End of Terminal

For those gentle readers who've never experienced the insanity and chaos of year-end papers, I would like to offer the following guided imaginative exercise.

You are a stage performer, who's been in the business for about three months.  Your gig is spinning plates, a task that you're not quite certain is right for you, but you're giving it your best shot in the absence of other, more lucrative opportunities.  So far, you've only broken two or three plates, which is actually pretty good, though each time you break one your boss beats you soundly with a copy of the MLA style manual.  Occasionally, your boss instructs you to do something other than spin plates - one day you rode a unicycle, for example - but you clearly don't have an affinity for other forms of performance the same way you have with the plates.  Though he could really use another juggler, or maybe even a ventriloquist, your boss is contented with your plate-spinning ability for now, and he puts you on near the end of the show, after the guy who nails his tongue to a board, but before the chick who can saw herself in half and then appear sitting in the audience.  Lately, you've gotten quite the hang of the whole spinning plates thing, and can keep half a dozen of them going at various heights in tune to a variety of Paul Anka tunes.  You're slowly branching out your repertoire to include some Jimmy Buffett, but you're not quite comfortable showing any of those off in public quite yet.  You figure everything is going along quite well, but one day your boss comes up to you and says "Good job with the plates, but it's getting to be that time of year where we need something with a little more edge, something...faster.  And more risky.  Can you spin chainsaws, instead?  And maybe do about nine or ten at once?  That'd be great.  Thanks." And he starts to walk away.  "Chainsaws?  B-but..." you start, but your boss whips around, pulling the MLA guide out of his blazer and slapping it across his palm.  "Will that be a problem?" he smiles through his teeth.  "Nobody has ever had a problem with the chainsaws before. "  One furry eyebrow stretches toward the ceiling in a diabolical arc.  "It's not like the unicycle, which requires balance and poise."  Slap, slap, goes the MLA style guide.  Your eyes widen.  "N-no...no problem." You say.  "I can do chainsaws."  "Great," says your boss.  "I need the act next week." 

And so you're stuck.  You have a week to create a new act that is vaguely like your old one, but different enough that you have to learn a whole new set of rules.  Your balance will be off.  Chainsaws will spin differently than plates.  There's that whole accidentally cutting off your arm or head thing.  They're expensive, too.  So you set to work.  After about a day or two, despite your initial misgivings, you actually find yourself enjoying working with the chainsaws.   They're totally different than the plates, but you realize that plates are so...so over.  And so overdone. Harold Bloom can do it.  But there are very few people in the world who can spin chainsaws. Once you realize that, it becomes your motivational factor.  If you can pull of this whole spinning chainsaws thing and not die, you will be known as "The Spinning Chainsaw" guy, and you will be showered with all kinds of rewards for your talent.  Women and men will throw themselves at you, and be desperate that you display your chainsaw spinning abilities at parties and conventions - even Harold Bloom will have to grudgingly admit that your act looks pretty cool, even if it doesn't have "any kind of historical authenticity linking it to the larger showbiz narrative."  Life will be fantastic.

And so, you become so invested in your project that you stop eating and sleeping in preparation for your big show.  You just can't wait to show your boss how clever, how innovative your new act is, and see what kind of positive reinforcement balances out that punitive MLA style guide.  All else but The Act is considered "details", things like hygiene and vitamin-pill taking and exercising go by the wayside.  IT MUST BE PERFECT.  IT MUST BE FINISHED.  All you can talk about with friends and colleagues is The Act.  "I've got a double back flip rotation perfected," you'll say, when they ask you how your day went. "I'm a little worried about the ball-chain change in the third movement, though...I think I might need to get out of the handstand for that part."  They roll their eyes, but only for a moment - they're desperate to tell you all about the poodle pyramid they've been working on all week ("I think Fifi's getting too heavy to be top dog now...I was only feeding her once a day, but I think she's eating my socks in protest...I'll have to switch her with Snookie-Wookums").

And then, suddenly, as if you blinked in the middle of a cinematic montage, comes THE DAY.  You perform your act for the boss, his one furry eyebrow arcing up and down in time to the music.  His expression throughout is blank.

"Thank you," he says.  "That looked great.  I'll let you know what I really think about it in the new year.  Enjoy your holiday."

Adrenaline blasting, you return to your room and survey the carnage:

You tidy up, knowing full well that next term will bring the same kind of exercise, likely involving bear-baiting or sword-swallowing.  And yet, despite your aching muscles and missing digits, the Times New Roman (10 or 12 pt., double-spaced) imprint on your forehead from one too many beatings and the socially-awkward, analytical approach you now take to EVERYTHING, you can't help but think, smugly: "I love my job.  Eat your heart out, Harold Bloom."

Comments

[adam]

This is great.