Rebel without a clue

            Stupidity and politics will surface in any workplace, sometimes sooner than not.  As I’m dealing with the latest wave of it from my current job, I marvel at how this kind of thing seems to define my existence.  I always seem to be waist deep in the most petty, backstabbingly selfish, don’t-take-it-personally (but they always do) IDIOCY anywhere I work.  I guess I just inspire that in people, and that’s not the way I prefer to inspire people. 

            Lying on my bed amidst laundry I had yet to fold, I stared at the ceiling and wondered how I was going to disentangle myself from the imbecility this time.  Suddenly, I thought about someone I hadn’t thought of in years.  In my high school years, I was friends with a loudmouthed lout named Grant Shroder.  Grant was a piece of work, but a genius, and it was in his nature to drive the faculty of the high school nuts because he was bored out of his ever-loving mind with their curriculum.  I thought of him often during my early years of college while studying to be a teacher… and then one day, I had to go student teach after seeing a news report on the TV that morning that he’d been shot and killed by some gang member. 

            It wasn’t really hard to fathom once I heard the details.  Grant had been dating this guy’s ex-girlfriend and had been saving up money so they could go on a cruise.  When the ex had harassed the young woman on the phone about leaving with him, Grant had shot off his mouth, which I suppose he was partially justified in doing but knowing him, it was something which made the offending party feel lower than dirt.  He was shot in the head the next day at point blank range by a .22 caliber pistol and was dead before he hit the ground. 

            Why think of Grant now?  Grant was an organ donor.  He told his mother once that all he wanted was to matter, to do something that made a difference.  In his death, six people got new leases on life.  And I got a guardian angel, one who shows up in my dreams whenever life hands me crap like this.  The conversation is usually pretty short:

            “Now what?  Wait, let me guess.  Politics again?”

            “You don’t have to live with this, smart ass.”

            “You’re right there.  I don’t.  But, you got to wake up this morning.” 

            “I know, but…”

            “Not done.  You got a friend who isn’t allowed to see her kids and you got woken up by your daughter.  You got a friend who committed suicide because he had no support system, and you have tons of friends to call and vent to.  You have a friend who’s been homeless, and you still have a roof over your head.  A nice home, too.  You have pretty good health…”

            I hate it when he does this.  “I have a seizure condition.  Call that health?”

            “It hasn’t happened in seven years and it only happens while you sleep, for Christ’s sake!  How about your friend who can’t drive now because he had one a lot more recently?”  I can see the exasperated look he would have had on his face and hear the I’m-so-done-with-you tone to his voice.  “How about the high risk pregnancy you had plus severe bronchitis that didn’t kill or permanently damage you or your baby?  Or the flood that’s just a bad memory now, or the people who always surround you with love, help you, put up with your snotty ass…”

            “HEY!  I get the picture!   But how do I get through this?”

            At this point, I usually picture him looking at me sideways and smiling the damnable grin which used to make me want to deck him right in his self-righteous jaw.  But the words stop me cold. 

            “One step at a time, just like you always do.  You know, I’d give almost anything to hug my brother again, tell my mom how I was going to take over the world.  Right now, I’d love to have your problems.”  He would sigh, and I’d wish I’d gotten to know him better when he was alive for the short two years I knew him.  “Look here, you have a job, get that?  It’s not perfect, because jobs are made up of people, and that’s where all the problems are.  Just like you told me about churches, right?  So deal with it until it’s time to move on, then get the hell out.”

            “And how do I know when that is?” 

          A shrug.  “What am I, Madam Cleo?  Guess.  Know your tolerances and don’t jump until you have somewhere to land.  And so on.  You know, if you would ever trust your instincts for more than ten minutes, you could do a lot of good.” 

            “If you’d trusted your instincts, you’d be alive today.” 

            I picture him laughing.  “Probably not.  Somebody else would’ve pissed me off.  Look, I lived.  Period.  I said what I had to say, did what I had to do, and I don’t regret telling the bastard off for how he treated my lady.  Just go do what you do best and haters be damned.” 

            The laundry waited patiently while I sent a text to my mentor to tell him I was behind him, no matter what stupidity arose, and while I went to kiss my daughter goodnight again, even though I’m pretty sure she was asleep already.  Then I put it away and left the bed to my cat, who looked at me sideways in a very familiar way…

            Funny.  He would’ve made a good teacher.  And he would’ve hated me for saying so. 

            Time to sleep.  Need my beauty rest to face the haters.