Life is inherently meaningless.
You wouldn’t think this would be the case, what with life being a “miracle” and blah, blah, blah.
Still, we ooze out into the unflattering glare of hospital lighting without so much as an instructional leaflet in broken English (“You life now!”) and we’re expected to just figure it out.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I have no fucking idea. Nothing? Is that an acceptable answer?
No, my friends, it is not.
I’ll never forget giving a guidance counselor conniptions in high school when I refused to commit my entire being to an occupational skills test. I had a 4.0 GPA and all the motivation of a slug that’s found a particularly moist rock under which to live.
Whatever the test was for—something about eye-hand coordination. Feels like sports. No, thank you—I half-assed it with an attitude turned to 11.
I can still remember the look on her face. In her mind, I was a hexagonal peg in a world of round holes and I was in for a rude awakening.
Well, the joke’s on her, because I developed, purely by chance and without any actual plan, into a large, foul-tempered fish in a small pond. Think piranha in a goldfish bowl.
It’s not fun being a piranha. Nobody likes you. Nobody ever likes the kind of buzzsaw personality that’s needed in some fields. There’s a reason why judges are weird, angry human beings.
A court is like a bouncy house where everybody is on drugs. Even the staff.
One of the problems with being a secretary (and there are many) is that the vibe of the office is dependent on one person—the boss. And when his/her life is a dumpster fire of negativity and dysfunction, that becomes the atmosphere throughout the entire workplace.
And as the underlings (i.e. me and my co-worker) turn to each other to complain and commiserate, we just add fuel to the fire.
I hate my job. My co-worker is actively counting down the days until she can retire and she still has three years left.
I want to work someplace peaceful. I want to do something that’s fun and fulfilling. Something where people don’t call me from jail and demand that we file a motion by 4:30 p.m. when the court closes (the call comes at 3:44 p.m.), asking that they be allowed to get hooked up to GPS so they can be in another court tomorrow morning so they don’t get yet another warrant for their arrest.
I’m fascinated by how angry people become when I tell them that something blatantly impossible is impossible.
I don’t pick up calls from the jail (blessed be caller I.D.), but of course, I don’t know they’re calling from jail when they use a cell phone that’s been smuggled through the sally port in somebody’s vagina.
The problem with addicts and other criminal types is that there’s something organically wrong with their thought processes, and everything bad in their lives is always someone else’s fault. They’re like children pointing fingers. They’re going to do more jail time because of me. That’s literally what this woman told me. It’s not because she committed various crimes in various jurisdictions and needs to work her way through each case.
Nope, it’s all me.
Which leads me to the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
Near the pet store that I frequent frequently (thanks to the World’s Most Expensive Dog) there is a cafe that used to be a doggy daycare, staffed by individuals with various developmental and physical disabilities. There are two other such cafes planted around the city of Medina, and they’re all beautifully designed, soothing, and eminently useful establishments.
They’re also completely empty. Nobody goes to these coffee shops. I wasn’t even sure the one next to the pet store was even open, but I realllyyyy needed a cup of coffee.
To be fair, they’re all very off the beaten path, which is probably intentional, and very much the kind of place where I’d like to work or volunteer. The fewer the customers, the better.
Again, I cannot emphasize enough how gorgeous the interiors of these places are. Trendy exposed beams and ductwork. Dark wood. Lofty ceilings. Glass bakery displays full of lemon mascarpone cake and tiramisu. Cherry turnovers that would choke a horse. And giant bags of coffee beans piled in the middle of the floor like sensory exercises. “Touch me,” they whisper. “Run your fingers over my burlap. Sniff me.”
Because at this cafe, they roast and grind their own beans.
They sell little brown paper bags of the beans in approximately one million different roasts, but of course, I of the sensitive tummy cannot partake of straight-up fresh ground coffee without severe and immediate repercussions.
But I’ll have me one of them there lattes, thank you very much.
Having never been there before, everybody snapped to attention and descended upon me like a flock of friendly pigeons. There was to be a tour. Any plans I may have had were chucked out the door. I was going to get the spiel.
Laura had a very good delivery and was clearly practiced in the craft of host person. I just needed to stop staring at the scarlet-red glitter eyeshadow she was wearing. It looked incredibly heavy. It looked like it was made out of Dorothy’s shoes in the Wizard of Oz. How could she even lift her eyelids, and more importantly, how was she going to get it off? WD-40?
They also had fresh greens on offer—arugula? kale? My lettuce game is not strong—that were grown in a facility-owned greenhouse, and they could throw together a sandwich or pizza if needed.
After about 20 minutes, juggling a piece of lemon cake and a cherry turnover in styrofoam containers, I asked with a tinge of desperation in my voice where my coffee was.
It was coming. Possibly from Costa Rica.
The supervisor of the cafe was the only person allowed to work the espresso machine, and she was also busy fielding questions and navigating the running narratives offered by several of the staff, who were all clients of MRDD (Medina County Board of Developmental Disabilities).
And everybody was happy. I have never experienced such unrelentingly positive energy, and I want more.
I was immediately and warmly welcomed. The warmth and friendliness were genuine.
Nobody was screaming into a phone. Nobody was calling their wife the C word (this is all my boss, mind you, let alone our divorce clients). Nobody was having non-stop deliveries of booze sent to the office (I still have no idea where it’s all going, or why. He spent $1100 for three deliveries in just the last week. Of three bottles. That doesn’t even include the six-pack of Tito’s).
So here’s my point. I had always been told that the question was, what do I want to be when I grow up? Meaning, what self-serving career do I want to pursue? When instead I should have asked, “Who do I want to help?”
I want to help the people at that cafe where nobody ever goes. If was an island of serenity. It was an oasis.
And the coffee was really, really good.
I, too, was utterly unmotivated but with a gpa that reflected it (2.6). My favorite high school class was typing. I loved learning to do an actual thing, as opposed to a future, vague thing related to electrons and protons or vivesecting a frog. You are exactly right: we should ask kids who they want to help because it's a primary drive to want to make a difference and feel useful. High school, more than any other experience, made me feel so, so un-useful. Strangely, I still resent it/them! Thanks for another reality-based article.
Wow! A really positive piece from you! I'm impressed and, actually, feeling better after reading it.