This is My Coffee Cup

It has been for a very long time. I bought it 20 years ago at my first job after high school. I've had this cup for over half my life.

I still remember acquiring it. There was a Denny's catty-corner from the plaza that housed the Tower Records where I worked. They had these lousy, brown plastic coffee cups in the backroom of Tower, and there were hooks by the coffee pot where people would hang them up, often claiming one particular cup as their own by branding it with a Merlin label bearing their name. I had one of these for a few months, but it quickly started to taste like an old washcloth, no matter how many times or how thoroughly I washed it.

I used to eat at that Denny's a lot. It was open 24 hours, and you could get breakfast anytime. My usual spot was a table back in the "lounge" area - it was dark, sparsely populated, and you could smoke. I got to know the waitresses pretty well, and they knew me. I was fond of the grilled ham and cheese with french fries. Often I didn't even have to order - they'd just bring it out without even asking. Once I only had $2, and was just going to get fries. The waitress brought me out my usual, saying "here's your fries." I don't remember if I ever paid her back, but I like to think I probably did.

The cup was $5, on sale at the front counter. It had this heat-activated design that started out as a blue-grey, mopey-tired-drowsy face that disappeared when the cup was filled with hot liquid to reveal a smiling, cheerful-awake-rosy-cheeked face. I bought it, took it back over to the Tower back room, stuck my name on it in Merlin's heat-transferred Helvetica bold, and hung it on a hook by the coffee maker.

I worked for Tower for about 7 years altogether, at 4 different stores over that time. Did everything from stock clerk, to shift supervisor, to book and magazine buyer, to deposit clerk. Some of my closest friends to this day were part of that first crew. It was the place I met my wife and mother of my children, had some of my most fondly-rememberd youthful indiscretions, and made the connections that ultimately landed me in my current career. And I got this cup.

It's still my "work coffee cup." It's sat on every desk I've occupied since, through 7 companies (including a brief return to Tower during the cold spell after the Internet Bubble burst). The heat-activated feature stopped working long, long ago, and now the face has this ambivalent look - it's mostly happy in appearance and expression, but there's this dim, hazy patina of fatigue overlaying it - most apparent around the eyes.

Kinda like me, actually.

This cup is almost a totem, a talisman - like one of those "horcrux" things from Harry Potter (the things you read when you have kids...), it's more than a possession at this point; it's become a kind of vehicle for a piece of my self. Like me, it's survived well enough, but has developed a permanent stain, not unlike a well-seasoned Meerschaum pipe, from all the things that have been poured into it and drunk from it. It's loyal - perhaps because nobody else but me would want to have anything to do with it. It ain't fancy, but it's serviceable. It is what it is, and it does the best it can.

Right now it's sitting on my desk, in my office. I'll see it there when I go back in, and I'll take it to the break room to fill it with whatever is in the urn - hot, fresh, mediocre coffee, or tepid, stale mediocre coffee...maybe tea instead, depending on the state of my stomach in the morning. I'll fill it up and drain it several times that day, and the next, and the next. One day it may follow me to a different desk, a different office, a different routine. Or it might stay where it is for years to come.

Either way, I hope it doesn't get broken. I need to keep it for awhile yet. One thing it has always done well and it continues to do well is to suffice. In every way, it continues to suffice. Day in, and day out. Kinda like me.

Missed Opportunities for Inappropriate Behavior

Yesterday, I entered the lobby of the office building in which I come to do my daily work for Dazzling Company of Masterful Success. It was raining pretty hard, and I had my umbrella. I saw that there was a 14-foot stepladder folded open right in the path coming in from the door. It took the full measure of my restraint to refrain from opening my umbrella, right underneath the ladder. How I longed for a mirror, some salt, a black cat or two...

Then today, someone sent me a text announcing that she was "expecting 12-24 inches in my parts" and would therefore likely need to work from home...

All I could say was "yikes."

I tell you, sometimes, it's just not fair that I have to be a grown-up professional type person. My inner Bill Murray wants out. And I'm talking about the Caddy Shack/Home on the Range/Meatballs Bill Murray, not the Razor's Edge one. Yes I know it's the same guy. You know what I mean.

"Corporate procurement services, how may I direct your call?"

"Yes, Hi, I was asked to participate in a survey about the new procurement application, and I'd like to decline to participate."

"Well, (pause)...Why do you want to do that?"

"Well, I've never actually used the new procurement application, and I think my feedback would be rather irrelevant."

"Everyone's feedback is important."

"Yes, but..."

"It's a very small group that were asked to participate, so we really need everyone's participation."

"I understand, but I've never even seen the new application."

"Besides it's too late to get anyone else. The survey list has already been sent in. That's why you got the email."

"How did I get on that list, exactly?"

"There was a selection process. It's a very short survey, but if you feel that you would rather not participate in evaluating new initiatives, you can talk to your manager about that."

"No, it's not that, I'm happy to participate in this kind of thing, it's just that I really have never even seen the new application at all."

"Well, we need to know why people have chosen not to use it as well, and the survey helps with that too."

"I have nothing to do with procurement, so I'd really have no occasion to choose one way or the other. I don't know the first thing about the procurement process with or without the new application-"

"Procurement is how you get all of your equipment, like your computer, your phone-"

"Yes, I understand that, I'm just not directly involved in it."

"So you're declining to participate."

"Yes...but, I mean...there's no point in my participating in this particular case."

"Well, I'm sorry you think your input is not valued or appreciated."

"That's not...I mean, all I'm saying is that you'd get as much value out of having my next door neighbor participate in the survey as you would from me!"

"Oh, does your neighbor work for Wescott MultiCom too?"

"No, he's a groundskeeper at a Cemetery, actually."

"Well, then, I can't imagine what he would have to contribute..."

"That's exactly my point."

"Okay, I get that you don't want to take the survey. I'm going to put you on the line with my supervisor now..."

"Why?"

"...so that she can explain to you what you need to do to excuse yourself from the survey, and remove yourself from the list of potential survey participants."

"Well, I don't... - Fine."

"Okay, here she is."

"Good afternoon sir, my name is Portia, and I understand you would prefer not to participate in the quality survey process."

"That's right."

"Might I ask why?"

"...No."

So yesterday at noon, while sitting in the opulent break room in the building where I work as a data-entry chimp, I heard a message come over the intercom...

"Attention, everyone, attention. Oakland Police have given us the all clear and informed us that it is now safe to enter the building."

...What!?

We had all been in the building since 8:15 that morning, and none of us had any idea what they were talking about. No evacuation had occurred, no warning was issued, and nobody knew anything was going on at all until the aforementioned announcement.

Today, we found out that the bomb squad had blown up a suitcase suspected of containing a bomb at the Marriot across the street. At first, I assumed that since it had blown up, there must've been a bomb in it, since socks and underwear are not known for their explosive properties (unless we're talking about those belonging to certain of my familiy circle who shall remain nameless - speculate at will), but it turns out that the bomb squad brings their own bombs to blow up things that are suspected of being bombs.

...What!?

I'm still without anything I'd like to call a real job, but I did start a temp job that features tedium of mind-crushing caliber today. I'm sure that will give me fodder in the future.

So now for the story.

This past Sunday, Lee, Jasper and I went to dinner at my Mom's. It was nice - she made chili, the baby did all his cute baby stuff, etc. etc. After dinner, though, my sister had some bad news.

"Oh, Jaeson, I forgot to tell you. I have some bad news. Mr. Frackenthrass passed away."

So, Mr Frackenthrass (not his real name) was my senior year high school English teacher, and my absolute favorite teacher from my whole pre-college education (he's in a three-way tie with two of my English professors after that). This made me really sad. I actually briefly considered attending my 10 year reunion just on the off chance he might be there, which if you know me says a lot. Being in his class changed the course of my education, and very likely my life.

In fact, right now, I feel bad about giving him such a silly fictional name for this piece. He deserves better. Oh well, too late now.

Too late now is also what I was thinking on the drive home as I remembered running into him about 5 years ago in a Barnes & Nobel in Oakland, when I told him I'd like to go have coffee with him sometime, and got his phone number, which I never quite got around to dialing, being too busy investing my time in a career that was destined to implode in 5 years anyway, albeit unbeknownst to me.

I thought about the guy for the rest of the night. Stuff he'd said, things I'd learned in his class about literature and the appreciation thereof, as well as the appreciation of what drives the creation of literature, namely, life and the experience of it. It was depressing. I really wished I had given him a call.

So today I started that temp job. They took us on a tour of the office, and described the mental gymnastics we'd be expected to perform in our duties as UC Application Processors. As we were shown the employee lounge, I found myself looking at the back of this guy's head at the coffee machine. He turns around, and HOLY SHIT!

"Mr. Frackenthrass!"

He now works at the place where I'm temping.

"Hey, Jaeson! How are you? Are you going to be working here?"

"Um, yeah, for a little while...hey, you might want to know this...um...my little sister..."

"Amber, right?"

"...yeah, well, she told me you had passed away..."

"Really? I don't seem to remember doing that."

"...yeah, clearly...Hey, it's a relief to see that those reports were exaggerated."

"Yeah - well, I'll see you around the office, then!"

"Yeah...See you."

Sometimes, the Universe comes up with plot twists that no novelist would ever be able to get away with. Such license is enviable.

So, I'm beginning to get used to the idea that, for the first time in almost 15 years, I am out of work.

So far, none of my big fears about the situation is coming true - the biggest being that within days of my losing my job two big guys would come from my mortgage company and say "So's we's heard that you's lost yer job, eh? Tha's too bad. Especially since the people that we represent have a certain interest in your payin' your's debts, if you's know's what we's sayin'..."

Yeah, it's a pretty irrational fear.

Truth is, nothing's really changed yet, and won't for a few weeks at least. The biggest change is that when I wake up in the morning, I have this overwhelming urge - no, need - to get up and go to work, but there is nowhere to go. I find myself wondering how far I could get, how close I could come to actually going in for a regular day at the office. I could certainly go catch BART and ride it into Embarcadero. I would get off the train unmolested. I'd go up the escalator, put my ticket in the gate, and exit the station. I'd ride the next escalator up to the street. No one would stop me from walking down Drumm street, Crossing over through the park, continuing past the Safeway, through another park, and then onto Front street. I could walk down Front, turn left on Green, and get as far as the 50 Green street entrance. This door isn't locked, so I could go in. I could get in the elevator, and ride up to the 2nd floor. I could knock on the back door, and someone would probably come to open it...

...or, instead of going in at 50 Green, I could continue up to Battery and go in the front door. I'd be able to get into reception, then I'd have to call someone to buzz me in...

But then what? "Hey, man, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, just here to work, you know. Another day, another dollar, and all that."

"Umm...yeah...so really what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean? I've got a deliverable for a client I need to work on," which is even kind of true. I was in the middle of a competitive benchmark assessment (yes, that's a real thing) when they let me go. The truth is, even after being released, I find that I'm STILL thinking about that document, how to make it better, how to deliver the most value...it's disgusting really, "now can I please get to work?"

It's wierd. I imagine it to be somewhat akin to the institutionalization phenomenon, where long-term prisoners are released from prison, and they don't know what to do with freedom, and all they want is to be back in their cells.

Now, there are lots of ways in which one might compare a job to a prison sentence, one being that being removed from either is often referred to as being "released." One similarity that really really seems to me to hold water is that after enough time, both become a significant portion of who you are. When that is abruptly taken away, you have to find something to take its place, which turns out not to be so easy, so you immediately try to get yourself back into precisely the same situation you just left as quickly as possible.

In the case of prison terms, the word for this is "recidivism." I don't think there's a corresponding term for getting back into a job. While the former is considered a weakness, the latter is considered a virture, born of the protestant work ethic, or something similar. In both cases, though, it really is a sort of retreat, running back into the arms of the familiar. And in both cases, it seems to be born of a lack of knowledge of what to do with freedom.

Now, I am faced with this choice. Given the opportunity, I will choose recidivism in a heartbeat. I have too many things to protect - a home, a family, my own wellbeing - but I can't help but wonder wether I am simply too afraid of freedom, the freedom to extract my living as I see fit, rather than have it handed to me in return for giving the majority of my waking life to some larger business entity, to really take advantage of it.

Let me back in, boss. I miss my cell. I miss my scheduled time in the yard, my circumscribed two-day furlows, my regimented waking and sleeping, my savant-like existance. Provide food and shelter for me, I don't know how to do it myself. I've never had to. I can't take life on the outside. I'm not made for it, I don't know how it works. I'm afraid of this new freedom, afraid I'll use it badly, or not at all. Let me back in. Please. Let me back in.

There's this joke that Bob "Bobcat" Goldthwait used to tell...

"So I lost my job...well, I didn't really lose my job aa-aa-aaa I mean I KNOW WHERE MY JOB IS STILL...It's just w-ww-w-when I go there there's THIS NEW GUY DOIN' IT!!!"

So, after walking between the raindrops for the toughest year the Internet industry has seen (yet), the pink slip with my name on it was finally written.

They're not pink, by the way.

Today, I drank a bloody mary at 11:30 am, shared a final conversation with my former co-workers, and carried my own box of personal effects down washout lane as I'd seen so many others do before me.

Funny, somehow I thought I'd have more to say, but I don't just now.

Song Fragment, to the tune of the Willie Nelson classic (you know the one):

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to build websites.

Don't let 'em learn Java or HTML,

They'll just end up on the Gravy Train to Hell.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to build websites.

They'll work 'til they drop, and then they'll get laid off,

And try to move back in with you.

Still working on finishing it.

God Dammit.

Somebody stole my lunch.

We have a refrigerator here at the office, and this policy where you have to label and date everything you put in there so people know whose it is, since apparently people have trouble recognizing things that aren't theirs.

So, sometime between 9am and noon, some asswipe made off with my clearly labeled and dated burrito.

I have only one consolation. The burrito in question was prepared by my father-in-law on his last visit. Roy is an extraordinary chef, especially where mexican food is concerned.

And he does not mess around.

Roy's burritos are insidiously spicy. They taste really good, and there is definitely some "heat" to them, but they save their most potent weaponry for their journey down the lower ailamentary canal about 12-14 hours after eating.

To anyone who has not yet built up a strong tolerance to capsicum, the spicy element in peppers and chiles, the effect is not unlike having Vick's VapoRub mixed with hydrochloric acid injected into your anus every time you evacuate your bowels, which will be about every 15 minutes over the course of 3 hours or so. Basically, these things employ a slash-and-burn, scorched-earth policy on the diner's colon.

So whoever you are, you burrito-theiving heathen, all I can say to you is I hope you enjoy your evening on the toilet.

Slash and Burn, baby...slash, and, BURN!!!