Yesterday, I went to visit some friends at my old job. I regret--more than I ever would have thought--leaving the place, but what's done is done, and I don't believe there are any hard feelings on either end. In specific, I wanted to see one particular friend of mine whom, for a variety of reasons, I have done a poor job of keeping in touch with. Granted, I've only been gone from the place for two months, but the terms of my exit were and are unknown to many, myself included, and so there were some things that I would have liked to give more satisfactory closure to, but either couldn't or wouldn't.
This friend, Mark, we'll call him, played a major part in giving me the confidence I needed to acclimate myself to and eventually thrive in a work atmosphere in which I might otherwise have struggled. In particular, we struck up a kinship, early on, and I'm ashamed to say I forget how it originally came up, but it led to what are undoubtedly some of my fondest at-work memories. Our shared joy and misery in the victories (few) and defeats (many) of the always-entertaining Cincinnati Reds was often one of the things I most looked forward to in the early part of my day.
One of the many great things about baseball is its near-interminable playing schedule. The regular season lasts from the beginning of April until usually the first week in October, then the playoffs go for another couple weeks. Then there's winter ball, and off-shore leagues, and training camps, and next thing you know, it's February and pitchers and catchers are reporting to spring training facilities in Arizona and Florida. And now there's the World Baseball Classic, and some international exhibition games and who knows what else. Somewhere in all this, talk of baseball commenced, and we never looked back.
(To this day, on a brief side note, I can not for the life of me figure out how this all started. I was hired at the beginning October, officially, but didn't start working until almost November, so discussion of the World Series seems unlikely. Also, we were extremely busy for the holiday season, and I was still trying to learn everything about the job, so I was probably a little preoccupied. Yet, somewhere between my first day, and the end of January--the first two weeks of which we were closed, I might add--Mark and I were very much excited to count down the days until pitchers and catchers were to report. This is the power of baseball.)
Enough with the cheese and the Ken Burns for now, though, back to the story. I showed up unannounced this past Wednesday afternoon, assuming it would be no problem, and also assuming that the usual people would be going about their business. Joe would be at his desk (that's any day, at any time, really, which was always fine with me), Jim would be telling people how to cook (to his credit, that was pretty much his job when I first started), and Mark would be going through his usual pre-op routine. I has underestimated the repercussions of the recession, though, for hours had been scaled back drastically, and I learned that it would be hours before Mark arrived. At first, I decided to just leave and come back (all of five minutes, round-trip), but on further meditation opted to wait around. I spoke with the receptionist, briefly, about whom I have drastically divergent feelings from day to day--something for another time--but this was a good day for both of us.
In fact, I have her to thank for what ultimately transpired that afternoon. Something that came up frequently between she and I was the idea of small, unsolicited gifts of little or no significance. Things like pens, or scrap paper from the cutter, or dirty dishes (which were almost always for me). Wednesday, she was kind enough, being a special occasion and all, to give me a bag, a post-it note, and a permanent marker. She did ask for the permanent marker back, however, so naturally, I offered her a variety of other, self-important sounding things, one of which happened to be the shirt off my back. She responded, as is her way, with a snarky comment about how utterly useless a Cincinnati Reds jersey is to her, especially coming from someone like me. Our bust sizes are not similar, you see. She was giggling, and I was thinking. I proceeded to unbutton my jersey, folded it neatly, and placed it in the bag. I scribbled a note on the post-it, stuck it to the side of the bag, left it at Mark's station, and went home.
I didn't see Mark that day, but I know I will soon. Sorry about all the commas.
