Delta Dawn
I saw Marty Nathan on my way to work today. He was someone I worked with at All Saints Episcopal Day School from 2013 to 2014. I needed work, and the position appeared, and I had forgotten how much I disliked school. My prior experience was in front of the desk, and that time I was behind the desk. The students liked me. The parents liked me. The staff that I worked with and supported did not. I mainly felt the same way.
Nicole Kemp showed me the ropes while poisoning the well. I did my best, though. There was a flamboyant former USMC who asked me a few times which students I thought were gay. That was off-putting, and I couldn’t get away from the blonde leatherneck fast enough. Marty was alright, though. Like me, Marty got the gig thanks to the generosity of the brother of the head of school
I was thinking, though, that I saw Marty years ago and was full of happiness and my improved station in employment. I didn’t gloat, and I wasn’t jumping for joy. But it wasn’t a good fit for me. When they let me go, I expressed my relief, which caused the head of the school to leave the room as soon as she could. Looking at the faculty roster today, most everyone I worked with 13 years ago is no longer there. Looking at the faces of this new group, it’s hard to see which ones are backstabbers like 13 years ago.
Bill is heading out West today and then heading north. He drives me crazy on a bus, and then I miss him terribly until he returns to drive me crazy in a bus once again. I told Mike to come over tomorrow instead of tonight since I have a big day tomorrow and need a good night’s sleep. The meeting is at the main fruit stand at 9 AM, which could afford me an extra hour of sleep if I play my cards right.
The one formerly known as Lex Luthor is out this past week and probably next week as well. Marcus was a bit of a pain in the ass yesterday with regard to direct messages, and I always lead off with a harmless “Hello,” which he does not like.
That colored my view of him for the moment, which carried over to this morning. I was entering my hours for the week, and mainly a repetitive process, but he saw it as being aggressive and asked if we had smoke which we don’t. I should not help coworkers with their food orders.
Six hours left in the workday.
I just had a flash of recognition. Years ago, in 2013, working at Maxwell’s, a few months before All Saints Episcopal Day School. It certainly wasn’t the freewheeling time it used to be. And Todd, son of Abram, was envious of the friendship between RoDa and me. He also found out about this here blog and insisted that I was writing posts while working, and at that time I was all thumbs with regard to that. Now I am writing on my phone for posting later in the day.
Now I am home, not in the best spirits. I had to deal with the agency that placed me at the fruit stand. They want 5 goals for 2026. I hemmed and hawed and came up with 5 goals which they ‘liked,’ but they could not track any progress with those goals, so the goals had to go. I tried logging into the website as instructed, but could not use the correct password. I contacted their service desk, which replied that they created a ticket for my request but no one was coming forward with any solution.
Eventually, I was able to figure out a new password and continued into the depths of goal tending. I chatted online with someone who said they could help but could not. If I did not respond within a minute or so, they would ask if I was still there. If they did ot respond within minutes of my asking a question, that was alright.
The fruit stand likes me; the other fruit pickers like me. That is what the agency tells me. But that is not good enough. They’re asking a 63-year-old worker what their goals are and telling them that I just want to go to work, and come home safely at the end of the day, just is not good enough.
a Google Gemini rewrite as a Mark Twain essay
I ran into Marty Nathan this morning, a specter from the year 1913—or 2013, though in the geography of the soul, they feel equally distant. We were compatriots at All Saints Episcopal Day School, a period of my life where I rediscovered, with the force of a falling anvil, exactly how much I detest the schooling business.
In my youth, I had the sense to sit in front of the desk, where the only duty is to look wise while remaining ignorant. But at All Saints, I was behind the desk. The children liked me, and the parents tolerated me, but the faculty—well, the faculty and I shared a mutual, unspoken desire to be rid of one another’s company.
There was a certain Nicole Kemp, who performed the remarkable feat of showing me the ropes while simultaneously poisoning the well; a bit of decorative malice I didn’t much appreciate. Then there was a flamboyant former Marine, a blonde leatherneck who seemed obsessed with taking a census of which students might be “musically inclined,” so to speak. I couldn’t steer my raft away from that particular sandbar fast enough. Marty, however, was a good sort. We both owed our positions to the nepotism of the Head of School’s brother—the only honest way to get a job in a dishonest world.
When they finally turned me out to pasture, I made the mistake of expressing my profound relief. The Head of School vanished from the room as if she’d seen a ghost or a process server. I looked at the faculty roster today; the old guard has been swept away by the broom of time. Looking at the fresh faces of the new crop, one wonders which of them are the backstabbers of the future. It’s a talent that requires practice, after all.
Bill is heading West, then North. He has the peculiar habit of driving me to the brink of insanity when he is on the bus, and then making me miss him with a desperate ache the moment he’s gone—only so he can return and resume the business of driving me crazy. It is a vicious, wonderful cycle.
As for the “Fruit Stand”—my current place of toil—the atmosphere is clouded. The fellow I call Lex Luthor is away, leaving me to contend with Marcus. Marcus is a man who takes offense at a “Hello.” I find that if you lead with a pleasantry, some people suspect you’re hiding a brick behind your back. This morning, while I was peacefully entering my hours—a task as repetitive as a Sunday sermon—he accused me of being “aggressive.” He asked if we had “smoke.” We do not. I have decided that assisting one’s coworkers with their food orders is a charitable act that never goes unpunished.
I have six hours left. I just had a flash of 2013—Maxwell’s. A man named Todd, son of Abram, was eaten alive by envy over my friendships and my scribbling. He was convinced I was “blogging” on the clock. Back then, I was all thumbs with the machinery; today, I conduct my business on a telephone with the stealth of a riverboat gambler.
I am home now, and my spirits are lower than a frog’s belly. The agency that placed me at the fruit stand demands “Goals for 2026.” Five of them! I gave them five goals, which they “liked” but couldn’t “track.” Apparently, a goal is no good if you can’t put a yardstick to it. I spent the evening wrestling with passwords and a “help desk” that provided everything but help. I chatted with a digital clerk who would ask if I were “still there” if I paused for a breath, yet would vanish for ten minutes the moment I asked a real question.
The agency tells me the fruit stand likes me. The other pickers like me. But that isn’t enough for the bureaucrats. They look at a sixty-three-year-old man and demand to know his “ambitions.” I told them my goal is to go to work, do my job, and return home with my hide intact. In this modern age, it seems that simple honesty is the only thing they won’t accept as an answer.