Sometimes It’s Hard

“We apologize for what you had to go through. I assure you we will do everything we can to make sure something like this never happens again.” Tim barely heard himself going through the “apologies” script for the tenth time that morning. He’d been fielding emails and phone calls all morning from clients who were not happy with the results his office had provided them last week. Tim apologized on behalf of his office, even though the reason for the shoddy work had nothing to do with him. But he was the one who answered the phones, so he had to give the apologies. He was sure his voice betrayed the fact that he actually didn’t care one way or the other.

Tim closed his eyes for just a few seconds after hanging up, tried to concentrate on his breathing. He’d read up on meditation and was trying to get into using it when he felt it was time to calm down. He barely made it into a third breath before a notification dinged on his computer. He had a meeting with his supervisor in five minutes. Ah yes, the day to “touch base” and share his thoughts and concerns. Not that any concerns had been remedied or addressed in all the years Tim had worked there.

His supervisor was sitting at her desk, face red and brow as furrowed as ever. She glanced up at Tim as he stood in her doorway, looking confused but then quickly remembering they had a meeting today. “Hi Tim, sit down,” she gestured at the chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes glued back to her computer screen, probably trying to finish what she was doing before Tim “interrupted” with this mandatory meeting. He took a seat and began to wait.

The supervisor gave a deep sigh as she finished what she was doing. “I hate people,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Tim just nodded politely. This was a constant complaint around the office when dealing with customers, and sometimes even with other employees. Tim didn’t think that someone who would get into a management position should openly declare that they hate people.

She didn’t elaborate on what she meant by her comment, just started the meeting. It was as boring as always. She asked if Tim had anything he wanted to discuss. He didn’t, of course, because very little at work was worth thinking about, outside of “Can I please get a noticeable raise?” to which the answer was usually, “Awww we’d like to, but no.” So the meeting went on, the Supervisor went over Tim’s performance, which was fine. Went over a few rules and regulations, nothing he didn’t already know.

She surprised him by breaking the monotony with a surprise criticism: “Some people say you have a bad attitude.”

Tim shook his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. “What?” Tim barely spoke to his coworkers; the way their jobs were structured there was really no reason for them to chitchat, and if they did that would affect productivity, and heaven forbid that happen.

Yet his supervisor explained that when he did have to talk to his coworkers, some of them found him rude and aggressive. Tim was surprised to hear this; part of his job was reporting criticisms and offering suggestions, but he always tried to do it in a friendly and constructive way.

“Well nevertheless,” his supervisor said, “just something to be aware of. Maybe take a breath before you have to give bad news. We wouldn’t want to write you up or anything.” If she was kidding, Tim couldn’t tell. He began to suck on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to defend himself, say that he was a good worker and that people here didn’t take criticism very well. How silly to have them report him to his supervisor instead of just talking to him, another passive move in the ol’ office jungle.

But instead he just nodded, hoping the inside of his cheek wouldn’t start bleeding soon. He listened to her suggestions and pretended to be agreeable, and then was dismissed to return to his desk. Her eyes were already back on her computer before he left her office.

***

Tim went to one of his favorite spots for lunch. It was the kind of place that closed at 3pm but you could order their breakfast items at any time, and Tim loved that. On an average day he could make it there, eat in, and return to the office all within his lunch break. It was the ideal system.

The place was quite busy when he showed up and the line was moving slowly. He decided he would get his food as takeout; it would still take a while, but he would make it back to the office in time and he could eat at his desk. They liked it when people ate at their desks, that showed commitment to the “mission”. Don’t let a pesky thing like eating get in the way of your desk job.

An older woman walked right past the line of people and up to the counter. She wasn’t an old biddy or anything, but definitely of an age where she could be a grandmother. She looked around at the tables, the menu on the wall, and the counter with the cash register on it. She pointed down at the counter and asked the worker, “Is this where we order?” The worker politely informed her that, yes, this is where you order, and that line of people are already waiting. The woman nodded and went to the back of the line.

“I’ve never been here before!” Tim heard her explain to someone in line behind him. Bullshit, thought Tim. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been to a place before or not. You’re an adult, when you see a line of people standing in front of a counter you should assume that you need to join that line. He wondered at what age you forgot how to simply order food in a restaurant. He couldn’t imagine seeing a line full of people and thinking, “Well this can’t be where I have to go,” and pushing past them. People always just thought about themselves.

As he reached his turn in line Tim tried to put the woman out of his mind. Take more of those breaths he’d been hearing about. The worker behind the counter, a friendly girl who kept her positive demeanor in the busiest of rushes, greeted him politely. He tried to order a slice of quiche.

They were out of the quiche. Damn, but not unexpected considering the time of day.

He tried ordering a cinnamon bun. They sold out of those too. Damn.

A bagel breakfast sandwich. They were out of bagels.

A breakfast sandwich on a croissant. Non.

He found success with a club sandwich. He didn’t really like club sandwiches, but food was food and at this point he’ll just take whatever he can get. He got a bag of chips with it. Plain chips because, of course, they were out of barbeque.

He stood off to the side and waited while the kitchen prepared his order. He casually watched as customers ordered their food. Unlike him, everyone else was somehow able to get the first thing they ordered. The old woman from before got to the front of the line. She wasn’t ready. Again, Tim wondered what she thought was going to happen when she got to the front of the line. At her age there was no way this was her first time in a restaurant.

Everything about her annoyed Tim. The way it all confused her, as if the menu was written in code on the back of the Declaration of Independence. The way she spoke was annoying, asking all these questions but still with an air of entitlement. And how she was completely oblivious to how she was aggravating everyone else by holding up the line. When she finally made her order and asked for her eggs to be prepared “medium well,” it was all Tim could do to stop himself from asking her exactly what the hell that even means.

He finally got his sandwich in a little brown paper bag. Apologies for the wait. He drove back to the office and clocked back in, five minutes over his allotted lunch break. He’d hear about that at the next meeting. They loved bringing that up at meetings. He ate his sandwich while staring half-aware at his screen. It didn’t taste as good as he wanted it.

***

The drive home was full of assholes. Some drivers were too slow and took too long to turn. Others were too aggressive and weaved dangerously around others. Some honked their horns. Some gave the finger. Others yelled, shook their fists. Tim’s shoulders were tight, his jaw stuck in a clench. Just get home, goddamnit.

Upon getting home, goddamnit, he quickly said hello to his wife and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Showering off the day usually helped Tim relax. He felt it was possible to wash the “work” right out of your body. He quickly found there was no hot water and he cut his shower short because he hated showering cold, despite reading that it was better for you.

He put on sweatpants and an old t-shirt before rejoining his wife in the kitchen. Mentioned there was no hot water. That was her fault, she had gotten home just a few minutes before him and jumped in the shower. He sighed in frustration but didn’t say anything more. He busied himself sorting the bills on the kitchen table.

It was his wife’s night to cook dinner, and she asked what he wanted, spaghetti or stir fry. Tim said he didn’t care. She said she didn’t care either, just pick one. He didn’t care, just pick one, he didn’t care, just pick one.

“I said I don’t fucking care!”

His wife turned and looked at him in surprise. Her eyebrows were arched and she looked a little hurt and a little angry. After a pause she relaxed her face, took a deep breath, and said in a calm voice: “Something you need to talk about?”

Tim rubbed his temples angrily with his fists, feeling a headache forming right behind them. “I’m sorry, I just, I just…” he hesitated before finishing his sentence. “…hate people.”

The words hung there in the kitchen. Tim could feel that his face was red. He looked down at the table because he couldn’t look at his wife. She stared at him for a long time, studying his face, his body language. Then she let out a small chuckle. “Do you, Tim? Do you really hate people?”

He looked up at her, this beautiful woman he was absolutely in love with. He thought of her, then he thought of his parents, he thought of his friends. The ones who’d helped him move, the ones who listened to him bitch, the ones he took weekend trips with. He thought of the one coworker in the office he liked, the cashier at the market who always asked what he was going to cook this week. The stranger who let him cut in front of them when traffic was bad the other day.

He took another breath. This time when he exhaled he felt the tension in his chest loosen ever so slightly. His shoulders lowered just an inch. His face got a smidge cooler.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t hate people. Sometimes it’s just hard.”

She nodded and gave him a hug. She made spaghetti for dinner. It was delicious.

Thanks for reading, please share if you liked it. You can subscribe to my email blast here, this week I talked a bit about the moments where being kind to people can do a world of good. Keep Trying!

You Couldn’t Make “The Golden Girls” Today, because Blanche is a Landlord.

Listen, nobody wants to see another revival/reboot of a classic sitcom anymore (Night Court? Does anyone care?). And, of course, no one would dream of trying to reboot The Golden Girls, one of the greatest sitcoms of all time. We could make so many points about how shows with live studio audiences don’t work anymore, as they now feel like actors just standing and delivering lines instead of actual characters. Or we could make the point that the chemistry of that original cast is impossible to recreate (Bea Arthur HATED Betty White, but could you tell?). But let’s get to the real reason why we couldn’t see a reboot of Golden Girls: it’s 2023 and Blanche is a shitty landlord.

Now we all love Blanche. She’s got that ridiculous Southern accent, she’s over-dramatic, she’s a proud slut. Many a young woman/gay man idolizes Blanche for her unashamed healthy sexuality. She’s the life of the party, someone who’s never afraid to have fun. There are plenty of things to love about Blanche. But there’s one giant flaw: she charges her best friends, her “sisters”, rent to live in her house.

Right from the get go, she promises the same room to Dorothy and Rose. When confronted about this, she shrugs and says “Whoops!”. Now if Dorothy and Rose were experienced renters in 2023 this serious lack of organization would be a giant red flag for their living situation. The landlord can’t keep track of her tenants? And she only has two? Run, girls.

Throughout the series Blanche shows more signs of shittiness. Threatening to raise the rent to win arguments, turning Rose’s heat off because she’s mad at her, having wicker furniture in the living room. Sure, she lives there too, so the house looks more presentable than just walls sloppily painted off-white and doors that don’t sit in their frames properly. Still, in the episode where the roof starts leaking and needs replaced, what happens? They all chip in. Hahahahaha, get the hell out of here, Blanche, that’s your responsibility.

It’s clear Blanche is renting her house to supplement her income, since she “Works herself like a dog twenty hours a week at that museum”. And, in theory, there’s nothing wrong with being a landlord as long as you are ready to treat it with the same level of care you would approach any other job. But ironically, despite being part of that alleged “greatest generation”, Blanche doesn’t want to work. But, of course, if you’re in a rough spot financially, it’s perfectly logical to rent out some rooms to help out a bit.

But here’s the thing…Blanche doesn’t need the money.

Every story from Blanche’s childhood that doesn’t involve sex usually mentions growing up in Hollingsworth Manor. Her family had money; they were probably “old money”, she was not a child who grew up poor like Dorothy or Rose or Sophia, who lived under a bridge in Sicily. The Hollingsworth’s were just straight up rich. Then she got married, and guess what? Her husband George was also rich. She had nannies taking care of her kids while she was a housewife. She openly admitted once that she married money. So now, at the time of the show, she has her family money AND her late husband’s money. There’s no reason she should need to rent her rooms.

There is no mention that maybe she’s squandered her money or has a gambling problem or anything like that. Yet she’s always needed to fill those rooms since her husband passed, if for no other reason than to avoid finding herself a real job. So she opens up her house (god forbid she finds a smaller place) to strangers, whom she once accidentally called “suckers”. And, sure, she grew to love the Girls as her own family. But at the end of the day she’s taking money from a substitute teacher, an unemployed 80-year old, and Rose, a woman who somehow manages to hold decent jobs despite being a nitwit.

To be blunt, Blanche is a monster. Blanche is just renting out her house for the sheer, powerful thrill of having people dependent on her. Sure, she probably wouldn’t throw the girls out on the street, she does love them. But she still has that dynamic, that threat she can whip out when they get on her nerves. What kind of sadist does that? Is that someone we really feel like rooting for these days, with tenants posting more and more often about the lack of attention from their landlords? Perhaps we would watch a gritty antihero reboot, a la Dexter, about a loveable slut who grifts everyone close to her. Blanche’s House, coming next spring in 2024.

That Old Man

He never plans his visits to the coffee shop, just goes when the mood strikes him. Keep a little spontaneity in his life, instead of walking the same trails every day. Today he brings his paper and gets his coffee, plain with a splash of cream, then the usual polite small talk with the owner before taking a table in the front where he can look out at the street. He’s retired, of course. Retired from a job he never truly enjoyed, but now he gets to enjoy his “golden years”. Whatever that means, whatever is left to enjoy at this age.

Most of the people coming into the coffee shop are young people on a break from their jobs. Often times they’re impatient. He remembers those days; got to have something to worry about. What is life if there’s no stress? A few fellow old-timers stop in as well, a few homeless looking for free coffee, the occasional student looking for a place to work on their computer. Always someone doing something. He’s not one of those old men that gather for McDonald’s breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday to solve the world’s problems. He keeps to himself, a loner, a hermit. He prefers it this way, he tells himself.

He reads his newspaper. He has a smartphone and knows how to read the news on it, but he thinks the newspaper really ties the “old man” look together. He judges the old men that drink their coffee and then read the news on their phones, brows furrowed in anger. Like they’re trying to look young. He’d rather flip through the newspaper. Nothing in it worth reading, of course, but at least it looks productive. He refuses to be a total stereotype and skips reading the obituaries. He never recognizes the names in there anyway.

As he skims over the Opinion section for anything intelligent, a young couple walks into the shop. They’re laughing with each other, with jokingly-linked arms as they walk. They aren’t terribly young, maybe mid-thirties. Definitely too old for that flirty, puppy love business. Their love must either be very new or very strong. A more outgoing old man would just ask them, but he wasn’t going to be that old man. He knows how to mind his business.

They giggle as they order their overly-complicated order, double espresso with skim milk and two pumps of some sugary syrup that negates getting skim milk in the first place. They should be annoying, but the owner finds them charming, makes little jokes as he rings them up. Their love is infectious.

The old man recalled being their age once. It was around the time people repeatedly started asking him when he’d get married, only a few short years before they gave up asking. He never had a good answer for them, as if falling in love were a choice one person makes alone, like getting a tattoo. It was a mutual thing, and he’d never found someone where the love had gone both ways. Love was usually unrequited. Sometimes he was the one unable to return the feelings. The stars just hadn’t aligned, despite others saying they would someday or “It will happen when you stop looking”. Such nice-sounding platitudes that he soon got tired of hearing.

He finishes his paper and leaves it on the table, a freebie for the next person who may want to flip through. He takes his to-go cup out into the street, starts to roam. Had to get out of there. Outside is better, can look at the clouds, look at the grass, look at the river. Not look at the young couple in love.

Love. The most wonderful feeling in the world. Whether it’s familial, platonic, romantic. Books are written about it, songs are sung about it, far too many movies get made about it. Sure, Valentine’s Day was invented to make money (what holiday wasn’t?), but the power of love is still a force to be reckoned with. But romantic love, agreed in unspoken words to be the most powerful kind, he’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. How had that happened?

On the other side of the street, he spotted a man in his fifties walking beside a young woman, maybe in her late twenties. She seemed to be wearing a sports bra as a top, and she was very visibly pregnant. They both looked miserable as they walked in silence. Was she his daughter? Younger wife? Mistress? Could be anything. But again, none of his business.

Perhaps he was looking to avoid a situation like that: a situation where you can tell two people are miserable together but they refuse to be alone. He never wanted to end up like that, trapped in his own home. He’d made himself as happy as he could, made money, had space. He had created his own life.

Memories kept coming back to him as he slowly made his way back to the house. Damn memories, a lot of them painful. Most men his age were getting senile, and he was almost jealous of them. He had to remember his past failures. He only remembered the hurt. Unrequited love. The rejection and embarrassment, how it kept him bedridden for weeks. But like with every bad feeling, it eventually stopped. He’d thought the end of the heartache meant that he had gotten over it. But after that time, he had never really pursued love again. One way to avoid getting hurt is to never try. Now, at this stage of his life, he wished he’d tried a little more.

He had gotten back to his house sooner than he’d realized. Maybe he was going senile after all. Something to look forward to, or perhaps not. He was proud of his house, of what he had done with it. There were lots of things to be proud of, still a lot of good things. No use getting cranky about the past. He goes inside to his favorite chair, puts his feet up, turns on the TV. It’s not a bad life, even at this age.

Tomorrow was Thursday. Maybe he’d get up early tomorrow, go to McDonald’s. Get a biscuit sandwich and see if the old men need any help solving the world’s problems. He could help with that, he really could.