Visions and Revisions

I think I mentioned some while back that the use of an oven at the chocolate factory was finally approved, but I never detailed the finer points of the victory. Funny story! We should have been able to go to city hall as soon as we'd discovered the deficiencies of our victualler's license, paid a fine, and rectified the situation within the week. But because the fancy clothing retailer next door to us was (at the time) suing us for noise--I know, right? We're very sorry for being so successful!--which bled into concerns about the numbers of customers occupying our store, and the seating capacity allowed by the fire marshal, the fine minds at city hall wound up lumping all of these matters into one ludicrous lawsuit.

I still don't know how it was resolved, or if it was resolved at all. But eventually the lawyers from both parties elected to conduct a series of practical experiments. First they had the chocolate factory turn on every machine in the building--coffee grinders, espresso machines, refrigerators, freezers, air conditioner, ice makers, blenders, dishwasher, Kitchen Aid mixer, anything running on electricity was switched to LOUDEST POSSIBLE, and then the staff started talking at full volume and bellowing drink orders to some very bewildered customers. By all accounts, none of this ruckus could be detected by the persons listening carefully next door--all they could hear was the dull thud when someone tapped out a used espresso shot (a puck, yes, that is what it is called). Then, for good measure, they came back to the chocolate factory after closing time and unplugged everything. Our store sat at its quietest post-apocalyptic setting and the folks next door could still hear a mysterious, pervasive hummm, that noise that so haunted their days and nights! AND, LO, IT WAS COMING FROM THE BUSINESS UPSTAIRS.

Evidently the clothing retailer could not bear to provoke another lawsuit after losing face so completely. Instead the proprietor arranged to sound-proof the shop and thus protect the delicate ears of his employees. So beginning last week we have heard nothing but a raging cacophony of whirrs, bangs, hasps, and thunks from our dear neighbors as they tear down the walls, insulate them, and put the store back together again. It has been the dearest wish of many chocolate factory employees to walk over there and say, "Hey guys, sorry to bother you, but the noise is disturbing our customers. You mind keeping it down?"

(Nobody has, of course, because we are not allowed on the retailer's property--any more than he or his minions are now permitted within the doors of the chocolate factory.)

Early last week, on the first day of construction, I was covering lunch breaks in the café (one of many newly-invented tasks for the pastry staff thanks to the innovation of one A. Lohrenz) and listening interestedly to the knocking from next door. Business was slow, a combination of the hot weather and the construction, and have I mentioned that I have an acute case of short-timer's disease? So I announced that I was going to find out if the construction workers had a sense of humor. I marched up to the wall, paused to listen for a knock, and when it came I smartly rapped shave-and-a-haircut in precisely the same spot. The other employees and I stared at each other for about fifteen seconds, waiting, but no two-bits came knocking back. Disappointed, I went back to juicing oranges.

About five minutes later a man, obviously a construction worker, complete with hard hat, came in the door of the chocolate factory asking to speak to the supervisor. Bill volunteered his presence, expecting a discussion about Making Measurements or other construction-related masculine topics. To everyone's surprise the man explained that one of his larger workmen had been pulling down siding and suddenly got very scared by a knocking coming from within the wall. The workman was convinced he had disturbed a ghost, and in an attempt to allay his fears the more sensible foreman had come to ask if we were "hangin' pitchers er som'thin'" and had been banging on the wall. At this point in the proceedings I was ready to implode with suppressed laughter. Bill dryly told the foreman that the 200-lb worker with a crowbar that he'd just described had been spooked by a 5' 2" redheaded poltergeist covered in orange juice, who thought she was being funny. Congratulations! The foreman found this enormously amusing, rolling out a huge beery construction-worker's laugh, and said he'd send his worker over to see the ghost for himself. "No no no..." Bill said seriously. "Do that and she'll just disappear!"

I have short-timer's syndrome like you wouldn't believe. Less than a week from now I will BE IN ALASKA!

I am completely out of patience with work; all of the little niggling irritations seem to reach their most unbearable pitch right before I leave. The important thing right now is to suppress that insidious urge to tell everyone exactly what I think. And that is not something I am saying to be funny, it is a serious problem. It's a classy company, and I've been working for these people for a full year now. For most of that time I've enjoyed myself immensely, bringing my particular skills to the table whenever possible and steadily pushing the learning curve along so that I wouldn't get bored too quickly, and I can immodestly say that I've done excellent work for them. There is a darn fine reference to be had there.

But I can also say quite baldly that on a purely personal level the manager doesn't like me. This makes me uncomfortable because there was never anything that I ever seemed able to do about it. She's a brusque woman against whom a goodly portion of the staff nurse some resentment. She is very good at saying the correct thing, but a terrible judge of the relationships between her employees. She knows perfectly well that I am a very good worker and she has gone through all of the appropriate motions of commending me for it. But for whatever reason we never hit it off, and having a conversation with her is like trying to parse Japanese. The words are all there, but it just doesn't function as communication. I suspect, too, that there are some chain-of-command tensions between us, because I started in chocolate and then moved to the kitchen, and since on an official level she manages the café I don't feel that I was ever quite accountable to her. I work for the chocolate company, not for the manager. Gian and Jaime were happy to let me run my own show; the manager had a harder time accepting my outside-the-system attitude. I think she'll be glad to see the back of me. I spend too much time rocking the boat.

So I am trying simply to stay out of her way, or not to speak to her at all. I don't have anything to gain from pissing her off, not even the double-edged satisfaction of taking the boss down a notch, because even though she isn't the greatest manager I've ever worked with, neither is she the worst, because she is highly responsible about her business. I just can't seem to damp down completely the flaring urge to burn all my bridges before I leave. It's a very bad habit.

I also harbor a bit of a grudge against the company in general for 1) the whole oven license fiasco, and 2) not paying me more, because I have genuinely tried to prove myself worth their investment. Talk about above and beyond the call of duty; my presence has literally rewritten the job description for pastry. Suddenly the bakeshop position isn't just a throwaway for some derelict who is inappropriate for exposure to the public. I've carved pumpkins and dressed window displays. I've arranged flowers and drawn chalkboards for both Cambridge and Walpole. I've worked in every part of the store and assumed responsibility for all of the aspects of pastry previously dependent on a supervisor, like inventory and ordering. I made-over the pastry bible for the next generation, and I'm currently training my replacement (the latter was not something I volunteered for). It's hard to find complete satisfaction in the knowledge of a job well done when I know that other bakeries in town start their employees at $13/hr. Come oooooon, I just want to feel important! I won't go as far as to say that I wouldn't leave if I had a higher wage or a real salary. (I mean, it's Alaska!.) But I'd probably be more inclined to stay. For that matter, anyone would be more inclined to stay, and then maybe they wouldn't find themselves hiring new kitchen staff every six months.

Live and learn. I've certainly learned a lot at the chocolate factory, one way or another. It's been a fun job, a decent job. I ate embarrassing and wonderful quantities of chocolate. I'm just very very ready to leave, and try something new.

There's a rather sad trend unfolding this summer, one fairly new to me. I mentioned before that Matisse died shortly before Mom and Dad moved. Lady, the golden retriever who occupied much of the same post in Kim's household that Matisse did in mine, died last week. And earlier this week Grandma died after a long and difficult winding-down. She went peacefully, which was a relief to everyone, and in some ways she's been gone a long time, so her passing didn't come as anything of a surprise. But I'm going to miss her. Death at a distance does strange things to memory.

She was the last of my grandparents, and unquestionably the one I got to know best--when one is the late offspring of parents who were themselves late offspring, the timing just doesn't work in one's favor. I could recite vast catalogues about visiting Grandma, each memory in full color and high resolution: the thrill of ringing her doorbell; playing with a veritable zoo of multicolored plastic animals in a tub overflowing with bubbles; the smell of the "powder room" half of the bathroom; watching in fascination as she worked on yet another of those silly hook rugs; solving word-search puzzles; eating popcorn for dinner; humming along to the chiming of the clock that hung above her sofa; repainting the beak and legs of the godawful concrete chicken that stood in her back yard with red nail polish; later, harassing Neeko until he fled to the back bedroom to hide; choking down dry Christmas sugar cookies that had been baked before Halloween; and playing hundreds, thousands, countless games of cards.

Her visits to us, holidays at the houses of various aunts and uncles, and our shared vacations to northwestern Washington are, if not more difficult to recollect, at least several orders of magnitude less clear. I remember Grandma in her house. At Grandma's House. I feel almost guilty about it, as though I am imprisoning her in her own apartment. But the fact of the matter is that Grandma and Grandma's House were a permanent fixture in a transient child's life. She rarely rearranged the furniture and never seemed to buy anything new. I can recall the minute details of her house with a vividness that I find startling. It's one of the only places in the world where I could mark time, where the surroundings were so familiar that I could feel the presence of my own age--at Grandma's house, I was the thing that changed. Grandma got older, but she was always there, and the reassuring sameness of her house tended to occlude the slow changes wrought in its occupant. I could always go back to Grandma's. Her house and her presence in it exist so permanently in my mind that, to be honest, her death doesn't seem very real.

I feel like we've been through this before.

Following the glorious, albeit expensive, success of Scout's spay day, I thought we were done seeing vets. Fortune favored us with a rabies-vaccination due date of September 15, and since we fly on August 31 she was all set to just slide in right under the wire. But it appears that Alaska Airlines requires (at least officially) a health certificate for all animals on their flights, regardless of whether they are flying in the cabin or in the hold, domestically or internationally. Funny, because when we traveled with AirTran in May 2008 this was not an issue. And in fact when Mom flew north on August 1 they never enquired after Morgan's paperwork. If she hadn't declared the presence of a cat, they probably wouldn't have registered that there was one on the flight at all.

But it would be just my luck to go to the airport with no documentation and wind up being the random search victim. I'd wind up choosing between leaving Scout behind and missing my flight. I am also hesitant to forge the paperwork, even though I have a copy of Morgan's certificate (for reference) and all of the pertinent information at my fingertips. Again, it would be my luck for them to discover my false documents and fine my sorry ass for trying to carry a broken but 100% free-from-infection cat across state borders.

So I called the vet again, god are they tired of hearing from me, and arranged an appointment for next week. They are supposed to do an exam, $65, before they can issue a health certificate, $5.25. I elected to pass on their suggestion of an early rabies booster. Frankly I'm surprised that they brought it up, because they've all seen Scout's records, they all know how the shit hit the fan last fall. Today I went in to discuss, in person, our "options." It's about 98% likely that nobody in the building will be able to lay a hand on Scout without a pair of long leather gauntlets and a muzzle. Under normal circumstances I'd let them get on with it and just assuage the cat's damaged dignity with a can of tuna afterwards. But as we are all aware, Scout's fine frenzy will have some pretty dire consequences. So I asked the receptionist, first of all, if, since Scout was just there on June 30, and she is an indoor cat anyhow, they could possibly just issue a health certificate right now, date it August 13, and in exchange I and my volatile companion will never darken their doorway again. Promise! The receptionist and the technician laughed nervously at my joke. Several moments elapsed before they realized I was in dead earnest. It would save their time, my money, and Scout's general health. Everybody wins!

No, they will not bend the rules for me, they could get in serious trouble. Blah blah blah. I'm tired of their feeble female excuses, I've shelled out nearly $1000 to those fools over the last year, THEY OWE ME. So I asked, quite reasonably I think, whether they are going to insist on being very thorough in their examination. Scout is going to flip out. This isn't really a question of probabilities anymore, that's just what is going to happen, and what do they suggest to do about it. My philosophy, personally, is that any cat wholesome enough to fight back cannot possibly have anything very seriously wrong with them. If they insist on holding her down to execute the terms of the exam, it may well kill her. Would the vet kindly evaluate Scout from the far side of the room and proclaim her general soundness? No, they can probably dispense with the full-scale organ palpation but they must at very least TAKE HER TEMPERATURE. And they are not equipped with an ear thermometer, so it would have to involve sticking a glass rod up her ass.

I remember what happened before. I stood there in silent, furious disbelief as the vet who had just told me I should keep Scout's stress levels to a minimum, knowingly sent my cat into cardiac arrest. I said nothing. I just let him do it. I cannot do that again. I can't stand and watch. And listen. And god knows that it would precipitate a whole string of events just like last year's. I just. Can't.

My options are as stands: I pay for them to sedate her somehow and carry out the exam. (That sounds simple but they still haven't come up with an answer for me. First of all they seem to be under the impression that they can sedate her if it proves necessary. If she's already freaked out it's too late; they'd have to give me some pills to pop down her throat in advance, or gas her. Gas costs the earth. Furthermore, I could tell as I was discussing this with the technician that the need for gas is rapidly encroaching on the tenuous ground where the measures we have to take just to EXAMINE Scout indicate that she is, in the vet's mind, unfit for air travel.) Or I find Scout a new home in Massachusetts and leave without her. Or, since it is as unlikely that anyone will adopt a broken cat as it is that they would buy a broken bicycle (unless they want her for parts?), I have her euthanized.

And I feel like the world's most insensitive pet-owner for always bringing up that last option, but every time we go through this rigamarole I feel like I'm pouring money and affection down a well to feed the magical fish that lives at the bottom. I love her enormously, but Scout is broken. Broken enough that strangers can't handle her without causing serious failures in her life-systems. Broken enough that I thought she was going to die last time she got shots, broken enough that I had to sign a Do Not Resuscitate Order before they would spay her. She isn't a miracle cat, she isn't ever going to heal, and I've lived with that knowledge for most of the time I've had her. Nevermind paying for traumatic vet visits, how much more of myself can I (do I want to) invest in her? Could I even live with the decision to put her down? I don't know.

When Matisse got so sick back in June Dad kept taking her back to the vet for more work, even though it seemed apparent to the rest of us that she wasn't going to bounce back, and she had accepted her fate when she decided to stop eating. And this seems unrelated, maybe, but Grandma crashed last week and the family are all highly resentful of the EMTs that resuscitated her against her wishes; Grandma is bedridden now, doesn't know who she is or what is going on anymore, and in the natural order of things should have died last week. It was a waiting game with Teazer; it's turned into a waiting game with Grandma. But they were/are old, and Scout's not even two. Most of the time she's fine. But she can't do normal cat-things like get shots. And I acknowledge that I've been letting her play outside for the last two weeks or so, and even though she's having the time of her life it puts a visible and audible strain on her cardiovascular system. How long do I really think that can last?

What I want to know is, am I doing the same thing as Dad? I've brought her back from the dead once. If Scout starts coughing and her gums start turning white like last time I won't hesitate, I won't put her through that again, but am I knowingly allowing that to happen by taking her back to the vet? Is it more or less ethical to sidestep the seemingly inevitable panic attack, to spare her that since they won't let me bend the rules? Does doing what I think is right have to involve graphic certainty that Scout had reached the end of her road? How much of a waiting game am I willing to play on my very dear but irretrievably damaged girl? How do you know it's the right time to let them go?