Dear Tuesday

Dear Tuesday,

You’re awful.

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Dear Tuesday,

You’re awful.

I do not hold you responsible for my attitude (I am adult enough to own my attitude) nor do I sling out my sentiment to cause pain, resentment or embarrassment…perhaps.

Aside from that, I feel that you are the way you are (awful) simply because you hide behind Monday.  The accusation of hiding, in some estimations, may prove to be more cause for resentment (on your part) and insult (again on your part) than being just plain awful,(which you are) I understand.  I myself have been accused of hiding and that accusation stings and nettles me – I’m sure it does the same to you.  However, to keep to the truth I am sure, beyond doubt, that the reason for my feeling resentment toward you is that you hide behind Monday.

Tuesday, hiding is a despicable practice and never have you come forward and tried in any way to defend Monday.  Never have you reasoned with us, (slaves to the paycheck), that the reason we hate Monday is that you yourself Tuesday show no mercy in longevity nor do have you open-handedly proffered us hope.  You are a repeat of Monday with the added rancor of making us all feel trapped without a Friday in sight.  Tuesday you even paint poor old Wednesday with a drear and deadly gray that makes sorrow seem interminable and Thursday so very far away.

I do want you to know that I have settled down to write this letter to you on a Wednesday.  While I suffered through your hours yesterday forming my accusations I thought it would only be sporting of me if I gave you the full day – to see if you redeemed yourself at all.

You did not.  My home was quiet, dull and sullen with the Tuesday doldrums when I walked through the door.  All the inhabitants therein, right down to the cat, looked at me with the idea that perhaps I should do something – anything, which would give relief.  I failed and being that it was Tuesday I felt that perhaps my failure was helped along.

Know too, that I pause in my other letter writing (one to U.S. Literary critics that has been confounding me for some time, another to audiobooks in general and another to Corrie – I just found her physical address again and the most adorable owl cards that are just dying to be sent) so that I may further analyze my feelings and express to you my dismay.  I realize too that there is nothing I can do – you are.  Nor do I want to argue the fact that you are third in the week or second in the week according to ISO standards (drop dead).  Nor do I want to want to delve into your ancestry to some Norse god – you are more than that, you are more than a name – you are a 24-hour eternity.  You’re awful.

With Regret,

 

Me

 

Welcome to the Company

“The object is to make no mistakes.”

“The object is to make no mistakes.”

“Impossible.”

“Improbable, but recommended.”

She was older, not bad looking for her age and not so frigid as she appeared.  She was my instructor.  I was to be a customer service rep for a short time and then move up.  I had college loans to pay back, a girlfriend who was looking worried and an older cat who looked to be getting to the expensive stage in her life.  The only thing I had to be thankful for was that I lived in a city that didn’t require a car.  True it required heavy coats in winter and was merciless in summer but still, I could get around albeit I couldn’t get out.

My mother wrote to me weekly because she hated computers and told me she wasn’t smart enough for a smartphone.   I suspect that she had a smartphone but worried over her data limits and wouldn’t give me her number.  I suspected that’s all.

“Ms. Levehausen, I’m a novice here and mistakes may be a part of my immediate future.”

“Mr. Warren, you may have been better off in obtaining a liberal arts degree rather than a business degree.”

“I don’t want to starve Ms. Levehausen.”

“Nonsense.  You don’t want to try.”

“Excuse me?”

“You see,” said Ms. Levehausen, “I can tell by the tone of your voice.  My guess is, your parents are both working in light blue collar jobs about 100 miles from the center of this great city and have encouraged you since the 6th grade to be driven.  They might have noticed that you colored within the lines and they might have listened politely to your art teacher but no son of theirs was going to go Bohemian on them and live out his life in a garret apartment or be the coinsurer of beer or coffee to make a living.”

“My father is a bank manager in a city 200 miles from here and my mother is remarried and canning pickles in Wisconsin.”

“Ah, then you must have a high maintenance girlfriend and an old dog.”

“I have an old cat, Ms. Levehausen.”  My head was beginning to spin because I was following Ms. Levehausen around what seemed to be several floors of cubicles that were full of bright-faced young people or gray old people.

“Here is your cubical Mr. Warren.  I will be monitoring your incoming telephone calls for the next three months.  If I feel you are not making progress, we will discuss your future with this firm.  We, of course, want you to be successful.  Your licensing for all 50 states in the Union are up to date and we understand that your training was highly effective.  Just how far in debt are you?”

I blinked at Ms. Levehausen.  Did I really hear that last question?  “Excuse me?”

“I said,” said Ms. Levehausen looking concerned, “Welcome to the company.”

Our eyes met.  I handed her my headset and never looked back.

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