Authors: Nancy Frederick
“
Mommy,
”
she replied cynically,
“
If you want to get hit by a truck, it sure isn
’
t going to happen in here.
”
Then she glared at me.
Here I was blessed with a little child who had better sense than I did as an adult, but even that insight did me no good. My muscles worked but my will to move them had atrophied. Now I look back and see that I should have risen from the bed and gone out to play with my daughter. I should have reclaimed my life and shared it with the child I truly loved who loved me as well instead of wishing for a surgeon who would remove my heart and all emotion with it. But I was weak and foolish and made poor choices that served me badly.
Eventually my alimony ran out. Had it not been for that, I might still be buried in that room and that bed, with the sheets and my life growing moldy all around me. Money. I needed money and had to make a living, because it was clear that child support was not enough to pay all my expenses. The only problem was that I hadn
’
t a clue about what to do, what to be when I grew up. Rich, I wanted to be rich, or failing that, I wanted a job as wife of rich man, something I felt equipped to do even though it was clear how bad an idea it is to merge your own life so totally with that of another human being that you have to depend on him for all sustenance. That is too great a burden to put on love, because if you lose your love, you lose your livelihood as well. It was easy to see that independence had a lot more to recommend it than being an adult dependent, but how could I turn my life around and make my fortune and my way in the world? I had done a few part time things for creative fulfillment, but had never earned a living.
I prepared to find a suitable course of action, but was halted at my closet. All my clothes were too tight. I had gained twenty pounds during my year of mourning. Actually it was lucky that I hadn
’
t developed diabetes. In those days if someone had pumped my stomach and analyzed the contents they would have certified me as the one and only true sugar plum fairy. Now it
’
s easy to look back and see it as comical, but then it felt like a tragedy, like I was trying to stay erect with nothing but quicksand beneath my feet.
I needed new clothes to enter the work force but there was no money to pay for them. Just like in the Cole Porter song, bad times had barred me from Saks. That was written before the birth of Bloomingdales, I guess, and I was barred there too. How awful not to be able just to go out and buy whatever I wanted as I had all my life. And with that admission came the realization that I was a silly, spoiled woman, a disappointment on all fronts, a non-person.
Eventually I got some clothes that were cheap but adequate for doing the only thing that anyone would hire me to do
—
type and answer phones. Experiencing the nine to five world only confirmed my suspicions about it
—
it sucks. What does it matter if you
’
re smart or capable or talented? The working world is structured to ignore talent and potential. Instead they want you to have experience pushing a red button, and they will hire you to push that same red button for seven hours a day. What does it matter that the act of button pushing is largely meaningless and that it chills your very soul?
I worked at a series of temporary job that paid appallingly little. For seven hours I took orders from people far less capable and intelligent than myself, working mostly on projects of complete insignificance. My day to day life was worse than any nightmare I had ever experienced. How could real life be so completely devoid of meaning and nourishment?
Each day I would trudge to work, knowing that it was going to be another dismal seven hours of uninteresting, meaningless labor. All I could think was that for boredom like this, they should pay better. Soon, by observing the people in more elevated positions, I discovered that they were no more enthralled than I was. Everybody was just working to get through to the weekend. Oh, there was the occasional lucky slob who liked what he was doing, someone who had managed successfully to merge his being with the routine tasks he completed daily, or someone whose need for recognition propelled him to an executive level and by being there got ego food.
“
I have a secretary, therefore I am,
”
seemed the executive credo.
I felt stale and sour and overwhelmed by everything that seemed like a tidal wave of negative experiences designed to drown me, or worse to drown my spirit while requiring me to remain inside my body as a prisoner of the work force. I had my quota of widgets to produce, whether my heart was in it or not. It didn
’
t occur to me that this is what grown ups do. Nobody had ever taken me aside to say that every moment of life wasn
’
t meant to produce happiness or even fulfillment. Sometimes you
’
re just cleaning a toilet and when it
’
s clean there is indeed satisfaction in that although no violins may play in the background. Somehow I clung to the notion that I was entitled to be fulfilled, that life should be not just fun but rewarding on another level, that there should be a sense that my time was going toward something which to me had some intrinsic value.
Even though I worked all the time, there was never any money. What I earned barely sustained me and was not nearly enough to provide fun or entertainment. Once a week if we were lucky, Violet and I would go out. That meant a trip to Napoli Pizza for dinner. Violet was delighted to dine on pizza with pepperoni, but I felt like more of a failure than the women on welfare. My expectations of life were simply too high to be met by my reality, and I had no clue about how to elevate reality to meet my standards. I was trapped. Surely there was something more, but even observing the people who were doing something more, I recognized that their lives and sources of livelihood were meaningless to me and often to them. Even so, I would have been willing to sell out, only nobody was buying.
Once I had a long term assignment at a foreign bank. That was enjoyable because the people employed there had a terrific work ethic. They liked to work long and hard, not just for the money, but for the experience of the labor itself. Their cheer and high spirits were catching and I found myself enjoying being buried in the letters of credit department. The other part of the story was that the red button philosophy had escaped them. Once the boss noticed that I was smart, he reassigned me from the menial task they hired me to do to something that required thought and skill. And although the work wasn
’
t hard and had its aura of routine, it was a relief from the meaninglessness in which I usually was immersed.
Before it was time for me to leave, the Vice President called me into his office and offered me a job paying a salary which at that point sounded like a fortune. And although I had always been interested in more creative endeavors, I decided to say yes. If this was selling out, I would line up to sign up. There was one formality
—
a visit to the personnel director, who turned out to be the typical red button type. What? Pay me, a mere temp who earned a pittance the princely sum offered? That was out of the question. It didn
’
t matter that I had a degree or had been doing the work of someone who made twice that. No. She informed me that the Vice President had no right to make that offer, and yes I could have the job, but not at that salary.
Then I realized that even Vice Presidents had no power. If that were the case, and it was clear that it was, I knew there was no place for me in such an environment. What was the old joke? I
’
d rather have nothing than settle for less. There had to be another way. When I declined his offer and told him why, he asked me out, but I had a policy of not dating people at work, and so far there hadn
’
t been anyone attractive or tempting enough to seduce me into changing the rule.
Oh, I had dates here and there
—
sometimes two or three with the same guy, but one of us would lose interest and we
’
d drift away before any real bonds were forged. Once I tumbled into bed with a friend, thinking it would be pleasant and good for both of us, and it would be nice to make love again after so long a spell of abstinence. Only it didn
’
t work. I was as numb emotionally and sexually as a patient under anesthesia. Instead of being alarmed or frightened by my lack of ardor, I was relieved. No emotion could take me prisoner if I felt no emotion.
I stumbled along like that, day after miserable, dismal day, no hope, no pleasure, no peace, no redemption, and three years passed. I worked at dozens of places, occasionally receiving job offers, considering the offers, trying to take the offers, but not actually settling in anywhere. It seemed that I couldn
’
t sell out to save my soul.
I knew that my destiny was out there, like a free floating phantasm, and somehow I needed to connect with it, but how? What was my destiny, and how could I circumvent the natural flow of time and enter the future, leaving the present to merge unlived with the past? I sought counsel from a number of professionals. First I went to Mr. Mason, the old man who ran the astrology book shop on
Lexington
. He did my chart and Kevin
’
s.
“
He hates women, he hated his mother,
”
said Mr. Mason about Kevin. How amazing, I thought, when Kevin had always spoken of his mother with such affection and respect. Surely Mr. Mason must be exaggerating. Then he looked at my chart and gave me lots of advice. I should work for myself, running a business that combines creativity and practicality, and then there would be a lot of money. Just have confidence. And consider moving to
California
.
That was an exciting experience. Astrology was great. I learned a lot and was enthused about the bright future available to me, but was unclear about how to leap into that future and bypass the present. So I went to a number of psychics. Most of them told me the same thing
—
that I would make my fortune in my own business, but no one knew what kind of a business; they just saw lots of creative people around me.
Finally I found a wonderful trance medium who helped me learn more about my reality and my future. I would travel and meet many people. Find my rock and develop it. What did that mean? I puzzled over this advice day after day.
One day, while mulling over the advice yet another time, and walking along
Fifth Avenue
on my way home from work, I bumped into
Sharon
. I hadn
’
t seen her in years, not since before Kevin broke my heart and I retreated from life.
“
Liana,
”
she squealed, and crushed me in a hug.
“
I can
’
t believe it
’
s you!
”
We began to talk about everything.
Sharon
was still working at the mineral store and she insisted I come back with her until seven when she closed the store. Since Violet was going to be with her father that evening, I was free and went along. The store was quiet and
Sharon
had time to show me around, to explain the energies of the different rocks and to show off the few bits of jewelry they had featuring raw stones. I admired them all, and
Sharon
mentioned that they were beginning to sell, but the problem was that their clientele was so specialized.
Then I began to think. What if she and I became partners? What if we took some jewelry made of raw stones from various artists on consignment and tried to sell them at the many crafts shows they have all around the city? She loved the idea. She had all the sources and was sure we could do it at very little cost initially to ourselves.
“
Here you go, Liana, keep this as a source for inspiration,
”
and with that comment, she handed me a chunk of amethyst like a small mountain range.
“
I can
’
t just take this
—
it must be expensive.
”
But
Sharon
insisted, and when the amethyst was in my hand, I felt calm an soothed, and my mind whirled with thought. Later we went back to my place, where we talked, made plans to get a list of all the shows and where
Sharon
made calls to all the artists who might want to participate. We also decided to carry some rocks, like my mountain range, in case people responded as enthusiastically to them as I had.
It worked. Every weekend there was some show or other and Sharon and I went to them all. People loved the stones, whether as jewelry or sources of energy and inspiration. We made money and expanded our line. The shows were great, but what we really wanted was a gallery of our own, where we could sell the stones, and perhaps other hand made things. We were going to call it the Heart In Hand Gallery. Gradually we had the capital we needed, and with an additional loan from Sharon
’
s wealthy mother, we opened our shop in a little hole in the wall on
Amsterdam Avenue
.