(Jake was built like a boy—his long body thin but untrained—and
Jake had the hair of a boy—light brown and full, an easy wave to the side. His
cheeks showed gracefully the scars of adolescence and his smile was broad and
warm, and there were no lines around his eyes. Jake was thirty-two and could
pass for twenty, and it was his youthfulness he believed was holding him back.
Jake yearned for gray, for wrinkles, for age in some manner to manifest—even
just a pot belly would help or black bags under the eyes or jowls or baldness.
Then he might get somewhere! Then he might get some respect! Eight years he had
been with the hospital, in administration—eight years: perhaps a tenth of
his life—and he was still at the bottom.
Wretched youthfulness! What other
explanation for his stagnation? There was none. Jake was motivated and kind and
smart. And it was not that no one was advancing. For sure, he had watched with
concealed pain and feigned glee as peers moved up. It had been with misery that
he noted the mark on each of them: that one a permanent furrow with receding hairline,
there a burgeoning buxom with newly onset diabetes…. Jake too was ready to give
something to the hospital, ready to sacrifice some vitality. Yet youth—life—clung
cruelly.)
The corridor was dark and underground, a foot-tunnel for staff connecting the buildings. The thirty-two-year-old Jake felt comfortable running here, because there were no patients and it mattered not that he looked unprofessional. As he ran along his tie flapped over his shoulder and his hospital identification card swung loosely on the nylon lanyard. Jake was thinking what he often thought, of how he wished he was a doctor. Badly he wished it. Then no petty hierarchy could hold him back. Then he would actually be helping people. Now, instead of running to a meeting, he would be running to save a patient. But the dream of being a doctor was hopeless. Jake had a huge number of children—three (to think he had once wanted six!)—and Jake had already spent six years at college. No, sadly Jake’s course was set and well underway. Now, if only the lines would draw quickly down his cheeks. If only his hair would go gray or down the drain. Then he might get a raise.
The corridor was dark and underground, a foot-tunnel for staff connecting the buildings. The thirty-two-year-old Jake felt comfortable running here, because there were no patients and it mattered not that he looked unprofessional. As he ran along his tie flapped over his shoulder and his hospital identification card swung loosely on the nylon lanyard. Jake was thinking what he often thought, of how he wished he was a doctor. Badly he wished it. Then no petty hierarchy could hold him back. Then he would actually be helping people. Now, instead of running to a meeting, he would be running to save a patient. But the dream of being a doctor was hopeless. Jake had a huge number of children—three (to think he had once wanted six!)—and Jake had already spent six years at college. No, sadly Jake’s course was set and well underway. Now, if only the lines would draw quickly down his cheeks. If only his hair would go gray or down the drain. Then he might get a raise.
At the far end of the corridor Jake came
to an elevator and double-tapped the “up” button. He shook impatiently,
slapping his thighs like they were drums.
Today he had meetings scheduled back-to-back-to-back-to-back, four
straight hours of them, with no breaks between. It was as if someone wanted him
to run late.
He was still
waiting for the elevator. Again and again he pushed the button. He ripped his
phone out of his shirt-pocket and fumbled it. It exploded in three pieces on
the floor. The elevator arrived and the doors opened. He knelt and hurriedly
gathered the pieces. The doors started to close. He slipped inside. Bracing the
pieces of the phone to his chest, he kneed the button for the fourth floor, but
missed it. Number three illuminated; he didn’t notice. He played the game with
the battery, made it fit, and then slammed on the back of the phone. Now Jake
was really sweating. He powered up the phone: he was not wearing a watch and he
wanted to check the time. But why check it? He knew he was late. And what was
the meeting even about? All he had was a location.
The elevator stopped and the doors opened.
He rushed off, looked left, right, and hurried down the hall. He was looking
for conference room 408. The first door he passed said 313, and he realized the
error. O, he didn’t have time for this! Even the elevator was against him! Back
at the elevator, he pushed the “up” button. The doors opened. On board was an
elderly woman in a wheelchair. She looked painfully at him. He deliberately
pushed the button for the fourth floor.
Jake was too good for this madness. He had
a Master’s Degree in Hospital Administration, from a good school. He knew a lot
about running a hospital. He knew how to implement a program and perform a cost
analysis. He could tell you a thing or two about networks and patient needs. But
no one listened to him. It seemed his coworkers did not want to make the
hospital any better. Six months Jake had spent preparing his last presentation,
and what had come of it? Nothing. Now meeting after meeting haunted him.
The doors opened on flour four and Jake
checked his lunge, for a couple of drug-reps—by the look of them, by their big
fake smiles and gleaming foreheads and shiny shoes—were in just as much of a
rush to get on as he was to get off. They yielded to Jake, as they yielded to
everyone in the hospital, with their stressed-out, sweaty smiles. Jake thanked
them and hurried to the conference room.
The rest of the team was waiting for him
and turned to him when he burst in through the door. It was a combination of
looks he received: judgmental frowns and satisfied grins. The middle-aged woman
to present said arrogantly, “Now that we are all here.…” And then something
turned off in Jake. He could not hear her voice, nor could he see her. There
was a window open and he took a seat across from it so he could look out the
window. It was windy outside and the sun was shining. It had been cloudy on the
drive in early that morning. Jake had come in early to work on some emails
regarding the possible preparation of a presentation about the implementation
of a program. But why dwell on that? It was sunny and wind was blowing and a
tree reached up past the window and spread its branches across it. And the wind
was taking the white leaves and spinning them so that it looked like flurries
of snow. Jake remembered when he had seen something like this before….
I pulled up to the entrance to the school and noticed something in the air. It looked like snow. But it was May and warm and it was not snow but the white flowerings of some cherry trees twirling on the wind. I rolled down the window and felt the spring wind and smelled the leaves. I reached out and grabbed a fistful. My girls came out with their teacher Mr. Poulton. Mr. Poulton must have seen the emotion on my face and my fistful of little white blooms, because he smiled and shook his head and it seemed he was made happier by my happiness. “How beautiful!” I shouted, and I could have cried….
Sitting there in the meeting facing the open window with the shedding tree: it was the high-point of his day. Jake could see past the tree all the way to the building across the street, and looking up Jake could see the yellow and blue sky. And it was hard on the eyes to stare at the sky. The air came cool and fresh into the conference room, and Jake held it in his lungs.
I pulled up to the entrance to the school and noticed something in the air. It looked like snow. But it was May and warm and it was not snow but the white flowerings of some cherry trees twirling on the wind. I rolled down the window and felt the spring wind and smelled the leaves. I reached out and grabbed a fistful. My girls came out with their teacher Mr. Poulton. Mr. Poulton must have seen the emotion on my face and my fistful of little white blooms, because he smiled and shook his head and it seemed he was made happier by my happiness. “How beautiful!” I shouted, and I could have cried….
Sitting there in the meeting facing the open window with the shedding tree: it was the high-point of his day. Jake could see past the tree all the way to the building across the street, and looking up Jake could see the yellow and blue sky. And it was hard on the eyes to stare at the sky. The air came cool and fresh into the conference room, and Jake held it in his lungs.
“Will someone close that window?” said the
woman presenting. “Is anyone else chilly?”
Jake could hear her again and see her. He
said, “I kind of like it.”
“Well, Jake, I’m cold. Your young blood can
handle it. I’m chilly. Do you mind?”
Yes he minded! It was the high-point of
his week! Couldn’t she bear it? No, of course she couldn’t. “I’ll close it,”
said Jake.
‘“I’ll close it,’ you said with your stupid self-deprecating smile, and you closed it gently and returned to your seat happily and your act was believable, but on the inside you felt raped of an innocence." Now was a few days later. Jake was talking to himself. “You were like a child that doesn’t know the names of things. You knew it felt good and was pleasing. You knew you wanted to be outside with the good feeling all round you, to look up, down, forward, back, and have that pleasant feeling go right into you. You were a child, an infant, staring at the outside world.” Jake whispered aloud to himself, “Why build buildings and work in them?” He was crossing the tunnel—he spent a lot of time here, underground—on target for another meeting. “But tomorrow is Saturday,” he said, “and you can spend the whole day outside with the kids. And you can show them and tell them about what really matters.” Jake sighed, fatigued, sick of hurrying. “How absurd,” he thought out loud, then silently, “But it’s how I make a living—I make a living—that has to count for something. I’m just done pretending. I mean, I’ll keep acting, but there’ll be no more lying to myself. You’re thirty-two years old. It’s time you have some self respect.”
‘“I’ll close it,’ you said with your stupid self-deprecating smile, and you closed it gently and returned to your seat happily and your act was believable, but on the inside you felt raped of an innocence." Now was a few days later. Jake was talking to himself. “You were like a child that doesn’t know the names of things. You knew it felt good and was pleasing. You knew you wanted to be outside with the good feeling all round you, to look up, down, forward, back, and have that pleasant feeling go right into you. You were a child, an infant, staring at the outside world.” Jake whispered aloud to himself, “Why build buildings and work in them?” He was crossing the tunnel—he spent a lot of time here, underground—on target for another meeting. “But tomorrow is Saturday,” he said, “and you can spend the whole day outside with the kids. And you can show them and tell them about what really matters.” Jake sighed, fatigued, sick of hurrying. “How absurd,” he thought out loud, then silently, “But it’s how I make a living—I make a living—that has to count for something. I’m just done pretending. I mean, I’ll keep acting, but there’ll be no more lying to myself. You’re thirty-two years old. It’s time you have some self respect.”
