Friday, August 29, 2014

Mr. Desmond

As I was crying on the elliptical this morning because my father has been dead nearly two years, I recalled a particularly amusing attempt of his to interfere in someone's life. Nearly always done with excellent intentions and certainly always executed with utter madness.

My friend, Jen, was looking for a job. At the time, my father was freshly out of his graduate program in psychology and employed at the African-American Family Center run by Catholic Community Services. I should note that he was an atheist and quite white. Notwithstanding. A caseworker position had just opened up and he decided Jen - who had spent the past five years doing entomological work for the USDA - would fit perfectly. Since the insects wouldn't be talking, she needed a reference. Only a fake one would do for my Dad. He enjoyed lying tremendously. I think it was less evil and more about being a thwarted writer. Maybe.

My father decided that my uncle, Desmond Sullivan, would be the perfect false reference for an invented organization in upstate New York. Where Jen had never been. However, my father didn't want anyone calling to check up on Jen's fake position at a fake organization and hearing my uncle's voicemail with "Sullivan" on it and connecting the dots. Why he couldn't have asked him to change it briefly, or lie, well, better, or ...

Anyway. Fast forward to Jen's interview. I wasn't there, but this is what I heard and imagined. Jen was at one end of the table, blond, terrified. She has a very mobile face and can't hide anything she thinks. She was surrounded by a number of earnest African-American social workers and, at the table's end, Brian Sullivan. Who can't resist giving her signals. Jen's trying to ignore these, twitching, darting glances around.

Right out of the box. "So, we saw that you did some work similar to this in upstate New York? The rest of your resume is all based in this area, so we just wondered how that came about?"

Dart. Twitch. Encouraging nods from Peabo.

"Uh, well. I just ... wanted to see a little more of the world?"

"Upstate New York?"

"Uh." Big, huge, noticeable nod and threatening look from Peabo. "Yeah."

"And, your supervisor? Did he ... we were a little confused about his name?"

Dart. Twitch. Firm stares from Brian.

"He, well... he used to ... um ... work with women on the street and they, well, anyway. He asked me to just call him Mr. Desmond."

Jen got the job. Numerous African-American families were never the same.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Bleary

I just received a voicemail from my nephew. Hi Ted, this is Griffonian, it began. Griffonian is his new name, to which he will change officially on his 18th birthday this September. He feels it better suits his "adventurous and spiritual" nature. His old name was foisted on him, "like the Nazis imposed identities." He said he has been "closeted" as Griffonian when I suggested he wait a bit to make it official.

At any rate, Griffonian had phoned to let me know that he had gone to the high school and been amazed by God's grace. Somehow this connected with the anecdote that he had spotted a very fat man in a very small Speedo. He said the man was so large, you could not really see the Speedo. He said he had worked on some "restorative spiritual measures" with the man. Sign-off, Namaste. I don't think I have had enough coffee to make sense of all this yet.