He sold his business in the restaurant industry to avoid stress. He’s not given information before arriving at the stop. However, he’s seen as the authority until someone else arrives. Dozens line up, confused.
They all see the bus, then the driver, and wonder why they’re unable to board. The wind is biting. They start to dance, warming their muscles against cold’s advances.
She complains, loudly, redundantly airing grievances to anyone nearby. There are small groups among the queue that talk amongst themselves. She bounces from one to the other with the same complaints, trying to spread her angst.
The confusion spreads quickly. Some believe they’re waiting for different buses. Some think they’re going to leave any minute. Some think they’re waiting for a company representative. Some don’t care in the least about anything as long as they’re on the bus soon.
She continues to complain. Despite the driver being within earshot, she insists everyone’s waiting for the driver so they can leave. Any call for her to quiet herself and wait patiently are personal attacks, met with yelling and ignorant spews.
“Where is the driver? Why can’t we get on the bus? I paid my money, we all paid our money, for a three-o-clock bus. I want to get home! It’s cold out here!” She yells, ignoring that she’s one of many and all others are relatively quiet.
The driver lets some load their bags, tries to explain the situation to others and notes that he’s hoping to go directly to his destination without stopping in another city. Every trip typically stops in the other city but recently they’ve instituted an express route.
She’s having none of it. The mention of a possible stop sets her off on another tangent.
“I paid to get to [destination], I ain’t never been through [other city]. Why we stopping there? I didn’t pay to go to [other city]!”
Most of the crowd realizes she’s now working with a profound misunderstanding. Many turn away, ignoring her. Others tell her to quiet down or contradict her statements, getting verbally assaulted in response.
Her words are worthless. The bus still sits idle, he still waits for the required manifest before letting anyone board and the mass of people still dance against the growing cold. Soon another bus appears, not at all because she griped and whined.
She pushes her way to the front as the bus boards. Many others take her lead and step to the front of the line. There is disarray but soon many have boarded. Soon, we departed. Her yelling did nothing to speed our trip. They only to frustrate, stress and annoy those around her.
What a waste.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
rocked
He’s floating, barely. His clothes are soaked through. His eyes, wide and frightened, stare to the sky while his arms struggle to keep him afloat. His arms are tired, overworked and flailing. He dips more often under the waves.
His labored breath is choked and rapid. His head spins in all directions, looking for any sign of hope. His legs are tied to a stone. It’s small but over time, as he grows more exhausted, its weight becomes more and more to bear.
With mismanagement and an almost impressive ability to ignore market trends, the auto industry is struggling for air. For years, Detroit has been unable to turn a profit, manufacturing out-dated vehicles in too-large numbers. Consumers have moved on.
We’re the backbone of the nation, they say. We cannot fail because with us goes the country, they say. Things will get better, they say. We’ll find a solution, adapt to the present, all we need is time, they say. Why do we listen?
They shifted focus to build cars to last only five or seven years. Their profits were astronomical and junkyards piled high with their excrement. Instead of following the will of the consumer, they spent billions on manipulation, telling those consumers their collective will.
Their products use archaic technology. On the surface, they’re covered in all the newest gadgets and safety features but below they are unchanged. We are told our nation relies on the market, why do we abandon those ideals to hand money to those that have proven unable to act wisely?
According to market principles, the industry should crumble. It has lost the ability to adapt and has been passed by more capable competitors. The same promises have been made incessantly with no result.
Weighed down by pensions and inertia, the industry is about to drown. When it does, hundreds of thousands will be without work. Those men and women can find work in other sectors. An emphasis on alternative energy will need incredible manpower if it’s expected to succeed.
Using the current credit crisis, they are looking for a handout, hoping for some retribution. Their arguments are thin and promises lofty. Those displaced by their failure could find work in manufacturing parts for alternative energy solutions, which will need incredible manpower to succeed.
They are the man fighting against the waves. They produced too much, promised more and are now pulled down by their own weight. That weight has become too heavy and they have grown too tired to remain afloat. They should sink, drop below the surface, hidden under the waves.
Like a rock.
Only after they have drowned will we be motivated to find creative solutions to the struggles at hand. Then we will see that we are not invulnerable. Then we will see our global position more realistically and stop living, and posturing, beyond our means.
His labored breath is choked and rapid. His head spins in all directions, looking for any sign of hope. His legs are tied to a stone. It’s small but over time, as he grows more exhausted, its weight becomes more and more to bear.
With mismanagement and an almost impressive ability to ignore market trends, the auto industry is struggling for air. For years, Detroit has been unable to turn a profit, manufacturing out-dated vehicles in too-large numbers. Consumers have moved on.
We’re the backbone of the nation, they say. We cannot fail because with us goes the country, they say. Things will get better, they say. We’ll find a solution, adapt to the present, all we need is time, they say. Why do we listen?
They shifted focus to build cars to last only five or seven years. Their profits were astronomical and junkyards piled high with their excrement. Instead of following the will of the consumer, they spent billions on manipulation, telling those consumers their collective will.
Their products use archaic technology. On the surface, they’re covered in all the newest gadgets and safety features but below they are unchanged. We are told our nation relies on the market, why do we abandon those ideals to hand money to those that have proven unable to act wisely?
According to market principles, the industry should crumble. It has lost the ability to adapt and has been passed by more capable competitors. The same promises have been made incessantly with no result.
Weighed down by pensions and inertia, the industry is about to drown. When it does, hundreds of thousands will be without work. Those men and women can find work in other sectors. An emphasis on alternative energy will need incredible manpower if it’s expected to succeed.
Using the current credit crisis, they are looking for a handout, hoping for some retribution. Their arguments are thin and promises lofty. Those displaced by their failure could find work in manufacturing parts for alternative energy solutions, which will need incredible manpower to succeed.
They are the man fighting against the waves. They produced too much, promised more and are now pulled down by their own weight. That weight has become too heavy and they have grown too tired to remain afloat. They should sink, drop below the surface, hidden under the waves.
Like a rock.
Only after they have drowned will we be motivated to find creative solutions to the struggles at hand. Then we will see that we are not invulnerable. Then we will see our global position more realistically and stop living, and posturing, beyond our means.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
assist
I cross at the crosswalk. I’m half to the other side when I notice the bus coming at me, slowing to a stop at the corner. Just ahead, a man steps from the doorway of a nearby building, making His way to the bus.
He’s smiling awkwardly and expending too much effort. His hair is long, thin, blond and appears greasy. His gate is stuttered; He’s struggling. He’s still more than fifteen feet away.
He looks to be more than three hundred pounds. A button-down drapes over His green t-shirt, billowing slightly as He tries to quicken His pace. His khaki shorts are just past His knees, exposing massive calves. His left knee seems to buckle slightly as He goes.
The bus stops, dropping off two passengers. I reach the sidewalk and glance toward Him. He’s not close enough to catch the driver’s attention. The bus doors close.
I could step quickly to the doors, waving through the glass at the driver. He would open the door as I feign looking through my wallet for my transit pass. I would stall until He can reach the door. Then I’d step aside and continue walking.
Instead, I watch Him reach the rear doors in time for the bus to pull off through the intersection. He starts walking back toward the building, that same awkward smile on His face. Like this happens to Him all the time.
I walk to my stop and onto the train, all the while replaying what I could have done to help Him out. The bus route came around often, especially this time of day. He would get on the next one in a few minutes.
I rationalize it, justifying my inaction. No one else would have done it. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. No one else would have considered it. I’ll do something for someone that will even the overall score.
Next time.
He’s smiling awkwardly and expending too much effort. His hair is long, thin, blond and appears greasy. His gate is stuttered; He’s struggling. He’s still more than fifteen feet away.
He looks to be more than three hundred pounds. A button-down drapes over His green t-shirt, billowing slightly as He tries to quicken His pace. His khaki shorts are just past His knees, exposing massive calves. His left knee seems to buckle slightly as He goes.
The bus stops, dropping off two passengers. I reach the sidewalk and glance toward Him. He’s not close enough to catch the driver’s attention. The bus doors close.
I could step quickly to the doors, waving through the glass at the driver. He would open the door as I feign looking through my wallet for my transit pass. I would stall until He can reach the door. Then I’d step aside and continue walking.
Instead, I watch Him reach the rear doors in time for the bus to pull off through the intersection. He starts walking back toward the building, that same awkward smile on His face. Like this happens to Him all the time.
I walk to my stop and onto the train, all the while replaying what I could have done to help Him out. The bus route came around often, especially this time of day. He would get on the next one in a few minutes.
I rationalize it, justifying my inaction. No one else would have done it. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. No one else would have considered it. I’ll do something for someone that will even the overall score.
Next time.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
unfit
I lean against the glass, standing opposite the bike rack on the light rail headed south. The night is warm, smelling of fall and coming cooler nights. Voices echo off the plastic walls, resonating and creating a sea of white noise.
To my right, a pale woman with blood dripping from her eyes. She laughs with her friend who has a red-striped sweater and matching hat over jeans. His glasses have no lenses’ they're thick and black.
Across the isle, an obese pirate fiddles with his beaded wig while his girlfriend in a pleated, plaid skirt lays her head against his shoulder. Her pigtails are loose and frizzy. Her eyes turn up at me before she closes them and brings her legs up and under her on the bench.
Past the doors a zombie talks loudly to her girlfriend who wears cotton shorts, a t-shirt with the number seven drawn on it and cleats over her knee-high striped socks. The eye black under her eyes is smeared. Zombie has a gaping wound on her forehead and another on her cheek.
Behind them, a girl wearing a lacy wedding gown with a suit coat over her shoulders rests against the window next to her groom. Her eyes have dark rings under them and her pale cheeks are smeared, letting the fleshy red of someone who has drank too much bleed through.
Farther back, a group of people buzz with conversation. Among them is a cow girl, the Joker and someone from the disco seventies. All the conversations mesh, collide and fold over one another until there's nothing left of interest.
Through my headphones, I hear about strife in the Sudan and an update of electoral campaigning. There's a profound sense of isolation despite the crowd. My eyes go from person to person, from a girl dressed only in lingerie to another in full Victorian splendor and back to the textured floor.
The train slows. From the front of the car a woman steps down and stands waiting for the doors to open. She's in a dark brown suit coat and skirt, wearing small heels and nylons. She wears glasses and has her hair up in an unkempt bun that probably took her more than a half hour.
The train stops, doors open and she steps out. I see the plastic machine gun in her other hand. I smirk at the unoriginality of it. I'd already seen a dozen like her.
I've lost my sense of belonging. Not just with these people or just tonight. I've fallen deeper into myself, away from everything, thinking too much about different things. Their costumes betray their uniformity.
To my right, a pale woman with blood dripping from her eyes. She laughs with her friend who has a red-striped sweater and matching hat over jeans. His glasses have no lenses’ they're thick and black.
Across the isle, an obese pirate fiddles with his beaded wig while his girlfriend in a pleated, plaid skirt lays her head against his shoulder. Her pigtails are loose and frizzy. Her eyes turn up at me before she closes them and brings her legs up and under her on the bench.
Past the doors a zombie talks loudly to her girlfriend who wears cotton shorts, a t-shirt with the number seven drawn on it and cleats over her knee-high striped socks. The eye black under her eyes is smeared. Zombie has a gaping wound on her forehead and another on her cheek.
Behind them, a girl wearing a lacy wedding gown with a suit coat over her shoulders rests against the window next to her groom. Her eyes have dark rings under them and her pale cheeks are smeared, letting the fleshy red of someone who has drank too much bleed through.
Farther back, a group of people buzz with conversation. Among them is a cow girl, the Joker and someone from the disco seventies. All the conversations mesh, collide and fold over one another until there's nothing left of interest.
Through my headphones, I hear about strife in the Sudan and an update of electoral campaigning. There's a profound sense of isolation despite the crowd. My eyes go from person to person, from a girl dressed only in lingerie to another in full Victorian splendor and back to the textured floor.
The train slows. From the front of the car a woman steps down and stands waiting for the doors to open. She's in a dark brown suit coat and skirt, wearing small heels and nylons. She wears glasses and has her hair up in an unkempt bun that probably took her more than a half hour.
The train stops, doors open and she steps out. I see the plastic machine gun in her other hand. I smirk at the unoriginality of it. I'd already seen a dozen like her.
I've lost my sense of belonging. Not just with these people or just tonight. I've fallen deeper into myself, away from everything, thinking too much about different things. Their costumes betray their uniformity.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
progress
Inspirational. I’m not prone to optimism. In fact, I’m very much opposed to it on a fundamental level. Still, I underestimated the power of a moment like this. The history of it is suffocating.
He stands, behind the podium in front of more than one hundred thousand people, with confidence and humility. There are no snickers, no air of predestined grandeur, just an air of satisfaction, filled with promise.
The crowd in front of him cheers incessantly, loudly and enthusiastically. During his speech, they are respectful and elated. So many there to witness history firsthand.
Earlier, his opponent’s concession was thoughtful and congratulatory. The crowd gathered to listen to Opponent speak was much smaller. They jeer when Opponent mentions his name, booing and scoffing, and how he will support him.
The two crowds, extrapolated to an entire population, show two very different Americas divided and conflicting. They show the passion for change, the overwhelming disappointment in the nation’s direction and the two very different conceptual ideas of how to bring about that change. They reflect the many flaws, a cultural snapshot of many failings.
For many this is a move forward. A giant leap that will fail to meet expectations. For many others this is a move in the wrong direction, a step backward, and a sign we won’t make necessary changes. With all the promises, lies and history of this election, we will look back and only see a mild deviation on an almost-straight line toward more disappointment.
My lack of optimism insulates me from the impact of this moment, as impressive as it is, but I can admit we have made a small step in the direction of true progress.
He stands, behind the podium in front of more than one hundred thousand people, with confidence and humility. There are no snickers, no air of predestined grandeur, just an air of satisfaction, filled with promise.
The crowd in front of him cheers incessantly, loudly and enthusiastically. During his speech, they are respectful and elated. So many there to witness history firsthand.
Earlier, his opponent’s concession was thoughtful and congratulatory. The crowd gathered to listen to Opponent speak was much smaller. They jeer when Opponent mentions his name, booing and scoffing, and how he will support him.
The two crowds, extrapolated to an entire population, show two very different Americas divided and conflicting. They show the passion for change, the overwhelming disappointment in the nation’s direction and the two very different conceptual ideas of how to bring about that change. They reflect the many flaws, a cultural snapshot of many failings.
For many this is a move forward. A giant leap that will fail to meet expectations. For many others this is a move in the wrong direction, a step backward, and a sign we won’t make necessary changes. With all the promises, lies and history of this election, we will look back and only see a mild deviation on an almost-straight line toward more disappointment.
My lack of optimism insulates me from the impact of this moment, as impressive as it is, but I can admit we have made a small step in the direction of true progress.
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