responsive-lightbox domain was triggered too early. This is usually an indicator for some code in the plugin or theme running too early. Translations should be loaded at the init action or later. Please see Debugging in WordPress for more information. (This message was added in version 6.7.0.) in /home/sundre5/ducts.sundresspublications.com/content/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6114S<\/span>omeone had misplaced a box of chemicals. Chemicals that would be combined with others to make some sort of skin or hair product. It must have been a big deal, because the lab\/warehouse manager \u2013 I\u2019ll call him Vik – was angry. Angrier than I had seen him in my (roughly) two months as lab\/warehouse liaison. The chemists and I looked on as he yelled at the warehouse workers in the middle of the warehouse floor. What a lunatic<\/em>, I thought, smirking. Getting his knickers in a twist over some silly chemicals. I\u2019m an artist. I write movies. Films! I\u2019ve taken the high road. I don\u2019t belong in a warehouse. How ironic that I work here! How above all this I am!<\/em><\/p>\n Vik spun around.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to leave at any time, Arun!\u201d he scolded.<\/p>\n Is there anything worse than someone who begins a story with something like \u201cSometimes life throws you curveballs\u2026\u201d or \u201cSometimes life gives you lemons\u2026\u201d or \u201cSometimes life deals you a bad hand\u2026\u201d? No. There isn\u2019t.<\/p>\n But seriously, sometimes life throws you curve balls. And when you get such a pitch, the best thing to do is wait for the ball to break over the plate. I think. I don\u2019t remember how to play baseball. I wasn\u2019t good at it and I was fat and the uniform was always too tight. But maybe I should have practiced or something, because I had never been prepared for any of life\u2019s curve balls, lemons, bad hands, headlocks, etc.<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n Like any reasonable person, I blamed my parents. At some crucial point in my intellectual\/emotional development, they did me the grave disservice of trumpeting persistence and hard work as the keys to success. The poor fools probably didn\u2019t have screenwriting in mind, but I planned to write for the silver screen or die trying. And so I moved from New York City to Los Angeles to fulfill my destiny of ultimate show business success.<\/p>\n A few months after the big move, my mother died suddenly. No one loved me more than my mother. The loss was devastating. My hope and confidence turned to despair, and for the next year and a half, I clung desperately to my dreams while making minimal efforts to realistically fulfill them. I wrote very little and yet remained completely surprised when I failed to achieve the astonishing overnight Hollywood triumph that I had promised myself. Unable to try, destined to disappoint, all of the confidence and hope I had in myself and the world drained out of me. I would never amount to anything of value to anyone.<\/p>\n Completely deflated and utterly alone, I did the unthinkable – I moved into my childhood home in New Jersey with my father. A self-declared failure at just twenty-eight years old, I only knew that one day I, and everyone I loved, would die, and that all that was left for me to do was organize my iTunes library.<\/p>\n Completely hidden from society and avoiding all human contact, I spent the next few months doing just that in my pajamas in the room of my adolescence. I couldn\u2019t think of a better way to forget all of the ways in which my life had gone wrong. I struggled with my organizational philosophy. Should Run DMC be Rap or Hip-Hop?<\/em> I asked myself. Who even said \u201cRap\u201d anymore?<\/em> Do I have to refer to the Smashing Pumpkins as \u201cAlternative\u201d? I don\u2019t know what that meant in the 90\u2019s and I still don\u2019t. Are the Killers \u201cIndie Rock\u201d or \u201cPop\u201d? Should I categorize classical music by composer or by artist? Could my life at this point be described as vaguely \u201cPathetic\u201d or explicitly \u201cFinished\u201d?<\/em><\/p>\n All this organizing led to less self worth, more depression and zero money. I had to find work. Perhaps there was a job that would pay me to get up at noon, be desperately sad, and then go to sleep at 4 a.m.<\/p>\n Eventually, I registered with a local temporary employment agency, which brought me closer to my goal of having money, but dragged me away from my goal of never receiving phone calls and talking to people.<\/p>\n The phone only brought sorrow, with callers reminding me of what had been done to me and what I was doing to myself. I screened everything from friends and family, people trying to \u201creach out\u201d to me, who couldn\u2019t realize that I was going to be like this forever and nothing could stop it.<\/p>\n One day, a \u201cRestricted\u201d call came in. The worst kind of call. Do not pick up<\/em>, I told myself. That could be anyone.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHello?\u201d I answered. Dammit!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHi, Arun, it\u2019s Jenny from Personal Personnel. Are you available for work?\u201d<\/p>\n Jesus, no, I\u2019m not available, Jenny. It will probably take me another 5 to 10 years to pull myself out of this emotional black hole\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cSure, Jenny.\u201d Dammit!<\/em><\/p>\n She bombarded me with details. A cosmetics company\u2026 Industrial Chemical Department\u2026 $14 an hour\u2026 data entry\u2026 Vik (that\u2019s what we\u2019ll call him) is the supervisor\u2026 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.\u2026 at least three months\u2026.<\/p>\n On my first day, I entered the building, which sat in the particularly depressing industrial area just off the Garden State Parkway (don\u2019t ask me what exit \u2013 I don\u2019t like that game).<\/p>\n I met Vik, the large-headed Indian department manager with a manic, toothy grin and a strong-accented monotone with the somnolent effects of a babbling brook. He led me through the chemical-mixing area filled with large metal tubs and vats. The stench was unbearable. A sharp, rubbing alcohol musk mixed with whatever final defeat smells like. And the mixing was loud. Loud like the sound of doves crying, screaming, begging to die. I was tempted to throw myself into one of the vats and not drag this whole thing out, but Vik kept the tour moving.<\/p>\n Maybe I\u2019ve seen too many movies (or too few) but I assumed everyone working at the plant to be homicidal Norma Rae-types. They wore lab coats and hair nets and goggles and looks of quiet rage. And yet I was certain they were happier than me. As far as I knew, they understood who they were and where they were going and I envied them.<\/p>\n Please let this horror show lead to an office where I\u2019ll be sitting alone at a computer and typing letters and numbers into a spreadsheet while I listen to music and check my e-mail. Please.<\/em><\/p>\n Vik sat me down in a conference room to go over my duties. Despite my years raised by an Indian immigrant father, I was unprepared for the slow, heavy accent and English-as-a-second-language that confounded and overwhelmed me when Vik launched into an overly complicated explanation of the chemical receiving and testing system.<\/p>\n \u201c\u2026 Here Industrial Chemical System\u2026We receive ithhh the law matelial in valehouse and entel indo system\u2026lab in test thhhhen and\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n I started to nod off, then snapped myself awake as the instruction continued in the warehouse receiving office.<\/p>\n \u201c\u2026 YA code hele notice\u2026um, thaaaaat is um\u2026Celtificate of Analysis extremely important\u2026keep track\u2026batch numbel\u2026lot numbel\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n After absorbing very little information, I was escorted to the lab and introduced to the senior chemist \u2013 I\u2019ll call him Kiran – a stern, middle-aged Indian man, who tilted his head upward and looked down when he spoke, as if always delivering a lecture. I was to report to him in the mornings for laboratorial duties.<\/p>\n Kiran, I would learn, had come to America years ago, studied, became a chemist and built a life for himself in New Jersey. He was divorced and had a teenage son. And he was fairly religious, maybe not in a fundamentalist way, though I have only a vague idea of what fundamentalist Hindus believe. I wasn\u2019t sure if he drank alcohol or ate beef, but he did frequent his Hindu temple\/community center, which seemed to be his main source of extracurricular activity.<\/p>\n His lab partner was Lili, a pretty, middle-aged Iranian woman. She seemed to have the calm confidence of someone who had escaped the Shah in the 70s and refused to be unhappy about anything, though I was probably reading too much into her with the overanalysis of someone who\u2019s never had to escape a Shah and refuses to be happy about anything.<\/p>\n Kiran had been surly and cold while Vik introduced me, but after the boss was gone, his mood lifted. He sat me down in front of the computer in the warehouse receiving office, and asked me what I knew. I tried to repeat what Vik had explained to me.<\/p>\n \u201cForget everything he told you,\u201d he interrupted. \u201cDon\u2019t make it hard on yourself. Life is hard enough.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d he interrupted, and pointed to his name on a piece of paper. \u201cWho\u2019s that guy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cRight!\u201d he said, and started to laugh. This man is clearly insane<\/em>, I thought, as, with dramatic arm gestures, he placed pieces of paper in various files, slapping them onto the desk.<\/p>\n \u201cThis goes here, that goes there. Understand? Tell me. Understand? Good. You ask me if you have a question,\u201d he said, then something seemed to dawn on him. \u201cEveryone has questions for me. Who do I ask if I have a question?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour God?\u201d I said. Oh, Jesus, here it is. Here\u2019s the firing moment. You can\u2019t joke around with people like that. When are you going to learn that the things that enter your head should not be let out? When are you going to grow up?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cGood answer,\u201d Kiran said. \u00a0Wow.<\/em><\/p>\n I lucked out. Kiran was a devout Hindu, so God was a pretty good answer for most things. Deity would sometimes come up as I walked into the lab from lunch.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you still at lunch?\u201d he\u2019d say.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d Is all this talking necessary? Don\u2019t people hire temps so they don\u2019t have to get to know them? Is there no way to be in the world and left totally alone?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cAre you still at lunch? Or are you working?\u201d<\/p>\n I told him I was still at lunch.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay. What do you think of homosexuality? Good or bad?\u201d Uh-oh.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI think whatever people do sexually is their own business.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut you\u2019re not Christian.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI am everything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you choose to be a homosexual, you are making God angry. He doesn\u2019t want you to be a homosexual.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not a homosexual.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re not?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think sexual orientation is a choice. It\u2019s biology.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay. Back to work.\u201d<\/p>\n That was the easiest workplace conversation I had ever had about homosexuality. Kiran didn\u2019t seem to really hate gay people and he liked to talk so eventually I felt comfortable enough to open up about how tough I thought life had been for poor motherless, career-less, loveless me.<\/p>\n \u201cStop it!\u201d he yelled one day. \u201cThe past is gone! If I thought about the past, I would collapse. When I left India, my father told me to become successful or not to come back. I had to walk three miles to the bus every day when I first came to US. Did I complain?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s right! Accept everything. Never get angry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do I do instead?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEvery day, I go home. I look at tree. I laugh,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n I wanted to go home and do just that and suddenly feel lighter, freer. I wanted to learn this timely lesson. I wanted to be the kind of person who rolled with punches. I wanted to be someone else.<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n Kiran, understanding the dullness of the job, prescribed breaks.<\/p>\n \u201cThe company pays you to do something for them. If you are tired, you cannot do the job for them. So what are they paying you for? They want you to take breaks. Take breaks!\u201d<\/p>\n For my daily break, I ate an apple in the hallway outside the lab door, which stood ten feet from the ladies\u2019 locker room.<\/p>\n After a week of such breaks, Lili asked, \u201cArun, can you see into the ladies\u2019 changing room from the hallway?\u201d Here we go. Joke time\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cNot only can I see inside,\u201d I said. \u201cI take pictures.\u201d<\/p>\n Lili didn\u2019t laugh.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd I post those pictures on the Internet!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n Later, Kiran pulled me aside. He told me that a woman had accused me of trying to get a peek at her goodies while she was changing.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have anything to worry about,\u201d he assured me.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWere you peeping?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen you don\u2019t have anything to worry about.\u201d<\/p>\n A Human Resources representative, cleverly wearing a suit I couldn\u2019t peep through, sat me down for an official inquiry.<\/p>\n Can this really be happening to me? I try to step back into the world and get accused of a sex crime? How long before I appear on some predator watch list? How long before I\u2019m officially the neighborhood molester?!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHave you been looking into the ladies\u2019 locker room?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t think so.\u201d She leaned in. \u201cYou\u2019re not the peeping type.\u201d Fooled her!<\/em><\/p>\n Apparently, the whistle-blower was an older woman who worked in the mixing area and was notorious for filing frivolous complaints against people for staring at her inappropriately.<\/p>\n \u201cShe likes the attention,\u201d said the HR rep.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd so what then?\u201d Kiran later ranted. \u201cWe can\u2019t stand outside the lab? When I walk outside the lab I have to keep my head down? Locker room door swings open and there is lady in bra. I have to close my eyes? Close my eyes and fall down stairs and break my neck?! No. God gave you eyes. Use them. Any of those ladies should be happy to have someone peeping at them!\u201d<\/p>\n I wasn\u2019t relieved exactly. I had already sunk so low and thought so little of myself that it almost didn\u2019t matter. I probably didn\u2019t want to go prison, but maybe house arrest wouldn\u2019t have been so bad. With the Internet, every man could be an island\u2026 and a galaxy! Or something.<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n The part of my day spent with Kiran and his ravings made the day go by more quickly. Working with Vik was another story \u2013 a depressing story of micromanagement torture where the hero dies slowly, waterboarded into submission by constant phone calls and office visits.<\/p>\n Vik hated going down to the warehouse. He couldn\u2019t communicate with the ornery union warehouse workers and they made it clear that they didn\u2019t like him. And so he decided that I would serve as a liaison between the warehouse, where the raw chemicals were received, and the lab, where they were tested.<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Arun!\u201d Vik would say far too excitedly every morning over the phone.<\/p>\n \u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou have leceive it dthhhaaat celtificate of analysis come?\u201d<\/p>\n What?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cUm\u2026not yet?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet me just\u2026e-mail\u2026I\u2026one second\u2026computer\u2026hello\u2026itchy\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n Minutes of silence passed as he tried to put his thoughts together.<\/p>\n \u201cVik? Hello?\u201d<\/p>\n No response.<\/p>\n Suicide Note, Draft 1:<\/em><\/p>\n Dear Vik, <\/em><\/p>\n I thought I was better than this. Stronger. Of a higher calling and purpose in the world. But I was wrong, wasn\u2019t I?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYes, hello, Arun\u2026I\u2026just\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n More silence.<\/p>\n Suicide Note, Draft 1 (cont\u2019d):<\/em><\/p>\n You win, Vik. I give up. I\u2019ll see you in he \u2013<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cCould you please follow up with that?\u201d he would say.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry, follow up with what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust\u2026let me\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n Even worse were the frequent visits I was forced to make to his tiny office.<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Arun!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n Long pause. Why are we just staring at each other? What is happening here?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHave a seat,\u201d he would say, pointing to the chair wedged between his desk and the front wall of his miniscule office.<\/p>\n \u201cI prefer to stand,\u201d I\u2019d say, thinking of my knees jammed against his desk.<\/p>\n But then he would have me rearrange the chair so I sat in front of the door, where there was just a little more room. And no way out.<\/p>\n In case of fire, we are both doomed. This is how it ends. The final humiliation. A recently acquitted old-lady-peeper, trapped with a madman.<\/em><\/p>\n I waited\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cAre you leady to go?\u201d he might ask.<\/p>\n Yes. I am ready to die.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cTo go do what?\u201d<\/p>\n More silence. No time for a note at this point. If I could move my legs, I would put myself through that window. Then\u2026freedom.<\/em><\/p>\n Vik would start, \u201cOkay, now I\u2026.\u201d And then stop. \u201cNo, just\u2026minute\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n \u201cDoes anyone like this guy?\u201d I eventually asked Kiran. \u201cSomeone always likes someone, right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNormally, I would say that nine out of ten don\u2019t like someone. In this case, it is ten out of ten.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI almost feel sorry for him,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t feel sorry,\u201d Kiran said. \u201cIf he dropped dead right in front of me, I would not care. If we were in the cafeteria, I would step right over him, and maybe drop my hot soup on him, so that he smelled like soup when he met his creator. Like soup!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI am betting that his creator hates the smell of soup.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. Why don\u2019t you feel sorry for him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe chose his life. He\u2019s cheap. Makes lots of money, does nothing. Takes no vacations. I can die tomorrow, because I have lived my life. I have taken cruises. I have been to Alaska. I am done. Take me when you like.\u201d<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n As the liaison, I spent half my day in the warehouse. To be sure, a welcome break from Vik\u2019s mind games, but not without its own complications.<\/p>\n One day, while attempting to operate the copy machine in the receiving office, I was approached by Marge, a 70-year-old forklift operator and raw materials handler. She had a strong New Jersey accent and a bit of a stutter that she offset with a mean temper. Nobody messed with Marge. She was built like wrestler and had a fierce sneer. Like some kind of short, 70 year old Andre the Giant with a George Washington powdered wig and much bigger arms.<\/p>\n \u201cArun, have you seen Chris?\u201d she asked. \u201cGod, I have to get this paperwork done. That asshole upstairs (Vik!<\/em>) is trying to make life difficult for me again.\u201d<\/p>\n Like everyone else in the warehouse, Marge was not a Vik fan. While I tried to pass on his orders, she would say things like, \u201cYou tell his royal highness to come down here if he thinks he can do a better job. I don\u2019t give a shit. Tell him to come down. I\u2019ll show him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s Chris?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cChris. You know, with the chink eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n She pointed at her own eyes and squinted. Chris, a warehouse supervisor, was Asian American.<\/p>\n \u201cOrientals are Orientals,\u201d she said, laughing.<\/p>\n \u201cOrientals are Orientals\u201d! Here we go. It\u2019s racism-fighting time. But Marge sure is frightening, isn\u2019t she? And her name\u2019s Marge. You can\u2019t tell someone named Marge not to be a racist. You don\u2019t teach Marge. Marge teaches you. She learned fork-lift driving on the streets. A hard life in working class Jersey had left her old, wrinkled and squat. But probably fast and strong \u2013 she probably had to be, storming Iwo Jima with no weapons, using her bare hands to snap necks. The Cleaner, that\u2019s probably what they called her. I can\u2019t beat The Cleaner. Not today. Not with this hairnet on. <\/em><\/p>\n No, stop it! This racism is getting a middle class, liberal arts college knuckle sandwich.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know where Chris is,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n Goal!<\/em><\/p>\n Marge wasn\u2019t alone in her \u201cchink\u201d-itude. Every day at noon, a warehouse denizen named, let\u2019s say, Bill came into the receiving office and ordered what he referred to as \u201cchink food\u201d for lunch. \u201cYou know, chink food,\u201d he\u2019d say. What would Chris think of all this chink talk? Would his chink eyes see that there\u2019s a problem here?<\/em><\/p>\n Bill hated to work and didn\u2019t seem to care who knew it. Often, after a little chink food-ordering, he would corner his supervisor, Steve, for a one-sided rap session.<\/p>\n \u201cSo Huffman Koos is going out of business, right? And I go over there, and I\u2019m looking for a fuckin\u2019 TV stand, right? I see one. Tag says $200. For a TV stand?! I\u2019m like, that\u2019s why you\u2019re going out of business.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh-huh,\u201d Steve said, barely listening.<\/p>\n \u201cAnyway, Steve, I can\u2019t have my kids come over because I don\u2019t have my own place. There\u2019s some fuckin\u2019 rule about me not being able to live with my mother if I want the kids to come over or something. And get this. My wife can refuse my request to see the kids.\u201d<\/p>\n Who is worse off here? Bill or me?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cJesus,\u201d was all Steve could muster.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. Meanwhile, I\u2019ve got to fix this piece-of-shit couch I got. I\u2019m thinking I\u2019ll put a block underneath the motherfucker instead of buying a new leg. No one\u2019s gonna fuckin\u2019 notice it, right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI guess.\u201d<\/p>\n Good God, I probably can\u2019t afford a new couch leg, either.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cSo you know what I did yesterday? I had to go down to the police station to give my wife the check. Yeah, she don\u2019t feel safe coming over to my mother\u2019s place to get it. I don\u2019t know if she\u2019s afraid of me or my mother or what. I\u2019m like, grow the fuck up, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus,\u201d Steve said.<\/p>\n Bill has it pretty tough, I guess. Taking the child support check to the police station because his ex is too scared of him to conduct the transaction without the presence of men who can shoot him in case he tries to strangle her or something. Then again, at least Bill had been loved by a woman, who apparently also allowed him to put a child inside her. Yes. I would love to switch places with Bill.<\/em><\/p>\n ****<\/em><\/p>\n Eventually, I decided to get around to signing up with a different temp agency, preferably in New York City. The idea gave me the confidence to feel like it was time to leave the Industrial Chemical Department. I visited Vik in his office, relishing his wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of blankness before I delivered the blow of a week\u2019s notice. He looked so sad. So simple.<\/p>\n \u201cVik, I am giving you my notice,\u201d I said. \u201cI can no longer work for you.\u201d Oh, how the tables have turned. Where are your certificates of analysis now?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cPlease,\u201d he said. \u201cSit.\u201d<\/p>\n Fine. But this is the last time you squeeze me into your chair of ergonomic cruelty. Enjoy it, fiend!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cMy last day will be Friday,\u201d I said. \u201cSo\u2026that\u2019s a week\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n Silence.<\/p>\n I panicked. Does he know something I don\u2019t?<\/em> Are there temp work bi-laws that won\u2019t allow me to quit? Oh, Jesus, what have I signed? What have I signed?!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cPlease don\u2019t go,\u201d Vik said.<\/p>\n \u201cPardon?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe need you,\u201d he pleaded, suddenly coherent. The accent was still there, but the struggle was gone. \u201cThis place will fall apart without you. I need you. I have no one here. No one is on my side. I am being pulled in several different directions and everyone hates me. I have no peace, Arun. I am a man with no peace.\u201d<\/p>\n Oh, no\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n I was softening.<\/p>\n No, stop. Remember the bad times! The hate!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWell, the thing is, I want to work in New York,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m a writer.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m a writer\u201d? Who talks like that?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYou are so lucky, Arun. Your whole life is ahead of you. You\u2019re not stuck working in a factory with\u2026union workers\u2026people who don\u2019t respect you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUm\u2026thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n Check, please!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your take on life, Arun?\u201d<\/p>\n Oh, Vik, please don\u2019t do this. <\/em><\/p>\n \u201cUm, take it day by day?\u201d<\/p>\n Touchdown!<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cStay. Please.\u201d My God, he was serious. How could he \u2013 or anyone \u2013 need me this badly?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cDo you have another job?\u201d he asked. Of course I have another job! Wait\u2026<\/em> Whatever confidence I had in my plan was quickly fading away. I was leaving one job without another, which meant more time with iTunes, but it also meant no more money.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d I said. I can work here while I find another temp job, right? I\u2019ll have the confidence to leave at any time. This isn\u2019t so bad. I\u2019m<\/span> in charge now. Me<\/span>.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cGleat!\u201d Vik exclaimed, then started to transform. \u201cNow\u2026dtheeerrre is just\u2026thing\u2026one minute\u2026I\u2026okay\u2026no\u2026okay\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n What. Have. I. Done.<\/em><\/p>\n Days later, my mistake blew up in my face\u2026.<\/p>\n ****<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to leave at any time, Arun!\u201d Vik said sharply.<\/p>\n I felt myself starting to sweat. I can\u2019t handle this. I don\u2019t have any self esteem. Please don\u2019t make me stand up for myself. I just can\u2019t do it. I won\u2019t do it! Oh, God, can everyone see me sweating? I have to say something. <\/em><\/p>\n So I said: \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n Home. Run.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI need you to take this seriously.\u201d I don\u2019t take this seriously. I don\u2019t take anything seriously. Except myself and my despair.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI do take this seriously,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cThen why were you smirking?\u201d Because I\u2019m too smart for this. I\u2019m too good for everything. I don\u2019t even live in this world. I\u2019m like a god, floating above you and everyone else, ineffectual and unaffected by your petty concerns. And useless.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t realize I was smirking,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d I\u2019m sorry I\u2019m so wrong about how the world works. I\u2019m sorry I don\u2019t know what I\u2019m doing or who I am. I\u2019m sorry my mother is dead. I\u2019m so, so sorry.<\/em><\/p>\n ****<\/em><\/p>\n The box of chemicals was eventually found and a week later, a clerical error on the part of my temp agency forced the company to let me go. After months of isolation, my re-entry into the working world had yielded a peeping charge and a stern berating and life was moving on, again, without my input.<\/p>\n As I hung up my white coat and hairnet and goggles for the last time, Vik stood by me solemnly.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you going to call, let me know how you are doing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh\u2026sure,\u201d I said. Are you insane?<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cStop by and say hello sometime.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely.\u201d Every day! I\u2019ll even invite you over to see my impressive digital music collection! Introduce you to my father! He\u2019s depressed, too! We can all go to therapy together! <\/em><\/p>\n I shook Vik\u2019s hand and walked away from the lab and the warehouse. I was moving forward. Not from any courage or skill on my part. There was just no other way to go. And it wasn\u2019t bad and it wasn\u2019t good.<\/p>\n \u201cGod has a plan for you,\u201d Kiran told me once. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t want you to waste away in your father\u2019s house, doing nothing. Don\u2019t betray God. He will be angry. Be responsible and you\u2019ll be okay.\u201d<\/p>\n I wasn\u2019t sure about God, but there certainly was no plan. I pretended that, by \u201cGod,\u201d Kiran meant my mother. No one had higher hopes for me, for my so-called potential. She wouldn\u2019t accept the idea of her son burying himself in his childhood home, terrified of the world. Having always thought I\u2019d make a wonderful lawyer, my mother probably wouldn\u2019t have been impressed with yet another temp job. But it was something.<\/p>\n I could get through this, whatever this was. It wouldn\u2019t kill me. Maybe I wasn\u2019t ready to laugh at any trees, but at least I wouldn\u2019t let the phone scare me.<\/p>\n Come on. Give me a call. I\u2019m available.<\/em> <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Life After Death<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-625","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-memoirs"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/625","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=625"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/625\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":627,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/625\/revisions\/627"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=625"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=625"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=625"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\u201cWell, no.\u201d<\/p>\n