They Say Life is Short

Altered Note to Future Self #14 / 2018 / Mixed media collage / RCS

They say life is short, and there’s a lot of things we did we look back on and say, “Why did I do that?” I could’ve been hanging out with friends in a local dive bar, taking a wandering night walk, going to an art opening, or reading a book with A Silent Way playing in the background. In the 2008-2010 time period, in Seattle, it seemed everyone was out of work, just found some sort of work they weren’t all that sure about, moved to Portland for a job and were let go a week later, or networking and drinking glass after glass of free wine to find work, or forget for a while they didn’t have any work. Which is how I wound up being talked into going to from Seattle to Tacoma for what was supposed to be a networking event, which turned out to be an MLM gathering with more than a whiff of cultishness about it, and which the guy who’d invited me and a woman named Lisa told the same “It’s networking, you’ll make some amazing connections.” lie to. So, several nights later, we were rolling down the back streets of Tacoma to our destination. The only alcohol available was lukewarm bottled beer, in open cases left on the kitchen counter. Somehow, over 70 people had miraculously crammed themselves into the living room of the medium-size apartment. While nothing on the order of a walking on water miracle, it was a minor, noticeable Tuesday night miracle. Clearly, something was amiss, when everyone started staring at me and Lisa like we had two heads sprouting from our necks and we’d come from another planet. Since we were both dressed like we lived on Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, which we did. Seattle’s coolest, and most likely to have groups of people wearing all-black and either being a musician, a writer, or a painter kind of neighborhood. We weren’t blending. We weren’t picking up what was being put down. We were not amused. We definitely weren’t buying into the stream of nonsensical vapidity being streamed out of what’s his name’s mouth. We were consuming the beer as if it were a lifesaving nectar, even though it was a cramped room with too many bodies, on  a warm night for mid-May in the Pacific Northwest. Off in a corner, we were transmitting to each other through eyeball telepathy and raised eyebrows, “We’ve been tricked. Oh well, it’ll soon be over.” Finally, I said out loud in a low whisper to Lisa, “As soon as MLM scheme guy stops talking, let’s each randomly go up to a few people and speak utter nonsense. Like this guy’s been doing.” “And say what?” she said. “I’ll say, MLM schemers are far from dreamy dreamers.” “Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “Here’s what you’ll say, “Bologna sandwich empanada truck stop.” “I can say that,” Lisa said. He finally closed his trap and smiled out at the masses. We mixed ourselves into the crowd and said our improv just-made-up scripts. Confused some of the event attendees and pissed off a few others. I let our driver know we’d be out by the car getting some air, and we’d see him when he came outside. Sighing a breath of relief, I felt like I was already halfway home.