American Fez

The Misuses of Literacy

A tiny wooden library on a pole has been erected in the front yard of an apartment building near mine. Neighbors are invited to freely exchange books they have finished reading for ones they want to read. It looks much like a fancy bird house but is fitted with shelves for around thirty or forty paperbacks instead of space for seeds and nesting straw. Confused and disappointed pigeons can be seen perching on the roof, and not because those eager, covetous sparrows have already nabbed the new releases. 

But I also rarely discover anything of interest in this so-called library. The inventory is mostly dog-eared science fiction, obsolete computer manuals, bestsellers with mysterious stains and cracked spines, and lots of out-of-date travel guides to Europe and the Caribbean. I once even came across an antediluvian edition of Fodor's Italy with hotel prices listed in Lira. Maybe useful reference material for time travelers but of little practical value to anyone else.

In other words, rather than an altruistic initiative for promoting local literacy, the library is really just a convenient depository for people who would otherwise feel guilty about tossing old books into the garbage. As such, I suppose it does provide a worthwhile service for the community, although the custodian should probably discard that copy of The South Beach Diet that's been available for so long its pages are starting to grow mold. 

This morning, however, I noticed a new sign on the library's facade asking patrons to refrain from leaving "religious books," and remembered seeing an illustrated children's Bible there earlier in the week. No doubt that was the offending article, immediately removed before any impressionable minds could be exposed to its devious message. Ah, the hard-nosed, petulant prejudices of the modern world where multiple copies of Fifty Shades of Grey  can find a home but the "light of the world" must be extinguished.

Fire Fighter

Frank was clicking mournfully on all the folders on his computer screen like the victim of a house fire, sifting through the smoldering debris of their burned-out home, searching for something, however small, they might salvage from the charcoal ruins.

Penny for your thoughts, Frank, I could have asked him, but remained silent as I knew Frank's thoughts were not worth that much. Indeed, had Frank actually experienced a house fire you might suspect he'd set it himself to collect the insurance money, only to discover afterwards that he'd forgotten to renew his policy. That's how Frank's world turns, juddering and creaking, revolving around a black hole instead of the sun. 

I've often thought there should be a special Zodiac created just for Frank. A horoscope all for himself where he was born under the bad sign of Pyro, the Arsonist. If you gazed into the night sky, Pyro would be constellation raging haphazardly across the cosmos as if lost, crashing dangerously into other stars and flickering on and off at random intervals. The music of the spheres played too fast on an out of tune ukulele.

After several minutes of desultory clicking, Frank shoved his keyboard and mouse aside with a great deal of irritation, turning his back on his entire computer, evidently having failed to exhume whatever crucial data he had hoped was buried in its memory banks. Frank looked, not for the first time, like a dim-witted deadbeat who had believed "my ass is covered" but suddenly found that ass publicly unveiled in all its guilty, quivering, pockmarked horror.

How, I wondered, would Frank try to explain away  the important information he had lost yet again; the files he had apparently not backed-up or foolishly deleted by mistake yet again? This was surely an error too far, his final chance wasted, and Frank's manager was already practicing that "we'll have to let you go" speech. Frank was about to get fired and his career at our company reduced to ashes.

But no doubt the long-suffering phoenix of his job prospects would rise once more from the flames of another termination. Fortunately some kind-hearted but professionally irresponsible person would write him a good reference. And I've nearly finished the first draft. 

Forty Years Before The Mast

I was standing on the dock at sunrise, staring at an empty horizon with other frustrated commuters. We were waiting for the SS Office Block, our local ferry, which was at least half-an-hour late. Meanwhile, three empty Marie Celestes sailed past in the opposite direction. Typical. You can blame the trade winds but I think it's just poor scheduling.

This particular morning, a rerouted Raft of the Medusa came rolling by as well. "Is this the right mooring for Human Resources?" one of the haggard, delirious mariners from the raft yelled.

"No, you're going about fifteen nautical miles off-course." I yelled back. "You need to catch the The Flying Dutchman, eastbound," But I don't think he heard me above the sound of crashing waves and the inconsolable wailing of those who were late for work. 

I glanced back towards the horizon. Still no sign of the ferry so my boss would be furious with me again. Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth getting out of bed and putting on my sailor suit and life jacket. Surely it makes more sense to work from a safe berth at home than spend hours lost at sea, bailing water aboard an overcrowded and unreliable commuter ark. It's all hands on deck every day. 

Unfortunately I don't have that luxury. Press-ganged into clerical service since my teens, I'm still barely clinging to the rigging rather than studying maps and charts in the Captain's cabin. I've never been offered a squint through the Admiral's spyglass or found myself celebrated with a twenty-one gun salute either. 

So here I am, singing shanties out of tune and carving third-rate scrimshaw as I wait on the dock with my fellow old salts. But I suppose it's either this or Davy Jones' Locker until I finally hear my financial adviser shout "Land ahoy!" and I can hopefully afford to retire like a rat deserting a sinking ship.

Carpohydrates

Unwinding beside the pond, I spent my lunch hour watching greedy fish attempt to devour the discarded remains of a hot-pressed panino. A study in failure since they were unable to swallow a single mouthful of the waterlogged crust, despite taking turns to attack it from diverse angles.

I felt some degree of empathy for the defeated fish as I, too, had experienced a morning of futile endeavor. Bottom-feeders such as us are repeatedly lured to the surface by tantalizing prizes we are ultimately denied for one reason or another.

Eventually the fish abandoned the delectable but inedible hunk of bread, disappearing with a flash of silvery indignation into the murky depths where they could eye-up less appetizing but bite-size grubs and algae no bigger than their bellies. But I had to return to my office and continue hunting non-existent truffles, out-of-season, in a barren field with the wrong sort of dog. Which is what work feels like much of the time.

As I recall, Jesus did not suggest we pay heed to the fish in his speech about considering the lilies and the sparrows. How very wise of him. After all, fish are often being caught and eaten in the New Testament, therefore not setting a particularly good example for humankind.

Indeed. For all my envy of their abrupt vanishing act, they were stunted fish doomed to circumnavigate the same changeless, negligible expanse of stagnant water day after day, Whereas, at five in the afternoon I could at least emerge from my pond for an evening's respite from daly failure and ennui, however brief.

Although we are both bottom feeders, the fish and I, thankfully their bottom is much lower than mine. Hooray for evolution, the formation of legs, and the ability to breathe on land. Feeling much better after these thoughts, I finished munching on my sardine sandwich and slowly strolled back to the office.