A Gift

We're told now that the layoffs won't happen until late June or early July. That's when my second son is due. Perfect. Out with the old (job), in with the new (life).

The most difficult thing now is waiting for it to happen. The longer this goes, the more convinced I am that I will be laid off. And the longer it goes, the more I begin to hope I'm laid off.

Why? Why would I actually choose the kind of uncertainty (dread, really) that comes with losing a once-trusted source of income? Two reasons. One, this is going to happen to this company again. Soon. Just because you survive this round, don't think you'll be so lucky next time. And next time? There might be no severance package/six-month parachute.

More than that, though, is the feeling that this chapter of my professional life is coming to an end. And, more to the point, should come to an end. My enjoyment of the actual work is down because of the poisonous atmosphere. Without that joy, this becomes just another job. Only worse, because I don't know if I'll even have this job in four-six weeks.

So, it's time for a change. If I'm ever going to write fiction, now is the time. I'll keep looking for a "real" job, certainly. But Mama Bird is right: When again will I ever have the opportunity to, essentially, get paid to pursue my dream? That's what the severance package is; the equivalent of an advance on the fiction I'll write, hopefully for publication. It'll allow us to pay our bills while I try to find my voice as an artist.

That's a gift. And if this layoff happens, I'll tear into that gift like a 2-year-old on Christmas morning. (A 2-year-old who knows how to write.)

A Story I Should Have Written

Been doing a lot of contemplating lately. I'm writing this piece on Steve Garvey, and it amazed me to realize that when he was going through his serial relationship stage in 1988-89, he was my age. At the time, he was quoted as saying something to the effect of "most people have a mid-life crisis; I had a mid-life catastrophe."

So, I've been mentally looking back at my career. I've been fortunate. There are so many things I've done, people I've met and places I've seen that never would have been possible without the job. I've written some good stuff, but not all of it. I've missed some stories, too.

One of those happened when I was the newspaper's bowling writer in the early '90s. There was this guy, Noel Bostick, who taught bowling classes at a center in Tampa. After he lost his IT job, he started hanging around the alley during the day. He noticed a high school class one day and saw a big, linebacker type fire an eight-pound ball down the lane -- with predictable results.

So, old Noel wandered over and said, "Want some help?" By the end of the day, he'd helped every kid in the class. The manager hired him to teach that day.

Noel's teaching technique was pretty cool; he was an accomplished trick bowler, and as he'd stand holding a ball facing the group with his back to the lane, in mid-sentence he would flip the ball (without looking back) between his legs and roll a strike. So, he was a bit of a showoff, but the method was effective; it got kids interested in the game.

One day, I went out to the center to talk to Noel about his teaching methods. I got a nice, little column out of it, and he agreed to provide weekly bowling tips based on his classes. But I missed the real story, and it still bothers me 15 years later.

When I was done with the interview that day, Noel insisted on walking me out to the parking lot. He wanted to show me something, something very important to him. His whole demeanor changed as he left the dark interior of the center and walked into the sunlight toward a huge, beat-up, mid-'70s station wagon. His car.

He opened the hatch and pulled aside a blanket, revealing a big wooden board hand-painted on both sides with the words: My Daughter Was Killed By A Drunk Driver. Noel pulled it out and showed me how it attached to the top of his car. On weekend nights, he said, after the bowling alley closed down he would attach the sign to the top of his car and drive, slowly, up and down Dale Mabry Highway in the vicinity of bars and restaurants. It was his way, he said, of warning people what could happen if they weren't responsible. It was his way, he said, of honoring his daughter's memory.

Missed that one. Should have written it then. I think he'd make a good character in a short story, though. Maybe it's just as well I never wrote it for the newspaper. Maybe I'll do it better now.

What About Scotland?

I actually checked the real estate listings for rentals in Edinburgh, Scotland yesterday. I mean, what if I get laid off and we sell the house and move to Scotland? It was a fleeting thought, less serious even than the passing notion of selling the house and moving to Mama Bird's extended family's farm in Southwest Ireland to raise sheep and cattle.

I checked the New Town first, because I figured it was a more fashionable section of Scotland's capital. It's about 1,500 pounds per month for a decent flat; far more for something with any kind of living space. The Old Town wasn't much cheaper. Eh. It would be kind of cool to live in Scotland for a while, but I can write anywhere in the world. Maybe if I get paid for my books I can visit Edinburgh again and head up to the Highlands for a day or two. I know we'll take the Bird and the future Baby Bird to Ireland one day; maybe a quick shot over to Scotland will do us good.

It's been a few days since my most recent post, and I must say the anxiety has diminished. I'm at the point that if it happens, I'm fine. If it doesn't happen, I'm fine, too. The waiting is a pain, but it's bearable. We know there are going to be many people out of work when this whole process is done. We know, too, that the "fortunate" ones who get to remain employed will have to work twice as hard (three times as hard for some) and the way things are going, they'll get their turn on the unemployment line soon enough.

So, as I wait to find out whether I'm valuable enough to stay aboard the sinking ship of print journalism, I and Mama Bird plan and live our lives. We spent Saturday and part of Sunday outside with the Bird, even though he's got a bit of a nasty cough and wasn't fit to go far from the house. Mama Bird got him a Dora slip 'n' slide, and he loved it (as you might guess from the above photo).

It's Dora the Explorer, because that's what they had at Publix for $10 and they didn't have Lightning McQueen or Backyardigans. Dora is, perhaps, the most obnoxious kids character since Barney. Her saucer eyes and nonsensical "missions" (fraught with peril delivered by a kleptomaniac fox named Swiper) are too annoying by half for anyone old enough to remember the Smurfs. Give me the Backyardigans, the Wonder Pets, Curious George and Little Einsteins. That's quality TV-as-babysitter material.