In my day

VLOOKUPS, XLOOKUPS, and ZLOOKUPS are bad enough. In my day, we used a piece of paper and a number two pencil. Now, all these kids talk about is Java, Python and SQL. The only sequel I care about is Terminator 2. Now that was a great flick. And don’t get me started on the water cooler talk. It’s all Tinder and Bumble. I can’t tell if they are starting a bee hiving club or Boggle’s cousin is making a comeback. I love that game.

“Hey George, we’re starting a GoFundMe for Becky. It’s really sad.” Gabby says, snapping me out of my ‘get off my lawn,’ daydream.

“Huh, what?” I stammer.

“Becky has lymphoma, it’s so sad.” Gabby says.

“Yeah, yeah, bad.” I say.

“Um, so we’re doing a GoFundMe page to raise money for her troubles. So sad.”

“Sure, I’ll help out.”

“Um, do you have a GoFundMe sign-in? Do you need help?”

There is a running joke or I’m a charity case in the office. I can’t tell which. Either they think it’s hilarious that I needed help to set up my LinkedIn account or they feel for the old guy in the corner. Either way, they always help me out.

“No, no, Bobby helped me out for Sharon’s thing.” 

I can’t remember what Sharon’s thing was. In my day, we just passed the hat for lymphoma. These kids will collect money to help with anything. An emotional support plant for Karen, the year-end Cabo trip or a life-threatening illness. I don’t get it, but I always pitch in. They’re good kids. And I don’t want to be the old curmudgeon. Well, not all the time.

“That’s great. I’ll send you the link. Remember, only click on the link I send you, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Thanks Gabby.”

They think I’m some old sucker that opens click-bait. Once I opened a link from ‘The Last Flat Iron You’ll Ever Need’ email and everybody had to take an anti-phishing class. But that was one time.

I open MGI. We work at an enormous bank and still use an old mainframe system to manage our client accounts and their money. Once upon a time it was cutting edge. That was forty years ago. It’s a crummy green screen the kids can’t stand. I know its quirks. The bank has been talking about getting new software and moving to the cloud (I still don’t get it) for years. But the banks have added so many layers of code duct tape that a conversion would be heart surgery on Frankenstein. 

Oddly enough, whenever the kids, that’s what I call the young bloods around here, get stuck, they come to Uncle George. It’s the only reason they come to Uncle George. That and GoFundMe’s. So, when Bobby didn’t understand why F1, F3, and F7 are the exit function for three different screens, he came to me. ‘What the heck do you mean, George? That makes no sense.’ I can still hear him clear as day. Their new tech is big and smart. This ain’t.

These kids are so dang smart. With computers or math or even new regulations in the industry, they run around me like Carl Lewis. That’s the other reason I think this place keeps me around. I’m an Associate Vice President, and have been for 14 years. I know all the clients inside and out. All their goofy processes and nuances. These kids don’t want that. They move fast and when they do, what little client knowledge they have goes with them. But not old Uncle George. I know them all.

Take Gabby. At the tender age of 28, she’s already an AVP. She’ll be a Managing Director by 35. She’s a whip. Tons of brains and charisma on that one. And don’t let her dimpled smile fool you. She’s got fangs when she needs them. 

In my day, getting AVP at thirty-five was something. People stuck to their jobs for decades and that corporate ladder was a mile high. These whipper snappers are so sharp they Spiderman up that ladder. Good for them. They’re good kids.

I daze off and look down at my desk. The 2009 picture of Maggie and me in Hawaii stares back at me. She wore that dang leis on the flight home. I laugh to myself. Next to that are the three company softball trophies. Bobby always asks me who the MVP from the 1984, 1985, and 1987 seasons were. He smiles like a jackrabbit when he does. I like that kid. He knows how to bust my chops without being disrespectful. He’s the only one that makes me feel part of the team.

My side quivers as I look at the trophies. I swear my replacement hip knows I’m staring at them and gives me a ‘don’t even think about it’ knock. I give the hip a quick rub and can almost feel the slick metal ball of the joint. Maybe that’s why I love Terminator 2. Arnie and I have something in common.

“George. Line 2, it’s Slavenska. Pickup would ya? He’s raging, again.” Gerald, my thirty-five-year-old boss, calls from his desk.

“Jerry, what the heck’s going on?” I ask as Jerry blasts into me.

“Where are you guys hiring these kids? Bobby messed up collateral transfer, again. It took me three hours to put that sheet together. Now it’s a mess.”  

“Let me take a quick look. We’ll fix it, we’ll fix it.”

I pull up the collateral transfer sheet for Jerry’s accounts. Bobby didn’t mess it up, he did it just fine. Jerry is old school like me and stubborn as a mule. He’s been doing the same thing for thirteen years, but the rules changed ten years ago. Jerry works for our third largest client and loves throwing his weight around. He’s one of the ‘how I should I jump’ clients, and he knows it. In his day, the client got whatever they wanted. 

“I see what he did. He swiped the collateral through the omnibus account, then settled up the currency buckets individually. I’ll change it back. But, Jerry, eventually, the CFTC is going to slap one of us on the wrist for doing it this way.”

It still amazes me how much worthless jargon I have in my head.

“I’ve been doing this for years and it’s never a problem.”

It’s always a problem.

“Fixed.” I say.

“Alright, thanks George. I owe you.”

“Take it easy.”

Gerald walks over to my desk. “We can’t keep doing that.”

“Hey, don’t shoot me. I can't be the one who takes a stand. Either we get Sarah to play hardball and make him stop, or wait until Jerry leaves.”

I’d bet my left arm it’ll be the latter.

“He gets so hot, it’s nuts.”

They were all like that in my day.

“Yeah, but he’s a good guy, and he’s good now.”

“Alright, thanks George.”

I look at the picture of Maggie again. Maybe it’s time for another trip. She looks good in that leis. Happy. Heck, I look happy. After shaking myself free, I get back to work. I could do ninety percent of my tasks in my sleep. Five O’clock rolls around and I lock my computer. The kids are jabbering about which happy hour to hit. I can’t wait for a cup of chamomile.

As I walk home, letting the harmonies ‘Let It Be’ decompress me, I think back on the day. It wasn’t a bad one. Nothing blew up, and I got through it. Sure, I had to deal with some morons. But what job doesn’t have drowning red-tape or jokers to deal with? But it wasn’t a good day either. Helping Jerry out was nice, but really I made something right, stupid. Besides that, just a drone. Lately, I forget what day of the week it is.

I get home, and Maggie’s in the kitchen, chopping carrots. A soft Billie Holiday song wafts through our condo like a cool breeze. I walk behind her and give her a kiss on the neck, and then pull her into the living room. Her eyebrows furrow like caterpillars attacking each other.

“What the heck has gotten into you?” She asks.

“What, I can’t dance with my girl?” I say.

She gives a slight smile. We go cheek to cheek and slowly spin around the room. Being married for thirty-five years is a wild ride. Ups and downs for sure, and I am amazed we survived 2004 and 2005. But we did. With decades under our belt, we’re past all that. We’ve accepted the other’s quirks. Heck, we lean into them. We have forgiven, well as best as we, and really she, can. Time took care of the rest. You accept that starting over ain’t in the cards. A tangled ball of rubber bands. Even if you could pull them out, you’d have nothing in the middle. 

I pull her back when the song ends and gently kiss on the lips. Another funny thing happens when you’ve been married this long. You can still see them at twenty-three. That wild girl, with curly brown hair dancing her heart out, smiling at me. Oh, I never had a chance. I kiss her again and pull back and see her now. We aren’t spring chickens. The crows feet by her eyes could take the blue ribbon at the county fair. Time is sand in our fingers and it’s going fast. Clarity punches me in the gut.

“Seriously, what the heck has gotten into you?” she asks.

“I want to retire tomorrow.” 

“What? What are you on about?”

“We’ve got the money. You get your pension next year and my 401k the year after. We’re fine.”

“George, I, I.”

“Babe, we’re fine. Shoot the nest egg we have now, we’re good for years. But time, that’s a different story.”

“I get to work while you dilly dally?”

“No, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ll get a job as one of those Walmart greeter guys part-time or something. Then paint, and golf and work around the house.”

“Still seems a bit of a raw deal.” She’s tender when she says it.

“Your pension. You gotta stay another year.”

She puckers her lips left and right, and I continue.

“I’ll do all the chores, cook dinner, do the laundry, you name it. You can take the French class at the Community college after work. Or join that embroidery class. Or both. I’ll pick up the slack.”

Her lips twist into an umbrella of a small and sighs at me. Her eyes soften. She remembers the nights when the bottle put me to sleep. I buried that years ago. Not because things got better, I just got good at being numb.

“Alright George, alright,” she gives me a kiss.

We hug, and I walk into our bedroom. I pull out my phones and stare at the work chat app for a second. I take a deep breath and ping Gerald: We need to talk first thing in the morning. 

Next, a ping to Bobby: I was the MVP all three years, thank you very much. I’m leaving tomorrow, Bobby. Let’s grab a coffee if you have fifteen minutes. I’ll miss you, kid. You’re a good man.

Next day, Gerald says he understands, and Bobby even gives me a bro hug. I think that’s what they call it. I whistle my way home, the box of all my office wordly possessions under my arm. When I get to Washington Park, I sit and enjoy the chatter of kids and yaps of dog. A smooth breeze smacks me in the face.

In my day, we sucked it up until your number was up and they sent you on your way. Off into the sunset, with a gold watch in one hand and a crummy placard in the other. But today isn’t my day, it’s a new day.