The Veil

You know
What the face
Of things must be
Underneath
The thin veil
That separates.

And though
Her hand touches yours,
The veil
Keeps you worlds
Apart,
But you know.

You see
Only her eyes,
Worn a bit
Around the corners
But blue,
True blue.

And she
Dances for you,
A belly dance
With hints
And twists
And blind alleys.

Then the veil
Descends
Like a feather
Shaken off
A molting
Bird.

The face
Of things
Is different,
Much different,
From all that
You know.

A Bargain

Thursday I had the good fortune to be interviewed at a prestigious local organization/social club for a managerial position. I met with both the Operations Manager and the Manager of Security, each of whom I found to be engaging and observant. They asked all the “correct” interview questions from, “Could you tell us something of your work history?” to “Can you name three things you bring to the table that will strengthen our organization?” Yada yada yada . . . And I answered them with my own slice of happy horse hooey. Hey, I just try to abide by the rules of the game, putting on my best face (which is one mean trick so early in the morning) and giving them a ray of sunshine through their cauliflower ears and sanguinely coaxing their edgy derrieres into gainful employment.

Phase I of the interview went as well as could be expected. Survival is always a good sign. Phase II was launched by the arrival of the gentleman slated to be my immediate supervisor if I indeed landed this plum position. Let’s call him Mr. Gloom.

Mr. Gloom was nattily attired in a bronze-colored Hugo Boss designer suit, Johnston-Murphy wingtips, and a Jerry Garcia liquid kool-aid acid test tie. Mr. Gloom politely apologized for being tardy naming his participation in a morning meeting as the culprit.

After shaking Mr. Gloom’s hand and exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Operations and Mr. Security excused themselves and bid me a fond adieu and left me in the very capable if not overworked hands of Mr. Gloom. Upon their departure, Mr. Gloom closed the office door securely and assumed a familiar tone (hushed, so that fellow employees in the outer office could not overhear).

“I’ve read your resume, Droog, and I’m quite impressed with your credentials. And I know that Mr. Security and Mr. Operations conducted a thorough Q and A session with you. My approach is a little different. I’m going to level with you from the very start. . . . I wish someone shared the real story with me before I started here.”

Mr. Gloom then proceeded to explain in detail how many of his employees are prone to lie, steal, cheat, and backstab the company and each other for monetary gain. The first accusation he made was regarding two employees he and Mr. Security were investigating in regards to pilfering company funds. He went as far as to take me through intricate paperwork of the two employees and his suspicions as to how they were manipulating the numbers. This was Mr. Gloom’s introduction to me of his world: The Company.

Next, Mr. Gloom did not hesitate to inform me of the venal techniques his employees used to gain advantage, including the use of intimidation and coercion. Good times. . . .

It is not surprising that morale is low in The Company. Mr. Gloom outlined how he wanted the paperwork to be done uniformly by each employee. Having said that, he then went on to contradict himself by pointing out that several of the long term employees had their own method of filling out paperwork and he did not see a need for them to conform to the new rules since their customers are many and forever loyal. But two different sets of rules for one crew? Who could envision any dissention in a dream scenario such as this?

“Never get caught alone in your office or work area with any of the women that work for The Company,” Mr. Gloom pronounced. “Often times our customers and members do not like to talk to the cashiers; in fact, quite regularly they don’t even make eye contact with our employees. Several of the women get all bent out of shape because of this and cop an attitude towards our customers . . . our bread and butter. If you need to discipline one of these ladies make sure there is another manager present or at the very least keep your office door open. I can‘t stress that enough.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Gloom chuckled incredulously while cautioning me that some of the women would not think twice upon slapping a sexual harassment suit against The Company at my expense. Currently, Mr. Gloom himself is battling a harassment charge in which the employee is claiming that he had her in his office and started massaging her thigh to her shock, mental distress, and potential monetary gain.

Mr. Gloom certainly has had his plate full since joining The Company some four long months ago. His unusual interview style, full disclosure--the frank and unadulterated presentation of the state of the “opportunity,” left me bewildered if not just a little timorous. After speaking with Mr. Operations and Mr. Security I was gung ho and geared to assume the responsibilities of the position. Mr. Gloom’s monologue, however, threw a monkey-wrench into my advancing spokes. Is it advantageous to know the complete situation, warts and all, before accepting employment (granted it is one person’s perhaps jaded opinion), or would one be better served to take on a new position and making his own assessment through time and personal experience?

I considered this very question as I walked back to my vehicle only to find a municipal parking ticket underneath my windshield wiper. The parking meter had expired while I was in conference with Mr. Gloom. I laughed at my unfailing luck and considered the ten dollar ticket a bargain at twice the price.

7:01

My eyes struggled to open against the gage of gravity and a glucose level diving into the depths of darkness. Lying prone on the floor next to my bed (how did I get here?) I managed to lift my head, my arms, to the mattress, my body entirely soaked with my own sweat. Confusion overtook any semblance of rational thought as I stared blankly at my clock-radio announcing the time at 7:01.

It was a restless, fitful sleep last night, filled with nightmares and tossed blankets. I recall the emergence of perspiration on my chest and forehead, a sure sign of low blood sugar, but I could not awaken from my semi-conscious situation. Normally, the first sign of a cold sweat triggers an automatic response in me to down a glass of juice and perhaps a small bite to eat to balance my glucose reading at a normal level. No such luck this time. I was in la-la land. I could not have been more goofed up if I were taking goofballs.

What seemed like an hour had passed as I looked up again at the clock-radio only to visualize a translucent green 7:03 beaming at my worn eyes. Every second seemed an eternity. The earth was slowing to a standstill while I labored to stand on my own two feet. Easier said than done--it was not going to happen. All the strength in my legs disappeared along with the movement of time. My legs could not have been less useful if they were gangrenous, a back-of-the-mind horror show imbedded in every diabetic’s fertile mind. I hesitate to say I was snakelike or wormlike, though neither would be far from the truth--I was more like a snail, slow and unawares.

It kicked in--finally. I needed juice, something sweet--a piece of hard candy, a coke, one of my special glucose pills that are easily digested and come in grape or orange. . . . Something.

I tried to pronounce the word juice. “Ju . . . .” “Ju . . .” “Juuuuizzze.” My mouth was barely responding to what was left of my brain. But at 7:07, the minutes feeling like years in exile, the answer to my problem was on the nightstand next to my bed: a handy bottle of Welch’s Grape Juice--a safety valve put in place by myself after an earlier episode of wandering the floor in a cosmic haze.

Legless and lumbering, I lurched for the juice on the nightstand and grabbed a little life force with my hands. Would I have the strength to open the bottle? I remembered how I once strained to open a can of juice in a similar situation. The will to survive was barely stronger than the can. And so, too, my wrists were strong enough to twist the cap off the stubborn bottle and I gulped the sweet squeezed concord grapes till the bottle was empty. And I lay on the floor until my arms could crawl me back onto my bed, teeth a-chattering, shivering in my own drenched clothing.