Disgrunt Work

I stopped reading the news a few months ago. Or was it years ago? Since turning off the ticker and ignoring any flashing red lights, I’ve lost track of time. In doing so, I’ve come to appreciate the inner-workings of the inner working world, noticing precisely what makes people tick. Unlike intricately designed Swiss clocks, what makes people tick are not the finely tuned mechanisms in place to keep accurate time. But rather, something far different and much less prone to rust.

People gravitate towards less consistent measurements, ones that aren’t as easily repaired with cruise and tiny instruments airmailed from your friend in Bern. Anger, rage, and resentment are powerful fuels. Much more readily available than love, joy, and enthusiasm. With everyone still at home, it’s harder to separate the wheat from the chaff. Or as I like to say, the gruntled from the disgruntled. 

In an office, you can always spy a disgruntled employee, practically living in the copy room, hunched over, searching for menial tasks to do. Anything that will keep them away from their desk and on a semi-permanent road trip, wandering the halls, away from supervisors and HR. The disgruntled are the mutterers, the sighers, the people who always have a pile of oft-squeezed stress balls nearing the point of explosion. 

Turning someone disgruntled into a member of the gruntled class is no easy mission. Gruntled people, while rarer, stand out even more. They are the ones who sing show tunes into the staplers, willingly share personal details, and choose to socialize with colleagues after work, or even after they’ve left the company for good. The trouble with the gruntled, is that in our heavily medicated society, many of the telltales are used to diagnose underlying mental illnesses. Who even uses a stapler these days, let along belts out a few bars from Annie into one?  

Being a manager is mostly about keeping your disgruntled employees at bay, and not letting them influence the gruntled hordes sashaying through your halls cool and carefree despite it all. Think you can handle that? 

Walking On Eggshells

At the outset of my career, I thought walking on eggshells was part of the gig. You strip down to your bare feet, placing your socks and shoes in a safe place, and hit the warpath. The thinking was that it’s far easier to traverse eggshells without the poundage of an industrial clodhopper. The point, after all, was not to pound the shells into dust.

Or so I thought. Whenever I landed a new job, I was careful not to ruffle any feathers either. But the more I analyzed the situation, the more I found myself wondering if the same superiors minding their own feathers had once been in the very eggs I was doing my darndest to keep intact. That’d really be something, huh? Either you’re going to carefully walk on eggshells or avoid ruffling feathers. But you can’t do both.

So instead of worrying about cracking eggs, why not accept that no chicken every entered the world through a seamless, eggless process? None of them walked out sans shell. Then how did we get this scared in the business world? Many a southern mansion use clamshells to line their winding garden paths. Would we throw a conniption upon discovery of a quail egg or two whenever a bivalve proved too brittle for the job? I hope not. 

I’m tired of it. Tired of the smell. Tired of picking eggshells out of my nail bed. Then picking nails out of my real bed. What was once a joy is now a chore. Why not bring up those forbidden subjects, picking at them like a hardboiled enthusiast? 

I’ve re-laced my Timberlands, shined and waxed them, fully committed to walking on eggshells with some gusto. You end up cracking them either way – shoe or no shoe. The purpose of any job is not to impress the higher-ups with your diligence and work ethic. It’s to gather up enough eggs for an impromptu quiche, a haphazard frittata, or the bit and pieces for a quick Benedict without the help of hollandaise. 

At lease employers haven’t switched eggshells for hot coals yet. But come winter, you watch. 

Redaction Sauce

From the pantry of Googlielmo Macaroni, this recipe was discovered during the foreclosure process. These sheets, stained with everything you’d find in a kitchen, plus several things you’d hope to never find, were brought back to life through forensic archaeologists working for clams. Not clams as in money, but clams. As in cherrystones, little necks, steamers. You name it, they consumed it - with lemon.

1 ream of top-secret government documents

1 cup of black ink

½ cup of balsamic vinegar

1 black Sharpie^®                

½ cup of melted butter

1 metal ruler

1 bottle of dry white wine

1 teaspoon of tarragon or rosemary

Choose the most important sections of your trove to redact first. This way, should any investigators barge in while you’re preparing things, the really seedy stuff will be safe. This could take hours or even days to sift through. But anything with “torture” in the subject line or “potentially criminal” ought to raise any alarm bells. Remember, you’re not only saving your own skin (for my chicharron recipe see page 37) but anyone else who may one day find themselves in a similar predicament. 

As a rule of thumb, cross out any name of a person you like. Vendettas can be exacted through leaving your enemies names visible. However, should they decide to testify against in a plea deal, watch out. Resist the impulse to sign your work at the end of it. This isn’t school and you’ll only be graded poorly for leaving evidence in. Showing your work is not rewarded. 

The ruler is for making clear black rectangles. Blobs, though serviceable, don’t have the same cache as an angular box running its way down a sheet of war crimes.  

The wine is for you. I’ve found from personal experience that felonies are complemented by a chilled Sancerre. 

Variations:

If this is too much work or if you’re worried about future prosecution, a paper shredder usually gets the job done. However, there are people whose entire job is to put the pieces together. 

 

Get an empty oil drum and start a sizable, contained fire to burn your documents. Don’t stand too close and always do this one outdoors. Be mindful of forest fire risk. You have enough crimes on your plate as it is.

The Road to Surfdom

With a streak of sunscreen running down the bridge of their nose and a hemp bracelet given to them by a childhood sweetheart, surfing, and thus, surfers, have taken the summer Olympics by storm. Oddly, it’s all happening in an even year. So much for consistency. It’s no wonder they rely on a board. 

Many followers of the games are enthused now that a new sport has been added to the ledger. Not me though. Surfing, when done on the sea, requires a strange brew of skill, stupidity, and dumb luck – emphasis on dumb. Plus, the athletes aren’t the ones who create the waves, what produces the environment to surf in the first place. Whether you believe it has to do with our moon’s sordid relationship with tides or the fickleness of Poseidon, one thing is clear. It has very little to do with the sunbaked surfer climbing aboard his sheet of fiberglass to catch some serious air. These cowabunga cowboys aren’t the makers of their own destiny – they rely on others to do so. 

But where’s the fresh set of medals to hang proudly around Poseidon’s trident? Where’s the official Olympic plaque headed to the Sea of Tranquility on a space vessel? Not happening. We’re lauding the surfers, the least interesting part of this dynamic struggle between man, nature, and the gods. 

The other glaring issue, as blinding as the sun’s reflection in a pair of newly minted shades, is that surfing as we know it, isn’t even the most interesting type of surfing. 

There’s couch surfing. The practice of living beyond your means through leeching off friends and strangers alike. It requires a flexible back, fungible bank account, and a soul devoid of shame. If that doesn’t describe an athlete, what does? 

Car surfing is a low IQ, high intensity workout that requires neither auto insurance nor a driver’s license. The wherewithal to climb onto someone’s hood for an open-air cruise is the only thing standing between you and asphalt. 

Yet a single type of surfing stands well above everything that came before it. Channel surfing. For a brief, idyllic time in the late 90s, channel surfing, more than even typing, showed a person’s manual dexterity and digital manipulation. Channel surfing surged as our national pastime during this period of sudden prosperity, reaching its creative zenith during the ascendancy of satellite dishes and cable television. The end of history proved to be the beginning of relaxation. To think, an entire generation of children raised on Netflix and Hulu have no idea what it took to channel surf. They will never know what it’s like to turn on the TV with no idea of what to watch and yet, find an 80s bildungsroman or an obscure game show in need of an audience. Today, they go into evening knowing exactly what they are going to watch. It’s the difference between the painful repetition of stand-up comedy and the high-wire intensity of improv.

If I turned on my TV and saw an arena full of sweat-stained popcorn-chomping channel surfers holding onto a universal remote like a pilot toggles his trusty joystick, I can guarantee you one thing – I’m not changing the channel anytime soon. 

The Chalk of the Town

CEMENT
Washingstone, DC

In early June, the President and his cabinet were stuck in a meeting, mired in minutia, arguing about policy deep into the night. It seemed there was a natural divide within the administration. Some members were pushing hard, based on security concerns, to dig a trench along the town’s northern limits. The so-called upper diamond. Wouldn’t DC be better as an island with a regal moat and stronger fortifications? Maybe, thought the president. But who’s going to pay for the thing.

    After hours of getting nowhere, the janitor walked in with a blackboard pilfered from a nearby elementary school and ran his fingernails across it forty-six times – in honor of the POTUS, of course. 

    Everyone stopped arguing for a second. A few began shrieking. One person, the deputy joint chiefs of staff curled up in the fetal position and began sucking on both thumbs. 

    Pretty soon, a deal was struck. A classic DC compromise. Instead of turning the nation’s capital into an island, they’d connect it to the mainland by paving over the Potomac and Anacostia rivers, filling in both waterways with chalk. 

    And who ever said politics were boring? Plus, there are rumblings the President is going to make the janitor his new National Security Advisor. 

-Rachel Lyme

 

OUTLINE DEPT.

Figures of Streets

I never know where to stand at a crime scene. However, I know enough to know not to touch anything. While significantly scarier for the neighborhood, I much prefer outdoor crime scenes to ones relegated to a basement or hallway. Very few homes can handle the volume of people during a major investigation. There’s no soundstage or table of pizza bagels and hot coffee just behind a thick black curtain. Outside, things are a little more casual. There it’s always easy to find a place to stand. I usually pick a tree to wait and watch. 

    On my latest short-lived tree lean, I met Whitey. He was hunched over on the ground outlining a few shell casings. I’d never seen anyone draw a perfect circle without the use of instruments.

    “Some people are just born to free hand.” 

    Whitey’s father worked in the property room at the 114^th precinct. As a kid, he’d tag along and outline the bodies, though sometimes of people who were still ticking.

    “I remember one guy woke up and gave me a real talking to. I started to check their pulses after that. It’s made a big difference. Occasionally, I get complaints from family members that want them to look svelter than they were in real life, but look, I’m not an artist. This isn’t up for interpretation. I don't make the rules or the waistlines.”

-Jill Lepourus

 

OLD SCHOOL

Grounded Play

Playgrounds are brutal places. Like prison yards, which some of them resemble, whether consciously or not. What elementary school kid needs free weights? In some ways, bullying has never been easier – you have social media platforms, cell phones, modern technology that, when used by a resourceful kid, collapses any sense of privacy the picked-on ever had. In other ways, bullying has never been harder – you have anti-bullying campaigns, security cameras, evidence up the wazoo of any misdeed. To many former bullies, it’s not worth it. It pays to be nicer.

    But not to all. One such bully, who requested anonymity, has found a way around it. A loophole, as he calls it.

    “I never text. My phone is for emergencies only.”

    What does he do? 

    “I write the most vile, repulsive and mean-spirited things on the playground.”

    How does he get away with it?

    “I use chalk. It’s great. I write with my non-dominant hand so there’s no possibility of handwriting analysis. Once it rains, the whole thing gets washed away. Like it never even happened.” 

    “Aren’t you worried some of your targets will read this and put two and two together?”

    “Not yet.” 

-John Searock 

 

PARALLEL CONSTRUCTION

The Job Calcite

There are few New York institutions I know less about than construction. I know, for instance, that they don’t use Legos, that the process is remarkably dangerous, and most enjoy eating lunch sitting directly on the sidewalk versus on at a table with fine silverware and pressed linens. I never considered how buildings got made, just that they were made. I don’t look up, okay?

    In this case, I looked down and saw a group of construction workers gathered in a circle taking bong rips. I overhead something about “time and a half” but couldn’t make out the rest. They said I would get a kick out of their materials. Instead of using brick, they were using chalk, something from the Victorian era. I doubted the sturdiness of it, but what the hell did I know?

    They told me not to worry. One of the guys was overcome with a cannabis-related coughing fit and I took that as my cue to leave.

-Roz Dust

 

SEDIMENTARY LIFESTYLE

Spalding White

It’s not every day you get a hermit living on a chalky sea stack in the English Channel to meet you for coffee in the East Village. But that’s exactly what happened to me. Cliff is doing a one-man show, which premiered on the Isle of Wight, entitled, “Chalk Talk.” 

    When I met Cliff, he insisted on being called “Guillaume” since his sea stack is “basically France.” It’s not, but I humored him first, needled him later. 

    I wanted to learn more about the show itself. He barely said a word to me, saying, you’ll have to see the show. When I tried to explain that by doing press, he might get people to attend the performance who might otherwise skip it, he appeared unmoved.

    “I’m not performing for them. I perform for me.” 

    Later, I discovered that the whole run was cancelled, with Bill hopping on the first transatlantic ship out of the country. Still not sure what to chalk his cold feet up to. Maybe all that salt water finally got to him.

-Doreen Flint Felix

            

Ease His Pane

From the safety of his asbestos-riddled walkup, Felix Arthur would listen to his police scanner. It was always on during dinner, the way some people tuned into classical music or jazz on the radio, playing familiar tunes to accompany the simmering of a slow cooking sauce. He’d take notes, scribbling shorthand whenever certain words came up over the airwaves. Words like “filth,” “dirt,” and “grime.” He wasn’t listening for new cases or an especially violent madman on the loose. He wanted to know how clean other parts of the city were as compared to his patch of pristine pavement. Cops made lots of judgments while walking the beat and this was no different. They'd walk through some debris and comment on it. Then he'd go there, documenting it, so all could see it without the smell. 

Arthur had a sixth sense for filth. He could be in a packed room with drunken partygoers and the memorable odor of soft cheese wafting through the corridors, and still, within a few seconds he'd know exactly who had and hadn’t showered in the last 36 hours. Turning up his nose wasn’t even a part of the process. 

He realized early on that to get close to the crummiest spots in the city, it was important not to arouse suspicions with the locals. So, along with his camera, he’d carry a window squeegee, as if he were an itinerant window washer, looking for smudged glass no matter the obstacle.   

That’s when he started going by Sqweegee, grime scene photographer par excellence. It was amazing how close he could get to a pile of garbage – or worse.  

But Sqweegee’s days are numbered. Now everyone is into hygiene and self-care, suddenly conscious of their bodies, washing their hands every few hours. In the old days, the only thing people washed were their vintage cars, kept under a dusty sheet in the garage.

 

So go ahead, clean up the city. Just think about what you’re losing. 

The Western Cannon

What are we supposed to do with books that have defined our civilization for centuries but through many faults of their own fallen out of favor? It’s a good question, one best left to ponder over toast and orange juice at a breakfast table or nook. In other words, in your own home, far from the wandering eyes of a public with countless scores to settle, beefs as it were. But steak is not on the menu this morning.

The thing is, we’re not meant to keep reading these classics, pretending like nothing’s changed. How can a person in good conscience read The Divine Comedy without acknowledging how netherworlds have adversely affected the climate? You can either have the nine circles of Hell or you can have criminal justice reform – but you can’t have both. You can’t exuberantly cheer the removal of fingernails from Ostrogoth leaders for all of eternity and also remain cautiously optimistic that compassion will replace punishment as a hallmark of modern society. This mind you, is just Dante. Imagine what happens when I get to the others. 

Something must be done. The problem with book burnings is that they have too many ugly connotations (not to mention the fumes). Plus, it takes so long to get going and there’s no big moment like during a sporting event. Whoever’s in charge lets you know when the last book has been turned to ash and everybody quietly gets up and goes home. This act of supreme sublimation deserves a little flare, no? 

Indeed it does. In my canon studies, I have come across many cannons that go unnoticed and unloved by a citizenry preoccupied with shinier devices. These traditional forms of persuasion are found in cemeteries and national parks, lonely from disuse, ignored by people who’ve forgotten the joy of lighting a match. 

It’s why I’m encouraging their refurbishment for a good cause. Aiming west, towards the sunset, I’d like to see the great books of literature shot towards the sun. Is 93 million miles a little far fro the average cannon? Probably. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try. Do it over a body of water if you’re concerned about fallout or fire.  

This is a statement. This is where old books go to die. Don’t wait too long to get started. The sun won't be around forever.