Nationwide, our company laid off at least 300 full-time employees Thursday.
I was not among them. But trauma such as this hits with bomb-like effect, impacting those at its center most dramatically, then pulsing outward to touch everyone within its radius.
I didn't even particularly like Julie. Most days, I felt her face could have served as a vivid illustration for the word 'sourpuss.' She spoke to me according to her mood and traveled in a very tight circle, one that through glances and silence suggested its members had reached conclusions about each employee, and that I was not among the favored few. I wasn't in the office consistently enough to care about that.
But on the more-important professional level, Julie also fell short for me. Our boss repeatedly suggested I travel with her on a ride-along to witness her role in the company so that I could better promote it as a service to our members. Julie always said OK. Julie never found time or space for me in her car. Lacking a clear understanding of what she did, I avoided talking about that feature of our plan. This to me represented a serious gaffe on Julie's part.
But Julie also had a quick mind, a hearty laugh and a casual, tomboy style. I suspect that once the crusty surface broke, she was fairly good company.
This week, our company cut the service and all those who provided it.
I'll never know for sure whether I was right or wrong about any of those things about Julie.
Thursday, it didn't matter.
Julie stood in the hallway when the rest of us emerged from a required all-staff meeting during which we'd repeatedly heard words and phrases like "streamlining," "efficiency," "opportunity," and "changing with the times." Faces typically lit with smiles were tight with fear. Since the receipt two weeks ago of an ominously worded e-mail that stated our Fortune 50 company was "not performing well," rumors had raged. I'd felt ridiculously safe and warm; my boss had reminded me we were "pretty tight already," and said that my position was safe. Belatedly, I realized she'd surely told everyone else the same.
I realized, too, this was not just a meeting, but a carefully planned and executed production.
Our local president, a nattily attired, graying-at-the-temples 40-year-old possessed of an eerily unwavering calm and a flawless command of the corporate American language, (a co-worker and I speculated he made love with the same precision and lack of imagination, perhaps even donning white gloves for the required act), spoke from notes neatly typed on a small sheaf of papers. Ten or 12 lines among the many on each page were highlighted yellow. With never an 'um' or other sign of human imperfection, he read from the sheets, looking up regularly to meet and hold every employee's gaze.
The performance was smooth, appropriately void of emotion and overall impressive. Had the venue been different, I'd have been moved to applause.
Earlier in the day, in a smaller meeting, an employee had stated her opinion about the pending changes. "I agree," he said, then gave a rare smile, this one slightly embarrassed. "I'm off script," he apologized, then went on, "I hear what you're saying."
He was good. And I stood in constant awe of the fact that the man was not just my age, but four years younger. How had he become what he was? How could we possibly have lived in the same world all these years? While I was puking in the bushes in the 2 a.m. darkness of a Wisconsin campus university, his surely was the study light shining in the figurative dorm seven states and an Ivy League beyond me. The family photos in his office were black-and-whites of young girls in elegant dresses loosely clasping flower bouquets. My most recent favorite Robby photo depicted him, mouth open and hair askew, hanging upside down from a swing at the park. And why was I, at the heart of it, so incredibly uninterested in Bror's life?
But this is the stuff of another blog. I digress.
Suffice to say the meeting was tough and surreal.
While I said I was not among those laid off, that was only partially true. A co-worker and I were instead transferred to another department, added to another payroll, handed a new job description and a pay increase. I heard news of the salary bump with tinged joy. Based on the job description and the brief welcome-aboard from our new boss -- "Expectations will be quite high" -- I do not know how long I will be able to hold onto this fatter check.
The worst news of all Thursday was that the woman -- the single best role model of my life -- is leaving the company. This, too, is the stuff of another blog.
The shock and surprise of the morning, the break to that long-held tension, all spun like a tomahawk into Julie. She was not just a woman who'd lost a job, she was the visible symbol of all those emotions.
I walked out of the meeting room behind a wave of other people and found myself in a line.
I heard sobs, muffled words, the sounds of bodies meeting in a firm hug. I saw Julie at the front of the line. Three people stood around her, faces somber, words soft. One by one, the employees in line merged into this small gathering, enfolding Julie in a hug.
Julie had never bothered much with makeup or her appearance in general. But now her face was raw. Red, blotchy, nose running, tears shining in the lines beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open in a struggle to breath. Julie was, at that moment, misery defined. Unapologetic, vulnerable, naked misery.
No one could see that much pain and be unaffected.
I stepped out of line because I could not move closer. The intensity of her emotion was a wall of fire. Its heat drove me back.
"Are you OK?" someone asked me.
The question took me by surprise. I was economically safe. My new position had almost nothing to do with the service we'd lost. I didn't even know Julie well. And my boss, who had accepted a job with our competitor, seemed happy about the impending change.
But my face must have said something different. I looked at the co-worker who'd queried me and saw that her face didn't look right either. In fact, everyone's expression appeared slightly twisted.
Eventually, I moved close enough to give Julie an awkward hug and to tell her I knew she would land on her feet. The words sounded trite the moment I said them, but they were genuine. A statement more than an opinion.
These moments aside, Julie was of strong stock, with vast knowledge in a specialized field.
And while I had never much admired her before, I did so fiercely Thursday. Because while everyone else who played out that morning's events gave flawless, politically correct performances, Julie broke the mold. Julie reacted genuinely, with an emotional abandon rarely seen in the corporate world. Julie, in short, was human.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
On 44 ... (Bridget Jones style)
Weight: 127 (Two pounds above ideal, weight in hips seems to be settling in somewhat alarmingly different ways, acceptable overall)
Alcohol units: 1.5 (including three sample microbrew shots at mega liquor store)
Boyfriends: 0 to .3 (.3 being generous)
Job: 1
Number of times during job have held pleasant conversations with people who smell like urine: 13
Child: 1, 12 years, male. Still cuddly, interspersed with increasing moments of sassy
Pets: Three. One big, smelly, aggressive and aging dog; two young cats, one psychotic
Residences: 2
Mortgages: 3
Friends: Many
Problems: Relatively few
Confessions: 1. The above photo is from my 42nd birthday but I've been trying to figure out a way to work it into a blog and damned if it doesn't seem perfect here
This then, is my life at 44. I celebrated the big double-quad digits about a week ago. It was a boring birthday on the most boring day of the week: Tuesday. So I worked, like any other American on any other Tuesday in early June.
And in the evening, my son and I hopped Denver's light rail to downtown, where we wandered companionably along the 16th Street Mall. We ate a meal more remarkable for its people watching than its food on Chili's sidewalk cafe, spooned creamy gelato -- prompting memories of Italy -- from small plastic neon dishes, annoyed a security guard for sliding down slide-shaped outdoor architecture and reveled in the breezy, summer glory of an 85-degree post-sunset evening.
The mall's usual suspects did not disappoint us. Christmas, an elderly, Santa-hatted and wheelchaired man who parks outside the downtown Walgreen's most evenings, watched us coming. We kept walking, waiting, indeed hoping, for some recognition.
"Mother and son! It's a beautiful thing!" he cried. "Santa's watching, young man. Mind your manners, be nice to your mother, clean that scary room! Ha-ha-ha!"
Robby and I looked at one another and laughed. "How did he know we're mother and son?" I asked.
Robby rolled his eyes. "Well, duh," he said.
I thought about the pair of us, both thin, Robby tall for his age to my 5'9", our matching large, brown eyes, Robby's darkening hair. I took strange pleasure in the idea that we were recognizable as mother and child.
A black man as frightening for his height as his width leaned against a brick building a few blocks down. He, too, took us in as we approached.
"Love your mother!" he shouted to Robby. "She's all you got. Love her!"
I thought of stopping to point out that this child had a father as well, but it would have ruined the moment.
"Why are they all picking on you?" I asked him.
"Yeah! That's what I wanna know," he said in mock vexation.
We passed buskers, one playing a lone drum solo on two large white paint cans and one small metal one, another on trumpet, a pair of cellists. Flowers tumbled from hangers, foamed over the tops of planters, works of art every one. A horse-drawn carriage sailed smoothly down the street. In the carriage, a couple cuddled, smiles broad. Pedi-cabs - bicycles drawing small carriages of their own - passed us. One cyclist, standing on the pedals, calves bulging with effort, transported four teen-agers - a tangle of limbs and laughter - down the mall.
There was so much to see, yet I found pockets of time for reflection.
If anyone had told me a year ago the last half of my 43rd year would be so happy, I would not have believed them. Forty-three dawned fat with anxiety and unhappiness. I hated my job. The man I thought I loved responded to e-mail - our only remaining form of communication - sporadically, suggesting get-togethers upon which he never acted. Yet I could not let go. It darkened every corner of my life.
In December, I let go. In December, I reached out to another; six months later, we are still reaching out for one another.
I left for Italy hating my job. Inexplicably, I came back liking it.
In the last half of my 43rd year, I found a church I love.
And my son told me he wants to go to high school here, calming one of my greatest fears - the prospect of a court battle; still possible but with this pronouncement far less likely - of the last several years.
We lost a beloved pet during that tumultuous first half of 43. With the second half, we found two more, one of them spring-loaded with personality, so much so that I sometimes slip and call our new Pete by his irreplaceable predecessor's name, George.
New friends came and went, new friends came and stayed, old friends reconnected, old friends faded further.
I fell more deeply in love with my neighborhood, at the friends it yielded for my so-long-searching son.
I began to hate my car.
This then, is how 44 begins. Stay with me for the ride.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
What I learned in my survival class: I will not survive a night alone in the woods. Nor do I care to.
It's not that I want to die, just that I don't want to know how to build a shelter in the woods using the supposed "tools" nature gives me, or experience sleeping on pine boughs - particularly as part of a course for which I paid money. And I especially do not want to carry the 40-pound day pack required to stave off a woodsy death.
On a whim about six weeks ago, I signed up for Wilderness Survival School through the Colorado Mountain Club I joined in late April. I joined the club to hike, but one uneventful night, perused their class offerings as well.
The problem was, there had been too many uneventful nights. My social life had withered somewhat in the last few months. I'd come to depend too much on Roger for it, and this was unwise on multiple levels. My Denver trio of single friends juggled schedules even more hectic than mine; a biweekly Happy Hour seemed a small miracle. Complicating matters, the alcohol-focused gatherings of the singles groups in which I'd dabbled had lost their appeal.
I needed something different, challenging perhaps, and I needed it soon. I skimmed the description of the survival class. This was a Tuesday night. The first class began the following evening. I signed up.
The first three weeks, a series of lectures in the comfort of the club's auditorium, were not too bad. We learned about the stages of hypothermia, complete with gory pictures of people who fell victim to it. We watched survival scenarios and self-tested on which of the meager tools were most important in each case. Note: Matches and a pocketknife trump rum and muscle relaxers. We were lectured on nutrition: Gatorade? no! Water? Yes. And received a lengthy sermon from an alpine rescue leader, who said, in summary: Don't be stupid.
But as the lecture series neared an end, I began to feel uncomfortable. The main event was a Saturday overnight in the mountains west of Denver.
We were to bring our day packs with our 10 Essentials. Some of these were easy. Sunglasses, sunscreen, food, toilet paper, matches and water. But 2 QUARTS of water? This seemed excessive - and heavy - to me. A rain parka and rain pants, extra layers of clothing, a pocketknife, a headlamp and first aid supplies. Other recommended items included a pad - no more than 3/4-inch thick - cords, a safety blanket (a supposed miracle item that looks like glorified tin foil), signaling mirror, map and compass, small axe, those tablets that make that wild and crazy natural water into a safe source of hydration. And the rest I forget. I think a chain saw and a tire swing maybe as well.
What's important to understand is that I am a minimalist. When Robby was a baby, I took off with a diaper and a bottle stuffed into the tiny purses I've long favored. A frequent winter mountain driver, I carry in the trunk of my car a quart of oil. Period. I feel truly prepared for a hike if I remember to bring the fanny pack, in which I can fit a small bottle of water, my car keys and the cell phone. I hike in Teva sandals, no socks.
I can see why I should expand my essentials list to include a smattering of the items listed above. But only the light things. Hiking is supposed to be fun. A beefy backpack defeats the purpose.
But I would go, I thought. I could borrow the remaining 10 Essentials and more from my neighbor, a frequent winter hunter. I would prove to myself that I could do this.
That seemed like a fine idea until the night before the trip -- last night -- when I considered further what the experience would be like. I would be cold. My back and neck would hurt. An insomniac under the best of circumstances, I anticipated absolutely no sleep. The single plus was that the class was full of men with a smattering of manly women. But without hair product, cosmetics and sleep, I could simply not stay cute for 24 hours. The final nail in the coffin: We were to meet at 9 a.m. Saturday morning and return the next day. My weekend, along with my back, brain and looks, would be shot.
I left a message for the instructor that I could not go. Work, I explained. Sudden, unexpected. I had to work Sunday morning, and there was simply no way I could get back, shower and make it. I was not surprised when he called back. "What if you just come up for the day? You'll still learn a lot. It'll be fun. Everyone that takes this class says it's fun."
I caved. This morning, I was at the appointed Park & Ride, gathered in the parking lot with a bunch of men wearing navy, black and khaki, bulging backpacks with labels I did not recognize laying at their feet.
I was wearing a cotton T-shirt - a faux pas for sure. Water-sucking cotton is the bane of all outdoors people, I had learned. But I had chosen this particular T-shirt specifically because it had a touch of spandex, which made it cling slightly, and this was important when hanging out in the woods with a bunch of men. Besides, it was gray. A respectable, outdoorsy color if ever there was one. And my pants - $60 wind- and wrinkle-proof REI-brand, as well as my $100 Keens hybrid sandal/hiking boots - were more than respectable. Never mind that I'd purchased both specifically for travel through Italy. These were serious outdoor clothes. I moved my well-prepared feet such that they blocked my backpack, with its American Tourister label, from view.
I'd counted on a solitary drive during which I could listen to the conclusion of the romantic Nicholas Sparks' book on CD I'd been following. But at the last moment, Ed, the leader for the after-work hikes in which I'd participated, asked to carpool. Quickly, I threw Nicholas Sparks under the seat. I was only mildly annoyed about this. More so, I realized that the other men likely believed Ed and I were together. This was a misconception I did not want.
Ed was the only mountain club member with which I had any familiarity. He was a nice man with an unusual appearance. Everything about him struck me as angular. He was beyond six-feet tall and skinny, with a long, narrow, pale face and a mouth that rarely turned upward into a smile. But I knew the subjects he liked: hiking, hiking equipment, the girlfriend I had met and finances, so I knew talk wouldn't be too much of a problem. It went like this: I asked the questions. He answered. It was not so much a conversation as it was me queing Ed to talk. But he seemed happily unaware.
Early on in our drive, he commented this his girlfriend was "probably short term." Kate was Thai, here on a work visa and due to go back to Thailand soon. She didn't speak English well, he said, and it was difficult for them to watch movies or do other normal couple things together. She also was not much of a hiker. She tired easily and was, worst of all, ill equipped.
I offered little comment, except to remind him that she was adorable.
Somewhere along the drive, it occurred to me that Ed was scoping me out as a possible replacement. I shoved the thought aside as irrelevant.
At the campsite, we were instructed to sit in a semi-circle for yet another lecture, this one from a 60-something survival expert, retired from Special Forces. Even if he had not told us his background, his military style was evident. Nick divided us into two groups for question and answer. If one person in the groups answered a question wrong, the entire group would stand until another member answered a question correctly.
I had not studied the handouts. I slumped down in the back row.
"What are the three P's?" he belted out, singling out a woman from the first group.
I could think of not a single one. I could not even recall discussing it.
"Planning ... preparation," she said. "And ..."
He waited. Then made a loud honking noise and commanded, "Everybody in this group - stand!" They rose. The woman glanced around apologetically.
His gaze shifted to our group. His pointing finger circled in the air, then came down, extended arrow straight. At me.
"Jane, stand up!"
I directed a whispered "shit" to the ground and stood.
"What are three devices you can use for signaling?"
"A mirror," I said with confidence. Mirror signaling was our next exercise; I felt proud of myself for remembering. "Um ... fire."
"Yes!" he said. "That's two!"
All eyes turned toward me as I thought, silently, while Nick's internal clock ticked. I remembered the survival videos, the idiot hunter who'd fired frantic shots into the air and fled, in a hypothermic fit of insanity, from snowmobiles that could have shuttled him to warmth and safety.
"A gun?" I offered it not as an answer, but a question. While ours was not exactly the Sierra Club, a gun surely was not an acceptable mountain club response.
"Yes! A gun!" He rattled off several other possible answers and I sank back to the ground with relief.
For the next three hours, we listened to Nick's booming voice, practiced mirror signaling and studied the shelters our expert leaders had made as examples. They consisted of tarps, strung creatively between trees, over fallen trunks, behind bushes and rocks.
The construction appeared simple, but armed with even my limited knowledge, I knew it was not. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had chosen not to stay.
Finally, Nick dismissed the class members to start work on their shelters. This was my cue to leave. Unfortunately, there had been no time for socializing all day; the next few hours were prime time for getting to know my fellow survivalists. But the tradeoff - struggling ignorantly through construction under the oversight of a military commander - just was not worth it.
I thanked the instructors and made for my car, relieved again at the thought of my audio book.
"Wait!" I heard Ed say. "I'm not feeling all that well. I think I'll go, too."
Ed threw his massive backpack, hiking poles, pad and parka into the trunk. The small space left was precisely enough for the American Tourister.
We headed down the washboard, gravel road toward civilization. I thought about what the instructor had said, that everyone agreed the class was "fun". For me, not a single moment of it had been fun and I could see that the night would simply have been torture. But at least I had come. I had taken in enough knowledge that perhaps, in an emergency situation, I could tap into my memory bank and salvage most of my fingers and toes. Class was over, and that was enough.
I queried Ed about the Wilderness Trekking School, a more basic class considered semi-essential for CMC members. Without certification in the class, members could not go on the more difficult C and D rated hikes. The class consisted of five field trips over the course of a few months, Ed said, focusing on desert, mountain and snow hiking and survival. "You get to learn how to roll down a snow bank with a pick axe," he said. "It's sort of fun." There was that word again: Fun.
I nodded. A lifetime of A and B hikes, hopefully with people who did not find SPF-rated clothing a mandate for sunny adventures in the great outdoors, sounded splendiferous.
But there was still the matter of Ed himself, who mentioned again how poorly equipped his girlfriend seemed to be for hikes.
I could no longer stay silent. "Until I bought these shoes, I hiked in Tevas," I said.
"Tevas? If you showed up for one of my hikes in Tevas, I'd tell you you couldn't go," he said, his tone a mix of shock and disgust.
"Really? Well, on nice summer days, I probably still will hike in them. It just keeps my feet cool."
The rest of the drive passed in near silence. I was daydreaming of my bed and my sleeping pills. And Ed revealed his thoughts as soon as we drove back into cell phone range. "Kate?" he queried into his phone. "What are you doing tonight?"
It's not that I want to die, just that I don't want to know how to build a shelter in the woods using the supposed "tools" nature gives me, or experience sleeping on pine boughs - particularly as part of a course for which I paid money. And I especially do not want to carry the 40-pound day pack required to stave off a woodsy death.
On a whim about six weeks ago, I signed up for Wilderness Survival School through the Colorado Mountain Club I joined in late April. I joined the club to hike, but one uneventful night, perused their class offerings as well.
The problem was, there had been too many uneventful nights. My social life had withered somewhat in the last few months. I'd come to depend too much on Roger for it, and this was unwise on multiple levels. My Denver trio of single friends juggled schedules even more hectic than mine; a biweekly Happy Hour seemed a small miracle. Complicating matters, the alcohol-focused gatherings of the singles groups in which I'd dabbled had lost their appeal.
I needed something different, challenging perhaps, and I needed it soon. I skimmed the description of the survival class. This was a Tuesday night. The first class began the following evening. I signed up.
The first three weeks, a series of lectures in the comfort of the club's auditorium, were not too bad. We learned about the stages of hypothermia, complete with gory pictures of people who fell victim to it. We watched survival scenarios and self-tested on which of the meager tools were most important in each case. Note: Matches and a pocketknife trump rum and muscle relaxers. We were lectured on nutrition: Gatorade? no! Water? Yes. And received a lengthy sermon from an alpine rescue leader, who said, in summary: Don't be stupid.
But as the lecture series neared an end, I began to feel uncomfortable. The main event was a Saturday overnight in the mountains west of Denver.
We were to bring our day packs with our 10 Essentials. Some of these were easy. Sunglasses, sunscreen, food, toilet paper, matches and water. But 2 QUARTS of water? This seemed excessive - and heavy - to me. A rain parka and rain pants, extra layers of clothing, a pocketknife, a headlamp and first aid supplies. Other recommended items included a pad - no more than 3/4-inch thick - cords, a safety blanket (a supposed miracle item that looks like glorified tin foil), signaling mirror, map and compass, small axe, those tablets that make that wild and crazy natural water into a safe source of hydration. And the rest I forget. I think a chain saw and a tire swing maybe as well.
What's important to understand is that I am a minimalist. When Robby was a baby, I took off with a diaper and a bottle stuffed into the tiny purses I've long favored. A frequent winter mountain driver, I carry in the trunk of my car a quart of oil. Period. I feel truly prepared for a hike if I remember to bring the fanny pack, in which I can fit a small bottle of water, my car keys and the cell phone. I hike in Teva sandals, no socks.
I can see why I should expand my essentials list to include a smattering of the items listed above. But only the light things. Hiking is supposed to be fun. A beefy backpack defeats the purpose.
But I would go, I thought. I could borrow the remaining 10 Essentials and more from my neighbor, a frequent winter hunter. I would prove to myself that I could do this.
That seemed like a fine idea until the night before the trip -- last night -- when I considered further what the experience would be like. I would be cold. My back and neck would hurt. An insomniac under the best of circumstances, I anticipated absolutely no sleep. The single plus was that the class was full of men with a smattering of manly women. But without hair product, cosmetics and sleep, I could simply not stay cute for 24 hours. The final nail in the coffin: We were to meet at 9 a.m. Saturday morning and return the next day. My weekend, along with my back, brain and looks, would be shot.
I left a message for the instructor that I could not go. Work, I explained. Sudden, unexpected. I had to work Sunday morning, and there was simply no way I could get back, shower and make it. I was not surprised when he called back. "What if you just come up for the day? You'll still learn a lot. It'll be fun. Everyone that takes this class says it's fun."
I caved. This morning, I was at the appointed Park & Ride, gathered in the parking lot with a bunch of men wearing navy, black and khaki, bulging backpacks with labels I did not recognize laying at their feet.
I was wearing a cotton T-shirt - a faux pas for sure. Water-sucking cotton is the bane of all outdoors people, I had learned. But I had chosen this particular T-shirt specifically because it had a touch of spandex, which made it cling slightly, and this was important when hanging out in the woods with a bunch of men. Besides, it was gray. A respectable, outdoorsy color if ever there was one. And my pants - $60 wind- and wrinkle-proof REI-brand, as well as my $100 Keens hybrid sandal/hiking boots - were more than respectable. Never mind that I'd purchased both specifically for travel through Italy. These were serious outdoor clothes. I moved my well-prepared feet such that they blocked my backpack, with its American Tourister label, from view.
I'd counted on a solitary drive during which I could listen to the conclusion of the romantic Nicholas Sparks' book on CD I'd been following. But at the last moment, Ed, the leader for the after-work hikes in which I'd participated, asked to carpool. Quickly, I threw Nicholas Sparks under the seat. I was only mildly annoyed about this. More so, I realized that the other men likely believed Ed and I were together. This was a misconception I did not want.
Ed was the only mountain club member with which I had any familiarity. He was a nice man with an unusual appearance. Everything about him struck me as angular. He was beyond six-feet tall and skinny, with a long, narrow, pale face and a mouth that rarely turned upward into a smile. But I knew the subjects he liked: hiking, hiking equipment, the girlfriend I had met and finances, so I knew talk wouldn't be too much of a problem. It went like this: I asked the questions. He answered. It was not so much a conversation as it was me queing Ed to talk. But he seemed happily unaware.
Early on in our drive, he commented this his girlfriend was "probably short term." Kate was Thai, here on a work visa and due to go back to Thailand soon. She didn't speak English well, he said, and it was difficult for them to watch movies or do other normal couple things together. She also was not much of a hiker. She tired easily and was, worst of all, ill equipped.
I offered little comment, except to remind him that she was adorable.
Somewhere along the drive, it occurred to me that Ed was scoping me out as a possible replacement. I shoved the thought aside as irrelevant.
At the campsite, we were instructed to sit in a semi-circle for yet another lecture, this one from a 60-something survival expert, retired from Special Forces. Even if he had not told us his background, his military style was evident. Nick divided us into two groups for question and answer. If one person in the groups answered a question wrong, the entire group would stand until another member answered a question correctly.
I had not studied the handouts. I slumped down in the back row.
"What are the three P's?" he belted out, singling out a woman from the first group.
I could think of not a single one. I could not even recall discussing it.
"Planning ... preparation," she said. "And ..."
He waited. Then made a loud honking noise and commanded, "Everybody in this group - stand!" They rose. The woman glanced around apologetically.
His gaze shifted to our group. His pointing finger circled in the air, then came down, extended arrow straight. At me.
"Jane, stand up!"
I directed a whispered "shit" to the ground and stood.
"What are three devices you can use for signaling?"
"A mirror," I said with confidence. Mirror signaling was our next exercise; I felt proud of myself for remembering. "Um ... fire."
"Yes!" he said. "That's two!"
All eyes turned toward me as I thought, silently, while Nick's internal clock ticked. I remembered the survival videos, the idiot hunter who'd fired frantic shots into the air and fled, in a hypothermic fit of insanity, from snowmobiles that could have shuttled him to warmth and safety.
"A gun?" I offered it not as an answer, but a question. While ours was not exactly the Sierra Club, a gun surely was not an acceptable mountain club response.
"Yes! A gun!" He rattled off several other possible answers and I sank back to the ground with relief.
For the next three hours, we listened to Nick's booming voice, practiced mirror signaling and studied the shelters our expert leaders had made as examples. They consisted of tarps, strung creatively between trees, over fallen trunks, behind bushes and rocks.
The construction appeared simple, but armed with even my limited knowledge, I knew it was not. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had chosen not to stay.
Finally, Nick dismissed the class members to start work on their shelters. This was my cue to leave. Unfortunately, there had been no time for socializing all day; the next few hours were prime time for getting to know my fellow survivalists. But the tradeoff - struggling ignorantly through construction under the oversight of a military commander - just was not worth it.
I thanked the instructors and made for my car, relieved again at the thought of my audio book.
"Wait!" I heard Ed say. "I'm not feeling all that well. I think I'll go, too."
Ed threw his massive backpack, hiking poles, pad and parka into the trunk. The small space left was precisely enough for the American Tourister.
We headed down the washboard, gravel road toward civilization. I thought about what the instructor had said, that everyone agreed the class was "fun". For me, not a single moment of it had been fun and I could see that the night would simply have been torture. But at least I had come. I had taken in enough knowledge that perhaps, in an emergency situation, I could tap into my memory bank and salvage most of my fingers and toes. Class was over, and that was enough.
I queried Ed about the Wilderness Trekking School, a more basic class considered semi-essential for CMC members. Without certification in the class, members could not go on the more difficult C and D rated hikes. The class consisted of five field trips over the course of a few months, Ed said, focusing on desert, mountain and snow hiking and survival. "You get to learn how to roll down a snow bank with a pick axe," he said. "It's sort of fun." There was that word again: Fun.
I nodded. A lifetime of A and B hikes, hopefully with people who did not find SPF-rated clothing a mandate for sunny adventures in the great outdoors, sounded splendiferous.
But there was still the matter of Ed himself, who mentioned again how poorly equipped his girlfriend seemed to be for hikes.
I could no longer stay silent. "Until I bought these shoes, I hiked in Tevas," I said.
"Tevas? If you showed up for one of my hikes in Tevas, I'd tell you you couldn't go," he said, his tone a mix of shock and disgust.
"Really? Well, on nice summer days, I probably still will hike in them. It just keeps my feet cool."
The rest of the drive passed in near silence. I was daydreaming of my bed and my sleeping pills. And Ed revealed his thoughts as soon as we drove back into cell phone range. "Kate?" he queried into his phone. "What are you doing tonight?"
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