Chapter 3: Silverman Bites the Bullet
David Silverman’s guts, lines of small black glyphs on brittle yellowing paper, were spread out on the desk in front of him. The hand written words so familiar to his eyes, emerging deep from the back of the bedroom closet and a long gone era, rolled past his conscious awareness competing for attention with the ever present knowledge of his headlong rush towards the opposing realities of his wants and his needs.
He glanced at an entry from the first page of a 1968 journal open on the desk.
Different, same, same, same, different, same, different, different, different, he thought. Adam was now twenty-nine and Alison, who hadn’t even been a glimmer when those lines had been written, was twenty-six and about to be married. And of course, he now rented a flat in San Francisco and wasn’t earning squat. $14,100 had been decent money then.
It was uncanny how he could remember writing those words, neatly printing them in pen on the blank lined paper, consciously creating a time machine to be sent out into the future. What had he been thinking? Why in hell had he thought it necessary to snapshot a point in space so he could go back and replay it somewhere down the road? Where did he think he’d be when he read them? Had he anticipated patting himself on the back, “Way to go, David. What a trip it’s been, baby.” Older... Wiser...? Yeah, right!
Had he ever earned more than $14,000 a year since 1968, he asked himself? He knew the answer and cringed. The time machine had worked even if he hadn’t... and didn’t... and wasn’t.
He hit save and headed to the kitchen for some more coffee.
Back at the computer another realization hit home. If Shelly were really going to throw him out of the house as she threatened then he would need a job not for Shelly, not for the kids, not to buy cat food for Issac, but for himself. She could do it too, he realized, she was that pissed. And he wouldn’t fight her. It wouldn’t be fair.
The realization was intense and mind altering. All the times she had said “stop trying to get a job for me, get a job for yourself”, he had missed the point. Now, for the first time he could feel a change in intensity. It is a hell of a lot different feeling to want a job in order to keep someone you love happy than to want a job to keep your ass off the streets.
The Sunday paper lay on the coffee table. He picked it up and leafed through the want ads... a large display ad several pages in caught his eye…
... and brought him back again as he started to turn the page. Why go further. What the hell was he looking for if not this? He wasn’t seeking a career out there in the Sunday want-ads any more. It was too late for that. You don’t start a career at fifty-five. He was simply looking for money... pure money... money to pay the bills... money to get his wife off his back... money to save his marriage... money to save his ass.
If you like people and have a pleasant telephone manner...
Yeah, he could do that.
And he would, too! He had to do something, that was certain. He owed it to Shelly and it beat pumping gas. Tomorrow, he would get up early, call, and go downtown to fill out an application. He would make it happen... he would make it manifest. It was starting to happen. He could feel the polarity shift within him and he decided to write about it. That part of his life could happen, too. No need to make the shift too fast.
He continued to leaf through his pile of old writings and found an article called Doing Your Thing Over Thirty, which he had written in 1973. Thirty had seemed so old back then.
As he entered material from his old article into the computer, David shuddered, remembering an interview he had seen on TV several weeks before. It was Take Your Daughter To Work Day and the morning newsman was interviewing a young girl on the way to her mother's office.
"And what do you want to do when you grow up", he had asked.
"I want to be a secretary during the week so I can do what I want on weekends", she had answered, and David had gotten sick. Thirteen years old and already buying into the system. Some things never change, he thought, people's gullibility and his views. What a schmuk he was thinking that his views were somehow better. Maybe he was simply lazy. It’s not like he hadn’t heard that thrown at him over the years. He went back to inputting his article.
Silverman sat back and looked at what he had just transferred from paper to hard drive. It still amazed him every time he thought about it. What cheek he had back then to think he knew what it was all about. What gall, what ego, and yet...
Everything he had done in those days, his beliefs, his drives, all the roads he had followed, all the passions that had driven him, all had taken place without any overt knowledge. The defining actions in his life that had led him to where he was now, for good or for bad, for poor or for poorer, had come about long before that life altering day, before he understood how the process actually worked. That had still been light years away, so to speak.
He dived down into the box of old writings again looking for one special creation. It had been over twenty-five years since he had designed the Job Satisfaction Flow Chart- [D&G10-9] for his novel, David and Goliath, Round Two, the story of a young man’s escape, his escape, from corporate America. Ah, he thought, if he’d only known then what he knew now... he still would have made the break.
[He also made a note to scan the Flow Chart into his computer so he could insert it here into the blog.]
The chart seemed dated, designed for an era when you stayed with a company from your first day out of school to your first day of retirement. Growth was still the order of that day and corporate loyalty still the norm. Now neither held true. Downsizing was the norm and numerous listings on a resume indicated rounded experience rather than the inability to hold a job.
It was not as easy to find a job as it had been back in the seventies, but that only magnified the importance of finding what you wanted to do. Helping that to happen were the numerous authors and job counselors who were now echoing David’s earlier words, preaching to the masses what he had shouted into a vaccuum. How many times he had been too far on the leading edge.
Emitting a long loud sigh, the result of too many hours in front of the computer, he saved what he had written and called Shelly at work to ask when she’d be home. He was planning to make eggplant parmegana and if she were really hungry and needed to eat right away he wanted to have time to prepare. She was cool but civil.
He said, "this is not the night for miscommunication. Dinner at 6:30, right?" She said right and he said "Bye, Moo" and she said "Bye". He was aware that she had omitted "Moo," the first word they had ever said to each other and still their code word for "I love you," and he was aware that she was aware. There still was a lot of tension between them.
He glanced at an entry from the first page of a 1968 journal open on the desk.
I am 28 years old, white, male, American, agnostic, married, the father of a one-month old son. I own a home in Dutchess County, New York, and am earning $14,100 per year.
It was uncanny how he could remember writing those words, neatly printing them in pen on the blank lined paper, consciously creating a time machine to be sent out into the future. What had he been thinking? Why in hell had he thought it necessary to snapshot a point in space so he could go back and replay it somewhere down the road? Where did he think he’d be when he read them? Had he anticipated patting himself on the back, “Way to go, David. What a trip it’s been, baby.” Older... Wiser...? Yeah, right!
Had he ever earned more than $14,000 a year since 1968, he asked himself? He knew the answer and cringed. The time machine had worked even if he hadn’t... and didn’t... and wasn’t.
He hit save and headed to the kitchen for some more coffee.
Back at the computer another realization hit home. If Shelly were really going to throw him out of the house as she threatened then he would need a job not for Shelly, not for the kids, not to buy cat food for Issac, but for himself. She could do it too, he realized, she was that pissed. And he wouldn’t fight her. It wouldn’t be fair.
The realization was intense and mind altering. All the times she had said “stop trying to get a job for me, get a job for yourself”, he had missed the point. Now, for the first time he could feel a change in intensity. It is a hell of a lot different feeling to want a job in order to keep someone you love happy than to want a job to keep your ass off the streets.
The Sunday paper lay on the coffee table. He picked it up and leafed through the want ads... a large display ad several pages in caught his eye…
Need Extra Holiday Cash?
We have: seasonal employment taking customer orders on incoming lines.
We offer: paid training , flexible hours, shift bonuses, merchandise discount.
If you like people and have a pleasant telephone manner...
Call for an appointment.
We have: seasonal employment taking customer orders on incoming lines.
We offer: paid training , flexible hours, shift bonuses, merchandise discount.
If you like people and have a pleasant telephone manner...
Call for an appointment.
... and brought him back again as he started to turn the page. Why go further. What the hell was he looking for if not this? He wasn’t seeking a career out there in the Sunday want-ads any more. It was too late for that. You don’t start a career at fifty-five. He was simply looking for money... pure money... money to pay the bills... money to get his wife off his back... money to save his marriage... money to save his ass.
If you like people and have a pleasant telephone manner...
Yeah, he could do that.
And he would, too! He had to do something, that was certain. He owed it to Shelly and it beat pumping gas. Tomorrow, he would get up early, call, and go downtown to fill out an application. He would make it happen... he would make it manifest. It was starting to happen. He could feel the polarity shift within him and he decided to write about it. That part of his life could happen, too. No need to make the shift too fast.
He continued to leaf through his pile of old writings and found an article called Doing Your Thing Over Thirty, which he had written in 1973. Thirty had seemed so old back then.
Everybody wants to enjoy life as much as possible and does what they can to maximize their pleasure and minimize their pain. Only each person's values are different and that is why two people in the same situation may choose to do two different things.David smiled at the all caps and exclamation point of his earlier writing, as well as the reference to S & M... but style and content aside, he still felt the same about pleasure and pain. The issue at hand, however, was earning a living within that framework and he picked up another article he had written in 1975 called The First Step to Inner Peace.
The world is full of great people, brave people, martyrs, who have elected physical and mental pain and suffering rather than taking the easy way out. But when you really stop to think about it, each one consciously made the decision that the physical pain which would be inflicted was less than the spiritual pain that would result from denying their heritage, birthright, or code of ethics.
Even the sado-masochist whose body is covered with whip marks, rope burns, and bites isn't choosing pain over pleasure. For to this person, caught in a web which most of us cannot understand, the sensual pleasure of sexual torture is far greater than the accompanying physical pain.
No one, I repeat, NO ONE ever chooses pain over pleasure!
Inner peace. That elusive feeling that spells the difference between a happy life and mere existence. Why is it so hard to come by?Out of several hundred people questioned only two said they would do the exact same thing they were doing at the time. Both were college professors doing independent research. While other people worked at something they didn't like in order to earn money so they could play on weekends, these two were playing all along.
Five years ago as I sat behind my desk in the plush offices of a major computer manufacturer, I felt my world about to go splat! Sure, I was earning over $14,000 a year with job security, medical payment plan, stock options, and a prestige position where people said "Good morning" to me before I said it to them. For some reason, however, things weren't as smooth as they should have been...
For years parents, teachers, friends, employers had tried to mold me to their ideas as to how a young man coming of age should behave. For years I had tried to fit in, to play the corporate game, to earn the biggest salary, to owe the largest mortgage. But it never quite worked, because it wasn't me. Their thing wasn't my thing. And so I never really found happiness, true happiness based on inner peace, until I took the giant step and followed my own leanings and desires.
Long before that day when I said, "I quit", turned on my heel and walked out of the boss' office, I knew it had to happen. But, like all good integrated members of society I couldn't help feeling guilty. Was I the only one who wasn't ecstatic over my nice safe corporate job? I began asking around, my friends, my co-workers, and even chance acquaintances, I simply had to know.
"What would you do with your time if you were independently wealthy", I asked, hoping by that phrasing to free the responder from worrying about whether what he wanted to do was economically practical. The responses were amazing!
"I'd like to crossbreed cucumbers and develop the perfect pickle", said a computer programmer.
A neighbor of mine, an accountant, answered, "I'd be a bird watcher in the summer and a ski patrolman in the winter".
"An actress", mused the head of the secretarial pool.
As he entered material from his old article into the computer, David shuddered, remembering an interview he had seen on TV several weeks before. It was Take Your Daughter To Work Day and the morning newsman was interviewing a young girl on the way to her mother's office.
"And what do you want to do when you grow up", he had asked.
"I want to be a secretary during the week so I can do what I want on weekends", she had answered, and David had gotten sick. Thirteen years old and already buying into the system. Some things never change, he thought, people's gullibility and his views. What a schmuk he was thinking that his views were somehow better. Maybe he was simply lazy. It’s not like he hadn’t heard that thrown at him over the years. He went back to inputting his article.
"Rangers in our national parks earn a living", I told the bird watcher, "their children are raised in the midst of natural beauty, and in the right parks you can do a lot of skiing in the wintertime."And so he had.
"Sell that $80,000 house of yours and buy a small farm", I suggested to the pickle man.
"Take a three month leave of absence", I advised the actress, "and try your hand at summer stock."
"What about you?" they asked me in return. "What would you do if you were independently wealthy?"
"I'd be a renaissance man", I replied. "I'd experience and learn about as many things as I could and then write about them."
"Okay", they responded, going back to work, "You go first".
Silverman sat back and looked at what he had just transferred from paper to hard drive. It still amazed him every time he thought about it. What cheek he had back then to think he knew what it was all about. What gall, what ego, and yet...
Everything he had done in those days, his beliefs, his drives, all the roads he had followed, all the passions that had driven him, all had taken place without any overt knowledge. The defining actions in his life that had led him to where he was now, for good or for bad, for poor or for poorer, had come about long before that life altering day, before he understood how the process actually worked. That had still been light years away, so to speak.
He dived down into the box of old writings again looking for one special creation. It had been over twenty-five years since he had designed the Job Satisfaction Flow Chart- [D&G10-9] for his novel, David and Goliath, Round Two, the story of a young man’s escape, his escape, from corporate America. Ah, he thought, if he’d only known then what he knew now... he still would have made the break.
[He also made a note to scan the Flow Chart into his computer so he could insert it here into the blog.]
The chart seemed dated, designed for an era when you stayed with a company from your first day out of school to your first day of retirement. Growth was still the order of that day and corporate loyalty still the norm. Now neither held true. Downsizing was the norm and numerous listings on a resume indicated rounded experience rather than the inability to hold a job.
It was not as easy to find a job as it had been back in the seventies, but that only magnified the importance of finding what you wanted to do. Helping that to happen were the numerous authors and job counselors who were now echoing David’s earlier words, preaching to the masses what he had shouted into a vaccuum. How many times he had been too far on the leading edge.
Emitting a long loud sigh, the result of too many hours in front of the computer, he saved what he had written and called Shelly at work to ask when she’d be home. He was planning to make eggplant parmegana and if she were really hungry and needed to eat right away he wanted to have time to prepare. She was cool but civil.
He said, "this is not the night for miscommunication. Dinner at 6:30, right?" She said right and he said "Bye, Moo" and she said "Bye". He was aware that she had omitted "Moo," the first word they had ever said to each other and still their code word for "I love you," and he was aware that she was aware. There still was a lot of tension between them.
* * *
Dear Shelly,
I was centering myself earlier today and trying to feel exactly where the two parts of my world can best come together. I know they do... they have to... they were designed that way. It’s just that I am responsable for making the connection and it is a long slow docking procedure that is not yet over... especially when viewed from the vantage of day to day problems and day to day needs.
Well maybe this will help speed up the process. I have just taken a job answering telephones and taking catalog orders for Pottery Barn during the Christmas rush. They’ve got a place across town over by Pier 39. I’ve been there twice, filling out an application and taking a test, and I actually passed. In fact, I got the call today, they want me, and tomorrow is the first day of class.
I know it’s only temporary and only pays $7.25 an hour. But it’s a start. At least something will be coming in and if I can earn even $3000 this holiday season it will be more than I’ve earned over the past five years combined.
I love you very much. Think of it as pumping gas.
She pinioned him with her eyes, “Is this your way of telling me you’ve got a job or is it some vision you got while you were out centering yourself full of pot? Don’t play games with me. Just go out and bring in the money. And I don’t appreciate the smell of smoke.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
He sighed and went back to writing about the incident for his book. Another good idea up in smoke.
Dear Shelly,
I was centering myself earlier today and trying to feel exactly where the two parts of my world can best come together. I know they do... they have to... they were designed that way. It’s just that I am responsable for making the connection and it is a long slow docking procedure that is not yet over... especially when viewed from the vantage of day to day problems and day to day needs.
Well maybe this will help speed up the process. I have just taken a job answering telephones and taking catalog orders for Pottery Barn during the Christmas rush. They’ve got a place across town over by Pier 39. I’ve been there twice, filling out an application and taking a test, and I actually passed. In fact, I got the call today, they want me, and tomorrow is the first day of class.
I know it’s only temporary and only pays $7.25 an hour. But it’s a start. At least something will be coming in and if I can earn even $3000 this holiday season it will be more than I’ve earned over the past five years combined.
I love you very much. Think of it as pumping gas.
...Moo
She pinioned him with her eyes, “Is this your way of telling me you’ve got a job or is it some vision you got while you were out centering yourself full of pot? Don’t play games with me. Just go out and bring in the money. And I don’t appreciate the smell of smoke.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
He sighed and went back to writing about the incident for his book. Another good idea up in smoke.
* * *
posted by ... | 11:33 AM
1 Comments:
Bite me!!!
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