"Haaaauuurrgghhh . . ." said Arthur, as he felt his body softening and bending to unusual directions. "Southend seems to be melting away . . . the stars are swirling . . . a dustbowl . . . my legs are drifting off into the sunset . . . my left arm's come off too." A frightening thought struck him. "Hell," he said, "how am I going to operate my digital watch now?" He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford's direction.
"Ford," he said, "you're turning into a penguin. Stop that."
Again came the voice.
"Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling."
Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle.
"Hey, who are you?" he quacked. "Where are you? What's going on and is there any way of stopping it?"
"Please, relax," said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines, one of which is on fire, "you are perfectly safe."
"But that's not the point!" raged Ford. "The point is that I am now a perfectly safe penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!"
"It's all right. I've got them back now," said Arthur.
"Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling," said the voice.
"Admittedly," said Arthur, "they're longer than I usually like them, but . . ."
"Isn't there anything," squawked Ford in avian fury, "you feel you ought to be telling us?"
The voice cleared its throat. A giant petit four lolloped off into the distance.
"Welcome," the voice said, "to the Starship Heart of Gold."
Well, there you go. Ford is a penguin, and Arthur is rapidly turning into a human version of Stretch Armstrong. By the way, I love petit fours. They are one of my favorite holiday treats, along with really soft sugar cookies and peanut butter buckeyes. But I digress.
Space and time are a bitch sometimes. Last night, I literally was thinking about a production of the musical Hairspray that I saw once in Appleton, Wisconsin. I thought it was just a few years ago. Imagine my surprise when I realized that it was over ten years ago. Actually, it's approaching 15 years. Couldn't believe it.
And, given the circumstances at work this past week, I've been also thinking about my time in the medical field. I never thought that I would make a career in the healthcare field. Initially, I took the job at the surgery center to fill-in for a person who was on maternity leave. Then that person came back, and it was over. I was in graduate school, trying to scrape together some extra cash. Then I was offered a full-time job at the surgery center. Then I basically became the business office manager of the surgery center. At the same time, I was finishing school, and my wife was pregnant with our first child.
All that started over 20 years ago. I've worked in three different medical offices--outpatient surgery, cardiology, and medical records. In the summers during my graduate school days, I cleaned patient rooms and doctor's offices and operating rooms. I guess you could say that healthcare has been the career that I never really wanted. I just sort of stumbled into it and stayed there. For a long time. Longer than I realized. Amazing.
Time has a way of running away from you, like a giant petit four. One day you're a fill-in employee for a pregnant woman, and, twenty years later, you're a displaced healthcare worker in search of a computer station. I don't like to say that the best is behind me. I'm not that fatalistic. Life has a way of taking unexpected turns.
Twenty years ago, I would never have thought I would call myself a poet. Now, if someone were to ask me what I do, my answer would be, "I'm a poet." That's how I identify. Sure, I have jobs in the medical field and higher education to supplement what I do. But poetry is my thing. And I'm good at it, I think. It's the thing that makes me feel good about myself. An unexpected turn.
Gone are the days when poets could make a living being poets. I think that died around Shakespeare's time. Robert Frost taught and raised chickens. William Carlos Williams was a doctor, scribbling poems about red wheelbarrows on prescription pads in between patient appointments. Wallace Stevens sold insurance. The poets I personally know are artists with galleries, environmental activists, teachers, musicians, and music teachers. These are my people.
That is the brief history of my time for this morning. Thank you, Stephen Hawking. It's been a 20-plus year journey. The universe is open and expanding, always. So am I.
If you're looking for Saint Marty, just look for the second star on the right, and head straight on till morning.
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