11 November 2010

That Pink Thing in the Tree


(That pink thing in the tree. Photo Socotra.)

I am unsettled this morning- not by the usual stuff or the recommendations of the bi-partisan panel on government debt. The report would be alarming enough on its own. The crisis is not just Social Security- it is the health system and the wars and the cumulative federal debt that threaten to turn America into a second-class nation. If we don’t face it squarely, it will wreck our economy, weaken our defense and tear at our social fabric. But I am also worried about the the thing that is hanging on the branches just off the balcony.

Take a look and I am sure you will agree with me. As the leaves have turned color and dropped away, it has emerged. First as a color not found anywhere in nature except the delicate hue found on the interior of a conch from a fantasy beach.

I should be concentrating on honoring the sacrifice of the veterans who are honored today, on the anniversary of the end of the Great War, now approaching it centenary.

I have to go to work to make that observation, though, since the company is remarkably unsentimental about this, even if the government and its horde of civilians is taking the day to honor us.

Weird. And weird is that thing in the tree. As the days have thinned the foliage, the pink object has become more vivid and more firmly lodged in the branches. I assume it is an article of clothing from a child in one of the units above me, blown off the drying line, or perhaps tossed in childish pique.

If it is something else, I don’t want to know about it.

I am hoping the gales of the coming winter will knock it down. It is just far enough from the balcony that I cannot reach it with the mop fully extended, and it is not worth plunging four floors down to eliminate the pink presence in the tree.

I try to stay away from the unit in daylight, which is not hard these days, with the dusk coming on so early. It is easy enough to stop at Willow after work, which actually has become a sort of alternate office.

In fact, it has become a place of multiple functions. I was enjoying a glass of discount happy hour white wine with the Boss and my partner in crime last night, waiting to make one of the larger mistakes of the week.


(Mike and Jon-no-H at C-18 and C-19, or maybe C-19 and C-20, none of us are sure. Photo Socotra.)

Old Jim, Mike and Jon-no-H were anchoring the end of the bar. I ordered a small plate of Polyface Farms deviled eggs garnished with smoked paprika and dill, and accompanied by Willow Hot Sauce. They- meaning Mike and Jon-no-H, of course, not the eggs, were at positions C17-19, which Peter explained was the system by which the food runners were able to deliver food without having taken the order.

Pittsburgh Jim shook his head, pouring a Gray Goose Martini for my partner in crime. “No, it is 18-20.”

“That explains a lot,” I said. “The runners always ask us.”

While still in the office, I had swallowed hard, signing a contract and wrote a fat check, carefully ensuring I had transferred enough cash to cover it in the thinning bank account. The documents lay in a manila folder on the bar in front of me.

The contract committed me to spending more money than I have to establish The Socotra House, an almost guaranteed loser of a publishing business.

I was in the publishing business for a few years after college, and I already know that books lose money, and that was before people quit reading altogether.

Still, I have always defensively said that the writing was not going anywhere only because I did not have enough time in the day to be creative and hold down the day job and keep my place propped up at Willow.

I have engaged a facilitator, an energetic young woman who understands how this works, and who now is contractually obligated to help staff up a new and completely unnecessary publishing concern.

The agreement secure the corporate rights to my name, professionalize the blog, leap it to Web 2.0, harness social media, secure ISBNs and bar codes, secure the copyright, trademark and populate the back office stuff.

I have been screwing around with this long enough. It is time to get serious about it. With professional editorial support, I can generate real product that no one really needs.

In fact, as my agent arrived at the Willow bar and I turned from company business on my right to Socotra House business on my left, I thought about the possibilities.

“I am not a man who is afraid of commitment,” I said, pushing the folder over to her. She seemed pleased to have moved from the sales portion of her enterprise to the execution phase.

“We will get started right away,” she said brightly, tucking my check in her purse. “But a glass of wine first.”

We talked about first steps, but ventured quickly far afield. She suggested we might establish a PodCast to service this content-saturated society that no one will listen to.

The possibilities are literally limitless.

I got the check from Peter and scrawled “Business Meeting, Tax” across the top of my receipt. Things were looking up.

When I got back to Big Pink, I was curiously energized.

I poured a bulldozer for a nightcap and would have gone out on the balcony to smoke one of the cigarettes I am trying to quit smoking, but out there in the darkness there is something pinker than the dusty mauve of the building and very disquieting.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
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