Dream Theater: Heavy Hitters

Photo from nkcpa.com

I had a new job, working for the biggest asshole in the company.

Each week, on Friday at 4:30, he'd scheduled a regular meeting for his entire team. Of course, attendance was mandatory.

It was Friday, 4:25, and I had no idea where the meeting was actually taking place.

A lot of people were already leaving for the weekend, but his admins were still at their desks, beaten-down looks on their faces. None of them knew where he was or where the meeting was happening.

But somehow, with just seconds to spare, I found the room and walked in.

Everyone around the table is a heavy hitter. Charlize Theron. Ben Affleck. Viola Davis. Javier Bardem. 

And as I take a seat I think to myself, "Is this a new job, or a movie about a new job?"

My boss--our boss--is someone I've never seen before. I look at the serious faces surrounding me and decide to take the bull by the horns. I launch into a speech.

"I believe in treating people with kindness and respect," I say, hoping to nip in the bud any problems with this guy or my coworkers. "And if they don't do the same to me, it's always because of one reason: fear."

Some of them shift in their chairs. Maybe they're surprised, or interested, or uncomfortable. 

"I know what I can do, and I know what it's worth," I tell them. 

"And I always know where I can find another place to do it."

Dream Theater: John Oates LIVE! in Concert

Photo from AspenTimes.com

A group of us were going to see John Oates perform in Chicago. I didn't know any of them. We'd won the tickets through a sweepstakes or something. 

John wasn't appearing with Darryl Hall. But he was still going to play all the hits. It was expected that the audience would sing all the vocal parts. 

We'd gathered outside the stage door, in an alley where the El tracks rumbled overhead. Everyone was dressed up for the occasion. Some in their '80s outfits, others just in nice clothes. Except for me. All I had on was a t-shirt and jeans. But that wasn't the only reason I felt self-conscious.

There were pimples all over my body. Crawling out of my shirt collar, from inside the sleeves of my shirt. The urge to pick and pop them was nearly irresistible, but there was nowhere private I could go. We were waiting to meet John Oates, to go backstage and spend a few minutes with him before the show.

The door opened and everyone rushed to get inside. But I hung back. I didn't want John Oates to see me this way.

We filed into a dark space, not quite backstage, nowhere near the dressing rooms. Then John Oates appeared and a wave of excitement rippled through our little crowd. 

John shook hands and talked with everyone and smiled while they took selfies. He seemed to be enjoying himself as much as the people in our group.

Then he made an announcement. John said that unfortunately, the promoters had made a mistake. There wouldn't be enough room for all of us at the front of the stage. Someone would have to watch the show from the wings, away from the rest of our group, separate from the audience and crowds.

I raised my hand, and that seemed to settle it. Everyone else followed John to the stage. I stood watching, waiting for the show to start, deciding how long I would stay, how soon I could slip out and head back home.

 

Dream Theater: The Home of Sister Rose

Photo by carrollcountycomet.com

It was a simple proposition: one day off work at the ad agency in exchange for one day volunteering at the place of my choice.

So I ended up at a convent, offering to clean the home of an elderly nun named Sister Rose, who'd been in the hospital with an unnamed illness but would be returning soon.

For years Sister Rose had lived in a run-down brick building of three or four stories--the kind of place with bodegas and no-name electronics stores on the ground floor and dark, airless apartments above.

Her home was just two rooms, one in front of the other, with an impossibly small bathroom off to the side. And as it turned out, Sister Rose was a hoarder.

In the living room, two mis-matched sofas faced each other, surrounded by stacks of books, magazines and newspapers. In the bedroom, one dresser after another lined the walls, their drawers filled with clothes and documents, their tops covered with whatever could no longer fit inside. In the bathroom, green mold covered the tub, the toilet and the front of the sink. 

I looked around, trying to figure out where to start and how to finish the job in a single day. That's when I realized the sofas were classic mid-century designs. The dressers were by Heywood-Wakefield, Kent Coffey, Lane and Paul McCobb, each worth thousands of dollars.

Somehow, Sister Rose had amassed a small fortune in modern furniture, all of it donated to the convent over the years. 

That's when Mother Superior Justine arrived to check on my progress. She was younger than I expected, with a stern, thin face that peered at me from within the folds of her black habit. 

I tried to explain what I'd found--how valuable the furniture was, how much Sister Rose had collected, and finally, how it would be impossible for me to complete the work.

She said nothing, but her withering look told me she'd seen this all before. I wasn't the first ad agency person who'd come here hoping for an easy day outside the office.  

Dream Theater: My Pet Elephant

 

Photo from AnimalAreas.com

In the beginning he was cute, the way all baby things are. Stumbling uncertainly on his little feet. Exploring everything with the tip of his trunk. Naturally I fell in love.

I brought him home to a one-bedroom apartment and did my best to make him comfortable. I put a bed in one corner of the living room, with hay on the floor, and peanuts in the shell, and a water bowl big as a bathroom sink.

Nothing he did was small. There was no such thing as a minor puddle or pile in the house. Things were often knocked over and broken. The neighbors complained about the noise and smell. But he was mine and I was his, and I wanted to make this work. 

Of course he grew. As he did, so did the problems. For a while I tried to hide them, and hide from them. I said things like "It's not that bad" and "Eventually he'll learn." I promised that we'd both be better. 

But then I realized that he'd become too big. Too big to move from room to room, or down the hall and out of the front door. He was stuck. We both were.

Dream Theater: An Understandable Choice

Photo from LATimes.com

Greta Thunberg had started smoking. 

Everywhere she went. Each time she appeared. It didn't matter if it was allowed or not.

This was her new protest against continued inaction on climate change.

And a way of saying she no longer had a future.

Dream Theater: Let's Play Soap Opera

Photo from STLToday.com

I moved to St. Louis with nothing but my bicycle. Because I'd been in Chicago far too long. Because I wanted an adventure. Because I thought I could handle it.

I found a room in a house with a bunch of other people. A single mother in her twenties. A bored gay couple close to my age. An older woman. And two mean cats.

They liked to drink and play a game called Soap Opera, which consisted of them saying the most cruel and hateful things to each other. Some were true, others weren't. Sometimes their angry fights were genuine, sometimes they were just pretending. I was never quite sure when they were playing the game.

St. Louis was lonely, even for a staunch introvert like me. These were the only people I knew in the entire city, so I did my best to fit in.

One evening, just a few weeks after I moved in, the outrage and shouting drove me out of the house. Everyone thought this was hilarious. I got on my bike and left.

But of course I didn't know my way around. I passed a grocery store, a series of small office buildings, and a shopping center with fast-food restaurants I didn't recognize. Eventually I found myself at the riverfront, wondering what I was going to do.

I could go back to the house and stay in my room as much as possible. I could find some sort of a job and save my money. I could find a new place to live and start over yet again.

Or I could go back to Chicago.

So I started to pedal, knowing only that I needed to head north. I'd been in St. Louis long enough. It would be an adventure. I thought I could handle it.

Dream Theater: Visiting the S____ Family

Photo from MrTreeServices.com

I rode my bike to to the S____'s. They'd moved since the last time I'd seen them, and were living in a big bungalow-style home on a corner lot with a big tree in the front yard.

Their daughter J____ was there, looking down onto the street from a treehouse high above. She was so much older than the last time I'd seen her.

G____ was sitting on the porch, reading a book and drinking coffee. She saw me as I rolled into view, and greeted me with a look that said there was no point in walking up the stairs and saying hello.

M____ was nearby, sitting with a group of their new neighbors, so engaged in conversation with them that he didn't even notice me.

I wondered why I'd made the trip, and what I'd hoped to accomplish with such a sudden appearance.