In my way of thinking, there are two basic strategies for dealing with the problem of existing in the world. The first is to change the world, to manipulate the situation into something more lovely and pleasing to exist in. This strategy belongs to great inventors, revolutionaries, politicians, crusaders, social workers. If there is injustice, right the wrong, fix the problem. My wife much more adept at this than myself. If there is a problem, she isn’t content until she has solved it. This is one of the reasons she is a master’s student at one of the most elite art history institutes in the country and I am a lowly host at this batty restaurant.
The other strategy involves manipulating your inner condition so that you are acclimatized and evolved in such a way as to make your difficult situation pleasing or rewarding or at least livable. This strategy belongs to messiahs, optimists, philosophers. It comes in handy, especially with regards to situations which cannot be solved or fixed, like growing and old and dying, for example. An enlightened spiritual being like Jesus could turn inwards, sublimate an experience like being tortured and turn it into a triumph celebrated for millennia. The Buddha could see through the suffering of this plane of existence and realize that by changing his mind and his heart, he could be set free. Perhaps a messiah is someone whose worldview is so supernaturally malleable that anything can become anything else to the point that it actually does change the world.
I bring this up because it is 4:30 pm and it is time for me to go work the night-shift. Can I find happiness in the midst of this shitty job? We shall see.
I can only imagine and only suppose that to an enlightened soul or to a genius, every detail is doorway, a slumbering poem or symphony, an entire encyclopedic history, a window into the center. We mortals however (and I am, perhaps incorrectly, assuming that you are a mortal, dear reader) have to use a number of little tricks to sustain the heart through the burdensome trials of toil and time.
My manager Gabriel, as I have noted in an earlier entry, takes bribes. Another manager has observed that Gabriel can, not only spot who will “tip” and who won’t, but how much. Working a shift with Gabriel is akin to being on a fishing expedition- the patient banter of drinking buddies during dry spells, the thrill of the bite, the satisfaction of landing a whopper. Even more than for extra profit, I think the game helps Gabriel pass the time. To get through the day, he plays the sportsman.
The general manager, Tanya, gets by on anger. She told me once, “I thrive on stress. I love stress. It’s like a drug for me.” And it’s true. She charges around Zemblanity in a perpetual state of emergency, high as a kite on the urgency of her position, constantly in crisis with the sky always falling. Her role is important. This is survival of the fittest.
The reservationist, Zach, plays the drums in his head. Zach is a very mild mannered kid from Bloomington, Indiana who is helping his sick mother pay off her mortgage. To hear him answer phones all day- “Hello, this is Zemblanity. How may I help you?” – you would never suspect that this dude shreds at the drums. But that he does. I could not believe my eyes and ears when I saw him play at a crappy bar on the Lower East Side. He was transformed. Now, all the time, I notice him tapping his pencils and pens for a spell and then transcribing the notation for the elaborate beats in his head.
Big gay Sam sings show tunes while he works. He has been in musical productions for twenty years and knows more show tunes than anyone I have ever met (by far). From Oklahoma to The Little Mermaid, every time he passes by, the song is different. Actually, lots of the staff sing a bit at work but none as prolifically as Sam.
Music always helps. Some of the best music ever written in America was written to pass the time under intense labor. When I first arrived at Zemblanity, I was astonished by the quantity of Santana and Rob Thomas that the employees ingested and endured, almost subconsciously. And for all the talk of Andy Warhol, we never heard the slightest peep from the Velvet Underground.
So I began smuggling in mix CDs. As a musician and knowing as many musicians as I do, I know that it can be difficult at times to believe in the worthiness of this pursuit. But let me tell you, at work, music can make all the difference in the world. A good song can transform the entire environment. When Beirut or the Cure or Paul Simon or David Bowie are bellowing their beloved guts out, I literally start dancing around the restaurant as I seat guests. Many of the diners laugh at my buoyant flailings and I laugh right back at them. When Neutral Milk Hotel is going full tilt, the petty doldrums of labor seem to fade like a silly and unimportant joke.
For this reason I have taken it upon myself to completely reshape the musical landscape of Zemblanity. Many of my musician friends in Portland will be happy to know that their efforts are in heavy rotation in one of the strangest places in New York.
Often times, in the evening, my wife and I will watch episodes of The Office. We are on season four. It is somewhat surreal to come home from work to watch a show about work but it is also entertaining and instructive. The likeable hero, Jim, is a hero in a very modern sense. He is able to stay affable and humorous and amused even in the most banal and soul crushing work space imaginable. This is what makes him heroic. Part of what makes this possible for Jim is the camera, the fact that others are in on the ludicrousness of his everyday life. He looks at the camera all the time as if to say, “See? Are you seeing what I deal with? Can you believe it?”
The camera is important. Imagining that you are an actor, a character in a play, is important. Even the most frustrating characters become characters worth watching. This is the real reason for this blog. I am now a character and by god, my shining soul will stay alive. You, dear reader, whoever you are, are helping to keep my inner life intact.
One reason that working a job a fourth grader could manage is nice is that there is plenty of left-over brain space to think. While seating customers, a whole part of my mind is free to wander over vast landscapes and to compose lines of poetry. I wrote this about the walk home after work over the course of two shifts at Zemblanity.
Sleepwalker
Walking home
through a dark city
after the graveyard
shift, the old brakes
of garbage trucks
sing whale songs
in canyons of skyscraper.
Discarded plastic sacks
are spirited like doves
in circling gusts
around haloed street lamps.
No, not doves-
the ghosts of children
playing tag
in the air.
This is the city
that never sleeps
but it sleepwalks.
Take this hunched,
toothless vagrant:
his cart, a museum
of rubbish, clattering
aimless blocks
in endless circles.
When he glances at me
I notice that his eyes
aren’t even eyes
and who’s he talking to?
Obviously, someone
who is invisible, who startles
the gatherings of cats,
someone with a scent
but no shadow,
someone made of memory
who hears everything-
The distant sound
of a human voice barking
at something unnatural.
And closer, a whistled tune,
off-kilter and eerie.
And closer still,
the cold clap of footsteps
on an empty street.
No comments:
Post a Comment