Add and Subtract
Whitewashed walls, materials seemingly adrift in a disorganized room; such is the existence of not-for-profit community action in the midst of a recession. The murmuring of an elderly woman in the middle of what appears to be an old card table does little to aide those straining from falling asleep. Eventually though, the atmosphere is broken. From the end of a table, from a man whose shoulder-length black hair and lax demeanor stands out in a room full of professionals, comes a strong utterance, “So moved.” As if validated, the elderly woman silences herself and smiles. A well-placed motion or second is sometimes just as effective as a Surrealism in the middle of the ring, the dark-haired misplaced man has noticed. Those types of thoughts don’t occur to him nearly as often now as they did just after the change – when he was still struggling so frequently with his competitive edge. The man likes his meetings quick, and the action between them to be meaningful. After the question is raised and the motion is passed, the meeting quickly adjourns. The President of the Board, a young man leans over and says politely, “Thank you, William.” After further pleasantries, including some to the very talkative lady who he had validated, William left the room, each step clattering on the tile. His impatience was due to his important interruption between such meetings. Sometimes he cannot tolerate back-to-back meetings, and if the last one had not come to an abrupt halt, that is precisely what would have happened. The road between fierce competition and collaboration and consensus-driving is not a short and easy one. But like any difficult road, it becomes easier when it is a convenient route. For William, who had wisely invested his income from his half-dozen years at the top of the industry, it was simply convenient to step back, reassess and become involved in the local community. And of course there were moments when colleagues would note that competitive streak. William at first would not settle for being a voice in the room - his had to be a prominent one. Slowly, though, he adjusted and coalesced into his role. On the historic preservation board, he did more hammering than talking. On the commuter rail board, he was a principal negotiator. But as he approaches his seven o’clock, the room almost palpably darkens. It should not – the young lady across the room has been William Gwynn’s significant other for nearly the entire time he has been away from professional wrestling. The restaurant is typical American fare. It looks like a burgers place that offers drinks on its Every itch that William has had to return to the profession, Chelsea has convinced him not to scratch. Her worried face, though, immediately frightens the great man who once brought fear to the hearts of wrestling titans. “William …” she says tentatively, but with some force, “it’s … August.” William’s eyebrows perk up as he reaches down for his cell phone. It had been going off on vibrate throughout the last meeting, he’d ignored it. But then he saw it. A half-dozen missed calls, a few voicemails and text messages. They all said what Chelsea was about to. “He’s gone,” she states the obvious. “I’m so sorry.” She means it, but her words are no comfort. William is already in his world of hurt. He had known the situation was dire – but so soon? The comforter and the compromiser in him is briefly expelled in favor of an anger he has not felt for some time and an emotional hurt impales him. She explains how, but William does not hear it. He barely is aware of her being there. But she is dutiful; she understands. She stays beside William. It does not dull the pain, but her leaving would double it. The next several days go by like a blur. Gwynn’s pain is numbed. His e-mail account was never brightened with a message from August between his agendas and meeting minutes. Requests for information are just about the most interesting issues he faces in his responses. Even so, no one expects him to respond. He does anyway. “Every chance you get to surprise someone with your activities,” August once told him, “do so.” What he meant was really to be more than human, to be an enigma to those he works with. “Be relentless,” August often clarified. Days Later Stomp, clap. Stomp, clap. Stomp, clap. Stomp, clap. William, in his darkest and most anguished business suit, is not prepared for what he has walked into at the funeral home. “Some glad morning when this life is o’er,” the collective group sings, while stomping and clapping, “I’ll fly away!” The old spiritual, which August often sang in his deep voice late at night, always meant so much to both of them. “To a home on God’s celestial shore,” the group continues, “I’ll fly away-ay-ay-ay-ay!” William realizes that this is truly a ceremony that screamed “August,” planned far in advance and incorporating a number of very-personal touches. August is there in the room, but his features are lifeless. Nevertheless, William feels him there. He is not alone in that opinion. The widow, too, while participating in the singing and the festivities, is moved to tears. William steps forward and takes his seat in the middle of the room. He joins Chelsea there, who had come separately. She smiles at him and takes his hand, even though it causes a slight disruption in the clapping portion of the song. To some degree, Chelsea and August had been very different in their plans for William. Chelsea enjoyed the respectable, settled-down community man that William had become. First and foremost, she wanted someone consistent and reliable. August, on the other hand, believed in industry. “Do what you do best,” he said often, “and do it the best.” William always tried, and August served as an inspiration for those moments when William was truly the best. His drive, his motivation and his determination to win were often not best served by William considering how much better his life would be with a victory, but more often was whether August would be proud of him. And it wasn’t that August liked wrestling – it certainly was not anything he was interested in previous to William’s rise. What August liked was William, and seeing William being successful. And so, to do so, he watched professional wrestling, which was William’s calling. At least it was. And August did not like that he so quickly tossed it aside for the comforts of modern life. William, August thought, did not belong in a boardroom. Could he excel there? Sure, but he would not be the best. It would not drive him to the top. He would have the gratefulness of those he worked with but nothing more. These are distracting thoughts to be having, William knows, when trying to stomp and clap. Although his rhythm is awful on the dance floor, as Chelsea has noted often, he manages to think, clap and stomp in the right order without too much trouble. Singing, though, he leaves to others, including Chelsea, whose voice is absolutely angelic. After more singing, the preacher begins in. The ceremony is, as is common now, “a celebration of life.” His was a life to be celebrated. William finally focused on what was really important, August life and family, of which William was a part. “William,” Chelsea finally says, ending the thoughtful silence, “you’re thinking.” He is, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. Chelsea has given him enough time and space, though, and now she is honing in on what is really bothering him. “What about?” “Nothing,” William dismisses the question, waving his hand. “William,” Chelsea protests. He furrows his eyebrow and chomps down on a bite, letting a few more moments of awkward silence fill the space of the table between them. “He always wanted me to go back,” William finally mentions. “Yes,” she agrees, “but he was proud of all that you did, including bringing in the commuter rail and working to ensure the town was as clean and as preserved as it ought to be.” Her argument is weak; she seems to know that. Nevertheless, her hand is a comfort to William. She is a comfort to William. And being comfortable is a retardant to necessary change. And so William sits, and so William waits. From boardroom to boardroom he walks, with minutes and agendas in hands, motioning and seconding away his days. Between them, he does the work of his boards and committees. He hammers, he digs and he mulches. His old rivals would not recognize the tamed legend that sits across the table from Chelsea, nor would many of his old friends. August tolerated it, because Chelsea was such a special person. But now that August and his friendship are gone, William feels devoid of something. And that hole must be filled. But with what? And how difficult will that addition, whatever it is, be? As William would soon learn, the difficult road lies ahead of him. The adjustment between competitor and collaborator was made with the transition from work to retirement. The road back is a road back to the drudgery, but also to a more evident purpose. As August said, 'you just can't retire at 29.”
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