Making Happy

Writing the schedule for a business is an interesting thing: I decide where 14 human beings will spend a combined total of more than 200 hours each week. All I have to do is fill in a name and its corporeal counterpart summons itself at the given place and time. Not all shifts are created equal. Some are more enjoyable and/or more lucrative than others, so I also govern, to a point, how happy and wealthy 14 individuals are. I could tip the scales one way and make someone's schedule a dream, or tip it the other way and make it a nightmare. People say to love your work. Well, I could make an employee hate his/her work. Obviously, this isn't my goal. My goal is a middle ground--an even and fair distribution of the scheduling wealth. This isn't an easy task. I agonize over the details. Sometimes while editing the schedule, I stare at my computer screen for ages without making a single change. I try to imagine the life a certain schedule would allow and how it fits an employee. But then I also have to consider how each employee is going to fit with whomever they're going to work with. It's something I don't think I can analyze too much. It's people's lives I'm dealing with, after all, and I don't want to be responsible for any anger, malcontent, angst, disquiet, malaise, or any other deficiencies in spirit.

I'm a rock

“Oh, hey, Rock. I didn’t see you there. Mind if I have a seat?
“Not in the least.”
“Boy, you are a nice looking rock, has anyone ever told you you’re a nice looking rock, Rock?”
“No.”
“I mean, look at all this colorful moss all over you.”
“That’s lichen.”
“Well, whatever it is, it looks nice. Does it bother you being all covered in it?”
“No.”
“Well, it looks nice––You don’t mind if I stretch out a little bit on you, do you?”
“No.”
“Ah, that’s better––so, tell me a bit about yourself, Rock.”
“I’m a rock.”
“Yeah, I can see that, but I mean where are you from, what do you do?”
“I sit here.”
“I see. Not much of a talker, are you, Rock? Well, if I had to guess, I say you were granite, which is a metamorphic rock. Do you know what a metamorphic rock is, Rock?”
“No.”
“It means you were formed deep inside the Earth from lots of heat and pressure. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes.”
“There are also igneous and sedimentary rocks. Someday you may even become a sedimentary rock, Rock, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. See, you may feel big and rocky now, but one day you’ll erode––you know how erosion works, right?
“No.”
“Well, like I said, you’re rocky now, but after a few million rain showers you’ll be a pile of sand. Look, you're even crumbling already––see this piece, I can just––oops, sorry about that, Rock.”
“That’s okay.”
“But see, there’s nothing to worry about, because you can become other types of rocks. I see you’ve got your heart set on being a rock, but the fact of the matter is you cannot be granite forever––you just can’t. The sooner you get that through your stony brain, the better. But I don’t want to worry you rock, because I think you’d make a great sandstone. Wouldn’t you like to be sandstone someday?”
“Well––”
“Sandstone is great––and there’s also limestone, though I don’t know if granite can become limestone––perhaps not enough lime. But there are some great sandstone landscapes. You ever been to the Canyon Lands in Utah––no, of course you haven’t, you’re a rock.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m just going to sit here quietly and take in the landscape a bit.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty. Say, Rock, you want to here a joke?”
“Sure.”
“What did the sedimentary rock say to the teacher during the test to become a metamorphic rock?”
“What?”
“’This is too much pressure!’”

Me and She

Another poem of yore from the archives of my journals:

I met a girl
and she the one for me
but me not for she
and I goes crazy
and the world all hazy
cause I love she
but she no love me
and we will never be