Friday, April 18, 2008

Fear and Loathing in Overland Park pt. 7

Ongoing, circling overhead

"Eager souls, mystics and revolutionaries, may propose to refashion the world in accordance with their dreams; but evil remains, and so long as it lurks in the secret places of the heart, utopia is only the shadow of a dream."

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

Circling overhead are the vultures, ready to rip and thrash against those toiling away at my place of business who shall remain nameless for the taste of the article. Restructuring is the name of the game. And Revolution will be the outcome.

Hearings news of a meeting, a major meeting, being held to restructure benefits and the policies of the Company, makes our heads swell. Knowledge overloads all crevices. Bleeding through our pores onto the freshly pressed shirts below. Bleeding from our hearts and creating a warm black bile inside our throats at the disgust of what we are about to receive.

The body of Christ never tasted so sweet.

Traveling down College Boulevard, I swear I hear the call of the sirens. Or at least vultures. Passing above, ready for the kill. To rend flesh from my bones and to tear and bite and screech at their hard-won meal. But it wouldn't be their kill. A vulture is a scavenger. The kill will be chalked up to the Company. To their hard fought battle against my will. Breaking it down into small enough cubes to put into tiny paper cups for black coffee in the morning to sweeten it.

They begin the meeting, same as every other. Exciting news. Changes for your benefit. Glad-handing. Handshaking. Backstabbing, all of it. At least the American Revolution happened in front of the King and not behind his back. At least the inkling of war was there, brewing before him. At least his actions are what caused it.

This backstabbing, this "restructuring," happens at a very inopportune time. The company, in weeks previous makes mention of monies gained. Profit. Then they do away with the things that bring people to the company. Backwards?

I climb into the car. Vultures still overhead. Everyone's head hung low and depression seeping through their every vein and every ounce of their beings drags with the heavy slow crawl of their feet against the concrete. Vultures scream above, calling out to their prey to move away. One seems to stop before my eyes and smile and wink at me. Telling me I will soon be his.

I fall backward onto the concrete. I scrape what is left of my pride against the white lines of the parking spaces of the wasted-money at the convention area and wonder aloud about monies spent to tell us what was being taken away, and the vulture turns back to face me.

The sky bursts open and rains cry down from above and the vultures disperse. I'm left on the ground, hands out, prostrate to the gods above for an answer. Any answer. What is the purpose? What is thy will above? What now?

I pick up the pieces of my broken dreams and crumble into my banana yellow Le Mans, seemingly still idling 14 white lines away from my dry spot on the pavement. Tumble inside and flick the radio dial and listen for an answer.



No answer from on high. It's all on me. The engine turns over and I hightail it out of the rain. Which is now only above my car. In a circle around the Le Mans is sun. Sun on each side. Clouds and rain above. Pelting the auto as it rumbles and bumps down College Blvd. back towards its daily resting spot. The Company.

The Company.

What will become of this restructuring? This Company posturing at our future's being safe and secure and now in our hands, whereas before, our actions held little sway and all future was safe and sound without us needing to take part. Now? Now we play a huge role in our retirement.

Tis a long time before I retire. So actions must be taken. Actions not foreseen in their plans. Rains continue to pelt the windshield as the wipers go back and forth like a pendulum swinging closer and closer to my chest as if I'm stuck in a reoccurring Edgar Allen Poe story as read by Vincent Price.

The spirit of Vincent Price could take hold at this point and tell me a story of the good old days as I ram my banana yellow baby boat into the side of guard rail or a bridge and careen off the edge, watching my retirement and my benefits sail away into the sky as the rains clear and the vulture swoops down to overtake what is left of my flesh after it is ripped to shreds by the rocky facade underneath.

But I won't. I choose revolution. I choose actions that will take me more into the or. I choose not to lie down and be abused.

I choose my own utopia. One that others could be proud of. One against the evil of the Company.

One of the or. One of you. You are me and we are or.

"I began revolution with 82 men. If I had to do it again, I do it with 10 or 15 and absolute faith. It does not matter how small you are if you have faith and plan of action."

-Fidel Castro


Obsessedwithlife said...

Sorry I haven't been following your other blog. I couldn't get it to show up in my Google Reader-which I read all my blogs by (I guess it doesn't have an RSS reader). Anyways, your writing is beautiful even though it sounds like a rough patch in life. You will emerge stronger, one always does...eventually.


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