May 26: Waiting, Crappy Day, Poet of the Week, Joshue Mehigan, "The Professor"

Then they [Ives and his son, Robert] were silent.  They walked up a stretch of the block, across the way from the projects, a nerve-racking experience, even with a guard in a booth, because people were always getting held up, sometimes stabbed on that street.  They had reached Broadway when Robert added:  "You know, sometimes I think about what it would be like to be dead.  All I know is that He [Jesus] will be waiting.  It scared me for a long time, but you know what, Pop?  It doesn't anymore."

Of course, this little exchange between Ives and his son foreshadows Robert's fate.  In about twenty or so pages, Robert will be murdered, and Ives will be thrust into a world of grief and anger.  The rest of the novel hinges upon Ives' acceptance of what Robert says in the above paragraph.  It takes Ives over thirty years to accept the fate of his son.


Back at work after the Memorial Day weekend.  It was a crappy day.  Busy beyond belief.  I barely had time to sit down at my desk before the phone started ringing.  And it rang all day long.  It was three days' accumulation of patients' anxieties.  Lapsed prescriptions.  Chest pain.  Shortness of breath.  I even had someone call and ask me why they hadn't received a phone call yesterday from a nurse.  "Because it was a holiday," I said, hopefully not sounding incredulous.

Yes, most people are like Ives.  Plagued with worry and doubt.  I count myself among that crowd.  I haven't reached a point in my life where I can just let go and let God.  In fact, I kind of despise that expression.  It sounds too much like resignation to a shitty situation.  I think, as human beings, it's our duty to try to make the world a better place.  I work hard so that I can provide for my wife and kids.  It's not that I don't trust God.  I think God expects us to try to make ourselves--and our lives--the best that they can be.

I just came from the gym.  While I was running on the treadmill, my office mate (who'd just finished an exercise class) came over to talk to me about the new faculty contract proposal at the university.  After discussing it for a few minutes, we both looked at each other and said, "I'm voting 'no.'"  I simply can't accept it.  I'm not ready to put this one in God's hands yet.  I want to see if my vote will make a difference in a shitty work situation

I do have a new Poet of the Week.  His name is Joshua Mehigan, and his most recent collection, Accepting the Disaster, sort of fits right in to my discussion this evening.

The only thing Saint Marty will accept tonight is a $100 bill or a pizza.

The Professor

by:  Joshua Mehigan

I get there early and I find a chair.
I squeeze my plastic cup of wine.  I nod.
I maladroitly eat a pretzel rod
and second an opinion I don't share.
I think:  Whatever else I am, I'm there.
Afterwards, I escape across the quad
into fresh air, alone again, thank god.
Nobody cares.  They're quite right not to care.

I can't go home.  Even my family
is thoroughly contemptuous of me.
I look bad.  I'm exactly how I look.
These days I never read, but no one does,
and, anyhow, I proved how smart I was.
Everything I know is from a book.

That's a lot of acceptance