I go into the magazine, which is a monthly. The title of this magazine is two words the first word is the state I currently live in and the second rhymes with isness. I don't care for the content all the much but the "benefits" have been better than I expected and I seem to be learning how to type faster, clearer and more concise. I'm trying to finish work there (still am, I should be working right now). My last day is Thursday (I'm wondering right now if I'll shave that day, but probably won't and will start my schedule over on Monday next.)
I have to leave work at the magazine during the 5 o`clock hour to be at my other job by 6. The next five hours of my life will be spent in front of a computer, connected to a register, which has a scanner plugged into it for scanning barcodes of books for purchase.
I like to eat something (anything before this begins because I usually have had little more than coffee since my power breakfast. So, this afternoon/evening I go to Whole Foods, where I've almost died, and ate some soup, which I've almost choked on before, and listened to some Hip-Hop, which I've heard before but which keeps me company).
It's usually my routine to call M before this shift begins. But this evening I do not. I think about it but eat and listen and walk into work without making the call.
I've often zoned out doing this job. My mind, it's turning robotic like my body and mind are an extension of the computer itself. As if I am new hardware detected. I'll get a break at the nine `o clock hour and this is when I call M.
Her brother answers and says his sister (M) is in the hospital. And I think he's joking. He puts M on the line and I say, Why does your brother do that? as if he always has, you know, joked like this. She confirms in an almost-whimper that she wrecked her bike, that she's at OHSU, that she's a little out of it. Her shoulder has been dislocated, her face scraped, her teeth chipped/knocked out, I can't tell.
And gone is the thought that I should apologize for taking her quarters for the bus.
But here is the thought: I'm glad she's alright otherwise. I mean, we're talking--she can talk. She doesn't go further in the explanation of how this happened. She says her brother is there. I have two more hours to work.
When I call after my shift M is still at the hospital. She says she's getting out soon. I ride the bus for forty five minutes and get home and call her brother directly. He says sort of the same thing, that they'll be home soon, not to come.
They do arrive. About an hour later. And M is in a sling and her face has a scrape. And her leg is scraped. But she can walk on those legs and is coherent. And nothing seems wrong with her beautiful mind.
Good thing you were wearing that helmet we went shopping for yesterday, I say.
About that...
You have these days: they're all the same. Combine instances from several and put it all into one and you've got a pretty interesting dinner-table conversation, albeit fiction. But, if there was one interesting day of many you might want to write it down for yourself or for others to figure out that all the bland-full, typical days among your many, make it seem kind of unusual and sad. It puts your others in perspective and helps you realize what's important and what you should really be thankful for (ice-cream), or what you should really get pissed about (not the dirty dishes).
I continue to type by starting off asking the question: What day does your week start? (Since I am the only one here to answer that question.) I say Monday. While many continue to state that Sunday is the start of the week, I say Monday is the start of the work week.
Monday is where I begin.
I recently began a shaving schedule that puts the blade to my face exactly two times a week. I learned this from a profile of an online friend I have. Monday is a great day to shave-- Thursday's another. It really does mean it's time for business.
But I didn't shave this particular (Mon)day because Thursday I was sick and didn't work, nor did I shave.
I've been going on walks upon awakening. For my dog and to stretch my often aching body. What's helped has been the ipod I recently got in the mail. It's like my leash.
I take piss, put on shoes, put on ipod, plastic bag, leash, ChuckIt, and go--these are my weekdays!
Monday (yesterday, I guess, depending when you read this, depending also on how long this has been up) I woke up earlier than I wanted to to open the garage for M, who was riding her bike to work. My job (one of my jobs) is to close the door after she leaves (I'd like to think it makes her feel less bitter for having to wake up earlier than me and go to work).
I returned to bed, though (because like I said I wasn't ready to get up, so I didn't). I read a bit from this novel I checked out and fell back asleep for another hour. When I woke up I put on my shoes and set forth like I do and said I do.
Returning, I usually take the headphones out of my ears, wash my hands, and start boiling water for the power breakfast.
I made breakfast.
The following recipe was given to me by my brother: One cup oatmeal mixed in boiling water with one egg. In bowl mix oatmeal/egg concoction with walnuts, crasins, honey, and soy milk. Eat. When I had it this Monday, I put a dollop of peanut butter, which goes well with anything but especially oatmeal. I like to eat my breakfast in the company of Heidi, who I will feed after I am done, with a newspaper if I have one, or with Maury, who I like to watch and laugh at.
With my laughter I'm trying to wake up Barry, whose room borders the television room and who hates it when I watch Maury in the morning. And, it is the natural reaction to viewing paternal results coming in on national television--in most cases.
But Barry had left the house while I had left for my walk. So I sat alone, ate, fed Heidi and got ready for work(s).
On Mondays I ride my bike downtown, usually before 11 a.m. This begins my 12-hour workday, consisting of the two jobs I currently have.
My back, however, has been hurting recently so I've been riding the bus, which has helped (my back still hurts but I think it's getting better (others aren't so sure)). I realized I didn't have any money but managed to "find" some change.
Not eager to work but willing to find Barry, I walked by the coffee shop we often go together. This day he was there with another (if you can believe it) and I didn't like the looks of what was going on when I saw him there with his ex-girlfriend in the window, so I walked on by.
First, I go into the magazine, which is a monthly. The title of this magazine is two words the first word is the state I currently live in and the second rhymes with isness. I don't care for the content all the much but the "benefits" have been better than I expected and I seem to be learning how to type faster, clearer and more concise. I'm trying to finish work there (still am, I should be working right now). My last day is Thursday (I'm wondering right now if I'll shave that day, but probably won't and will start my schedule over on Monday next.)
I have to leave work at the magazine during the 5 o`clock hour to be at my other job by 6. The next five hours of my life will be spent in front of a computer, connected to a register, which has a scanner plugged into it for scanning barcodes of books for purchase.
I like to eat something (anything before this begins because I usually have had little more than coffee since my power breakfast. So, this afternoon/evening I go to Whole Foods, where I've almost died, and ate some soup, which I've almost choked on before, and listened to some Hip-Hop, which I've heard before but which keeps me company).
It's usually my routine to call M before this shift begins. But this evening I do not. I think about it but eat and listen and walk into work without making the call.
I've often zoned out doing this job. My mind, it's turning robotic like my body and mind are an extension of the computer itself. As if I am new hardware detected. I'll get a break at the nine `o clock hour and this is when I call M.
Her brother answers and says his sister (M) is in the hospital. And I think he's joking. He puts M on the line and I say, Why does your brother do that? as if he always has, you know, joked like this. She confirms in an almost-whimper that she wrecked her bike, that she's at OHSU, that she's a little out of it. Her shoulder has been dislocated, her face scraped, her teeth chipped/knocked out, I can't tell.
And gone is the thought that I should apologize for taking her quarters for the bus.
But here is the thought: I'm glad she's alright otherwise. I mean, we're talking--she can talk. She doesn't go further in the explanation of how this happened. She says her brother is there. I have two more hours to work.
When I call after my shift M is still at the hospital. She says she's getting out soon. I ride the bus for forty five minutes and get home and call her brother directly. He says sort of the same thing, that they'll be home soon, not to come.
They do arrive. About an hour later. And M is in a sling and her face has a scrape. And her leg is scraped. But she can walk on those legs and is coherent. And nothing seems wrong with her beautiful mind.
Good thing you were wearing that helmet we went shopping for yesterday, I say.
About that...
We continue to lose legends
Death by old age is the latest news craze--aside from Iraq bombings: TV star, War journalist, Jazz musician, Film director, Game Show curator dies age 82.
Do I care? You better believe I fucking care (I debated the placement of the word fucking here for emphasis). Reading celeb obits (or C-bits as I'm calling em) is one of my new favorite things. Not because I love the dead (that's gross) but because most times I have no idea who in the hell these people are (sorry, were).
I watched "Price is Right," who in their right mind didn't? But the face I associate with that show remains Bob Barker. (Not dead yet!) I read on, oh Merv Griffith also had something to do with it.
Guess what? Now, he's dead.
Also this week (and maybe last, it's been awhile since I've blogged):
Journalist Bill Deedes;
Jazz percussionist Max Roach;
Baseball Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto;
Society doyenne-philanthropist Brooke Astor;
World's oldest person Yone Minagawa;
Director Ingmar Bergman;
Singer-songwriter Lee Hazlewood.
Do I wish more people died? No, not really. But it sure is fun following the tracks of the people we love(d) to read about. All the way to the grave.
"These boots were made for walking."
Do I care? You better believe I fucking care (I debated the placement of the word fucking here for emphasis). Reading celeb obits (or C-bits as I'm calling em) is one of my new favorite things. Not because I love the dead (that's gross) but because most times I have no idea who in the hell these people are (sorry, were).
I watched "Price is Right," who in their right mind didn't? But the face I associate with that show remains Bob Barker. (Not dead yet!) I read on, oh Merv Griffith also had something to do with it.
Guess what? Now, he's dead.
Also this week (and maybe last, it's been awhile since I've blogged):
Journalist Bill Deedes;
Jazz percussionist Max Roach;
Baseball Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto;
Society doyenne-philanthropist Brooke Astor;
World's oldest person Yone Minagawa;
Director Ingmar Bergman;
Singer-songwriter Lee Hazlewood.
Do I wish more people died? No, not really. But it sure is fun following the tracks of the people we love(d) to read about. All the way to the grave.
"These boots were made for walking."
A Carsonation Exclusive
If you were Carson, today
or, If you lived in Carsonation
or, For best results download schedule
or, Everything I do is stolen from what others do
or, My life is a cliche and here's a day
Try as I might to write first-person stories of my life, I never get the feeling you readers fully understand what an average Monday in my summer life might be like. So, in type, I break down my schedule.
And I start off by asking the question: What day does your week start? And since I am the only one here to answer that question, I will. Monday. While many continue to state that Sunday is the start of the week, I say Monday is the start of the work week. Better, I say Monday is the start of the school week. And since I'm one of the oldest schoolboys, Monday is where I begin.
Monday: I recently began a shaving schedule that puts the blade to my face exactly twice a week. I learned this from a profile of an online friend I have. Monday is a great day to shave. It really does mean it's time for school, or business. But shaving isn't typically how my Mondays begin. First I wake up with the sun. I don't always get up with the sun, but I do wake due to the fact that my window has no blinds, that the window faces east, and that my body had been programed to wake up at 4:30 for three straight years (I no longer do this). I've been going on walks upon awakening. For my dog and to stretch my often aching body. What's helped has been the ipod I recently got in the mail. Take piss, put on shoes, turn on pod, plastic bag, leash, ChuckIt, and go. Returning, I usually take the headphones out of my ears, wash my hands, and start boiling water for the power breakfast. The following meal was given to me by my brother: One cup oatmeal mixed in boiling water with one egg. In bowl mix oatmeal/egg concoction with walnuts, crasins, honey, and soy milk. Eat. When I had it, I put a dollop of peanut butter, which goes well with anything but especially oatmeal. I like to eat my breakfast in the company of Heidi, who I will feed after I am done, with a newspaper if I have one, or with Maury, who I like to watch and laugh at. With my laughter I'm trying to wake up Barry, whose room borders the television room and who hates it when I watch Maury in the morning. And, it is the natural reaction to viewing paternal results coming in on national television--in most cases. On Mondays I ride my bike downtown, usually before 11 a.m. This begins my 12-hour workday, consisting of the two jobs I currenly have. First, I go into the magazine, which is a monthly. The title of this magazine is two words the first word the state I currently live and the second rhymes with isness. I don't care for the content all the much but the "benefits" have been better than I expected and I seem to be learning how to type faster, clearer and more consise. By 6 p.m. I need to be at my other job, a bookstore which name rhymes with owls. The next five hours of my life are spent in front of a computer, connected to a register, which has a scanner plugged into it for scanning barcodes of books for purchase. I've often zoned out doing this, turning robotic like my body and mind are an extension of the computer itself. As if I am new hardware detected. I'll help close shop. Unlock my bike and ride back across the Willamette River to my house, arriving right before or right after 11:30 p.m.
Oh, the Roommates You'll Have
(and, The Stuff They'll Leave Behind.)
Steve Gehrke and I moved into my current residence two years ago this past March. Soon after his friend Nate joined us, filling the third bedroom.
Nate moved to Hawaii after that summer following a job lead. We let Matt (clearly, a mistake) move in because he needed a place to stay and we needed rent money. At the same time, Chuck, who just left Portland, moved into the garage because he had no other option and his $100 was a plus. This lasted the winter. (Though Matt lasted the Spring (painful), Chuck got at job at Freddy's and got a place of his own.)
Steven Garcia lived at the house on more than one occacion. He stayed while Gehrke followed an (un)Alaska dream. And then again he stayed when we were between roommates and before Garcia went to Hawaii--a common practice, so it would seem, among Portlanders I know. (It rains there too, you know.) The Steven G's remain friends and now both live on the East Coast, but more on that later.
After I asked Matt to leave the house (he also left a Scarface dresser full of shoddy clothes), my friend Sean lived at the house for a brief period of time. After accquiring money for a graduate program in Austria, he packed a bag and flew out, leaving behind: three bookcases, a futon mattress, a desk, a chair, a TV, DVD player, and some cooking utensils.
Sean left a vacancy that could only be filled with a craigslist advertisement. This ad brought on a slew of response including: a Reed grad, a 40-year old lesbian, a friend of Matt's, and a girl from New Mexico. However, the first person to come through the door was Gehrke and my's first choice for a new roommate. His name was Adam, and I miss him.
We all became friends, Gehrke, Adam and I. We enjoyed each other's company going to the coffee shop, bike shops and bars on occasion. But Adam, who graduated from Lewis and Clark, set out to buy his own house--renting is for chumps. He left us and not a whole lot else for a $400,000 starter home in Northeast Portland; we haven't heard from him since.
But that was OK; we had Barry. Barry was a friend of ours who came to Portland with Nate. Nate returned from Hawaii with two friends, Barry and Twan (see: http://carsonksmith.blogspot.com/2006/05/twans-gone.html). The three invested in a rental that sits a few blocks from the one I live in. Barry and Nate, friends for life, could no longer live together and Barry moved into our house and left Nate, well, high and not-so-much dry. But Nate percervered: He found Andrew, who's a character but not one in this story.
The blow came to our hosehold when Gehrke said that he was following his dream to live in Baltimore (hometown of Ira Glass!) to be with the new love of his life. He left for good this month, and (though he'll visit once a month to fullfill medical research testing at OHSU) won't come back to live at the house, leaving Barry and I (Me once again) to search the website craigslist for someone seeking a home, but really to place an ad offering a room for rent. Steve leaves a room (mine, really) in the house open. (I pounced on his, his more comfortable bed, a desk (I can't have enough desks), and shelving unit he couldn't fit in his Oldsmobile.)
To look at the open room, three people came on Saturday during the time I spcified on the ad: 11-3. Allen, he's too moley, Aaron was accompanied by his (possible) parole officer or his mother, and Starlight (I shit you not) was too cute; she worked at Subway and was maybe 20. (Update: Starlight just left a message on my voicemail, she thought we all got along.)
Sunday three (acutally four) more roommate candidates came to see the empty room. First Tal, who just got off work showed up in his workvan. We had much in common--he got jokes, and recently moved from New Mexico--we like Tal. Two girls followed him (he was leaving as they arrived), announcing themselves as both people that wanted to see the room. Tami and Amy, (There's one lesson I'd like to give at this time for people looking for housing and visiting what you hope to be your future roommates in their house, and that's: save some of the information for when you are offered a place to live. We don't need to know you have a clan of Hawaiian friends. We don't need to know you just broke up with you boyfirend, or can't live with your boyfriend even though you "love him to death," but still want to "utilize your king-size bed." We don't need to know you smoke all kinds of pot, or wake up at four in the morning to work at Starbucks, that you are a neat freak, or that you came over together because of we "selected one of you we'd probably get both." These are not good things to reveal. Also, don't cry in front of us because you are so stressed about finding a place to live. That will not get you selected.), neither of which would work.
Marcia was nice and called after Barry and I had given up interviews. We had popped a bottle of wine when she called and weren't really interested in interviewing another. We had our mind made up by this point. But we gave everyone who called a shot (that is except Kody who could be reached "best by email," and who's last name was that spark plug brand that sounds like douche--Kody' didn't get emailed). Marcia was nice. Barry said he could picture her hanging plants up and teaching children violin (though I don't know where, the garage maybe). But she left with parting words that sounded very much like the parting words I had given Allen, Aaron, Starlight, Tami and Amy: We're interviewing a few more people, but we'll let you know. Marcia, said in fact, "I'm looking at a few more places but will let you know if things fall through." We'd be, you see, her last option.
So, this morning I extended the olive branch to an Israli. He seems harmless enough. But that seems like a thing you don't want to say in a roommate interview. That seems like something I probably shouldn't say, yet.
Steve Gehrke and I moved into my current residence two years ago this past March. Soon after his friend Nate joined us, filling the third bedroom.
Nate moved to Hawaii after that summer following a job lead. We let Matt (clearly, a mistake) move in because he needed a place to stay and we needed rent money. At the same time, Chuck, who just left Portland, moved into the garage because he had no other option and his $100 was a plus. This lasted the winter. (Though Matt lasted the Spring (painful), Chuck got at job at Freddy's and got a place of his own.)
Steven Garcia lived at the house on more than one occacion. He stayed while Gehrke followed an (un)Alaska dream. And then again he stayed when we were between roommates and before Garcia went to Hawaii--a common practice, so it would seem, among Portlanders I know. (It rains there too, you know.) The Steven G's remain friends and now both live on the East Coast, but more on that later.
After I asked Matt to leave the house (he also left a Scarface dresser full of shoddy clothes), my friend Sean lived at the house for a brief period of time. After accquiring money for a graduate program in Austria, he packed a bag and flew out, leaving behind: three bookcases, a futon mattress, a desk, a chair, a TV, DVD player, and some cooking utensils.
Sean left a vacancy that could only be filled with a craigslist advertisement. This ad brought on a slew of response including: a Reed grad, a 40-year old lesbian, a friend of Matt's, and a girl from New Mexico. However, the first person to come through the door was Gehrke and my's first choice for a new roommate. His name was Adam, and I miss him.
We all became friends, Gehrke, Adam and I. We enjoyed each other's company going to the coffee shop, bike shops and bars on occasion. But Adam, who graduated from Lewis and Clark, set out to buy his own house--renting is for chumps. He left us and not a whole lot else for a $400,000 starter home in Northeast Portland; we haven't heard from him since.
But that was OK; we had Barry. Barry was a friend of ours who came to Portland with Nate. Nate returned from Hawaii with two friends, Barry and Twan (see: http://carsonksmith.blogspot.com/2006/05/twans-gone.html). The three invested in a rental that sits a few blocks from the one I live in. Barry and Nate, friends for life, could no longer live together and Barry moved into our house and left Nate, well, high and not-so-much dry. But Nate percervered: He found Andrew, who's a character but not one in this story.
The blow came to our hosehold when Gehrke said that he was following his dream to live in Baltimore (hometown of Ira Glass!) to be with the new love of his life. He left for good this month, and (though he'll visit once a month to fullfill medical research testing at OHSU) won't come back to live at the house, leaving Barry and I (Me once again) to search the website craigslist for someone seeking a home, but really to place an ad offering a room for rent. Steve leaves a room (mine, really) in the house open. (I pounced on his, his more comfortable bed, a desk (I can't have enough desks), and shelving unit he couldn't fit in his Oldsmobile.)
To look at the open room, three people came on Saturday during the time I spcified on the ad: 11-3. Allen, he's too moley, Aaron was accompanied by his (possible) parole officer or his mother, and Starlight (I shit you not) was too cute; she worked at Subway and was maybe 20. (Update: Starlight just left a message on my voicemail, she thought we all got along.)
Sunday three (acutally four) more roommate candidates came to see the empty room. First Tal, who just got off work showed up in his workvan. We had much in common--he got jokes, and recently moved from New Mexico--we like Tal. Two girls followed him (he was leaving as they arrived), announcing themselves as both people that wanted to see the room. Tami and Amy, (There's one lesson I'd like to give at this time for people looking for housing and visiting what you hope to be your future roommates in their house, and that's: save some of the information for when you are offered a place to live. We don't need to know you have a clan of Hawaiian friends. We don't need to know you just broke up with you boyfirend, or can't live with your boyfriend even though you "love him to death," but still want to "utilize your king-size bed." We don't need to know you smoke all kinds of pot, or wake up at four in the morning to work at Starbucks, that you are a neat freak, or that you came over together because of we "selected one of you we'd probably get both." These are not good things to reveal. Also, don't cry in front of us because you are so stressed about finding a place to live. That will not get you selected.), neither of which would work.
Marcia was nice and called after Barry and I had given up interviews. We had popped a bottle of wine when she called and weren't really interested in interviewing another. We had our mind made up by this point. But we gave everyone who called a shot (that is except Kody who could be reached "best by email," and who's last name was that spark plug brand that sounds like douche--Kody' didn't get emailed). Marcia was nice. Barry said he could picture her hanging plants up and teaching children violin (though I don't know where, the garage maybe). But she left with parting words that sounded very much like the parting words I had given Allen, Aaron, Starlight, Tami and Amy: We're interviewing a few more people, but we'll let you know. Marcia, said in fact, "I'm looking at a few more places but will let you know if things fall through." We'd be, you see, her last option.
So, this morning I extended the olive branch to an Israli. He seems harmless enough. But that seems like a thing you don't want to say in a roommate interview. That seems like something I probably shouldn't say, yet.
My Dog's Identity
Heidi, my dog, does strange things. For a few days there she was running away. She wanted out of the backyard--I don't see why, it's spacious--so bad she broke through a wall, and two gates. She moved an arm chair that I had a hard time lifting. Recently, she's climbed rocks on the Oregon Coast and swam across the dangerous Sandy River.
At the river Heidi tried to shake her identity. Or maybe it was an accident that she slipped out of her green collar. Either way--I don't know, I wasn't there--she lost her only accesory, which had attached to it three metal twenty-five-cent-sized tags: personal identity (her name, my number), a license and a rabies shot proof. I was upset that she came home without these tags because they would be a hassle to replace. Also, she has been strolling the neighborhood without me, as I've mentioned. But again, I didn't go with her and there was nothing I could do about it. Like any good father I was just happy she came back from her river rendezvous safe.
The next day my cellphone rang with a number I didn't recognize. I let the unknown caller go to voicemail like I do. On the message the caller identified herself as Amanda. She said she found Heidi's tag, and wanted to know if she should get it to the owner, or, if it had been replaced, she should toss it.
I called back the next day--I'm busy--and, on Amanda's voicemail--I'm not the only one who screen's unknown numbers--identified myself as Heidi's owner and the one responsible for the tags.
She calls back and this time I answer. It turns out Amanda works at a downtown restaurant not far from the downtown location I'm currently working (for free). She says she's working on this day at four would bring the collar with her to South Park restaurant. I say I'll stop by, meet her and pick up the collar.
So I did.
At home, I place the collar over Heidi's head and strap it one notch tighter than it had been. She looks the same to me: tail wagging and tongue sweating out of an open-mouthed grin, sitting and awaiting a walk, or her next trip to the beach.
That's the Heidi I know.
At the river Heidi tried to shake her identity. Or maybe it was an accident that she slipped out of her green collar. Either way--I don't know, I wasn't there--she lost her only accesory, which had attached to it three metal twenty-five-cent-sized tags: personal identity (her name, my number), a license and a rabies shot proof. I was upset that she came home without these tags because they would be a hassle to replace. Also, she has been strolling the neighborhood without me, as I've mentioned. But again, I didn't go with her and there was nothing I could do about it. Like any good father I was just happy she came back from her river rendezvous safe.
The next day my cellphone rang with a number I didn't recognize. I let the unknown caller go to voicemail like I do. On the message the caller identified herself as Amanda. She said she found Heidi's tag, and wanted to know if she should get it to the owner, or, if it had been replaced, she should toss it.
I called back the next day--I'm busy--and, on Amanda's voicemail--I'm not the only one who screen's unknown numbers--identified myself as Heidi's owner and the one responsible for the tags.
She calls back and this time I answer. It turns out Amanda works at a downtown restaurant not far from the downtown location I'm currently working (for free). She says she's working on this day at four would bring the collar with her to South Park restaurant. I say I'll stop by, meet her and pick up the collar.
So I did.
At home, I place the collar over Heidi's head and strap it one notch tighter than it had been. She looks the same to me: tail wagging and tongue sweating out of an open-mouthed grin, sitting and awaiting a walk, or her next trip to the beach.
That's the Heidi I know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)