It seems we all need validation of the fact that we do good jobs, especially on those really bad days when nothing seems to go right. This is true even when the job that we do is not so great. The truth is for such kudos will not come to us unsolicited. We have to work, not only on our performance, but also in the complex game of employee/ manager psy-ops to get them.

I woke up the other morning having eaten red beans and rice the previous day and my stomach was not really upset, it simply had something to say. I sat on the decorative pipe end in the bathroom and was grieved at the lecture I was given. This in and of itself was disturbing to me, but worse still was that according to my custom, afternoon was the time for such conversation, and my routine was thrown all akilter. I left the house ten minutes late as it was and headed of for work. It was the end of August and the mornings in New Orleans start at eighty-eight degrees, with ninety-nine percent humidity. I got in my car, sweat already rolling off the slope of my bald head. As I came to the point where Oak meets the river, a train stopped me. The day was not starting off well. I checked my watch and was due to be twenty minutes late. I frowned inwardly and waited for this enormously long and slow moving train to go by. I was certain the conductor had a cup of coffee in his callused hand.
Though he may have been aware of the fact that he held up traffic in general he was quite unaware that he was holding me up personally and I was grieved at my situation. This was the fourth day in a row that I had been stopped by such a long slow moving impenetrable wall of boxed steel either coming to or going from work. I made a mental note to buy in the stock market guessing that if such an industry was on the up swing, the rest probably was as well.

Being a stickler for the schedules of life, I was in a state of panic when I arrived at work. I entered the building twenty minutes late, as scheduled, consoling myself with the fact that even if My Absentee Manager had showed up on this particular day, he would be far later than I. When I arrived I saw the voice mail responding to my self-therapy with no less than six messages blinking on the phone from My Absentee ManagerÕs home number. No message was left on any of them, but all the calls were made at consecutive minutes of the morning. He had been urgent to contact me right when I got in for some reason. I lurched to pick up the phone to call him and was checked by its ringing in response. I picked up the receiver and greeted My Absentee Manager, as identified by caller I.D. I was informed that I needed to go to the morning Operations Meetings in his stead to tell the big boss the bad new of some late projects, . . . a lamb led to the slaughter. These meetings take place, not so
promptly, at nine every morning. It is a chance for all of the managers to get together and discuss any late projects in the company and cast blame before the seat of The General Manager. It is in such dens across the corporate world where our economy makes its natural selection, deciding which projects are a priority, which are less so, and which are dead. As I hung up the phone I inwardly wept. Poor bowels, poor scheduling, and now to be subjugated to the fiscal equivalent of the confessional booth. The day was not starting off well.

I pulled the Ops meeting off relatively unscathed and decided that as far as the day goes I was going to take lemons and make lemonade. I started my work an almost an hour in the red because of the unfortunate circumstances revolving around the economy in general and beans in one more particular instance, but I resolved to catch-up in my work. The day hummed on like the morning train rolling along to make good the economic engine of our fair country. I was making good progress, but little setbacks abounded. About mid morning the shipments arrived from Fisher Scientific and I needed put them away in the lab. I had wheeled them over on a hand-truck and set them in the middle of my prep space, and they had been in the way ever since. It was after noon now and after tripping over the boxed for the fourteenth time I resolved to stop whatever it was that I was doing and put all this garbage away.

My father tells of a story where he was working on a ship fixing an antenna high atop the riggings while down below deck the mates had decided to rev-up their diesel engine. When burned, this engine, burning whatever fuel it was, put off a vaporous cloud of sulfuric acid that wafted over my father position on the boat. That evening as he lay asleep he was awoken by the fact that his back arched itself off the bed. As his eyes opened his back fell to the cushioned sheets. His lung had collapsed in his chest due to the vapors. He was consequently bed ridden for a period. He had made his contribution to industry and had been paid.

The last thing I had to put away was a case of 2.5lt bottles of concentrated hydrochloric acid. On pulling the two bottles out, one in each hand, they clanked together lightly and, due to some sort of pressure build up, one exploded, pouring its contents forth like the great deluge. I was, of course, dressed in full safety apparel, which consisted of a lab coat, safety glasses, and latex gloves. In other words I was more than probably doomed to the same fate as my father, as none of these things would protect me from the could of noxious gasses ascending to my nostrils at that very moment.

My brain jumped quickly to remember my safety training. The first thing that came to mind was the catch phrase, “do what you say, say what you do, and document it!” The problem was that this catch phrase was from the ethics meeting, not the safety meeting. I conjured up some distant thought of walking into the conference room and propping my boots on the conference table as I asked The Safety Officer in the pre-meeting quiet, “so, . . . does our company adhere to a deontological or utilitarian ethic?”

He said, “Utilitarian,” and chuckled as if to share a joke between us only he understood.

“You donÕt know what either term means do you . . .?” I said, stressing my Alabama accent. I was rudely ignored for the rest of the meeting and therefore rudely ignored back.

I could remember no safety meeting at all visually. The only pat advice I remembered was that the proper authorities should be notified.

I was lucky. When the acid spilled most of it spilled into the open box that the bottles are shipped in. In that box is a Styrofoam container meant to keep the bottles from clanking and hold any spill. When I saw the bottle bust and the cloud of vapor rising at me I held my breath. This was not one of those, “suck in all the air you can hold and see how long you can go,” hold your breaths. It was a strait up, “what you got is what you get, donÕt breath anymore or your on the floor” hold your breaths. I lifted the box and put it in the hood to get rid of the fumes. My mind raced as I saw the puddles of stinging liquid that did hit the floor spread. Already a mist was rising from them like ghosts on a battlefield in the pre-dawn fog. I grabbed some absorbent padding and threw it, doubled layered, onto the spill. That took care of most of the vapors. I bolted out the back door and went over to the other building inquiring as to the whereabouts of The Safety Officer. “HeÕs not here
today” was the response. So much for notifying the proper authorities, I walked back scratching my head. When I got back into the lab it reeked of hydrochloric acid, and I realized that so did I. I also noticed that the absorbent pads were already soaked through and the vapors were starting to rise again. I grabbed some Spil-ex solution and covered the pads with it, neutralizing the acid. Then I turned to the hood. I poured all the acid in the Styrofoam container into my disposal bucket and rendered it harmless, chemically neutralizing it as is my art. I next dunked the acid soaked box into the bucket and neutralized it. I went out for a breath of fresh air then returned for the clean up of the floor. Slowly the lab cleared out and everything was back to normal.

Now to make lemons out of lemonade, My first instinct now was not to tell anyone, and hide my shame like Adam with chunks of apple glistening from his teeth. But my former safety and ethics training kicked in hard and I realized that I must not only tell the tale of my near obliteration, but must do it with style, and to my credit. Hands still shaking from acidic inhalation I typed out the epic drama of my brush with finitude. Carefully I documented all of my correct assessments and quick reactions, all the while downplaying the fact that the happenstance that brought this accident about was the work of my hands. At the end of the letter I asked for an evaluation of my actions to give it a purpose for being sent, calculating that this would force the letter into wider circulation, gaining me fame. I e-mailed this letter off to The Safety Officer and My Absentee Manager.

As soon as the next day it was responded to by The Safety Officer who put a cc to the whole safety comittee saying that I handled the situation excellently, and that he would look into getting some masks that would protect against acid vapors. Apparently I was not the only one schooled in e-mails aimed at covering your butt. I have seen no such masks yet. The emails continued as the safety conversation grew until the climax a few mornings later when an e-mail appeared from The General Manager on my screen.

“Great Job Phillip!”

It appears that I got my Kudos after all.

Phillip G.

When Rebecca lived on Napoleon, we used to go for walks by St. ElizabethÕs Orphanage and often read the little placard that had its history. The last installation of that history was that it was, Òpurchased by the Rice family.Ó That is by Anne Rice the famous vampire novelist. The rumor was that she had purchased this place as a location to entertain her friends and board them when they came in from out of town. This rumor led to visions of grand balls in full medieval custom and debaucherous vampiric orgies. We would often stand outside the massive red brick structure admiring the two large marble angels on either side of the stairs leading to the main entrance. They were white, but ancient looking and dirty with dark streaks running from their eyes and the fold of their cloths from the rich Mississippi river soil that is carried in the rain. There was never a sign of life in the building. We would loiter there and imagine the dark and foreboding hallways that must be inside. They would be gloomy and filled with suits of heavy armor, real human skulls, ancient chests filled with skin parchments, and maybe even a giant spider that roamed the halls and devoured all mortals who dared enter the great pleasure palace of Anne Rice.

RebeccaÕs family had come recently for a visit, and we had all gone to the zoo. The party included three young ones, her dad, his wife, her brother, his wife, and her sister-in-lawÕs parents. Navigating this extended family through the zoo was a difficult task in and of itself, and on top of this was the more difficult task of keeping the children entertained. Walking across the zoo stories were exchanged, people were lost and found, and there was a general sense of chaos which permeates family gatherings in general, and makes them tedious to live, but beautiful to remember. In the end, it was realized that no one was looking at animals anymore. The sole occupation of the children was to run wild, and the sole occupation of adults was to try and keep up. Despite this, all had a good time, mainly owing to the fact that Audubon Zoo not only allows smoking, but has a few daiquiri stands to boot. Much to the childrenÕs chagrin, they were not allowed too much of the ÒadultÕs ice creamÓ, though they had a taste or two in the hopes of slight sedation.

That evening all had left except RebeccaÕs brother and sister-in-law. They were relieved of the burden of their children for a few hours for the first time in about a year, and we all went out to eat. It was a delightful time for all and afterwards we took them around our neighborhood to see the houses and various other sites. We swung down Napoleon Avenue and passed St. ElizabethÕs. Outside on its gate was a tarp sign that read, ÒOpen Sunday 12 to 5.Ó

It was hardly imaginable to me that Anne Rice would have an open house and allow her domain to be perused by the hoypaloy disrespectfully gaping at all of her precious artifacts. I cut the wheel at the next block and explained to RebeccaÕs brother that they should see ÒAnne RiceÕsÓ house. I didnÕt really think he needed to, but I wanted to further investigate what was going on. We stood at the same locked entrance gate and stared at the same two angels gracefully lifting one arm apiece to the heavens. The house was empty and dormant yet again. There was no explanation of what it could mean for the house to be ÒopenÓ the next afternoon, but I resolved to find out.

The next day Rebecca and I arrived fashionably late to meet with Anne Rice and have her personally guide us around her entertainment house explaining the various histories and hauntings of the halls. As we walked up to the building I noticed that, sure enough, one side of the gates that are usually locked firm was resting on itÕs hinges for a change, and was swung half-open. We walked gingerly up to the gate and noticed an old lady doing the same from the other direction.

ÒIs it open?Ó I asked.

ÒIt says itÕs supposed to be. It donÕt look like they done much. This is the same ol stuff they had before. She just added lacy curtains, she was supposed to re do it.Ó

I was immediately tired of this old womanÕs presence. We went up and I pulled at the door handle a couple of times. It was locked. The old woman made some further complaints but quickly accepted fate and walked away. I turned to Rebecca, ÒMaybe open just means that gate.Ó We chuckled. Then a younger couple walked up.

ÒWhatÕs going on here?Ó The guy asked.

ÒNobody knows.Ó I said and tugged at the locked door. There was beginning to be a feeling that Anne Rice had opened her front gate so that the unwashed masses could get a look at her well kept lawn as, from a high window, she looked down on us chuckling in her solitude. We decided that maybe there was another door somewhere. Walking to both sides of the large building we were met with locked gates. The couple left as another man walked up with the general inquiries. At this time I had pretty much given up on getting inside the building. I squatted on my hams on the front steps and admired the angels. Out of habit I cocked my index finger behind my thumb and thumped the robe of one. To my great surprise I was met with a hollow thud in reply. The angel was not even a plaster cast, it was hollow plastic.

At this point we were both disheartened and began back toward the gate. At that moment the door swung open like the gates to the Emerald City and a little black man pointed his head out. ÒYall want to come in?Ó There was hesitancy because we were unsure of the situation. ÒCome on inÓ he said. We walked like cats sniffing every inch in an unknown room. When we got in we were struck with the beauty of a banister, an elegant staircase, and rich dark red carpeting. ÒRight this way,Ó he said pointing. We were ushered into a side room. All along the walls were blue prints for the building. It was here that we learned that this was no longer Anne RiceÕs property. In fact it had been sold to a gentleman who was carving up the old building and making condoÕs out of is for $235 a square foot. There would be no informative tour of the histories and hauntings of the house by the mistress after all, so instead we signed up for the prospective buyerÕs tour. If we came down here we might as well see what was in it. In the room were a college girl, her mom, an old woman, showing her even older mother what a great place this would be to retire and a sleazy capitalist, looking to buy a condo, sell it to the higher bidder after fixing it up,. When the time came, we all embarked on the tour.

Most of the rooms were empty. The Rice property was long sold or removed. The rooms stood bare except for the hard wood floors, enormous ceilings, and ancient red brick walls. This gave the place a look that was gloomy and haunted even as the realtor expounded on the specs and prices of the future condos. The first indication that the former occupant may not have lived up to my expectations in her dŽcor was the mantelpieces on the ubiquitous fireplaces. They were all wood that was painted black. I guess I assumed that Anne Rice was a multi billionaire and could have afforded marble mantles, but upon review, to have that many would be expensive, and my unreflective ideas about her wealth were perhaps overblown.

We moved from empty room to empty room and little details caught my eye and gave a glimpse into the psyche of the former mistress of the house. Often we would turn a corner into a hallway wherein the walls were covered floor to ceiling with mirrors, and in an instant, an individual became an army of self important doppelgangers each poised to admire the next. At first, I thought of the ego one must have to want walls like this. Mirrors were in every room, and even the electric fixtures were covered. I soon deduced, upon my new found reflection of the possible true size of the Rice fortune, that perhaps this was cheaper than repairing damaged walls. Speculations aside, I still felt that the mode of covering the walls was indicative of something odd in the personal nature of the designer.

The Realtor quickly suspected that Rebecca and I were not interested in a four hundred thousand dollar one bedroom condo and even catered a bit to our tourist like curiosity. Upon stepping into the Chapel, the only room that was completely untouched by the tastes of the former deed holder, he gave a very brief verbal scene of how the children must have come to church here when it was still an orphanage. The huge room gave an indication of how big the complex really was. The ceiling was easily thirty feet high, and a few of the ecclesiastical instruments were still lying around. I asked if they could be kept for the next person who owned the room as a condo, but apparently they were already sold or donated to other churches. My vision of dwelling in a fully functional church was ruined once again.

On the third floor we came into a few rooms where alterations to the original were apparent. The rooms were in a partial state of abandonment. The furniture was gone, but the changes were still manifest. There were small bar kitchens made of particleboard in the corner of some of the empty rooms, and various spaceships like bathrooms. Hardwood floors had been carpeted, and all of the materials were of the cheapest quality. The realtor assured the potential buyers that all of this would be removed and the hardwood floors restored.

Finally we came into a room that was still furnished. Another of the tour members tipped their hand as well immediately asking, ÒWas this her room?!Ó Apparently we werenÕt the only oneÕs along for the photo op ride. There was a four poster bed with sheer draping catty corner and a large particleboard entertainment center that took up half a wall. ÒNoÓ said the realtor, ÒShe never lived here. She had guests stay here and threw parties here mainly.Ó The room was as gaudy as can be imagined. The fifteen-foot ceilings met the floors with mirrors, once again, every inch, and the windows cutting those mirrors, for eleven feet, were hung with gold curtains, made from the same material as a cheap ball dress. The bed table at a distance looked as though it could be found in a medieval castle. Iron with swords for the legs, but on closer inspection it was tin, and quickly forged on an assembly line no doubt. Across from the bed was the bathroom. The first thing that struck me was that the floor was carpeted here too. Who has carpet on a bathroom floor? It was only after that realization that I noticed that it was leopard print.

The whole room gave the feel of a Goth, still in high school, who inherited the house and a small amount of money along with it, trying to make it a ÒcoolÓ place to hang out on the cheap. Then proceeding to entertain, she calls her friends here to impress them so they will like her. And this solitary soul would never know whether they like her as a person or not.

Quickly I realized that not only do I not know the woman, but that I have never even read one of her books, and perhaps I shouldnÕt be judging her. Later I heard an interview with her on NPR wherein she stated that she likes carpet because she writes in her bare feet. Who am I to hold Mrs. Rice to the ideals of the bourgeois? If she likes carpet better than hard wood thatÕs her prerogative, even leopard print in the bathroom. I had judged her hastily and was now regretting it. But I came away realizing that even if my judgments about her solitude and fashion tastes were wrong, by making them, I learned something for myself. I am glad I am poor by AmericaÕs standards. I enjoyed going to the zoo with RebeccaÕs family. I enjoy visiting with my family. I enjoy living next to my brother and sister-in-law, even if the neighbors hate us because we deign to ignore TV and talk loudly on our porch and in our courtyard. And whether Anne Rice is truly lonely or not, I hope that her poor taste in fashion, which helped me realize for that brief moment the good things in life, will be credited to her on the last day.

Phillip G.