Tao of Scott

Hi Nichole,

I have no money. I have no skills. Shit!

So this is how it happens. The window in Kathy’s office has been broken for some months now. It’s a single hung window which functions by sliding up and down along a system of sprung steel rods. The window has guides which hold it in an upright position and disallow the sash from falling out on to the floor (concrete in our case) and sending glass shards racing like hundreds of hockey pucks across the hall way, through the dining room, and finally smashing in a tidal wave of broken window parts against the kitchen cabinets underneath the sink. These guides, which are of course plastic, have been broken for some months now. We duct taped the window in the upright position and can no longer open the window without continually changing out the duct tape. We have not opened the window for some months now. One of the dinning room windows requires the Herculean efforts of both Kathy and I to open and close and another dining room window will not stay open without propping it up with a stick. One of the bedroom windows can be all the way closed or all the way open. If set in an in between position it will simply fall out of the frame altogether. I know this because awhile back I came into the bedroom from out side only to find the window sash lying ingloriously on the bedroom floor.

You can see daylight through the door jambs of both the front and back doors. There are elm trees gaining foot holds inside the laundry room. We regularly have to pull weeds out of the cracks in the kitchen floor. There are countless stacks of tree trimmings, up rooted shrubs, and cane cuttings all about the property and they are clearly propagating. Approximately 1.5 acres of our property is not planted. This portion of our yard is relegated to weed growth and maintenance. This would be acceptable to our neighbors if we would keep the weed garden cut. As of this writing about a quarter acre of this area is cut with a broken down lawn tractor marking the terminus of this most recent effort to do our part in maintaining a semblance of neighborhood standards.

The neighborhood standards are set by our next door neighbor who is a self described type A++ personality, has held down three careers each with an attendant heart attack, and is now aimlessly retired. He has nothing to do but yard work. He must do yard work for at least six hours every single day. He mows the sod lawn every other day. He rakes out, in perfect lava like swirls, the one acre of gravel driveways and walkways every other day. He cuts his shrubbery in shapes which would send Edward Scissors Hands sulking away in the shame of mediocrity. This man gets a hair cut every other day and he tucks button up sports shirts into matching shorts. You can imagine the stark contrast created by the interfacing of our two properties. Hell, you can imagine the stark contrast established by the diametric opposition of our respective personal presentations. He occasionally smiles a thin and unconvincing smile and waves an off handed , ya what ever, wave at us now and again but it is obvious he would just as soon engineer our early and untimely demise.

If only I possessed a skill to employ in the repair and maintenance of my domain. If only I had a job which would provide the funding required to close this “pride of ownership” gap between the Gardens of Versailles look affected by our neighbor’s yard and the Abandoned Share Croppers Hovel in Central Tennessee look which Kathy and I have been able to achieve. If only I … but alas ‘tis not to be. I have no money and I have no skills. Shit! Oh well fuck it. I do, as it turns out, have beer.

By the way, given the age of our gas dryer, it should soon find it’s way into the front yard where it will rust to perfection thereby completing our example of the Billy Goat Acres school of landscape design.

Love dad

Ok, so I’m looking for a job.

This is going to really disappoint many of my past co-workers who looked upon me as the guy who successfully went over the wall. The only escapee whose body wasn’t brought back after a couple of days of freedom, being dragged through the gate by four black horses with nostrils flaring, beaten beyond recognition, and paraded around the “yard” in a blood misted cloud of dust for all to see.

“SEE,THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU QUIT YOUR JOB IN THE MIDDLE OF A HIGH UNEMPLOYMENT CYCLE!!” the skinny, hunched over, gray skinned, moldy green toothed, hooked fingered, warden (department manager) would bellow out over the quivering mass of inmates (employees).

“You can run but you can never escape.” he would hiss, his dead black pupils filling is red rimmed eye sockets.

What!? That was an odd bend to go around. I must harbor some minor sense of trauma regarding my past employment experience. And you, dear daughter, question my medication regimen.

Anyway, I find myself again at the crossroads. Will it be the road of poverty and public rebuke, my past compatriots finally turning their backs on me, whispering, “ Can you believe that asshole? He quits his job in the middle of a high unemployment cycle! What a fuckin idiot!” Or will I formulate a resume, purchase the software necessary for the performance of my duties, and attempt to convince the holders of the purse strings that I am still viable and yes, even vital, in today’s ever morphing mortgage lending industry?

Given my rather nasty case Post Traumatic Stress Disorder this is a daunting decision which lies before me.

I was, for a short time, pondering a decompression job, like check out guy at Circle K or something along those lines. That is until it occurred to me that in today’s economy I would, in all probability, be considered under qualified for the position.

See, in the old days I couldn’t get low paying jobs, those with minimal mental requirements and therefore minimal responsibilities, due to the erroneous assumption on the part of the prospective employers that I was overqualified and would become bored, listless, finally stupid and would ultimately leave the job.

What these Quick Mart type managers failed to grasp was that if they did hire me and if in fact I was overqualified, I would, as they feared, become bored, listless, and finally stupid rendering me perfectly qualified for the job. All they had to do was give me a chance. And besides, I aspire to being bored, listless, and stupid.
It’s safer all around don’t you think?

Now, in today’s economy, when you apply for this sort of position you are in direct competition with P.H.D.s, out of work lawyers, and ex C.E.O.s of major mortgage lending firms. The ex mortgage lending bosses are only a threat to my competitiveness in this market segment to the degree that they can successfully explain away their recent prison records. At any rate I am now generally considered under qualified for an entry level job at the Flying J gas station/mini mart.

My friend Don recently had spinal surgery so he can’t drive right now. The other day I happily chauffeured him around Phoenix to his various appointments and errand destinations. I, of course, could provide this service because I am currently unemployed.

Don and I are, for the most part, diametrically opposed to one another politically, socially and religiously so you can imagine how the seven hours in a fully enclosed pickup truck cab went.

“Shit, I‘m gonna miss Beck on Fox news.” Don observed.

“That guys a fucking moron. How can you allow that jack off on your t.v. Don, Jesus.” I chuckled in an, I’m so much more sophisticated than you, tone.

“Beck, Hannity, O’Riely! Now those guys KNOW what’s going on man. I can’t believe that you can’t see that. If you want the truth watch these guys. They’re the three kings of news.” Don said as if he were quoting the bible.

“The three stooges of news more like.” I corrected looking through the rear view mirror preparing for a lane change.

“Fox news, fair and balanced. No spin.” Don finalized.

“Those motherfuckers spin like a top, are you kidding me?”

We both laughed.

And so it continued throughout the day.

The first words out of Dons mouth in the morning are “I am a capitalist!”

I walked into his hospital room the day after his surgery. “Hey Don, how’s it going brother?”

“I am a capitalist.” he responded.

Don is the sole proprietor of a high end garage floor coating business. He works his ass off and beats the pants off his competition in service, reliability, and quality of workmanship. Don is wildly charismatic and to watch him interface with potential customers reaches the status of high art. Don keeps two young men employed full time, at a wage far in excess of the local standard, in a rural market with an unemployment rate of at least 10%. These two kids would be on the streets if it weren’t for Don. All of their friends are sitting around with their collective thumb in their collective ass contributing nothing to the community nor to themselves.

“See, the small business man, this is how it’s supposed to work in America.” Don says with well deserved pride.

“I totally agree with you Don, but a government bought and sold by gargantuan corporate entities does nothing to advance that cause. In fact the effort is mostly thwarted by the unfair competition brought to bare by these voracious, soul eating, slobbering behemoths. Those pirates in wall street are the ones who looted the national treasure. If you want to know where all the available funding for the small business man went look no further than the captains of industry and their government which self administered a Mickey and passed out at the regulatory switch.” I indignantly educated.

“Ya, whatever. Hey you want a cigar? I brought some good ones.” Don offered

“Sure! How ‘bout that Monte Cristo, that looks sweet?”

“Well it would be my pleasure my friend, and thanks for driving me all over this God forsaken city. I really appreciate it man.”

“Hey, glad to do it bro and thanks for the cigar. Now that I’m unemployed I can’t afford these primo stogies anymore.”

Love, Dad

Hi Nichole,

I am trying not to reevaluate my life style .

I went to my primary care physician the other day and had a complete physical examination. Two questions. #1: is there such a thing as a secondary care physician? #2: is it possible to have a truly complete physical examination and survive? Well whatever, it doesn’t really matter, I underwent what is generally excepted as a complete physical examination. In my case this amounts to me yammering on and on and on about my blizzard of symptoms while my main medical professional takes prodigious notes on his computer. Of course there were still the probings, the squeezings, the turn to your left and cough-ings, the open up and say ah-ings, but primarily we just discussed my concerns about whether or not I would continue on my medications. We agreed that the medications were the glue that was holding me together and there would be no chance in hell that I would be cut off. Whew! Thank god! I was getting more than a little worried that I might be considered sane enough to forego my pharmaceutical babies, my chemical flannel jammies with the little feet attached, my pill shaped facsimile of a soft lap in which to curl-up and a warm breast at which to suckle. My safety net, my harness, the very bungy cord in the jump that is my life. With the fear of being cut off from my medications now allayed I had but one question.

“Uh, doc, are these medications going to destroy my liver? Cuz see, I’ve been having these random pains over here (I indicated that region of my torso where I imagined my liver might be located). And besides my brother-in-law had a liver transplant so, you know, there’s that.

“With these specific meds, at the dosages prescribed there is virtually no chance of liver damage.” the doctor said as he peered over his glasses his gaze never leaving the computer screen.

“So nothing to worry about, you know, as far as the liver thing is concerned?” I confirmed. I am by nature dubious of statements made with great assuredness.

“Ya, pretty much no danger there.” my primary care physician stated as he was getting up from the computer, opening the examination room door, and gently shoving me out into the hall. “Go over to the lab across the parking lot and get your blood drawn.”

Two days later I get a call from the doctor’s office. “Mr. Tennyson?”

“Uh, ya.”

“This is the doctor’s office calling. It appears that your liver enzymes are slightly elevated. The doctors says quit drinking. Oh and watch out for those pills.”

Click.

“KATHY!!” I scream. “The doctor says I gotta quit drinking beer!” I whined just like a four year old would whine.

“Well what did they say exactly?” Kathy posed in that really reasonable steady tone of hers which always serves to remind me of how ridiculous I am.

“They asked if still take aspirin every day and I told them well, ya. So they asked how much? About a thousand milligrams I said. They’re like ‘Jesus, whataya do that for? Whatareya an idiot?’ Then they asked me if I drink so I said ya! Duh! So they asked me how much and I explained that by their standards my drinking would be considered excessive, however, in the crowd I run with I’m considered something of a moderate. Of course I assured them that I only drink beer, never the hard stuff. They said whatever, just stop and loose the aspirin while you’re at it.” I reported to Kathy in detail.

“WHAT AM I GONNA DO!?” (RE: the scene in “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” where the brilliant and under rated Tim Blake Nelson is franticly splashing around in a creek chasing after a toad who used to be John Turturro. Of course as you know them sirens never did turn Turturro into a toad.)

“Let’s see… are you still taking all that aspirin?” Kathy asks.

“Uh, yes.” I answer looking down at my shuffling feet.

“Fuckin-a Scott, whataya do that for? Whatareya some kinda idiot? I swear to God you’ve got the sense of a lobotomized fence post.” Kathy observed by way of chastisement.

“Well look, loose the aspirin, be sure to drink at least four quarts of water every day, and take three milk thistles* three times a day. Call the doc and set up a new blood test for three months from now and we’ll see if we can’t salvage the beer habit.” Kathy wrapped up.

I called the doctors office and explained our scheme. They said it sounded like an idea (good or bad was not established) and we’ll order new blood tests in three months.

Whew! Fuck! Thank god! I was getting more than a little worried that I might have to forgo my beloved beer, my liquid bowling buddy, my bubbling comrade in life’s adventure, my frothy open armed brother, always at my side, always there to assist in any moment of doubt or confusion. Now, with a comprehensive health management plan in place, I can concentrate on passing blood over the fact that I have no viable plan for procuring gainful employment.

Love dad.
*milk thistle is well known as an effective liver maintenance agent.