The Performance Principle. Mackenzie Kyle
Читать онлайн книгу.
a situation that works well for all of us. But there are exceptions, and birthdays bring out people’s tendency to invade my private space in the worst way. Granted, it’s a big deal to have someone in the family pass the hundred-year mark, and this year I turned 102. But really, am I all that different than I was at 101? Or even when I was a spring chicken of 81? I like to think not, though try and tell that to my daughters. Or grandkids. Or, well, all of the relatives out there, of which I seem to have accumulated many. They seem to think I’m some kind of good luck charm. And if they come to pay me homage, maybe it’ll remind God that we’re related, that they’re treating me right, and so they should live a long time too.
Or maybe they just want my money, though there’s less of that around than there used to be. Who expects to live past a hundred years? I got good value for my dough, though. I saw a lot of this planet before the thought of another four-hour delay at LAX, or any other airport, became too painful relative to the fun of whatever destination was waiting for me.
Maybe I’m just a cynical old biddy. I know my great-grandkids use a different word. At least the ones who have anything worthwhile going on do. But like I said, I’m good with that. The only thing that worries me is boredom. The stuff going on in my head isn’t quite so interesting to me any more. The frightening fact is that nothing seems all that interesting lately. Which was why I was particularly grumpy at my birthday party. I wasn’t putting on a show so I could be alone with my thoughts. I was scared I was done. Done with people, done with thinking, done living. I supposed the fact that the idea scared me was a good sign, even if it made me ornery.
But life has a way of surprising you, even at my age. It was at my birthday party that something completely out of the blue happened to turn things around: I found a problem I could help someone solve.
The someone in this case was my granddaughter Jenny’s husband, Will. He and I have a bit of history together. A number of years ago, he had the good sense to come to me with a problem, and I helped him get some perspective on it. Our conversations were great fun too, because I was able to play the grumpy old lady to maximum effect, and poor Will didn’t have any choice but to put up with it because he needed my advice. I know I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I’ve always been a big tease, and I think he’d agree we both got something out of the experience.
I hadn’t seen a lot of Will since that time. I knew he’d been off flying around the country, trying to make things better at his company, and suffering the joy and pain that goes with that kind of job. I’d see him at family holidays and get-togethers, and occasionally we’d chat about various things work-related, but not in depth.
Which is why I was both surprised and pleased when he sidled up to me at the birthday party and said, “Can we talk?”
“Why, Willie, nice to see you, too,” I said. He hates it when I call him Willie. “What’s up?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
“Willie,” I said, “in case you haven’t noticed, we’re celebrating my 102nd birthday here. Time is not something I have much of. Can you make it quick?”
He got a pained look on his face. “I’ll try. Remember about fifteen years ago, when I was coming to you with questions about change and project management?”
“Willie, I may be old, but I’m not senile yet,” I chided. “Of course I remember that. Although it seems like you got less interested in talking to me once your problem was solved.” His pained look worsened and I felt a little guilty pleasure at scoring a hit to his guilt center.
“You know how busy things can get,” he said lamely. Then showed a bit of the fire that I like. “I don’t have to bother you with more of that kind of thing if you’re not interested . . .” His voice trailed off.
Too quickly I said, “No, no, that’s all right. I can always listen. See if I have a few ideas.” The bugger: I could tell by a slight movement at the corners of his mouth that he knew I wanted to hear about his problem. I didn’t want him to start feeling comfortable, though, so I said, “Figured out that project management isn’t the solution to everything, have you? Come up against some issues you don’t think a dependency chart is going to solve?”
He sighed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I always knew there are lots more tools out there. I’ve spent the last ten years or so learning about them and putting them into practice all over the place.”
“Yes,” I said. “You may recall we’ve talked about this once or twice.” Like I said, Will and I had had a few chats over the years about management techniques and the latest management fads, but they never approached the intensity of our explorations around project management. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little disappointed that he hadn’t come to talk to me more often.
“Yes, of course I remember,” he said. “I always appreciate your insight into that kind of stuff.” His voice trailed off as we took in the general mayhem around us. Great-grandchildren were laughing as they played with plastic toys and cell phones. Grandchildren, looking older to me than grandchildren have any right to, sat drinking coffee and catching up. My remaining children, wrinkled and bent, looked slightly bewildered by the scene, as people whose hearing, sight, and general mental acuity have started to diminish are wont to do. Why I was still around to see all of this, I had no idea. For a moment I craved my pipe more than anything. For several years now a single puff on the thing would send me into coughing spasms. There were still days when I thought the pain might be worth it, but to my descendants’ relief, I’d given it up.
“Willie, let’s take this conversation out to the porch. All these people are starting to irritate me.” Slowly, I levered myself up and out of my chair, waving off Will’s attempt to help.
“Will!” came the scolding voice of my eldest daughter, in whose house I now lived. “Give Mom a hand.”
I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “Oh, shut up and leave him alone, Joanne. I don’t need his help. And he doesn’t need you nagging at him. I’m fine.” Will and I walked slowly out of the living room. Everyone made a point of looking concerned. I’m sure some of them were hoping for a fall, a broken hip, and a quick decline. Nobody knows how much money I’ve got, and I’m not about to tell them, but I can see they suspect it’s a lot.
The porch of my daughter’s house is one of the main reasons I live with her. It’s what people today might call a big, old-fashioned wraparound porch, but it’s what I think of as normal. Houses today don’t have porches, they have decks. And those decks don’t look out over the street, where everything is going on. They’re usually out back, looking over the neighbor’s deck, which is full of people trying not to be obvious about looking right back at you. That’s the way they build neighborhoods these days. Cramming more people into less space, and trying to create the illusion that we’re not all sitting on top of each other.
Fortunately, Joanne’s neighborhood has tree-lined streets full of big houses on big lots with big porches. These porches are places where a person can sit and think and watch the world go by. Or, in some cases, have real conversations with other people.
I lowered myself into the wicker rocking chair. Will sat down on the porch swing, looking uncomfortable. “Why don’t you grab us a couple of beers, Willie, and loosen yourself up just a little?” That made him look even more uncomfortable, as I knew it would, but he disappeared into the house and came back a moment later with two bottles of cold beer. Giving up the pipe had been tough enough; I sure as hell wasn’t about to give up the occasional beer. Of course, this stressed the relatives no end. Not that I really cared.
We sat in amiable silence for a minute or two, and then I said, “I ain’t getting any younger.” Will almost squirmed in his swing seat.
“It’s a tough thing to describe, Martha, really tough. And it’s mixed in with a huge sense of responsibility —”
“Jesus Christ, Willie, did ya hit someone with your car? Did ya knock Jenny up again? Steal food from the mouths of babes? What?” I love interrupting people with pithy comments like that.
Will