If Walls Could Talk

Today I awoke to a steel-gray Cleveland sky. Before long it opened, dropping its contents in a persistent stream of semi-spring raindrops. After my wife went to work, I packed my laptop and set off to find a new coffee house. The one I frequented for a number of years recently closed, dying a slow death along with the local economy.

I splashed along in my car block by block, without any luck. I soon made my way to an older part of town, close to Cleveland proper, hoping to find a diamond in the rough. I prefer smaller coffee houses that are off the beaten path. The kind where the term "regular" still applies, and where regulars need only talk about the weather or current events when ordering, because their made-to-order coffee was prepared from memory the second they entered.

I craned my neck, inspecting storefront after passing storefront, hoping to find my new home away from home. But I didn't. Instead, I began to notice a prevailing trend of empty stores and vacant homes. I imagined the structures in their prime, bustling with the vigor of day-to-day life. Children standing in line for an afternoon matinee at the movie theatre; local politics being debated by free-timers at outdoor restaurants and cafes; families and neighbors enjoying company on roomy, shade-cooled front porches, as smoke billowed upward from a nearby grill.

But now I saw none of that.

The theater sat dormant, its only occupants the ghosts roaming up and down rows of dusty seats behind dirty windows and peeling paint. There were no customers at the restaurants and cafes. A few still had tables resting out front, missing the comfort of conversation and hoping someday they'd again be noticed. Perhaps the saddest sight of all, the house that somebody used to call a home, was now reduced to a mere address. Its windows, the eyes through which I'm certain countless holiday meals could be witnessed by the casual passer-by, were shuttered with plywood. The house mourned as rain pelted gently warping boards, causing rusted tears to streak downward from weathered nail heads.

These structures, which somehow managed to be both modest and majestic in the not-too-distant past, now are nothing more than sad reminders of better times. Where did we go wrong? I thought. How did we find ourselves in this place? How could all of this history just disappear as if it never existed? A flash of lightning and steady bass rumble of thunder brought me back from wherever my mind wandered. I turned and headed for home.

Today I set out searching for a new coffee house. What I found was a story deserving of a better ending.

What Was Your Best Job Ever?

I hope when you answer this question, it's with the job you have now. I'm not so fortunate. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, I really do. But it doesn't top the list. It's a distant second to the number one slot.

I was an unemployed college student looking to earn some extra walking-around money. Because I had no skills to speak of, I killed time working for a temp agency. One day I'd be answering phones for a pushy executive who looked at me with eyes that said "Why didn't the agency send that pretty college girl back?" Another day I'd be assembling cardboard boxes -- all day long. But for the the trained chimpanzee working next to me, that assignment would've been a real bore. He was on union (PETA) strike from his regular gig with Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. Nice fella.

One day, during my lunch break at a particularly terrible assignment, I received a call from an "unknown" number on the caller I.D. I answered.

"Hello."

"Good afternoon. Are you a male between the ages of 18 and 25 with annual income of less than $10,000?" the pleasant, female voice on the other end queried.

"Yep." I wondered why she felt the need to rub it in.

"Fantastic. Are you available between the hours of 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. tomorrow and willing to give us your opinion on a couple of products we're market testing?"

This question was difficult. For those of you who've led the reckless, unpredictable life of a temporary employee, you know that the only thing certain is uncertainty itself. For all I knew, I could be modeling swimwear for Men's Health the next day (or I could be back assembling cardboard boxes with the chimpanzee). "Gee, I don't . . . "

Before I got any further, she cut me off. "It pays $15 per hour and lunch is provided."

"Done. What's your address?"

That day I traded in my semi-stable summer career as a temp for the life of a Demographically-Unique Market Representative (DUMR). The gamble paid off.

My first morning of work entailed eating a variety of processed cheese spreads and telling a host of marketing analysts "what I thought" about each one. Then, after my free lunch, they sat me down in front of television after television, asking which picture I liked best. When the whistle blew after four hours, they handed me a check for 60 bucks (more than I made in an eight-hour day as a temp) and sent me on my way. It was almost too good to be true. These people actually paid me to eat cheese spread and watch television.

Virtually unemployable college students must've been in high demand that summer because my good fortune continued. The analysts kept calling with new and better challenges. Lay on this couch; listen to this radio; taste this foodstuff; and, above all, tell us what you think. I tested everything short of non-FDA-approved drugs (although for 15 bucks an hour and a free lunch, I probably would've considered it had they asked).

Summer eventually drew to a close and returning to college forced me into early retirement as a DUMR. To this day, however, whenever the curious "unknown" number lights up my caller I.D., I wonder whether it's my old friends at the focus group calling to return me to the active roster. It never is, and I know it never will be.

On a more serious note, if you're unemployed and reading this, hang in there. Don't give up on yourself. Don't give up on anything. We're experiencing some very dark economic times right now. As with all tunnels, I'm certain there's light at the end of this one. Until we get there, though, we'll have to rely on the uniquely human ability to illuminate our pathway with hope, and navigate it with faith.

What's Your Idea of Hell?

Everybody's had the discussion "What happens when you die?" Although I'm pretty sure everybody can agree on an idea of Heaven, what about Hell? I'd submit that some facet of Hell has to include you sitting alone on stage in front of a darkened auditorium. On the wall behind you is a movie screen -- maybe even an IMAX. In front of you sits every single person you ever knew during your life. You wonder what's going on. All you hear is the crackle of candy wrappers opening and the crunch of fresh popcorn. Then, when you least expect it, the movie begins. Its title?

Everything You did while Alone During Your Entire Life

Be good, boys and girls. Hell is a terrible, terrible place.