I asked for next Friday off.
It’s been a long haul for all of us, even those of us blessedly untouched by the worst of it so far. Lucky enough to not have gotten sick, yet, anyway.
Lucky enough to still have a job, even if it got wild and crazy through March and April.
Some folks got laid off, some folks wound up with more work than they knew what to do with, more than they thought could handle, and I lucked into the latter crowd, but I feel worn down now, and lucky or not, I just thought the time had come to spend a long weekend or two with my fat ass sat down on the porch with a cold one or two, or, ok, six or seven.
Stare out into the twilight, listen to the neighborhood birds sing their songs. Read until I fall into a nap after a dinner. Sing “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness” in my best John Prine imitation voice out there in my chair, with my dear wife smiling indulgently and my kids cringing.
A little break from this not-so-sweet old world we find ourselves in these days.
&&&
A day goes by, and then another.
I don’t hear anything about my request for Friday off.
I don’t hear anything about anything. Radio silence. Highly unusual.
Last weekend came, and I looked out at the overgrown grass and shrubs and admitted it had to deal with it.
A week ago we had snow, but today the sun burned with a fever usually reserved for July.
I actually prefer the cold to the heat. I also prefer the quiet to the loud, and peace over war.
Saturday and Sunday came warmer, not so much hot, but so much warmer than the past days preceding that they felt like the middle of August, and as I clipped and cut, it seemed I sweat every one of those almost fifty-four years I’ve managed on this planet right on out through my pores and on to my tee-shirt.
And Monday came and I already had my eye on Friday, my first weekday off in a few months (and not to complain, but to complain anyway, there were plenty of weekend days in there, too).
&&&
Didn’t hear anything Monday.
Didn’t hear anything from pretty much anybody.
I had plenty of work to do regardless, and I got down to it, but oddly, even working from home, with the kids around me and Sheila upstairs working in our room, it felt something like working in a library with quiet, please signs everywhere.
It’s very unusual to not hear from my boss for this long.
Tuesday and Wednesday came without a word about my Friday off, or about anything else, and then the grapevine came a’calling with the rumors about the furlough calls getting made.
A furlough tastes a whole lot better with half a’your gross and the six hundred on top of it that Lyndsey’s all upset about the common folk getting, what with it making us all lazy and all, but it still feels weird, when you get used to working every Monday through Friday for years on end, to get set down for a bit.
Then I got word of some of us getting the worst kind of furlough, the kind you can’t claim for: you can take the next few Fridays off son, but we ain’t paying you for it. A cut in pay, I would call it.
I keep on working, and keep on waiting for the phone to ring: word is they’re making all the calls today. I keep on working and the phone never rings and the day ends, and I think, yeah, the boss is avoiding me for sure.
&&&
Woke up in the middle of the night for a trip to the loo, and came back, laid down, and tossed and turned.
Just let me know, I think.
I don’t even care what they decide at this point.
I’ve survived worse. Almost thirteen years ago now, I watched my wife die right in front of my eyes one night, and then I got up the next morning and had to tell her kids that their mom was gone forever. Lay it on me, motherfuckers. You can’t hurt me any worse than that.
But for all that bravado, I can’t stop myself from tossing and turning, from wondering how I wound up here, hanging by a thread, just like everyone else, I guess. I can’t help myself from wondering how I’ve let people I barely know run this sort of roughshod over my mind. I can’t help myself from wondering how I’ve let work, something I revolted against as hard as I could in my youth, set the parameters my daily life resides within.
I start singing “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness” in my head to try and get myself back to sleep.
“I got a heart that burns with a fever
and I got worried and a jealous mind...”
I realize I’ve sung that second line out loud.
Sheila rolls over, half away, and pats my shoulder.
“You OK?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“I’m fine.”
&&&
At some absurdly early hour of the morning, I get an email from the boss: okay to take Friday off.
Was expecting a “can we talk today?” tacked on to it, but, no.
&&&
Sheila had a call scheduled for 9:30 this morning, and she asked if I could stay in our room with her while she took it. There’s a need for circumspection discussing this in public, so, let’s just say she had an interrogation looming and she wanted someone she trusted without reservation to sit beside her while it happened.
Our youngest woke up at about 9:25 and bounded downstairs.
I chased after her, and asked what she wanted for breakfast.
Two crispy waffles, she replied.
I took two Eggos outta the freezer and put them in the toaster oven.
The old, decrepit toaster over.
9:26, 9:27, and 9:28 passed slowly away. I reached in to test the waffles, and thought, goddamn it, not crispy enough yet. You know how eight year olds can be: those waffles better be JUST crispy enough. They want what they want and sometimes they don’t understand a whole lot beyond that.
“Dave?” I heard Sheila ask from upstairs. “You coming up?”
“Yeah, just let me finish these waffles.”
I reached my hand back into the toaster over.
This’ll have to do, kid, I think.
I put them on a plate and walk them out to her.
“Remember, Mom’s got a really important call in a minute, so you can’t come in her room for a bit, OK?”
“OK.”
&&&
You really can’t make this shit up, but as I was about to walk upstairs, the land line rang out.
My boss.
I picked it up.
The boss sounded nervous.
“Feels like forever since we’ve talked.”
Well, yeah.
Some talk about the status of various projects.
I just wanna go upstairs and stand behind Sheila while she suffers.
“So I wanted to talk to you about the furloughs, I know we all talked about it on the staff call last week.”
Lay it on me, I think. Just give me the all-out furlough so I can collect money that’ll get Lyndsey all upset.
“So your position will not be furloughed.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks for letting me know.”
I ran upstairs and tip-toed into our room. Sheila had the phone to her ear and paced back and forth in front of the window. I sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed her hand for a minute. The call went on for a while. I thought she did great, calm, professional, clear answers. She won’t find anything out at least until the end of June. Unfortunately this thing looks like it’s going to drag out for a while.
&&&
I seem to be the luckiest bastard to ever walk down the pike.
Always seem to escape disaster by the skin of my teeth.
I take jobs, find the soft spots in the wood and just worm my way in there until the day comes when there’s no one else left who can do the sorts of things that need to get done to let the place keep on rolling.
But still.
I’m in my mid-fifties now.
Employers don’t like the old folks.
And I’ve definitely crossed the wrong side of youth.
I may be the luckiest bastard to come down the pike, but even my luck will run out one of these days.
You have to live in the rarefied airs of the C-suite to get the gift of luck with no expiration date.
Way less than one percent of us wind up there.
The rest of us spend our time hanging on as long as we can, bobbing and weaving, avoiding the knockout punch as long as we can, avoiding the phone call telling us we’re done.
So I’m not done yet.
Lucky as it gets.
And with four days off, to boot.
The kids better brace themselves for an old man sitting on their porch and singing his heart out.
