He Said, She Said

Her voice was becoming more and more tense, it becoming more difficult to control the emotions which were about to burst forth.

I’m an eavesdropper. I love to listen to others’ conversations. On the bus, at work, at parties. Not so much because I’m intricately involved in others’ lives, but because I’m curious. I love to observe how people interact, what they will do next. Today was a banner day.

Her daughter just had her 12th birthday. The pre-teen years. Turmoil.

A message was left on my co-worker’s voice mail. The mother of the daughter’s best friend. It seems that someone had signed on to her daughter’s AIM account, pretending to be her daughter, instant messaging the cute boy at school. “Not to be accusing your daughter, but the last place my daughter signed onto her AIM account was at your house, when they had the slumber party on Friday night.” Sounds like an accusation to me.

My co-worker didn’t know what to do. A pow wow was held amongst the cubicles. Unanimous decision – talk to your daughter first. Ask her outright – did she do this? Did she pretend to be her friend and chat with this cute boy at school, typing in those fateful words, “I like you more than any other boy I’ve ever liked before…”

She did. And the daughter said she didn’t do it. That another friend did it. Another friend at the slumber party. The mom, my co-worker, gave her the “how would you feel if someone signed on with your ID and said things to someone you liked” speech. The daughter didn’t break. She insisted it wasn’t her.

But it gets better. Evidently the way all this was discovered was that the cute boy approached the girl who allegedly sent the instant message (but who didn’t), saying that it was his *dad,* not him, that was online at the time, pretending to be him to find out what girls were stalking his son.

Too much time on their hands in the suburbs…

Cedric

I had been looking forward to the night since he sent the invitation out a week ago. My dear friend was performing. He used to perform regularly. Over the ten years in which we’ve been good friends, he’s been in a variety of musical groups. He’s been in plays, he’s performed spoken word. But he’s been on hiatus lately. This was his first performance in over a year. He received an artist in residence fellowship, an opportunity to develop work, perform, solicit feedback, rework, and perform again.

We arrived at the theater early. We didn’t have to wait long before he sauntered to the stage, with that distinct bounce that announced that Cedric was performing. The one, the only, the incredible Cedric Brown.

His feet were shoeless, as they always are when he performs. He gave the audience a quick once over, his eyes sparkling with recognition when he spotted a friend in the audience, of which there were many. A hush fell over the cozy space as he bowed his head, closed his eyes, then whipped his proud face back and belted out the first few notes of “Almost Like Being In Love.” Within a few bars, I felt my foot tapping, heard myself, unconsciously, humming along. Normally his performances are a conversation with the those present, banter bouncing back and forth, flirtation in and among the notes, a little bit of cuddling with the lyrics.

Tonight, however, was different. More of a scripted performance, not that intimate experience with the audience to which I was so accustomed. He sang. A narrator commented, revealing those thoughts in Cedric’s head, his own personal dialogue with the music, with the artists who created the music, with the audience who watched him interpret the music. He shared how he was told, from early on, “You sound like a woman.” And why shouldn’t he? His role models, those he emulated, both in and out of the realm of music, were women. He shared his adoration of the greats, of Dizzy, of Miles, of Max, and what they did to him, for him. He playfully mocked his singleness with the notes of “Never Will I Marry.” And he brought each and every body in the Jon Sims Center to a common point of hushed anticipation with an unforgettable rendition of the Portuguese classic “Dindi” which slowly, carefully, purposely evolved into an inimitable scat session, the beautiful sounds, beats, utterances, rhythms hypnotizing the collective soul present.

After the magic of the performance subsided, he returned to the stage, soliciting feedback: what worked, what didn’t, what should be revised. This was the painful part of the evening for me. Maybe it’s because I absolutely adore him and his joy, how all is right with the world when he is near. Maybe it’s because I see in him what I covet, someone who can take words and notes and make them come alive, make them capture whomever is near. Many suggestions were offered. He received them all graciously, nodding and smiling and trying to thoroughly understand the giver’s meaning.

As we prepared to leave, I sidled up to him, encircled him with my arms, stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, It was perfect, dear. Don’t change a thing.

Day Planner

When I started at my new job, the office admin scheduled an appointment with me to order office supplies. My first thought was, “So this is what it feels like to work at a profitable company. You actually get office supplies.” I couldn’t really think of anything I needed outside of the standard: a few pens, a couple of pencils, a stapler, some Post It notes. She encouraged me to order a day planner, the type from Franklin Covey in which you rank your daily tasks and make lots of to do lists. I’ve never used one. The past few years I’ve been a Palm Pilot gal, and before that I entered all important dates on a paper pocket calendar, the kind that card shops used to offer as a complimentary gift.

I protested, but she persevered. I ordered the day planner.

I’ve worked there a month now. While in a meeting today I realized I have indeed used my expensive, leather bound day planner. Not so much for its intended purpose, but for the tiny puzzles and bits of trivia that adorn every page. The word jumbles and pictoquests are great; I look forward to a new one each morning. I’m so going to have an advantage in my next match of Scrabble.

As I signed on to the Internet today, the headline read Korea Inferno Horror . I read the story, shocked. Tragic events happen all over the globe, unfortunately almost continuously. But when the tragedy occurs in a place that is personal to you, a place that has become a part of you, a place where you still have friends, it is numbing.

I recognized the charred subway station. I remembered riding in the packed cars. I wondered who the 124 victims were. I grieved for their families.

The one thing that stood out while I resided in Daegu was the absence of crime, homelessness, beggars, and violent acts so common in a city of two and a half million people compacted in a tiny area. Sure, I fielded my share of harassing remarks from men (mostly older, married men) wanting to become “special friends” or “sexual partners” with the tall miguk (American) woman. But I never felt unsafe. There wasn’t the annoying harshness that normally accompanies big city living. I found Korea to be a closed society – one in which I didn’t make friends quickly or easily, but also one in which people were respectful, keeping to themselves and their families. Violent crime was a plot in a bad movie, not an everyday occurrence.

The officials of Daegu are using this tragedy to better prepare the city for potential terrorist attacks. They are making plans to increase security, replace train cars with non-flammable materials, and install more closed circuit televisions. Security, however, is not the main concern of the families of the victims. “The government is not hurrying up with the investigation,” Kang Mee-ja cried as she and other family members looked on the remains of cars incinerated in an arson attack. “As her daughter, I just want to bury her quickly.” I hope you get your wish, Kang Mee-ja.

Uncontrollable Slide

That was the phrase of the weekend. We laughed as we saw the sign that read, “Icy conditions today. You are entering a steep area where a fall could result in an uncontrollable slide.” Don’t know why, but it stuck all of us as funny. Fortunately, we were still able to laugh as each of us demonstrated (involuntarily) our own interpretation of that concept.

S took a turn too quickly on his snowboard, literally tumbling head over heels down the mountain, making several full rotations before somehow popping back up into a standing position then continuing down the mountain. He never stopped. Impressive.

Em was next. She’s a beautiful snowboarder, constantly focusing on form, carefully executing each turn. She, too, slipped, her board flying out from under her, her lithe body spinning and turning until she reached a plateau on the mountain. I had already tackled the slope in my haphazard reckless style, watching her tumble from my resting position from the bottom of the mountain. I knew everything was okay when she halted to a stop, paused, then produced her contagious laugh.

My turn, however, wouldn’t come until the end of the day, the last run. The lifts had closed and we were headed down the mountain, along with all the other snow enthusiasts visiting Squaw. The easy, winding road was crowded with skiers and boarders of all levels, some whooshing mercilessly past, others creeping along, legs splayed in many directions. I saw my opportunity to break free from the crowd, a steep slope off the to the left that few others were attempting. I carefully began down the incline, noticing it was much icier than other slopes, perhaps because of its shady location. All was fine until my trusty board slipped out from under me. On the hard ground, too tired to stand up from a sitting position, I flipped over onto my stomach in order to push up from a kneeling position. Which would have worked, except as soon as I was on my belly, I experienced my own uncontrollable slide. Down, down, down the mountain I went. I tried to dig my board into the slope, kicking furiously. I offered outstretched arms to the mountain, unsuccessfully grasping and clawing at anything that would reduce my ever increasing momentum. As I slid feet first, on my belly, down the mountain, I glanced up at the astonished faces peering down at me from their stationary, in control positions. A child pointed and screamed, “Mommy! Look!” I replied, “Look out! Coming throuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh…” Finally, with an unprecedented force, I rammed into a snowbank at the bottom of the slope. My cheeks burned from the constant contact of my face to the mountain. I took a deep breath, turned over, and sat up. This time, it was Em at the bottom of the mountain, smiling at my unique interpretation of a spectacular uncontrollable slide.

Boss Man

I’ve often seen him standing there at the bus stop. No, not exactly at the bus stop, but right across the street. He waits, watching for the bus to creep up the hill, then he’ll cross to my side of the street, joining the group gathered. Maybe he’s five feet tall, or maybe he appears that small because he’s hunched over, trusting his rickety cane to support the brunt of his weight. His shoulders are wide; he’s a stout little fellow. He reminds me of a block, a child’s tiny ABC building block.Deep wrinkles are etched into his leathery skin, set off by eyes that continuously smile.

Today was the first day I saw him actually board the bus. Ever so slowly he mounted the steps, then at the landing he paused, and in a tiny voice that seemed to be squeezed out of him, came the words, “Hello, boss man,” punctuated by a thick Chinese accent.

The MUNI driver smiled at his friend, then in a deep, velvety, gravelly voice so typical in older African American men, he slowly replied, “Hello, boss man.” The elderly passenger took the first seat directly behind the driver. He seemed to be mumbling incoherently to himself throughout the ride. As the driver announced stops the elderly passenger would occasionally repeat them, adding commentary of his own. The rough, chocolaty voice of the driver announced, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. Next stop, Taylor Street.” Immediately a tiny voice eeked, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. You tell them, boss man.”

He wasn’t on the bus for that long, maybe 5 or 6 stops. As he exited ever so slowly, descending the steps of the MUNI bus, he turned around and squeaked, “See you tomorrow, boss man.”

Bio

A press release included this statement:

“… earned her BA from the College of St Scholastica.” I read it twice, laughing aloud. Just seems a bit redundant.

Going Home

The air on the Muni bus in the evening is heavy, weighted down by the exhaustion of people done with a long day at work, ready to be home. Some people read, some people talk quietly on cell phones, most stare blankly into space or out the window, not really seeing anything.

As the bus was stopped at a light, a long not quite in pitch, but none the quieter for it, chorus to a popular song was heard. A large woman was strolling down Market Street, singing as if that was all she was meant to do. She didn’t notice the strange looks from people passing by; she continued to belt the words as she walked.

From the silence of the back of the bus came these words, softly spoken, but magnified by the silence of the commute. “You go girl, you Miss American Idol.”

Overheard

Teenage Girl 1: So, like, why does Iraq hate us?

Teenage Girl 2: Because we’re all in their country.

TG1: No we’re not.

TG2: Well, we’re in the Middle East.

TG1: But, it’s not like the Middle East is connected to Iraq or anything.

TG2: Then I don’t know why they’re, like, so upset.

TG1: Yeah. We should be all 60ish and stuff. You know. Peace and love.

Survey Says

I’ve been conducting some research about violence in the workplace. Somewhat of a somber subject, but I came across a piece today that made me giggle.

“… 1993 study found in many cases employees don’t report threats, harassment, or physical attacks. For example, between 1992 and 1993, 58% of those employees being harassed, 43% of those who were threatened, and 24% of those who were physically attacked did NOT inform anyone.”

So, how were these statistics gathered then?