Sketches of Ron Gosip and Others Page 4

  “You’ll do fine,” she assured him as she stepped back to check his appearance once more.

  “I hope you are right,” he said, “but I usually ‘bomb,’ as they say.” His eyes moved from the floor on his left to the floor on his right. “That’s my own fault, I guess. Maybe I should read up on interview skills.“

  “Well, I know one thing that we can fix right now,” said Curriel. “I want you to look at my eyes. If that becomes uncomfortable, pick a spot directly behind me, and look at that. Now, I’ll ask you a few easy questions, and I want you to keep your eyes up as you answer, okay?”

  The man went along with the exercise, and they soon found that he was able to comply.

  “Well, that should help,” said Curriel. “There are other things, but just remember that one for today.” Then she got on her “soap box”. “You know, you’re wrong – it isn’t your fault. If I had my way, our schools would teach social skills, like speaking and interviewing, far more than they do now, a hundred times more, every year K through 12, plus college. And reading a book isn’t enough; it needs to be learned one step at a time, just like anything else. You know, we would never allow students to struggle with reading or writing -- why should speaking be any different?”

  “I agree with you there,” said the man, who no longer seemed nervous.

  He thanked her for the lesson, and she wished him luck. Apparently, her help paid off.

  As Curriel arrived for her second appointment, she was met by the hiring manager, who quickly offered her employment. She was asked to join the firm in the department where, he felt, she could help the most. After a brief meeting, they shook hands and Curriel began her career as Assistant Director of Human Resources. A tour of the facilities followed.

  They soon encountered the man whom Curriel had helped two days earlier. This time, his tie was perfect. The hiring manager introduced him as a lead researcher, and part-time actor. “Since you two know each other,” he said to Curriel, “he can show you around from here, okay?”

  “That will be fine,” replied Curriel. As they began their walk, she asked, “So, how long have you been with the company?”

  “Soon to be twenty years,” said the researcher. “I think you’ll enjoy working here.”

  “I think so, too,” Curriel agreed.

  Long and Short of a Jewelry Heist

  #0

  The tall man browsed while waiting for service. I noticed him because his clothes hung loosely, and I wondered if he had recently lost weight like I had. He had come in just after the bearded electrician, who was there to repair a bathroom fixture installed only days before. I had directed the electrician to the washroom. As I pondered this unlikely situation, my coworker by the necklaces pointed and yelled “stop!”

  Breaking glass could be heard simultaneously with an alarm. In shock we watched the tall man take diamonds from the display case. Then, instead of running for the exit, he ducked into the bathroom. A shout was heard from inside, and moments later, the door re-opened; ejected was the electrician, now with blood on his face and beard. “He has a gun, don’t go in there!” cried the small man as he straightened his tool belt and scrambled to his feet in one panicked motion. We all ran out, meeting the police at the door and telling them about the gunman.

  When they finally burst into the bathroom, the officers found the real technician bound and gagged, lying on the floor. Next to him were the “tall” man’s discarded over-clothes, and a pair of ten inch stilts. The electrical company’s van was long gone.

  Room for One More

  #6

  Erica, a family counselor and psychologist, led the session: “Last week, we ended with an idea about your father’s personality. Jon, would you like to start with that?

  Jon: Sure. For example, Dad seems to regress at times -- he becomes a doting parent type. I think that for all our lives he was doing things for us, and now that we’re all grown, and Mom is gone, he struggles with his self worth. That’s why, for example, he’ll phone us for little things -- about groceries on sale, or a free concert. Those insignificant things are important to him because they are a way to help us.

  Jacob: Oh yeah? Like, if he really wants to help us, then why won’t he put his money in a trust for us?

  Jon: See, that’s where his other personality comes forward. There is Dad the doting parent, and there is Dad the keeper of the family fortune.

  Jacob: “Keeper of the fortune?” I would just call him Dad-the-greedy-B____.

  Erica: Okay, all right. Now we haven’t heard from Joel. Where does Joel stand on this?

  Joel: (in a calmer voice) Well, Dad does in fact want to straighten out his affairs, including the family trust. He has talked about that. That’s personality-number-three -- the one who is sensible, but cannot function because of the other two. That’s what I think.

  Jon: By the way, I should point out that Jackie isn’t here today because talking about Dad makes her distraught. Dad acts as though Jackie doesn’t exist. So I don’t think Jackie would have any input, except maybe to agree with Jacob, about Dad the B____.

  (A pause as the counselor takes notes.)

  Erica: Now, if I understand what you’re trying to say to me, there does seem to be a theme here -- that your dad is afraid to spend money. Could that be the common thread through his personalities?

  Jon: I think it’s more than that. I think there is, finally, one more personality, the hoarder. The hoarder has control over the other three.

  And so it went. They discussed Dad the Doter, the Greedy B., the Sensible one, the Hoarder. Soon, the hour was up, and they adjourned.

  Exiting the office building started with a ride down from the 6th floor. It was a busy time of day to catch an elevator, so when a crowded car finally arrived, the passengers shuffled to make space. “Room for one more,” said a man near the front.

  “No, that’s okay,” said Jon. “We’ll catch the next one.”

  “Suit yourself,” replied the puzzled man, and the elevator doors closed again.

  Epitaph

  #4

  Imagine an account for souls,

  Maintained for afterworld controls.

  I wonder if at least a few

  Receivables go overdue.

  When special people leave, I’ve found,

  It feels as though they’re still around.

  Perhaps some are, and some are not.

  Depends what type of soul they’ve got.

 

  The first kind, say like mine, won’t wait

  To find its designated gate.

  The second kind, though, takes a while,

  As angels wait to reconcile.

  And where they lived their earthly lot,

  On land or ocean matters not,

  Nor when or how they may have sinned.

  These souls fly free in wave and wind.

  The peace we feel around us there

  Is more than water, more than air.

  And when we gaze out from the shore,

  We visit with our friends once more.

  From Regel Sands Resort, we send

  A Good-Bye to our Lodger-Friend,

  Free in spirit and in mind,

  A first rate soul, (the second kind).

  And when things fail to go our way,

  We’ll think of what he used to say:

  We are the sum of joy and strife

  So “Debit hardship, Credit life.”

  Look Ahead

  #8

  Young Cleranne was beginning her promising career as a graphic technician in a sprawling “silicon valley.” She had located an apartment in a nearby village that was becoming home to many like her. The rental unit, in contrast to this community of upwardly mobile professionals, was in a stately, hundred-year-old house. The landlady, noted Cleranne to herself, seemed nearly the same age.

  When Cleranne was being shown the apartment for the
first time, she noticed an unusual item -- an easel standing in one corner, with several drawings still on it.

  “The previous tenant,” the landlady explained, “left this behind when he moved out.”

  Cleranne flipped through the oversized sheets of fine paper; on each was an image that was expertly drawn, yet somehow lacking. One had seagulls, one just a fountain, one a playground slide. Another showed a smiling girl, and another, a steeple.

  The ancient woman spoke up in her crackly voice. “These needed more time, I would say. Half of each page is empty, and there’s no color.” Then she looked at Cleranne. “Say, aren’t you an artist of some kind? Perhaps you could finish them.”

  “Well, maybe,” replied Cleranne to the suggestion. But she could see that the drawings were meant to be black and white, and that their artist probably considered them complete. Tactfully, she said, “We’ll see. But sketching is not my forte, really.” And after the landlady had gone, Cleranne stashed the easel away in the closet.

  Six months later, Cleranne’s career was advancing nicely – perhaps too nicely. Promotions had increased her responsibilities -- and her hours. Much of her “free” time was actually spent working.

  One Saturday evening found her replying to emails from fellow management employees. In the middle of a message, she paused, staring blankly at her keyboard.

  Q-W-E-R-T-Y.

  How history had been changed by that, she pondered -- spoken language reduced to 26 symbols. Letters, she thought, had allowed for moveable type, the printing press, the mass exchange of ideas; the Age of Enlightenment, Industrial Revolution, and more. But now, according to Cleranne’s theory, the alphabet was less important -- computers could break down information in a different, better way.

  These stray thoughts were not sad; they were simply Cleranne’s mind taking a break. Yet she felt tears forming, and next, she sobbed with her head in her hands. The stress of work had gotten to her; realizing this, she decided to take time off -- her job would wait.

 

  On Monday she walked to the bayside park. From there she could see, in the morning sun, a grand steeple. It was the one in the drawings which the artist had left behind. There was something missing from the sketch, thought Cleranne, and she wondered about finishing it. Indeed, she still had her charcoal pencils from college; she would give it a try.

  That day, she added to the image of the spire. She could not match the style exactly, nor draw as skillfully, yet she found the exercise relaxing. As she sketched the old church, Cleranne wondered how many souls had been baptized there. How many married? Eulogized?

  For the rest of the week, as she returned each day to the park, she continued to see reminders of those partial images on the easel. Each time, she returned to her apartment and drew what she had seen.

  On the playground, a tike was the subject of her next sketch. As Cleranne made conversation with the child’s mother, the boy went a few times down a slide. Then, ignoring its intended purpose, began climbing up the slippery slope. “All kids do that, eventually,” said the mom. “They need a challenge, a sense of accomplishment.”

  The following day, Cleranne listened to the cries of gulls in the harbor and the clanging of ropes against sailboat masts. One sound was natural, the other manmade, yet the two became one, she thought.

  When a teenage girl skated by; Cleranne thought about the many children of all ages in the park that week, and was struck by one fact; they all were good kids.

  On Friday, she sat near the fountain. Next to it a young couple held hands, their reflection in the pool. Cleranne wondered if there was such an image in her own future.

  The week-long break was good for Cleranne. By Saturday, her mind was refreshed and clear. And one month later, she had found a new job – lower stress, higher satisfaction. It would pay less, and it meant relocating, but it was a step she had to take, a bridge to the life that she wanted.

  A few days after Cleranne moved out, the landlady was already showing the apartment to a new, eager prospect. Near the closet, the easel was standing where Cleranne had left it. “These are very good,” said the young college graduate, as he studied each unfinished picture. “Did she forget them?”

  The landlady stood at a window, gazing out. “Cleranne did leave in kind of a hurry,” she rasped. “Perhaps you’re an artist, too?”

  “This view of the bridge,” said the young man, “looks familiar.” Then turning to the landlady, he answered, “My expertise is not in drawing, per se; more-so programming. You know – ones and zeros.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said the old woman, casually brushing a stray mark from her hand. “After all, sketching is not for everyone.”

  Sketchers

  Edwin Regel (“Ed”itor): Big Ed and Little Popeye, Long and Short of a Jewelry Heist

  Kip Larcen: Looking Back, Two-Star Resort, Look Ahead

  Lodger 3: Even Up, Vain Martyr Not

  Lodger 4: Water’s Lapping, Epitaph

  Lodger 6: Breathin’ Room, Room with a View, Showroom*, Room for One More

  Lodger 8: Dad Helps with School, Rainy Day Simpleton, The Sharpie, Three Birds, Befler Ipson and Gosip, Interviewer,

  Lodger 9: Museum

  Lodger 10: The Shooter, The Walk

  *Showroom Includes public domain anecdotes: One Sided Cow, Empty Birdhouse

  END

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