One summer night Gina and her husband, while their kids were sleeping, drove to the Taylor Airport. It was a single landing strip in a pasture next to a gray steel building and a few scattered hangars for the ranchers' planes. Hank cut the lights and parked behind one of the hangars, and Gina looked back to see if there were any car lights on the county road, anyone who could have seen them go in. All she saw were the blank outlines of the mountains against the night sky.
The landing strip was butter smooth, out of place compared to the dirt roads they took to get there. They lay down in the exact middle of the strip, head to head. Gina's feet pointed towards the west, Hank's to the east. Their shoulders were each other's pillows. The stars were brutally bright, almost blinding. On her back, her cheek nuzzling Hank's, the only thing in Gina's field of vision was the sky and the blinking tower light that functioned to signal planes. She had the sudden urge to take all of her clothes off.
It felt as if the earth were pulling her down and the stars were pulling her up. Floating. She touched the asphalt with her palms to anchor herself. Hank began murmuring about the days before the kids were born and reached back to cup her face in his hand.
They left the landing strip to have sex in the grass next to the car. Gina got earth and grass in her fingernails.
Gina was reminded of the time she posted an ad to Craig's list that her dog and her children were for sale and that all reasonable offers would be considered. She had stopped to post it in the middle of cleaning the downstairs bathroom, while they still lived in the city.
They saw headlights and heard a car passing in the distance. Hank helped her put her shirt back on and she leaned into his hug as they pressed themselves against the building and giggled. The car passed and they returned to their position on the landing strip, feeling the pull of the stars until they were ready to return home.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Beginning for Gina Frye
Gina Frye showed up to her second day of work with a black eye and an angry red scratch on her face.
Taylor was one of those mountain towns you could walk from one end to the other in twenty minutes. Gina left work late to walk Second Street, to feel the mountains all around and hear the few cars on Main mixed with the sound of geese landing on the river. The sun had just set and it smelled cold, like the first wet snow of the season was thinking about showing up. No skiing within a hundred miles, so the tourists here rested in cheap motels between destinations.
The quiet heightened Gina's senses and put her on edge. Last week she'd left her job in Denver and moved her husband and two kids to Taylor to become the City Manager. Downtown Denver was a comfort, and you walked noise-wrapped most hours of the day, a cop on every corner. Taylor blanketed her in a silence enhanced by small sounds. The crunch of her boots on crushed gravel, the sounds of the bar on Second on a Tuesday night. She heard a car door slam and glanced back in the dusk, watched a woman carrying groceries disappear into a tiny home.
Gina smelled beer and turned, and saw a man lurch out the back door of the Second Street bar into the alley directly in her path. He wasn't tall, but he was solid and suddenly the bar noises seemed to drown out every other noise. She glanced to the back door of the bar, shut tight against the cold. Gina took her hands out of her pockets and stepped to the right, meaning to walk around him, and she saw his eyes snap to her face, saw the sneer.
He unbuckled his belt and slid it off through his belt loops. "Hey, come here," he said, and it was like one of those movies playing in her head where she knew he was thinking it would be over quick if she didn't struggle.
She felt sorry for him.
He held the belt in his right hand and reached for her with his left, but she moved towards him, into the smell, and yanked the belt from him. She held the leather with both hands and struck him in the face with buckle.
He stumbled and went low knocking her to the ground. She brought her knees and elbows in. He punched her face, twice, two quick blows that cut out all noise. Everything went dark except for his sneer and she noticed he was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt with no coat. She pushed out with her knees and hit the drunk in his sternum. He fell back and she extended her leg, kicking his face, hard. She broke his nose and blood exploded.
She jumped up and wrapped the belt around his neck, sliding the leather through the buckle tight. She backed up to a dumpster, dragging him by the belt, by his throat. Blood seeped into his shirt, his pants, and he stumbled up once but she had him off-balance and he fell backwards. She hung the belt leather by a buckle hole onto a bolt on the dumpster lid, and he hung there a little, choking. After he blacked out she found an old furniture mover's blanket in the weeds next to the dumpster, sticky with mud. The blanket covered him up to his neck. She took the belt off the screw and let him slump to the ground, then she loosened the buckle around his neck.
Adrenaline was coursing through her, loud in her ears. She turned and scratched her face on the screw, ripping a gash near her bruised eye. She walked into the bar and used her cell to call the sheriff, then she called her husband.
The drunk was identified, a man from Kansas on a motorcycle trip to California, fresh from losing his job and a domestic violence conviction. She felt relief at that, as if it wasn't Taylor itself attacking her but some distant, freak event that wasn't likely to happen again.
In the coming years Taylor's brutality would manifest in more subtle ways.
Taylor was one of those mountain towns you could walk from one end to the other in twenty minutes. Gina left work late to walk Second Street, to feel the mountains all around and hear the few cars on Main mixed with the sound of geese landing on the river. The sun had just set and it smelled cold, like the first wet snow of the season was thinking about showing up. No skiing within a hundred miles, so the tourists here rested in cheap motels between destinations.
The quiet heightened Gina's senses and put her on edge. Last week she'd left her job in Denver and moved her husband and two kids to Taylor to become the City Manager. Downtown Denver was a comfort, and you walked noise-wrapped most hours of the day, a cop on every corner. Taylor blanketed her in a silence enhanced by small sounds. The crunch of her boots on crushed gravel, the sounds of the bar on Second on a Tuesday night. She heard a car door slam and glanced back in the dusk, watched a woman carrying groceries disappear into a tiny home.
Gina smelled beer and turned, and saw a man lurch out the back door of the Second Street bar into the alley directly in her path. He wasn't tall, but he was solid and suddenly the bar noises seemed to drown out every other noise. She glanced to the back door of the bar, shut tight against the cold. Gina took her hands out of her pockets and stepped to the right, meaning to walk around him, and she saw his eyes snap to her face, saw the sneer.
He unbuckled his belt and slid it off through his belt loops. "Hey, come here," he said, and it was like one of those movies playing in her head where she knew he was thinking it would be over quick if she didn't struggle.
She felt sorry for him.
He held the belt in his right hand and reached for her with his left, but she moved towards him, into the smell, and yanked the belt from him. She held the leather with both hands and struck him in the face with buckle.
He stumbled and went low knocking her to the ground. She brought her knees and elbows in. He punched her face, twice, two quick blows that cut out all noise. Everything went dark except for his sneer and she noticed he was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt with no coat. She pushed out with her knees and hit the drunk in his sternum. He fell back and she extended her leg, kicking his face, hard. She broke his nose and blood exploded.
She jumped up and wrapped the belt around his neck, sliding the leather through the buckle tight. She backed up to a dumpster, dragging him by the belt, by his throat. Blood seeped into his shirt, his pants, and he stumbled up once but she had him off-balance and he fell backwards. She hung the belt leather by a buckle hole onto a bolt on the dumpster lid, and he hung there a little, choking. After he blacked out she found an old furniture mover's blanket in the weeds next to the dumpster, sticky with mud. The blanket covered him up to his neck. She took the belt off the screw and let him slump to the ground, then she loosened the buckle around his neck.
Adrenaline was coursing through her, loud in her ears. She turned and scratched her face on the screw, ripping a gash near her bruised eye. She walked into the bar and used her cell to call the sheriff, then she called her husband.
The drunk was identified, a man from Kansas on a motorcycle trip to California, fresh from losing his job and a domestic violence conviction. She felt relief at that, as if it wasn't Taylor itself attacking her but some distant, freak event that wasn't likely to happen again.
In the coming years Taylor's brutality would manifest in more subtle ways.
Monday, October 14, 2013
The Place I Never Leave
One photograph, ten years old, of my law enforcement training class.
One Leadership Award, ten years old.
Photographs of my children and my husband.
Photographs of my parents and my sister.
One photo of my niece.
A Goonies screensaver.
A 2013 twelve month wall calendar.
Two lamps with lights softer than florescent.
One round table in the corner. Four gray chairs.
Three bookcases. Thirty four binders.
A footstool where I rest my feet when I wear heels.
A painting that looks like a scene through a window.
No windows.
An Our Lady of Guadalupe coin I ordered from an online Catholic superstore.
A laminated card with a prayer, saved from the funeral of a coworker's parent.
A GirlFight poster featuring Michelle Rodriguez in boxing gloves.
A filing cabinet.
A drawer of personnel files.
One file of documentation supporting demotion of an employee.
One file of documentation supporting a corrective action of an employee.
A candy dish with two dusty hard candies.
An Iron Man sticker.
An 8 1/2 inch by 11 inch white paper with the words "I love u Momee happee mothers day"
"'Oh crap, was that today?': Working on a deadline" door hanger depicting two dinosaurs watching Noah's ark sail away.
One white iHome.
Three cans of soup (Hearty Tomato, Tomato and Basil, Chicken Dumpling).
One bowl, 2 cups, plastic spoons.
One Leadership Award, ten years old.
Photographs of my children and my husband.
Photographs of my parents and my sister.
One photo of my niece.
A Goonies screensaver.
A 2013 twelve month wall calendar.
Two lamps with lights softer than florescent.
One round table in the corner. Four gray chairs.
Three bookcases. Thirty four binders.
A footstool where I rest my feet when I wear heels.
A painting that looks like a scene through a window.
No windows.
An Our Lady of Guadalupe coin I ordered from an online Catholic superstore.
A laminated card with a prayer, saved from the funeral of a coworker's parent.
A GirlFight poster featuring Michelle Rodriguez in boxing gloves.
A filing cabinet.
A drawer of personnel files.
One file of documentation supporting demotion of an employee.
One file of documentation supporting a corrective action of an employee.
A candy dish with two dusty hard candies.
An Iron Man sticker.
An 8 1/2 inch by 11 inch white paper with the words "I love u Momee happee mothers day"
"'Oh crap, was that today?': Working on a deadline" door hanger depicting two dinosaurs watching Noah's ark sail away.
One white iHome.
Three cans of soup (Hearty Tomato, Tomato and Basil, Chicken Dumpling).
One bowl, 2 cups, plastic spoons.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Dry Spell
Angry cleaning can
clear my head, stop the feeling
that I should stab you.
Angry writing brings
back my characteristic
poise. There's a bright side.
When I can't get laid
I have a spotless
house, a current blog.
clear my head, stop the feeling
that I should stab you.
Angry writing brings
back my characteristic
poise. There's a bright side.
When I can't get laid
I have a spotless
house, a current blog.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
I'm honestly really quite happy. Really.
The Old Man turns 38 today. Sometimes it feels like he's one of my children. Rarely, but sometimes. Last night he was mad that it takes the kids so long to fall asleep, and he was mad that they come out of their bedrooms too much after we put them to bed (water, gotta go potty, etc.) We talked about it and I finally got too tired to even think so I just went to bed. The Old Man is right, though. We spend an hour and a half putting the kids to bed and we have no time left to watch TV or to unwind. I felt like telling him that we are the adults and we don't get free time anymore and we need to suck it up, but that wouldn't have been helpful to the conversation. Plus, I didn't want to kill his crazy dream world of rainbows and unicorns and relaxing free time at night.
Next week I am working six days. Unfortunately this is semi-common for The Old Man and I, and makes life quite exhausting. My constant check is to make sure I have enough mental and physical energy set aside for my family. And enough energy set aside to recharge myself.
Right now, it's 6:55 a.m., and my little girl is playing dominoes loudly and I'm trying to write and talk to a three year old all at once.
Constant interruptions are a subtle form of torture.
The Old Man and I are going to a comedy club tonight. He's off today, and will disappear for a while to the gym and/or the knife maker show. Because he makes knives now. Talented guy with hobbies. Good for him.
Next week I am working six days. Unfortunately this is semi-common for The Old Man and I, and makes life quite exhausting. My constant check is to make sure I have enough mental and physical energy set aside for my family. And enough energy set aside to recharge myself.
Right now, it's 6:55 a.m., and my little girl is playing dominoes loudly and I'm trying to write and talk to a three year old all at once.
Constant interruptions are a subtle form of torture.
The Old Man and I are going to a comedy club tonight. He's off today, and will disappear for a while to the gym and/or the knife maker show. Because he makes knives now. Talented guy with hobbies. Good for him.
Friday, August 9, 2013
My Family. As a Unit.
One of those mornings. Nothing to wear. There are three pairs of shoes, two shirts, and four pairs of jeans strewn on my bed upstairs. I am already twenty minutes late to work.
"How do I look?" I ask. I stand in front of my husband and son with a slight protrusion in my lower lip. I sigh, with drama. They are eating eggs with salsa. My daughter is watching Rabbids Invasion on the couch.
My son, who has his shirt on backwards, asks, "What do you want to wear?"
"Jeans."
He looks at my dark wash jeans. "Check," he says. His hair is combed on the right half and sticking up on the left half of his head.
My husband is in his pajamas and doesn't have his contacts in yet, so he squints through his glasses and scratches his unshaven face. "What kind of shirt did you want to wear?" he asks.
"A t-shirt," I say, spreading my arms so that they can look at my black t-shirt.
"Check," says my son. "Necklace? Check. Earrings? Check. Shoes? Check." He shovels in the last of his eggs.
My husband comes up to me and squeezes me in interesting places. "You look fine," he says.
My son says, "You don't look too terrible."
My husband giggles. I giggle as I say goodbye to him and lead the kids out to the car. I notice for the first time that my daughter has her shoes on the wrong feet.
"Come on, Mommy Toon-Ta," she says.
"How do I look?" I ask. I stand in front of my husband and son with a slight protrusion in my lower lip. I sigh, with drama. They are eating eggs with salsa. My daughter is watching Rabbids Invasion on the couch.
My son, who has his shirt on backwards, asks, "What do you want to wear?"
"Jeans."
He looks at my dark wash jeans. "Check," he says. His hair is combed on the right half and sticking up on the left half of his head.
My husband is in his pajamas and doesn't have his contacts in yet, so he squints through his glasses and scratches his unshaven face. "What kind of shirt did you want to wear?" he asks.
"A t-shirt," I say, spreading my arms so that they can look at my black t-shirt.
"Check," says my son. "Necklace? Check. Earrings? Check. Shoes? Check." He shovels in the last of his eggs.
My husband comes up to me and squeezes me in interesting places. "You look fine," he says.
My son says, "You don't look too terrible."
My husband giggles. I giggle as I say goodbye to him and lead the kids out to the car. I notice for the first time that my daughter has her shoes on the wrong feet.
"Come on, Mommy Toon-Ta," she says.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Map Props Ma
Dear Mama
Your Hallmark cards
remind us to remember
the boulders
we climb on them and
sit awhile and hold hands
like
our anniversary
his birthday
her birthday
most of life is slimy
and fast
and full of gritty snails
and algae
but the cards
get us in the sun
on those rocks.
Seriously
I forgot about my anniversary
'til you sent me that card.
Map props. Now I have
to plan something for him.
Your Hallmark cards
remind us to remember
the boulders
we climb on them and
sit awhile and hold hands
like
our anniversary
his birthday
her birthday
most of life is slimy
and fast
and full of gritty snails
and algae
but the cards
get us in the sun
on those rocks.
Seriously
I forgot about my anniversary
'til you sent me that card.
Map props. Now I have
to plan something for him.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Left-handed Art
My sister tells me her dreams.
Dream #1: An African Warrior is living in her garage. She asks him, "Do you eat here, do you sleep here?"
Dream #2: She finds two severed arms, severed above the elbow and below the wrist. They have hanging tendons. She picks them up and finds that they are floppy and hilarious.
This is the story that came out of my brain, after she told me her dreams.
Two Sisters are walking down the street. One is dressed conservatively in sleek black and white, and she's wearing heels. The other is in earth colors, wears flip-flops, and is wearing a scarf that serves no purpose.
The two one-armed Sisters link elbows and walk into a garage. It is the Warrior's lair.
One Sister giggles.
The other frowns. She wants to scratch her nose but she can't.
The garage has throw rugs on the hard concrete. There are beautiful tribal wall hangings and a round wooden table, with three high-backed upholstered chairs. The sisters take seats across from the African Warrior.
She leans in, ten lacquered nails resting on the table.
"How do we become warriors?" the flip-flopped Colorful Sister asks.
"Fuck everyone."
"Fuck everyone?" the high-heeled Black and White Sister asks. "My boss, men, women, hermaphrodites, my husband, my girlfriend, everyone?"
"No," the Warrior says. "Fuck everyone. Their opinion of you doesn't matter."
Black and White Sister stares. "Do you realize we have two arms? Between the two of us? When we tell the stories of how we lost our arms, people form opinions of us, as if they hadn't already been thinking nasty horrible things when they see our one arms. I lost my arm in a slow-speed chase of an ice cream truck last July. My arm got stuck in the freezer in the back of the truck, and the music was so loud, the driver didn't hear, and everyone who saw me running behind the truck thought I was an overenthusiastic ice cream lover, and they thought I was screaming for ice cream, and all they did was wave at me. My sister here, she went zip-lining in South America, fell sixty feet into the waiting maw of the jungle below, and lost her arm to flesh-eating bacteria."
Black and White Sister and the African Warrior look expectantly at Colorful Sister. Colorful Sister smiles serenely and says, "I understand."
"What is it you understand? Not to go zip-lining in South America again? Not to wander into strange people's garages?" Black and White Sister is red-faced.
"Fuck everyone." Colorful Sister extricates her arm from Black and White Sister and high-fives the Warrior.
"Now we will draw severed arms, and give them personalities." The Warrior leads them to a section of the garage splattered with paint.
Black and White Sister crosses her arm. "I came for enlightenment, I came to feel better about my situation, and you want us to draw?"
Warrior and Colorful Sister kneel on the floor and begin mixing finger paints. Fleshy colors mostly.
Colorful Sister quickly sketches her arm onto the canvas and just for giggles, draws it severed at the wrist. She draws a forearm with an elbow really, and some silky tendons hanging out where the fingers should be. It is whole, beautiful, all by itself on white canvas, glowing, no hint of flesh-eating bacteria anywhere.
Black and White Sister kneels down and mixes her finger paints. She sketches a hard form, almost a 3-D boxy stick arm, with five strong fingers, all in a fist, except that the middle finger is raised high, tall and proud.
The Warrior beams.
Black and White Sister surveys her work with satisfaction. "So you eat here, in this garage?" she asks.
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to the stove in the corner.
"You sleep here?"
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to a mattress with neatly folded blankets behind a colorful hanging tapestry.
Black and White Sister looks at Colorful Sister. "I don't get your Northern Exposure, Twin Peaks, One Hundred Years of Solitude symbolic notion of life and why you dragged me here."
"Fuck you," says the Colorful Sister.
The Warrior beams.
The Sisters hug, thank the Warrior, and leave the garage, arm in arm.
Warrior's husband comes out from behind the colorful tapestry. "I'm glad they're gone. I wasn't going to get in the middle of that."
Dream #1: An African Warrior is living in her garage. She asks him, "Do you eat here, do you sleep here?"
Dream #2: She finds two severed arms, severed above the elbow and below the wrist. They have hanging tendons. She picks them up and finds that they are floppy and hilarious.
This is the story that came out of my brain, after she told me her dreams.
Two Sisters are walking down the street. One is dressed conservatively in sleek black and white, and she's wearing heels. The other is in earth colors, wears flip-flops, and is wearing a scarf that serves no purpose.
The two one-armed Sisters link elbows and walk into a garage. It is the Warrior's lair.
One Sister giggles.
The other frowns. She wants to scratch her nose but she can't.
The garage has throw rugs on the hard concrete. There are beautiful tribal wall hangings and a round wooden table, with three high-backed upholstered chairs. The sisters take seats across from the African Warrior.
She leans in, ten lacquered nails resting on the table.
"How do we become warriors?" the flip-flopped Colorful Sister asks.
"Fuck everyone."
"Fuck everyone?" the high-heeled Black and White Sister asks. "My boss, men, women, hermaphrodites, my husband, my girlfriend, everyone?"
"No," the Warrior says. "Fuck everyone. Their opinion of you doesn't matter."
Black and White Sister stares. "Do you realize we have two arms? Between the two of us? When we tell the stories of how we lost our arms, people form opinions of us, as if they hadn't already been thinking nasty horrible things when they see our one arms. I lost my arm in a slow-speed chase of an ice cream truck last July. My arm got stuck in the freezer in the back of the truck, and the music was so loud, the driver didn't hear, and everyone who saw me running behind the truck thought I was an overenthusiastic ice cream lover, and they thought I was screaming for ice cream, and all they did was wave at me. My sister here, she went zip-lining in South America, fell sixty feet into the waiting maw of the jungle below, and lost her arm to flesh-eating bacteria."
Black and White Sister and the African Warrior look expectantly at Colorful Sister. Colorful Sister smiles serenely and says, "I understand."
"What is it you understand? Not to go zip-lining in South America again? Not to wander into strange people's garages?" Black and White Sister is red-faced.
"Fuck everyone." Colorful Sister extricates her arm from Black and White Sister and high-fives the Warrior.
"Now we will draw severed arms, and give them personalities." The Warrior leads them to a section of the garage splattered with paint.
Black and White Sister crosses her arm. "I came for enlightenment, I came to feel better about my situation, and you want us to draw?"
Warrior and Colorful Sister kneel on the floor and begin mixing finger paints. Fleshy colors mostly.
Colorful Sister quickly sketches her arm onto the canvas and just for giggles, draws it severed at the wrist. She draws a forearm with an elbow really, and some silky tendons hanging out where the fingers should be. It is whole, beautiful, all by itself on white canvas, glowing, no hint of flesh-eating bacteria anywhere.
Black and White Sister kneels down and mixes her finger paints. She sketches a hard form, almost a 3-D boxy stick arm, with five strong fingers, all in a fist, except that the middle finger is raised high, tall and proud.
The Warrior beams.
Black and White Sister surveys her work with satisfaction. "So you eat here, in this garage?" she asks.
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to the stove in the corner.
"You sleep here?"
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to a mattress with neatly folded blankets behind a colorful hanging tapestry.
Black and White Sister looks at Colorful Sister. "I don't get your Northern Exposure, Twin Peaks, One Hundred Years of Solitude symbolic notion of life and why you dragged me here."
"Fuck you," says the Colorful Sister.
The Warrior beams.
The Sisters hug, thank the Warrior, and leave the garage, arm in arm.
Warrior's husband comes out from behind the colorful tapestry. "I'm glad they're gone. I wasn't going to get in the middle of that."
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Gap
You are a powerful woman. Uncompromising, strong, everything I want you to be. But you are feminine - caring, unsure, vulnerable. This tension is unique to you. Say it in your writing. Your voice is valuable. - Papa, Christmas 2007
Here are the items she brought to the meeting: pen, notebook, Droid, and water bottle. She was excellent at dissecting a conversation, especially when those in authority were pontificating. Ignoring out-loud thinking and capturing her assignments on paper was her specialty.
The other managers were there, all men smooth and leaning back casually in their leather chairs, tossing out half-formed opinions and receiving thoughtful nods from the men higher up the food chain.
Neanderthal idiot goons, she thought, keeping her ankles crossed and an attentive smile on her face.
The discussion turned to fundraising. Mike from marketing, bless his heart, spoke up first.
"Sponsorships are essential to our next five years. I cannot stress how much our financial sustainability depends on alternative funding sources in these economic times."
Jim was next.
"To build on Mike's excellent statement, I would agree and also add that we need to think outside the box."
Then Ted.
"Yes, I agree with Jim and Mike and their valuable insight. We need to think outside the box and find unconvential alternatives."
She put her pen down.
Robert said, "We'll have to train our workforce to think outside the box. They don't do that very well."
Murmers of assent flowed around the table like the wave at a baseball game. There was a high five at the other end of the table.
She couldn't stand it anymore. She cleared her throat and said, "I think we need to put a request for proposals out for retailers to sponsor our delivery trucks statewide. I've analyzed the return on investment and if they give us a million dollars they can reasonably expect eight hundred thousand impressions."
As she was speaking, Robert and Jim turned in their chairs toward the CEO and leaned forward. Other than that, no one moved, and no one made eye contact with her.
Four seconds of silence passed.
Ted said, "I agree with Robert's excellent point. We can no longer afford to be the only ones with unconvential thinking. We need our entire company thinking about how to raise funds right now."
"Now is that a training problem, or a talent problem?" Jim asked.
Resigned sighs rippled through the room, making her guess that they thought the company's talent problem was hopeless.
Robert pointed his finger high into the air and said, "What about - and this thought just hit me now - what about our fleet? What about all that blank space on our trucks? I bet we could find a corporate sponsor who wants a piece of that."
Ted leaned forward in his chair.
The CEO said, "Robert, that's an excellent idea. How much do you think we should go after?"
Robert said, "Oh, I would say about one million dollars would get us back on our feet for now."
"I like the idea Robert. Get a team together and let's see what you can do. Give me an update in a week."
Her pen slipped to the floor. She rose out of her chair and bent to pick it up, then thought better of it. She stood, squared her shoulders and spoke.
****************************************************************************
Here are the items she brought to the meeting a week later: a cup of coffee and her Droid. As she sat down Robert handed her the sponsorship status report.
The CEO strolled in and parked himself in the seat next to her. "How are they doing, Rachel?"
"I've got a good team, Frank. We're on track to put out the sponsorship bid on Friday. We've got two potential funders on board already."
Robert said, "Sir, your decision to make Rachel our supervisor was the best you could have made. She is wholly engaged in ensuring a successful outcome on this project."
"I agree with Robert," Ted said.
Jim and Mike looked a little sick.
Here are the items she brought to the meeting: pen, notebook, Droid, and water bottle. She was excellent at dissecting a conversation, especially when those in authority were pontificating. Ignoring out-loud thinking and capturing her assignments on paper was her specialty.
The other managers were there, all men smooth and leaning back casually in their leather chairs, tossing out half-formed opinions and receiving thoughtful nods from the men higher up the food chain.
Neanderthal idiot goons, she thought, keeping her ankles crossed and an attentive smile on her face.
The discussion turned to fundraising. Mike from marketing, bless his heart, spoke up first.
"Sponsorships are essential to our next five years. I cannot stress how much our financial sustainability depends on alternative funding sources in these economic times."
Jim was next.
"To build on Mike's excellent statement, I would agree and also add that we need to think outside the box."
Then Ted.
"Yes, I agree with Jim and Mike and their valuable insight. We need to think outside the box and find unconvential alternatives."
She put her pen down.
Robert said, "We'll have to train our workforce to think outside the box. They don't do that very well."
Murmers of assent flowed around the table like the wave at a baseball game. There was a high five at the other end of the table.
She couldn't stand it anymore. She cleared her throat and said, "I think we need to put a request for proposals out for retailers to sponsor our delivery trucks statewide. I've analyzed the return on investment and if they give us a million dollars they can reasonably expect eight hundred thousand impressions."
As she was speaking, Robert and Jim turned in their chairs toward the CEO and leaned forward. Other than that, no one moved, and no one made eye contact with her.
Four seconds of silence passed.
Ted said, "I agree with Robert's excellent point. We can no longer afford to be the only ones with unconvential thinking. We need our entire company thinking about how to raise funds right now."
"Now is that a training problem, or a talent problem?" Jim asked.
Resigned sighs rippled through the room, making her guess that they thought the company's talent problem was hopeless.
Robert pointed his finger high into the air and said, "What about - and this thought just hit me now - what about our fleet? What about all that blank space on our trucks? I bet we could find a corporate sponsor who wants a piece of that."
Ted leaned forward in his chair.
The CEO said, "Robert, that's an excellent idea. How much do you think we should go after?"
Robert said, "Oh, I would say about one million dollars would get us back on our feet for now."
"I like the idea Robert. Get a team together and let's see what you can do. Give me an update in a week."
Her pen slipped to the floor. She rose out of her chair and bent to pick it up, then thought better of it. She stood, squared her shoulders and spoke.
****************************************************************************
Here are the items she brought to the meeting a week later: a cup of coffee and her Droid. As she sat down Robert handed her the sponsorship status report.
The CEO strolled in and parked himself in the seat next to her. "How are they doing, Rachel?"
"I've got a good team, Frank. We're on track to put out the sponsorship bid on Friday. We've got two potential funders on board already."
Robert said, "Sir, your decision to make Rachel our supervisor was the best you could have made. She is wholly engaged in ensuring a successful outcome on this project."
"I agree with Robert," Ted said.
Jim and Mike looked a little sick.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Art
Got to draw today and lose myself in my head for an hour and a half. Thinking about tennessee ham and strawberry jam.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
My little pole cat, the octopus
I was going to write about the mornings in our house as we get ready for school and work, but I can't write these days. The creativity is gone and the words feel leaden even in my head and they certainly cannot be expressed in any meaningful way. They are awkward, clunky.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
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