Cyanide Punch

“She is toxic. She is a piranha; show any signs of weakness and she’ll attack. Don’t think your immune from the poison, there is no bubble that exists she won’t invade and lay waste too.”

“Why is she like that? I’ve known others who are particular about how things are done. Believe only they have the one way to do something, but no one as controlling as you claim she is. I guess I haven’t experienced first hand the retributive nature you describe. Do you think it could have something to do with being a woman in a position like hers, and having to dispel not only presumptions about her abilities, but the mere fact she is a woman in a man’s world?”

“I don’t have an answer for her behavior. All I know is that it’s her way or the highway. Seems like an awful way to live, work, simply just be, but there are people who are only happy when they are unhappy. I’ve known a few, and the similarities are marked. They just exude unhappiness. Never have a nice thing to say. Wouldn’t consider a “that a boy,” for anyone. I’ve even known of them to take credit for what other’s have done, making higher ups think it was all them. I wanted to say something, but what good would it do. 

There are two worlds, probably more that exist in the work world. The climate depends entirely on the attitude of those in charge. Those that are dictatorial in the way they observe and direct activities, are alone in their world. They want the credit for everything as though they themselves were responsible for all success, and yet when things go south, they find a way to lay it at the feet on someone else. 

They have made up system in their mind that recalculates images and information to create a story that demands adherence to their rules and theirs alone. If something doesn’t work as it is supposed to it is not their fault, but the fault of someone who didn’t follow their direction. They have drawers full of reasons and excuses for failure but only one for success, them.”

“Do you think it is possible they are like they are because they don’t know how to be happy, or simply choose not to be?”

“I don’t know. When people become so walled off from everything and everyone around them, they create their own reality, their own atmosphere. 

Without having your methods or directions challenged, and refusing to recognize the perceived challenges as valid, you have nothing to rely on, but self-induced paranoia; all suggestions are meant to not only challenge your ideas, but you personally. I think she has built the walls around her so high she can’t see over them any longer, and as all she sees is bricks, and maybe that stupid cactus plant she keeps by the window. I’m not sure it is even alive. Can’t imagine she could find the time to water it, even if it requires little, and then I would guess only every few months.

Unless something is the focus of her attention, it has no value other than what it produces in the way of an image it affords her, as she has none of her own. Nothing but this job to point to and say, this is who I am.”

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I know how I’m perceived, and there is little I can do about that. I made my way to where I am. I didn’t play the games, play a part, I did what I knew to be the decisive action needed to make it work. I look at the results, and am proud of what I’ve accomplished.

I grew up in a family where tomorrows were not guaranteed. My father worked construction jobs, my mother was waitress, cook, sewed furs for the rich and famous, if you could call them that, in that place. So much of what passed for success was money being transferred by death from one part of the family to another. I didn’t have that problem, nor did anyone I knew. 

I got out of there as soon as I could. One good thing about poverty, is that it allows those who live in ivory towers to throw a few bones our way once in a while. They call it philanthropy; I knew it was basically a tax write off and a way to ease their conscience.

And then one day I received the letter. That letter changed not only my outlook of a future, but gave me the confidence for once in my life that made me feel valued. As good as everyone else. I got a scholarship to a good school. My parents weren’t encouraging as they had accepted the cast system imposed on the majority of those striving for a more comfortable life, and never quite making it. After all they were told that it was the trying that made you a better person, Christian, patriot.

I was free of everything I’d known was my fate, and floated into the universe having no regrets, only wishing to show them they had underestimated me. A full ride, all I needed to do was prove they had not made a mistake, keep a good grade point average, participate when necessary in extra curricular activities, and get a degree, may be a masters, doctorate. 

Things went better than I could have hoped had I planned them myself. I was recruited before graduation and would begin teaching at a small but prestigious college. I could stop looking over my shoulder, stop looking for the person or thing to take it away. I would be free to be myself, be who I was meant to be.

I returned home only once after that. My father had died, my mother alone but satisfied with her plight. She had enough money coming in to live in reasonable comfort, and that is all she ever really wanted. Good was good enough, what else could a person want? I envied her ability to settle for good enough. I wasn’t blessed with that attribute; for me things had to grow, bloom beyond expectation, no matter the cost.

The cactus in the corner of my office was a belated graduation gift she had said. I had offered to pay to have her come to graduation, but she declined, “Why waste the money, send pictures.”

I knew she was proud of me in her way. All she ever wanted for me I believe, was to like myself, accept who I was, where I came from, and I couldn’t do that. Nothing seemed ever to be good enough. I don’t know where that drive came from. It certainly wasn’t from my parents. 

When mother died I went back. The house, tie up lose ends, close out a life that had ceased to be open for years. She had been content to simply exist with the knowledge pain was not necessary to feel uncomfortable, life itself was enough discomfort to cover that aspect of what she expected, and received.

The service was well attended, more so than I would have anticipated. Afterwards, in the basement of the church, I endured the mandatory sympathies. I expected no more, and then as I prepared to leave, I saw her sitting alone, dressed in black, her head bowed as if in prayer. A rosary dangled from her wrinkled hands. 

Did I know this woman, was I supposed to? I stood before her not knowing how to breach the subject of how, when, and why, but felt a strange sensation that I didn’t need too. She stood, took my hand, and asked me to sit. I had so much to do so that I could return to my world, where things made sense. There were ladders to climb, people and things to buy and sell. But her pleading eyes implored me to sit, listen, listen to her confession.

I listened in disbelief, what my mother had done for so many unheralded, no plaques, trophies, dedications. She had helped hundreds if not thousands get on their feet, fight their way back. A free meal unbeknownst to anyone but her. A spare blanket, a doorway to sleep where it may have been crowded, but warm.

I listened for what seemed like hours. The stories were about someone I didn’t know, had not really cared to. I felt ashamed, I had buried myself in misery of my own making, and left the joy, unappreciated in plain sight. 

I made my way back to my life, the office, the job, the people. The people: I realized I had never included people in any of the equations I’d devised to gauge success. I realized that what satisfied my mother was the wealth she received in return for her unnoticed kindness. Kindness after all was catching, as she’d claimed.

My cactus, her gift, I realized was a metaphor I had not understood, nor wanted to. I was like a cactus; thorny, green, soft on the inside but displaying the mantel of one that is not touchable.  If attempted, a reminder to anyone, everyone, that I was untouchable. She saw past the thorns, saw someone who needed their own space and callused attitude to protect them from themselves.

“Michael…would you please come in here for a minute. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”

Oh, no, not on Friday. Oldest trick in the managerial book.          

 “Be right there…something wrong with the cactus? I did the best I could while you were gone. I don’t know a thing about cactus.

“Too much love?”