A Tragedy of Errors

I’m rusty…bare with me…

They say writers write (I’ve no idea who “they” is, but they seem to be well-informed). Finding the motivation can be difficult. My “muse” (the inclination to write) comes and goes as she pleases. Like the maid you’re sleeping with who forgets that you’re paying her to scrub your toilet (the maid is the metaphor, not the toilet). When in tune the words can pour down onto the page in a euphoric maelstrom taking no time, consuming little effort. When belabored, the writing experience is akin to that of scrubbing your own toilet (again, not a metaphor) taking considerable time and considerable effort; resulting in a good deal of shit.  I have many such bits stock-piled, which I haven’t the courage to share and you haven’t the constitution to read. Often, I sit and wait for a literary desire, then when context, situation, and theme present, I exploit them…much like I would the maid.

If “Comedy” left a train station at 9:00 am traveling 80 miles and hour and “Tragedy” left an opposing station at 10:30 am traveling 160 miles an hour, they would smash together amongst a poetic heap of squealing metaphors and twisted analogies. The literal carnage would represent my impetus for writing. I am clever and able to view the world with a sense of humor, but I have an understanding of life’s difficulties (which I feel I’ve earned). While I may feign optimism (for practical reasons), I embody pessimism (for ideological ones). That is the reason I write what I write and I read what I read. “Angels and Demons” is blockbuster fiction spurred by creative genius, exceptional foreshadowing, and a dramatic climax. I received it as a gift and finished it as a favor. Vonnegut survived an entire day in a concrete meat-locker while The Allies bombed Dresden killing over 250,000 innocent people. He later wrote a satirical novel about it. Critics dubbed it “Black Satire.” I’ve read it 4 times.

That’s why when a sequence of events so disheartening, so frustrating, and so depressing occurs, I’m forced to acknowledge the absurdity, the melancholy, and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. That my friend is when my muse barges through my door, punches me squarely in the groin, stomps on my chest…and waves an indignant finger in demanding I put something on paper…

When you’re young you have big birthday parties and when you’re old you have small birthday parties. Kipp’s birthday party on Saturday was “kinda’ small”. My next birthday party will be “kinda’ small” too. A select few of The Team went to the new Boston Pizza on the east end of Saskatoon. I ended my night early, being of tempered demeanor and limited energies (I was tired and boring). On the way home I drove through Tim Horton’s in order to use the two “Roll Up The Rim To Win” tickets I’d amassed. I presented the tokens to which the attendant turned and shouted “We have a winner!” This coerced an orchestrated response from all of her peers, “Haaay!” Had I known they were going to do this I’d have driven through twice (once for each winning ticket). In any case, I sped off to bed not realizing that somewhere, somehow, I’d lost the plastic clip that serves as my wallet…

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I keep only what items I absolutely require in that plastic clip. As such, I hadn’t lost my health or social insurance cards. They are, along with my passport and birth certificate, in a safety deposit box in Kindersley to which Patsy and I each have a key (I’ve subsequently lost mine). Rosetown (where I now work) does not have a CIBC so I would have to wait until Saturday to replace my debit card. I had enough cash at home to get me to the weekend. The one exception was that I didn’t have enough money to fuel my truck for the commute through the week. I explained the situation to Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler), who cheerfully volunteered, “You’re going to have a hard time getting to work.”

On Sunday, I used what immediate wealth I possessed to put enough fuel in my truck to get me to a community consultation in Biggar on Tuesday.

Monday came and went like the twenty year old drunken tart who calls 25 times in the middle of the night then show’s up at your condo throwing shoes at your bedroom window and ringing random buzzers until you finally escape the Sandmans grip and answer the door.  That is to say, on the drive home from work Monday I realized that I’d left my truck keys in Rosetown.  I informed Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) of both the tart and the truck keys, to which she efficiently responded, “You’re living a life of sloppiness.”  I’m quoting.

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I’d always kept a spare key in my office, which was Kindersley, but is now Rosetown. I keep another key in my laptop bag, which I almost always carry on my person, but that day I’d left in my office in Rosetown. My third key (the key I actually use) was on the keychain that was attached to the lanyard that was swinging back and forth from my office doorknob in Rosetown. Chelsea’s (my sarcastic carpooler) voice pitched as she offered through judging eyes and a murderous smile, “Waaaant me to turn around?” Out of morbid curiosity, I leaped into her cauldron of boiling mockery, “Yes, please.” Her voice reached a crescendo as she cheered, “Weellll I’mmmm nottttt gonnnnnna’!!!!” Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) is a sadist.

I’d been in tight situations before; poor, lost, over-worked, depressed, belligerent, heartbroken (all at once I think even). I was confident I could problem-solve my way out of this. I’d simply borrow a car for the trip to Biggar on Tuesday. Then I could ride with Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) back to Rosetown on Wednesday to get my keys.

While walking through the parking lot I past my (inaccessible -> locked) truck and surveyed the pile of easels, flip-charts, and supplies scattered about the back seat. Supplies that would be very helpful in facilitating a community consultation in Biggar on a Tuesday…

When an individual becomes impoverished, it’s often determined that no single failure was the cause. It’s usually a cascading chain of cause-effect deficiencies the cumulative result of which produces a broken, homeless, spiritless man living in a box near the ally of 441 4th Avenue North, Saskatoon. My future played out in my head. I’d be absent from the community consultation. I’d be unavailable to answer questions concerning the error-ridden information package I’d assembled. My CEO would appear a buffoon. She would fire me. I’d have no choice but to abandon my condo. Depression would set in. I’d become destitute, and so on, and so forth…until I’d eventually be forced to date women my own age.

Perhaps, at this juncture, its worth having a summary look at the situation. It was approaching 7:00 pm Monday evening. I had no wallet. I had no more cash. I had no vehicle. I was in a new job and the materials I required for an important out-of-town meeting the next day were locked in my truck. I called Patsy. Here is the allure that is my mother. She did not judge, nor did she lament. She simply asked a question; a question she didn’t even bother to ask of me. She queried up into the air as if to herself, “How are we going to do this?”

Patsy drove her spare car to the city. I drove Patsy back out to Warmen. Patsy gave me $100.00 which I email transferred back to her (since I could still do that). I paid a locksmith and his sidekick (loosely approximating Bilbo and Gollum) to unlock my truck so I could retrieve my supplies. Interestingly, at no point in Bilbo’s thirty minute visit to my back alley in the dead of night did he stop to consider whether or not this was, in fact, my truck. He simply unlocked it obediently while Gollum held the flashlight and coughed away his remaining lung. This isn’t the Shire anymore. I digress. I had everything I needed to ensure my life didn’t stagger into complete ruin.

The rest of the week transpired in reassuringly typical fashion. I retrieved my truck keys and replaced my wallet. Crisis, severe as it were, averted. My own little Dresden.

We are who we are and to a certain extent the qualities that define us will always be. I’m not saying our faults give us license to act like complete nincompoops. I’m saying that no matter how hard we try to manage away the particulars of our shortcomings, they are still very much a part of who we are. I could consciously acknowledge where I set my money-clip, I could hide spare keys in more opportune places, and I could employ safety deposit boxes to no end; however, from time to time I will still find myself near wretchedness and in need of some assistance. In profoundly more complicated contexts, “near wretchedness” becomes less metaphorical and unsettlingly more real.

Everyone who knows me knows how I am, and those individuals fall squarely into one of three categories. There are those who resent me for it, there are those who tolerate me in spite of it, and then there are a few who accept it willingly in trade for all the other things that make me awesome (ok…debateable).  That’s the measuring stick by which I define my friendships.