Instant Message, Instant Disaster

It was Monday, the all sad beginning of yet another 5 work days. I brought in a homemade treat – a 3-layer chocolate cake with delectable butter cream icing to alleviate the wretched curse of the week. The day ground away lifelessly and finally lunch was here. The usual “in-crowd” was notified and relief served inconspicuously. Minutes later, my 29-year-old colleague dropped back in – the verdict was in: it was a success, she said and added that she had shared it with another coworker, Matt, because “He is good to her; sometimes he’d bring in treats for her”. She had done that before – extending my generosity to Matt, only to her own credit. I had thought it not very gallantry of her and sounded my protest; after all, the treat was meant for her, not to mention I didn’t even get recognized. She laughed it off again and left.

What does a self-absorbing, not-at-all gracious person do when he is baited like that? It didn’t take me long before I decided to “remind” Matt via IM of the credit due to me. Matt to me was just Matt, devoid of the detail of last name – our paths hardly crossed and we at best nodded to each other when passing at the office. The only Matt I knew of was a Matt D. and his name popped up from IM. I clicked on him and went straight to the point:

“Next time you have a bite of the chocolate cake, make sure I get my credit (or treat).”

Seconds later came back his reply: “Are you sure you get the right Matt?”

Oh no, said the quick-draw, unyielding warrior to herself, you do not hide from me. “You are just playing with me.” I pushed further with some more comments about my cute coworker’s devotion to him was nothing but a farce, unlike me, faithful and true. He did not seem to budge but continued on his pretence. His persistent innocence finally alarmed me. Quickly I clicked on my 29-year-old colleague. “Which Matt did you mean?” Just like that, her answer put me in a whirlwind of disaster as I stared at the poor victim of my foul play, who was staring right back at me on the screen in his sheer confusion. OMG was exactly what I was thinking, but my quick fingers now reversed to limb and weak while my mind exasperated and numb. “Please forgive and FORGET me” were my last words before I took my quick escape.

My “instant” disaster of course incurred nothing but laughter from the pair of instigators, the 29-year-old and Matt, who were all happy to point the fingers right back at me with a closing argument of “serve you right”. Sheepish but indignant, I refused to take all the blame. After all, I was rightfully entitled to the claim of the credit. Unfortunately, I remembered too that this mishap was not my first offense, or second. The running-up was when my quick finger by mistake clicked on the wrong person with the negative comment on the right person. Not only did I fail to “quick to hear and slow to speak”, but also I stumbled in taming the tongue. The worst crime of all, though, was the unpardonable sin of IM.

I have to wonder how I have strayed so far to become the prey of IM. As a proud and obstinate rebel, I have always given my best, honorable effort fighting against modern phenomenon such as cell phone, twitter, texting and face book – all except IM. Since her first appearance, I have fallen into her spell just like the rest of my colleagues. The instant gratification is so irresistible that I overlooked the minor detail – the fatal side effect of instant disaster. Even so, the cold hard truth is that the unguarded tongue reveals nothing but the reflection of man’s depraved heart. Does technology always mean improvement? Not if it aids to the flawed nature of the creature. I thought of the other forms of instant products – instant soup, fast food, even the Internet – everything engineered against quality and excellence. They were born to accommodate this culture’s demand of speed and convenience -- only at the expense of the far superior essence of goodness such as patience and thoughtfulness.

Lesson of the week: Stay away from instant soup.

8/1/11 – Love Me, Love My Friend

9:50AM, IM popped up from J: “We are going to 7-11 at 10:00”. A man of few words, J was always short and to the point. It read to me “We” as in invite – in name only with no room or time for negotiation. It was the joyful Friday; hope was high and party was in the air. For some of us, me especially, it transcribes as a doughnut from 7-11. I quickly tidied up a few loose ends and grabbed my badge and cash for the outing. I walked out of my cubical, just in time to bump into my walk partner, and his friend.

From outside, nothing was amiss. There were “hi” and smile as the 3 of us walked out. Inside, that was another story: surprise, confusion and finally agitation. It was last Friday all over again when he had brought his coworker for our private 7-11 party. I remember the same frustration bumping into the expected sight of his +1. I had held my composure and kept up my cordial, amiable appearance when everything inside of me screamed the opposite. For most people, “one is the loneliest number”, but to this scrooge, two is worse. Imagine two plus one.

There have been many 7-11 trips over the course of 3 years and plus. Some of them with company, and some without. It is but a few blocks with the same old pavement and deserted shops along the way, and yet pleasant and liberating to the jailed cubical mates like us. Once in a while, Fridays especially, motions will be passed for a trip there to replenish supplies such as coffee or treats, which we know is more of an excuse than necessity. Whatever motives they may be, I prefer the trip done in solo – it eliminates the burdensome chit chats and most importantly, the change of pace, without which I am always reprimanded with “what are you hurrying for!”. After a couple months of our morning walk J has fallen into a “special” category with an allowance of concession for my 7-11 trip preference. It started as a gallant gesture from me to indulge my walk pal and clearly ended in disappointment as a result of misunderstanding for each other: we both mistook each other for more than who we are - J thought of me more socialable while I took him more loner.

I remember D, my ex-colleague who moved back to the other side of the water last year, invited me to go on his “Facebook” and the new Google+ project for fun things such as “circles” or “hangouts”. I realize too this invite was a gesture of fondness or favor. After all, he wanted me to be his “friend” and even meet his “friends”! With a whirlwind of changes bursting in our world nowadays, none bewilders me more than Facebook. I’d like to claim the excuse of “I have too many friends already”, but the truth is I really don’t do friends, let alone friends’ friends. As social creatures, we have the built-in desire of company, but since when such needs are realized with the worst of both ends – impersonal as in on-line and personal as in exposing your private life for the world’s eyes? J’s crime, though not in the same category as D’s, is still severe in that he inadvertently assumed that my acceptance of his existence implies the extension of his friends’. Granted he was by no means the first offender caught on act, it is unthinkable and most importantly uncomfortable to be the victim of it. Putting aside my inadequacy or disability in social skills, the math simply doesn't compute: if it had taken me 3 years to get used to J, why shouldn't I be given the same allowance for admitting another new comer?

Before then, I claim the asylum of the literal interpretation on “Love me, love my dog” – just dog, and dog only.

Christmas in July

July makes the monumental cut in that 2011 is officially on its 2^nd half and finishing up quickly with a vengeance. The heat is burning high as summer continues. Unlike the majority of the American population, we treat summer with little care or respect. There has never been much effort for so called “summer vacation”. For one, this family are not ever known as “playing” people. Secondly, now that both sons are out of their teen years, there no longer remains obligation for summer fun such as water park or camping trips. Thus when D motioned for a trip to see his childhood pals, it was somewhat surprising. Lately, both of us have been working long and intensive hours. A long-weekend trip maybe just what a doctor would prescribe for a timely time-out. The motion was then passed quickly without a dispute.

The plan was to visit a few favorite spots back home in Pittsburgh: the Strip, Schenley Park, and of course a baseball game in the beautiful PNC Park. Pittsburgh is now hardly called home since most of his family have gone – the only 2 left D has had little contact with. Without the family obligations, the 3-day vacation ironically seemed hopeful and relaxing. We found ourselves a small motel with easy access to major necessities such as food, grocery and of course Interstate. We spent our first dinner on a newly opened Italian restaurant nearby and found it more than adequate – the food was scrumptious and service prompt. Not bad for an opening of a vacation for this family with deficiency in playing.

Pittsburgh to D after nearly 3 decades of distance is now more some enchanting place to visit than home. He spent his first 26 years there all the way through graduate school. There live forever his best years -- childhood fun in Fineview and of course the unforgettable CMU. They, too, became my favorite as his eyes and thoughts grow younger and younger while he tells of those old stories that both of us never get tired of. Somehow life in that ghetto neighborhood proved to be anything but poor, depriving. I picture with fancy those boys playing from morn till sundown on every field, block or lane, all the fun, thrill and sometimes mischief and imagine what a different world it must have been. And of course in the midst of those golden years there were his best friends Mike and Dennis, who were the chief reason of this visit. We were to meet up for the baseball game on July 4^th but ended up inviting ourselves to Dennis’ family reunion, and then breakfast at their favorite diner the next morning, and finally the grand finale, baseball game at the PNC park.

It was a hot summer day. The walk to and fro to the stadium, 3 hours of Pirates game under the mid day sun did not at all affect the thrill of the fans and especially the forever kinship of the three friends. It was a good game but none of us paid attention. I looked over at them – they were chatting on mindlessly, obvious of the frenzy of the fans surrounding them. Four decades of time may have mercilessly altered them outwardly but not inside. Somehow, the child within remains untouchable at the snare of time or space. Of all the baseball games we have gone to, that one on July 4^th, 2011, might as well mark the most irrelevant one. Pirates has been having a good season. It even treated us with an exciting win, but we would have cared less if they had lost.

After the game, we continued on the memory lane – a treat at Gus and Ya Ya’s snow ball followed by a planned cookout in the his old neighborhood, Fineview, where we had planned to stay for the firework. As the clouds thickened and darkened, the firework was replaced with nature’s own work: thunderstorm with hail, gusty wind and lightening. It mattered not to us while we sang “Happy Birthday” and Luke playing piano for the 89-year-old father. Despite of the storm, the celebration was not held off in that small old house – and it was not just about the birthday, or even July 4^th.

We bailed out on the firework and drove off Pittsburgh in the pouring rain. Had it taken place, it would have been most impressive and magnificent from atop of that neighborhood overlooking the picturesque Iron City – and yet, no match to that in our hearts. The power of a past so innocent and carefree will forever remain a class of its own: superior, peerless, unbeatable. D drove on quietly. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but I imagined he too was under the spell of the same magic. Nostalgic, even sad, we might have been, how blessed we were, I thought, to have been the Christmas ghosts in a city so beautiful and a past so glorious….

Time Will Tell

6:17AM and here came J, ready for the morning walk. I raised my eyebrow: “But it’s not 6:30 yet!”, ceremoniously protesting about his offensive violation. For a month thus far, he has become my “tag-along” walk partner. Initially, that “tag-along” itself was a violation for this rigid scrooge, but after weeks of practice, I have finally come to accept the intrusion. Though not quite in the category of “prenuptial agreement”, two ground rules were laid open before my reluctant conceding: no talking and no slowing me down. Thus far, J has been a law abiding citizen in my sacred, private domain. Today was his first ever offense – changing the hour. He replied quickly enough: people were annoying him already. It takes one scrooge to know another, and his pain. No need for further explanation, I packed up my gear and was all ready to make an exception.

It was a walking heaven when we stepped out of the building. After 3 days of intense heat and humidity, we were more than grateful to walk in a picture of perfection with a pale blue sky and golden hue of morning sun. The temperature was just about 70. Our temperamental friend, the breeze, was already in the weekend mood, dancing and frolicking everywhere. Her infectious joy was so potent that it unlocked this guarded churl instantly. My iPod forgotten in my left hand, I walked on with my +1, incredulously merry and chatty. From the cause of our 6:30 violation, the annoying people, we started talking about work, what he does and who he works with. 3 years of working on the same floor under the same roof and weeks of walking together, we were actually finding out what each other does the first time ever. From work to life, our small talks carried on all the way from Huntington to Washington, 40 blocks altogether. Once or twice I felt the iPod in my hand. I hesitated but a little and eventually put it back into my pocket.

I blame it on the fair day, all that glorious sun and breeze that betrayed the better sense of me. I could feel the guard retreating as our steps moving forward. Was it the beguiling wind or the ease of my friend that made that forbidden mix, walk and talk, not so unpardonable? Our conversation was but some idle talks such as what gardenias looked like and how to grow them. Not exactly a home-run hit, but neither was it a total defeat. My lone wolf coworker seemed to be at ease with this awkward social reject. I had wondered when J popped in my cube once in a while how the others might have thought -- a strange pair like us, so seemingly unthinkable but somehow it worked. The two recluses, quiet yet explosive, find each other’s presence almost comfortable – with or without words.

In comparison, all other “flings” at work are grinding to a halt, regardless of how promising they might have started. A few chit-chats at the kitchen or IM were all it took when the fun disappeared as if nothing ever happened. When it comes to me and relationship, the saying “time will tell” should be replaced with “time will kill”. For the past 3 years at work, I have yet not proven to succeed in any relationship while the rest of my coworkers stay with their “clicks” effortlessly. My 30-minute walk with J seems to be working thus far apparently for 2 safeguards: short and silent. Could today’s deviation ruin it all again just like the rest of them?

Yes, time will tell if I did kill again. As much as I find my new budded “relationship” non-intruding, I’d confess shamefully that its death wouldn’t injure me that much. If there’d be any casualty, it would be more for the sake of pride. Then again, I have had plenty of experiences of wounded pride. I am, after all, proven to be more resilient than any of my failed relationship. I’d continue to practice my golden rule, for both life and plants, live and let die. No more and no less.

Judgment Day

After 2 weeks of waiting and dreading, I was making my trip to the court. Despite of all assuring effort from friends and family, I was still antsy about appearing before the officials. The night before my anxiety had become so intense that I could not think of anything but the court appointment: what would I say, what should I do and most importantly what would the judge find me. For others, my excessive apprehension was not only incomprehensible but also incredulous. I could see it from their eyes after my third, ok maybe 4th, attempts to seek comfort and support. Their dismissal look told me they had moved on and so should I. If only I could! I agonized silently, wondering if they would take it this slightly had the table been turned.

I had taken off a day from work even though the court hearing was set as early as 8:30am. It felt like the whole world had deserted me, my sleep included, leaving me melancholy and most sadly alone. I fussed over the clothes selections, fought with my GPS and fretted all the way to the court. A fine spring day, the weather was fair and clear, in contrast to the stormy turmoil inside of me. I paid no tribute to the gleaming sunshine on the sky, the historical downtown architecture or the manicured trees and shrubs along the side walk. My heart heavy and my mind distracted, I wanted nothing but the verdict be given and done with. Finally, there it stood – my worst fear and tormentor for the past 2 weeks – the courthouse so solemn and ready to condemn. I walked in with the rest of the guilty, wondering if they were as unsettling as I was. Their silent and blank looks told me absolutely nothing, which unfortunately made my poor heart sink even further.

I had been to the court exactly 2 times: one to get married and another one when I swore in my allegiance as a new addition for this country. This 3rd time might be “the charm” but definitely nothing “charming” with me being summoned as the law offender. I sat dejectedly among a roomful of the guilty though presumed innocent under the law, waiting to plead our cases before the judge. One by one we were called – some with a quick verdict and some with a small scale of drama as in movies or TV shows. What fascinated me were those that were accompanied by their counselors. Were they there for the gravity of their offenses? I wondered. Surely it must be nice to have someone professional, not to mention “legal”, to aid and plead for you in time like this! Like now. I thought forlornly. Here we sat, except for those accompanied by their lawyers, with but a seat or two from one another, together yet completely alone. And if there is anything worse than life’s trials and tribulation, it’d be facing them alone.

An hour and 30 minutes later, I was finally called. My heart pumping hard, I approached the bench. What do you plead? Guilty. I heard myself humbly reply, followed by my prepared speech, which I had rehearsed a hundred times: Your honor, it was my fault, (etc, etc.) I had a clean record (another etc.). He reached for my evidence and as all friends and family had predicted, fined me with the court fee and a 6-month probation. I was dismissed in 2 minutes.

The worst was over. By the mercy of the judge, I walked out almost cleared but definitely free. My debt paid, I stepped back to the sunny, glorious outside, ready to join the society. Suddenly, I noticed the sky blue, the lawn green and blossom bright. I took in a deep breath of air and realized finally what free smelled like. The court behind me, I continued on to the parking lot and vowed resolutely to stay free – not for the 6-month probation alone, but hopefully for good – so I would never have to return here. Somehow, I knew, three was not a charm. I am destined to go to another hearing despite of all my good intent and effort. That final appearing, unfortunately, will render me no probation. The verdict would be in – no plea or remorse would acquit me of this life’s misconducts. If I had been so terrified with this court, what would I feel with that final judgment day? My heart that was just lifted seconds ago sank down as my pace hesitated. I thought of those fellow accused back there with their lawyers and wondered if I would be privileged enough to afford one then and there. My guilt may be great, but I had to cling to the greater hope in that just as the gift of faith came free, my Counselor’s service there would be too.

I started my car and drove on. The second chance was given. From now on let it be a brand new, good citizen back on the road: both in the driver’s seat and life.

Stop And Go

25 years of driving later, I was getting my first traffic ticket -- 3:50AM exactly, on a non-eventful, most insignificant Wednesday morning. Who would have thought anything exciting on the hump of a week, like Wednesday? It is unimaginable, let alone lawful, but there I was, ironically for offending the law, sitting and waiting in the car numb and shocked at my fate: I had became one of those pitiful public humiliation displayed in the broad daylight -- well in my mind at least -- in truth: on a pitched dark, still asleep street.

How many times have you looked at the rear mirror praying for a narrow escape after slamming on your break at the sight of a speed trapper police car? Well this time when the blinding white and blue lights blazed up at the mirror, I was caught totally surprised. My body surged through a numbing sensation as I cruised to the side and dutifully parked. Was I speeding? What did I do? The question marks went wild like the blinking lights of the patrol car behind me. After handing in my license and registration I finally humbly asked him what I did. “You did not come to a complete stop at the stop sign” was the official verdict. There was no point of arguing at the finality of his accusation devoid of any trace of mercy. I sat deflated for seemingly eternality until he returned with my ticket 15 minutes later. “You have a safe trip now” was his farewell. Was that sarcastic or was it a genuine good wish? I wondered. If so, was he OUT OF HIS MIND??

I had always wondered how depressing a day would be for those wounded animals after being degraded and forced with a traffic ticket. I experienced it firsthanded that day. Never a confrontational type, unless sufficiently provoked, I went to work depressed. Desperate time called for desperate measure, and my first reach for help was the phone on the desk for the biggest supporter and partner for life, who was still in sleep. The phone rang 4 times unanswered as I drifted even lower to the drowning sea of dejection. I thought I was going to cry. Within seconds, he called back. 25 years of marriage later, he knows me and my phobia well enough to receive all my agony and outcry. After 5 minutes of sympathy and TLC, I was finally patched up to face the world again.

When it comes to sympathy, is there ever a limit for anyone at all? I wonder. My humiliation though great was no match for my pride. I then went around hoping to seek more support from a floor of cell mates. Surely there would be some fellow drivers who must have faced the same persecution to commiserate with! I was right and wrong – in fact, all have been there plenty of times and yet none of them for moral support. Instead of offering sympathy, they laughed up and down at my calamity and unanimously raised the same remark “I can’t believe you have never got a ticket till now”. They went side-tracked on with their “records”, incredibly with much pride and joy – what they were and some of which how they talked themselves out of. The mourning party I had intended to host turned into this celebration memorial where the main focus was anyone but me! The closest thing that resembled consolation was something like: Just pay the fine and forget it.

Nearly 2 weeks have passed since and I have not yet been able to solve the puzzle: was it cultural or was it just me? Face-on with any authority, let alone being found guilty, is a total violation of safety and dignity. It takes me back to the classroom where my worst fear, besides pop quizzes, was realized - being called out as the public display of the BAD student, the offender. The disapproval from the teacher as well as the alienation from your peers separates you from the rest of the world with miles long of abyss. Their look of contempt, sympathy and distrust is worse than death – because you are alive to see and feel it every second. But here I am, decades later on the other end of the earth, a law offender all over again, finding my peers’ jeers not from the crime itself but from the absence of crime all these years till now. They laughed it off and walked away, as if it had never ever happened. In their eyes, I am cleared, or should I say, the same person or colleague they have known for the past 3 years – no better or no worse. In fact, my offense, instead of separating, has done exactly the opposite – blending me in with them! I now face the choice to choose between staying trapped in this jail of shame and taking the pardon to join the society. After all, I have served the sentence from another life all these years; maybe it’s time to lift the past verdict.

My failure to stop, ironically, did me a much needed dose of stopping. I am ready to go now.

The Third Wheel

4:45 Am, Monday - just another mournful, melancholy day when Friday seems eternally far away and unreachable. The tea made and blanket on my lap, I should be all geared up to grind away the bottomless list of work. Somehow my mind wandered elsewhere. For the past few days I had been preoccupied with the same questions that wouldn’t go away: “Is J going to show up? And if he does, when does this doom come?” J is another coworker who bluntly asked the “unthinkable” request on Thursday when he found out my sacred morning routine, “Do you mind if I walk with you?’. What was more unthinkable was that I conceded with a yes.

Why I ever committed the unpardonable sin is another mystery to be explored. Was it my “Sure why not” eager-to-please old nature’s treachery act or was it my optimistic hope that this time it could be different? Above all, what makes J an exception? He is from another group, one of those old-timers that have remained unchanged while the company does exactly the opposite, perpetually morphing in her names, administration, even operations over the decades. Our paths never did cross till we were assigned to the same training class for one whole week. Even then, we hardly talked. He was quiet, non-intruding, almost ghost like. I remember having bumped into him a few times prior to the training whenever he popped out of his cocoon and not ever exchanged a word or nod. I took no offense – in terms of work relationship (and life in general), I am a firm believer of “less is more”. However, the training week changed it when I brought in cookies on the last day. J loved them. I have been soliciting my homemade goodies whenever my impulsive nature comes to play. Many here have been the beneficiary recipients, but little ever returned with more than a “thanks”. Since there is no obligation involved – just me and my vanity, I keep it up voluntarily without expecting anything. Thus when J dropped a small box of chocolates for Christmas, I found myself surprised and delighted as if it had been the precious thanksgiving from the one leper out of the ten.

Since then, he remains on my random cookie distribution list. We still don’t talk much – a little of IM, an occasional drop-in, light yet appreciative exchanges serve us well. Maybe that did the trick to unlock my iron cast door to my forbidden walk? Granted he was warned to keep the pace and most importantly the sacred peace, I still have plenty of my after-fact remorse for my concession.

So 6:30 came – and so did he. I greeted the new comer with a curt nod and put on my IPOD – the ritual must carry on, unchanged and untouched, with or without company. I charged forward without so much a look at the shadow one step behind. We walked the entire route in promised silence except for the ceremonial “you OK?” during and “how was it” after. Not exactly awkward, but crowded enough. My Bach could have told me so, but I was knee deep in the predicament with no one’s fault but mine. J did not fail to keep the 2-P (peace and pace) golden rules, so why was the walk still not quite the same spare the talk? Was it the presence of the third wheel, as gentle and quiet as it is, that made it so intruding and disquieting? Maybe the better question should be: Am I a lost cause for good when it comes to company?

I thought of another occasion when talk was actually required – the Saturday’s dinner party at friends’. Unlike my walk, where silence is gold, parties by definition actually call for conversation and social etiquettes. And participate did I do, more than the share I desired. For over three hours, I became one of the merry party, enjoying plenty of good food, talks and laugher. As we drove home, before the clock even stuck 12 and carriage changed back to pumpkin, the Cinderella was already back to her rags and shame, wishing the ballroom memory lost like her glass slipper.

Talk or no talk, both occasions have but one common element – me. All the while I have the safe guard of staying away from trouble. It didn’t dawn on me till now that the troubling third wheel is none other than me. However painful this revelation is, the biggest and most impossible question remains: How do I get rid of this third wheel?