Fitting in

  I didn't fit in there. I knew it. The owners of the distributing company knew it, all the other workers knew it and in the end, I became proud of that fact. I had promised my big shot brother, who had- in his own words- "pulled a lot of strings" and "called in a lot of favors" to get me this job, that I would work there for at least a year. The only person I could relate to at that place was George and all the other workers only pretended to like him. All in all, it was a dirty exhausting job with lots of heavy-lifting and absolutely no possibility for promotion. And, despite this, it was still a rather tedious job.

http://nomadicjoe.blogspot.com/2009/04/super-good.html

So much for the background. Now comes the bit about Crypto-quotes. A simple substitution cipher is one in which each letter of the original text is replaced by a different letter, which altogether makes a quote by a famous person.

For example, Mark Twain's quote would be written:

RQK HUBSG YFQ TYFPQF HC DIH ID KUHT HTYB Y SCCP QLYADXQ.

These would appear every day in The Oklahoman, and, being impatient with crossword puzzles, I would wile away my free time, trying to figure them out. Later, one of my co-workers, Richard, had taken the time to instruct me carefully on the details for solving these puzzles. Common letters-patterns for both consonants and vowels, single-letter words, two-letter words. After awhile, I became quite good at it and within, say, 5 minutes, I could usually work out the solution. (Now I couldn't complete one to save my life, for some reason.)

After about a month, I came up with a prank that I thought- at that time, anyway- was genius. My plan was to solve the puzzle first thing in the morning, before Richard had had a chance to look at the newspaper. And, then, I would drop the secret message (that is, the solved cipher) into the middle of a normal conversation, as if, it were some kind of sudden insight. Later, I imagined, he would begin to work on the problem and realize what I had done. If he had already solved the puzzle, then the joke would come off immediately. Ok. I admit, it isn't a knee-slapper by any stretch but it seemed clever at the time.

That particular day the secret message was: The beauty of true friendship is to understand and to be understood. Noble sentiments, to be sure, but I was not especially interested in any deeper meaning.

The front office, where customers were met and served, was to be the scene of my “escapade.” I was not officially welcome there and, staying past a 10- minute limit would provoke sharp remarks and spiteful looks by the overeager management. Kyle, the owner's younger brother, was the mildly incompetent  service manager-or whatever they decided to call it- in charge, at least in theory of a crew of service representatives. In the crew, there was Matt, a kind of young but rather heavy person with a very narrow sense of humor. In fact, his view of everything was pretty narrow. Melvin, the only black guy there, who tended to push the limits because he understood his racial advantage.  To put it more precisely, Melvin was completely aware that the company needed him slightly more than he needed the company. And finally there was steely Louisa with  the short reddish hair that naturally spiked. Wallet and chain and the perennial cowboy boots.

I forget what the conversation was about; certainly it had nothing to do with beauty or friendship or understanding. Probably something work related or some off-duty exploit. I let them chat awhile and then I said, with an impressive air of astuteness. "You know something, the beauty of friendship. You know what I think? The beauty of friendship is to understand. And.. to be understood." There was this strange moment of hesitancy and blankness. This was something I hadn't counted on. I casually looked around. Matt squinted at me, trying not to look cock-eyed.  I suppose he didn’t know how to respond. Louisa's eyebrows were knitted and stared at me in bewilderment. Rich was paying no attention at all and began reading an article in the paper. I decided, at that moment to make my exit. I waited and waited, but the plan fizzled. On this particular day, Richard had been called out of the office and had not had time to work on the crypto-quote. Hadn't had the time or inclination. And that was that. Well. actually, no.

Later that afternoon, Louisa came to the warehouse. "Say, um. What are you doing after work?" She asked me. This certainly took me aback. I was strictly an outsider, as far as the service department was concerned. They would openly discuss Sunday picnics and Saturday beer parties without even thinking about whether to ask me. I am sure, if in the unlikely possibility that I had been invited, I would have graciously declined. If I was an outsider, they belonged to a club I had no desire to be a member of. Still, for Louisa to make a special effort intrigued me.

"Nothing. Why?"
"I was thinking about going out for a beer after work. Want to come along?"

I didn't really know much about Louisa. A few details about a troubled relationship with a drunken father. My first thought was, therefore, that she needed somebody to talk with, somebody that had a certain amount of perspective and distance.

So after work, she drove us across town in her monstrous 4 by 4 to a little hole-in-wall bar named something like "Pearls." Small reflective windows, discreet signage,  a wraparound gravel parking lot. Flat roofed and a minimum of exterior decoration. I must have driven past this place a hundred times but, instinctively, I sensed it was not my kind of place.

Going from the hard Oklahoma sun to the cavernous dimness of the bar felt like somebody had thrown a burlap bag over my head. As my eyesight returned, I noticed that every other person in the bar was a woman. Women dancing with women and rough looking women with arms around cheerleader types. Frowning women behind the bar looking at me skeptically. Louisa was a regular and made sure to introduce me to her friends there. "A man I work with." Then, it dawned on me, that Louisa had heard me  chirp my little quote about friendship and concluded that I was passing on some kind of "secret handshake."

A few of the women feigned hospitality and half-hearted introductions were made. Louisa got caught up in the bar social circles while I tried not to become a victim of some ass-whooping by an angry lesbian out settle some scores on my chin. As I downed the last of my beer and, with a jaunty smile, made my way to the door, I realized that, once again, the joke was on me. At least here,  at Pearls, I didn’t have to try to fit in.

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Super Good

One time I worked as a warehouse/shipping and receiving clerk in a middle-sized distributing company in Oklahoma City. I can't say much for the job. The pay was average, the work was both boring and physically-demanding. The company sold everything related to gas stations. From the nozzles and hoses to the tall pumps and underground tanks. You would be surprised how many things actually go into the creation of a gas station. Surprised perhaps but not at all interested.

The owners, as far as I could determine, were two brothers. There was Kyle, a young man clearly in over his head who hated taking orders from his older brother, Russell. Between the two, Russell was the clever one but that was not saying an awful lot. I suppose they were satisfactory businessmen but only average people. And perhaps that is giving a bit more credit than they deserved.

One day, they decided to initiate to this motivational program which they probably spent a small fortune on. The program came as a set, video tapes with morale-bolstering lectures, audio tapes (presumably for drivers who were motivationally insatiable or illiterate) and workbooks to measure your rising levels of good cheer and effectiveness. The main aim of the program was not to make you happier or self-fulfilled or a better spouse. After all, why should any boss care about that? No, the idea was, through a series of sermons and idea-packed speeches, to make thou a better worker. And, if you are a better worker, it follows naturally, they stressed, that you would be a happier person. You would be fulfilling your life's mission and this would lead to satisfaction and God would shine his ever loving light on your cold stone of a heart. So went the theory anyway.

In Oklahoma, Capitalism and Christianity walked hand in hand like a pair of leather clad lovers on Castro Street. This was the 80s and under Reagan, it was unquestionably accepted that material success was God's way of blessing you. Like, go on buy yourself a mansion on the hill, you been a good soul. Material success was, above all, a sign (as if you really needed a sign, at all) there was only one true religion and ostentatious wealth was merely a confirmation for all the doubters that Christians, specially Re-Born and evangelical ones, were the chosen people.

Of course, to every flock, there are sheep that stray, eventually become lost and make easy pickings for the wolves that lurk in the shadows. Apparently those sheep make lousy workers, become unemployed, carelessly have lots of baby sheep and expect the shepherd to give them a free lunch on the backs of taxpayers.

There was quite a crammed market for motivational programs back then. By listening to motivational speakers telling you about what exactly was wrong with you and how, with a little fine tuning, you could be a better worker, the doors of opportunity would apparently fly open.  At one point, all of the workers had to stand up in turn and announce to the others why we were poor employees and in what ways we had failed the company.

My co-worker, George was a cross between Jimmy Cagney and Archie Bunker. In Oklahoma, he was definitely as out of place as a lobster in the desert. He would chomp on the remains of a cigar and call everybody, "Butterball" From the first morning of the program, he was visibly skeptical. "I don't need anybody saving my soul. This is where I work. Churches are for that." The owners took no nevermind to George and dismissed him as a crank who would soon be retired.

We had to come in early three times a week to watch a tiresome video. It was, indeed,  like going to a Southern Baptist revival. Zig Ziglar  was of the Dale Carnegie species but with a emphasis on the Christian ethic. All very well and good but, coming to listen to his video lectures three times a week-at 8 in the morning yet- well, my enthusiasm waned pretty quickly.. (Wikipedia tells me that his first name was actually Hilary. Now I can understand why he would change his name. An unpromising childhood AND a girlie name? But, isn't  it remarkable he would change it to Zig. Why not, Bert or Sidney? A disembodied voice perhaps inspired him.)

I don't actually remember much about him except his incessant drone and catchy quips. Chortling from the other workers was about the only thing that kept me awake.  There were a few points I didn't disagree with but most of it was a bit heavy on the "God's plan" aspect. I imagine his scheme might work better on some people than it did on me. Maybe I was less of a lost sheep than a found wolf.

Ziglar told stories about his rather deprived childhood during the Depression and all he learned from it. How his grand success was a result of being right with God and, for a small fortune, he was quite willing to share what he had learned.

On one of the videos Ziggy said that, when somebody asks, "How are you?" instead of saying something typical like, "fine and you?" you should proudly and loudly say, "I am super good but I'll get better." Honestly. The reasoning behind it now escapes me. Something along the lines of self-suggestion. Believing is the most important part of being. I was sitting there and thinking, "if that isnt the most.." while everybody around me was nodding in agreement with blurred grins on their faces. Oklahoma was generally like that.

And worse than that? One of the owners, this bullish dull-witted guy named Jeb, would walk around greeting people and waiting for this-and only this- response. First time I answered (incorrectly. according to him) he glared at me like I was suddenly speaking Klingon or something. With some awkward prompting, he eventually got the words out of me. Soon I was doing my best to avoid him and eventually when cornered, I quit answering him altogether. I took to becoming a mute whenever he came into the warehouse.

In time, I found better things to do with my mornings (like snooze) and, since the owners were too cheap to pay us to attend the program, they could not, in turn, force us to comply. After that, everybody began thinking of excuses for non-attendance until there was one poor guy all alone in the meeting room, murmuring, "Super good.. super good, but.."

A few months later, George collapsed at work. Never missing an opportunity, the owners decided the time had come to put old Georgie out to pasture. Time had come to retire, old boy. At first he resisted but then, when the doctors told him they had found some shadows on his x-rays, he had to agree. I was left to run the entire warehouse alone which was no small task. Kyle promised to find help for me in the warehouse but that never came. Call it cost-saving.

In the following year, George would call, his voice getting weaker and weaker. I have to say, I didn't visit him as the brain tumor grew and his strength left him. I still regret it and wonder what I was afraid of.

It was the hottest part of a hot Oklahoma summer when George died. I recall sitting in the company car on the way to the cemetery as Russell openly debated with himself whether he should pay us for attending the ceremony or not. And if we were to be paid, should we receive full or half the normally hourly wage. I think this was the moment I decided that I'd begin looking for a new job.