September 16: Tipping of the World, the Future, Magic 8-Ball

It's a tipping-of-the-world day.  One of those days when my comfortable life may change permanently.  The air is cool; the sun, bright.  It's like the afternoon is a pane of glass that could shatter into pieces.  That fragile.  One tossed stone and everything is gone.

There is a meeting tonight at church, and, at that meeting, a group of people will decide whether to keep paying my salary or eliminate it from the 2014 church budget.  If the vote goes my way, I keep my job and can pay my mortgage/bills.  If the vote doesn't go my way, I'm out of a job I've had for close to 15 years and five pastors.  I will have to start looking for weekend employment, and eventually, quit doing a lot of things that give me a great deal of satisfaction.

That's what I mean by a tipping-of-the world day.  The axis of my planet is about to shift, and all I can do is sit back and watch the storm clouds roll in.  The future is uncertain.

I hesitate to ask my Magic 8-Ball question because I think the answer I'm going to receive will simply confirm the way I think the vote is going to go tonight.  However, I have nothing to lose, metaphorically:

Will the church board vote to maintain my salary tonight?

And Holden's answer is:

I left the Lavender Room pretty soon after they did.  They were closing it up anyway, and the band had quit a long time ago...

I should have known.  Leaving.  Closing.  Quitting.  Catcher in the Rye isn't exactly the happiest book ever written.

Saint Marty should have picked a more uplifting book for 2013.  Like Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

 

Maybe next year

April 11: The Clerk, Situation, Meeting

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded:  becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation..."

You may recognize this little exchange between Scrooge and Bob Cratchit.  It's present in almost every movie adaptation of A Christmas Carol that's ever been made, including the one with Kermit and company.  Fred, Scrooge's nephew, has just made a passionate defense of Christmas to his uncle, and Bob can't contain his support of Fred's words.  Therefore, Scrooge strikes down Bob's enthusiasm with the threat of firing him on Christmas Eve.

It's a pretty good threat, touching upon the fear of most working class people.  If you hold a job, working for the man every night and day, to quote Tina Turner, any threat to that job can strike terror into your heart and life.  I've been teaching at the university for close to 20 years.  I've been working at an outpatient surgery center for twelve years.  With that kind of longevity, I should feel fairly secure in my positions.  I don't.  My university job is a semester-by-semester contract gig.  The hospital that owns the surgery center is in the process of being sold to a huge health care system.  Nothing is secure.  Ever.  Not even church.

I wonder if I'll end up at the Smithsonian

I have to meet with the head of the committee that oversees the paid employees at one of the churches for which I play the organ on Sundays.  He's a really nice guy.  I've been playing at this church for close to 20 years.  I should feel totally safe, totally comfortable.  Church organists are hard to come by these days.  We're like the dodo bird of musicians.  With each e-mail I exchange with this committee chair, however, I feel less and less secure.  It's like going to an  interview, not knowing if you're trying to land a job shoveling manure or answering phones.

I want to believe loyalty and perseverance and hard work pay off.  I want to believe that two decades of my life can't be wiped out by a Scrooge saying, "You services are no longer required.  You can pick up your last tuppence on Friday."  Again, I have no idea why I'm feeling so unsettled, but I am.

Saint Marty has a bad case of low self esteem this morning.

March 7: Nuts, Meeting, Human Sympathy

But what did Scrooge care?  It was the very thing he liked.  To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge.

I have no idea what that "nuts" comment means.  Let me get that out of the way.  However, this morning, I'm really feeling the first part of this little passage quite strongly.  I understand the compulsion to shy away from crowds of people.  I'm not much of a small talker.  The kind of banter that goes on between people who know each other superficially strikes me as a big waste of time.  I know what you're thinking right now:  "He must be a blast at dinner parties!"

Let me correct your misconception.  I didn't say I was bad at small talk and superficial banter.  I said I hated being in situations that require me to participate in it.  I can bullshit with the best of 'em.  Hey, I was an English major.  There's a fair amount of bullshitting that goes along with that degree.  I can make the most dull and dreadful people think I really care about what they're saying.  It's one of my many talents.  That doesn't mean I enjoy doing it.

The reason I'm on this little rant so early is that I have to attend a meeting later this morning that basically will require me to do everything that I've just discussed.  Make small talk.  Be charming.  Pretend I care.  I much prefer to stay in my own little box, with the shades drawn, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance.  Just like Scrooge.  However, this meeting is necessary, and I have to appear to be a team player.  Therefore, I will be one of the Stepford employees today.  Stand when they tell me to stand.  Sit when they tell me to sit.  Applaud when they tell me to applaud.  And make small talk.  Lots of it.

And the knowing ones call that "nuts" to Saint Marty.  (What the hell does that mean?)

I wish...