<Photo/Collage: The Reckoner>
<i.>
36 Years (& Out)
I'd just finished a hard day's night of proofreading, which happens to me every couple o'weeks, I've worked with this client, a local newspaper publisher, for a dozen years now, so we've got the routine down. This week, we spent an hour or two going over the latest edition at 2:30-ish, then adjourned, for various boring reasons, until 11:30 p.m.
Some editions take longer to sort out than others, so we didn't wind down until 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. ... which is when the usual small town gossip creeps into the conversation. My client asks, "You heard what happened to Lady B?"
"No," I responded. "Not good news, I take it?"
"She put it out on her website about a month ago," my client said. "She got pushed out the door at the radio station, because they want to hire younger people, and pay them cheaper."
"No surprise there, I guess. So what's she say, then?"
"Well, she's found some other lower-level job, and she's barely making it. She almost lost her house, but managed to save it. She's really depressed."
"Gee, I can't imagine why," I said. "Well, guess I'll have to check that one for myself. Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight." Click!
The minute we hang up, I head to Lady B's website, where (sure enough) she's posted her account. She recounted watching her station's "money-grubbing management" methodically run off other older (now ex-) colleagues, and replace them with younger people, part-timers, or nobody (as so often happens). Lady B thought her lengthy tenure would ensure a place on the payroll, but, of course, that assumption turned out to be mistaken ("the only job I ever had").
So that's how she found herself escorted off the premises, during the first week in January ...without a chance to say goodbye to anyone, let alone a going away party, nor even a token recognition for her service. The stress associated with such a sudden, drastic loss of income has left Lady B racked with anxiety, depression, and shortness of breath. If it weren't for her son's support, "I'd have immediately moved away," she writes. "I feel so alienated here now."
And that's before we get to the people who melted away, once the word got out -- who only befriended her, apparently, "because of what I did for a living," as Lady B writes, leaving a potential support network shredded, without a second thought. "We're talking about losing a lifetime. And I'm still broken." Having been voted off the island myself a couple of times...I can relate, to put it mildly.
What's really disconcerting here is, we're talking about someone who's well-known locally, who's emceed at beauty pageants, and served as grand marshal for this parade, or a judge at that cooking contest, things of that nature. One time, Lady B gave a presentation to our depression support group: just one of many projects on her day planner, it seemed, that she did without fanfare.
Obviously, if someone like her isn't secure, nobody is. But, then again, I find myself thinking -- Trump's words to the contrary -- America won't make itself great again, until we embrace we start lifting each other up, and embrace that idea once more. Until that day arrives, we won't even be middling. Or something like that.
"No surprise there, I guess. So what's she say, then?"
"Well, she's found some other lower-level job, and she's barely making it. She almost lost her house, but managed to save it. She's really depressed."
"Gee, I can't imagine why," I said. "Well, guess I'll have to check that one for myself. Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight." Click!
The minute we hang up, I head to Lady B's website, where (sure enough) she's posted her account. She recounted watching her station's "money-grubbing management" methodically run off other older (now ex-) colleagues, and replace them with younger people, part-timers, or nobody (as so often happens). Lady B thought her lengthy tenure would ensure a place on the payroll, but, of course, that assumption turned out to be mistaken ("the only job I ever had").
So that's how she found herself escorted off the premises, during the first week in January ...without a chance to say goodbye to anyone, let alone a going away party, nor even a token recognition for her service. The stress associated with such a sudden, drastic loss of income has left Lady B racked with anxiety, depression, and shortness of breath. If it weren't for her son's support, "I'd have immediately moved away," she writes. "I feel so alienated here now."
And that's before we get to the people who melted away, once the word got out -- who only befriended her, apparently, "because of what I did for a living," as Lady B writes, leaving a potential support network shredded, without a second thought. "We're talking about losing a lifetime. And I'm still broken." Having been voted off the island myself a couple of times...I can relate, to put it mildly.
What's really disconcerting here is, we're talking about someone who's well-known locally, who's emceed at beauty pageants, and served as grand marshal for this parade, or a judge at that cooking contest, things of that nature. One time, Lady B gave a presentation to our depression support group: just one of many projects on her day planner, it seemed, that she did without fanfare.
Obviously, if someone like her isn't secure, nobody is. But, then again, I find myself thinking -- Trump's words to the contrary -- America won't make itself great again, until we embrace we start lifting each other up, and embrace that idea once more. Until that day arrives, we won't even be middling. Or something like that.
<Photo/Collage: The Reckoner>
<ii.>
Dumpster Dive (Take I)
The next night, I found myself driving back from a music rehearsal, heading back to my apartment complex in the kind of frigid, unforgiving weather that only the Midwest can dish out.
I swung around the corner of our building, and the dumpster behind it. I noticed a bicycle leaning against the dumpster. Two or three plastic bags crammed with returnable pop cans were tied to the handlebars. I spotted a larger garbage bag sprawled across the top of the dumpster.
Just, then, a young man began hoisting himself out of our dumpster (which had only been emptied the day before). He wore a knit cap and a plaid Carhartt jacket. He didn't look a day over 30, even if the black patch of five o'clock shadow creeping across his face seemed to suggest otherwise.
Not wanting to spook him, I looked away, and rounded the corner, following the oval drive to our building. I parked in front of it, and began hauling out the groceries.
Just then, the young man shot around the corner. He briefly waved at me, and I waved back. Hope his haul was good, I told myself. Only yesterday, we'd had a brief outburst of spring-like temps in the 40s and 50s. He must have gotten most of it then, I thought, since we'd fallen back today into our familiar teeth-chattering mode (high of 20 degrees, real feel, 10), so I'm sure he wouldn't have found too many cans then.
I wondered how often he plied his trade. The scene reminded me of a comment made by the guitarist of a certain well-known '60s proto-punk band, on his efforts to get a record deal on his own recognizance: "Whenever I actually get these guys on the phone, they're always saying, 'Wow, cool! It's great talking to you!" Then came the punchline. "But you know how it is. It's a young man's world."
Which world? I wondered. And what kind of world is this, anyway?
Not that I had time to ponder the point. Tonight, the world of transcription awaited me, and I'd need to rack up X amount toward my weekly goal ($200, $250-plus and up), in my never-ending quest to make that monthly nut. So hustled inside, with two or three grocery bags in my hand. Duty called, I guess. Or something like that. --The Reckoner
I wondered how often he plied his trade. The scene reminded me of a comment made by the guitarist of a certain well-known '60s proto-punk band, on his efforts to get a record deal on his own recognizance: "Whenever I actually get these guys on the phone, they're always saying, 'Wow, cool! It's great talking to you!" Then came the punchline. "But you know how it is. It's a young man's world."
Which world? I wondered. And what kind of world is this, anyway?
Not that I had time to ponder the point. Tonight, the world of transcription awaited me, and I'd need to rack up X amount toward my weekly goal ($200, $250-plus and up), in my never-ending quest to make that monthly nut. So hustled inside, with two or three grocery bags in my hand. Duty called, I guess. Or something like that. --The Reckoner
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