|Rising Like Lazarus or, Happy Days Are Here Again!
||[Nov. 15th, 2003|04:12 am]
|||||The Talking Heads, Stop Making Sense||]|
The rumours had been blowing in the corporate wind for a weeks, fluttering from one desk to the next like scraps of old newspapers inspecting parked cars in a gusty parking lot.
On Monday, Young Geoffrey found out that at least one of the rumours had come to earth as fact. Several more people had been "let go", including Young Geoffrey's direct supervisor. He contemplated the carnage and wondered, for the fourth time in the three years he had been at the company, whether he was pleased or unhappy to find he had yet again survived; the vision of a 3-month paid holiday drifted into the mists of an uncertain future.
On Friday, home from the office and following a couple of days of telephone-tag with his (new) supervisor, Young Geoffrey finally connected with Charlie. "It's official," Charlie said, "You're on days. Would you be okay coming in Saturday morning at 7:00?"
Young Geoffrey nodded, grinning into the handset of his telephone.
"Are you okay with that?" Charlie asked.
"Oh!" said Young Geoffrey, reminded that neither he nor Charlie was using - nor even possessed - a video-phone. "Yes," said Young Geoffrey. "Yes, that's fine. I'll have to make the adjustment one of these days, right?"
He rang off, leaped from his chair and frightened his cat for whooping about his apartment like a cowboy rising from a freshly-roped calf at a rodeo.
* * *
And so, here I am, awake now for nearly an hour at 4:35 in the morning, contemplating the darkness beyond my windows as the Talking Heads cease making sense from my music-maker in the next room.
It is rather remarkable, how much can change in one's mind over the course of a month. It was sometime in September when I determined to volunteer for a second quarter in a row on the overnight shift; come mid-October I realized I had made a mistake, that living the hours of a light-house-keeper had become almost insupportable.
By late October, I was having difficulty waking up for midnight; my sleeping patterns were no longer patterns at all. I would sleep for an hour or two, arise bleary-eyed and putter about for for another hour or two then once again take to my bed, as if suffering from some energy-sapping influenza that never left. The past two "weekends", I didn't get out of the apartment, cracking my crust-lined eyelids towards midnight or later.
My lord! It's over!
No more missing out on fetish-fashion shows, no more lost weekends of the dull variety, no more endless rounds of "Collapse" while I tell myself I should be writing and the phone doesn't ring.
No doubt, I'll soon be complaining about the difficulties of rising, hungover, in time to make it in to work at 7:00 in the morning; no doubt, I will soon grow weary of having to work while at work; and no doubt, I will curse the rush-hour traffic to and from the office.
But for now at least, Young Geoffrey is a happy bear indeed. By all the gods and goddesses in which I don't believe, I will have a social life again!