Every generation has its problems, and every life has its hurdles. To circumvent these problems, or at least make them easier to deal with, we occupy ourselves with finding shortcuts, time-savers, ways to make life a little better. But what happens when the very things we create to help us clear the hurdles only serve to make them more difficult to overcome? What happens when we create more problems than we solve?
Take, for example, the iPod. Or the iPhone. Or the iPad. Or any smartphone. You get the idea. These devices were invented to make life easier, better, more user-friendly. We thought we were saving ourselves time and trouble by implementing pieces of technology that would allow us to bank remotely or communicate via email in the grocery line. We created iTunes, a one-stop shop, sample, and storage program for all our musical needs. But when these widgets and whatsits don’t perform at our level of expectation, when the downloads take too long, when the battery drains itself, do we calmly and rationally seek other avenues for obtaining what we want? Or do we lash out at the computer, phone, or mp3 player in hopes that it will respond to our baleful coercing?
The self-checkout line also serves to call into question our dependence on ourselves versus our dependence on technology. We approach the self-checkout with the utmost optimism. Finally a way to ensure that we are not overcharged for glass cleaner and that our milk is double-bagged before we leave the store. We begin the checkout process only to find a few minutes later that our enthusiasm has confused the computer. We have, in our haste to be our most efficient selves, placed too many unidentified items in the bagging area. When we attempt to remedy the problem, we only exacerbate the situation, further confusing the computer. At this point, we are forced to wait for the checkout attendant to sidle over and fix the problem. Perhaps the regular checkout line would have been faster?
These advancements, such as they are, were created to help with the headaches of life, not cause them. And for the most part, we can derive a sense of satisfaction with the ease they sometimes create. But when we take that ease for granted, we allow ourselves to become fully dependent on their capabilities. Or incapabilities, as the case may be. In the name of efficiency we create time-saving devices, and we apply ourselves to them with the utmost confidence in their productivity. But how much time are we losing? How much self-reliance are we sacrificing? And do we even notice?
“Good morning, counselors,” she lied, stepping into the conference room.
Stuart Chapman, the lead prosecutor, and his co-counsel stood to greet her.
“Don’t get up gentlemen. This meeting shouldn’t take long.”
“As you know, Ms. Malloy, our offer is very generous. We have clearly allowed more leniency than is due a client of this…kind.” Lance Rivers, the co-counsel, was the very picture of a legal parasite. He was too short for his attitude, and his face was drawn and pale. The hollows of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes lent him more ferocity than anything his dim intellect could have conjured.
All Charlotte could do was stare pointedly at Stuart. Why was the co-counsel doing all the talking?
“I’m very well aware of what you’ve offered my client,” Charlotte said. “But we’re not interested.”
At this, Stuart’s confidence flickered. She knew he’d not been expecting this from her.
“Now wait a minute, Charlotte,” he began. As quickly as he was caught off guard, he just as easily reassumed his composure. “Lester made that man disappear. He couldn’t pay up, and Lester, well, God only knows what Lester did with him ’cause now we can’t find him. You know as well as we do that this is a sweet deal for a guy like that.”
She cut him off, “Mr. Chapman, we have studied your offer extensively, and we find it unacceptable. End of story. What you see as a generous offer my client sees as patronizing injustice. I’m sorry, fellas. There will be no deal struck here today. See you in court.”
Before they could object, Charlotte retreated to her office. Small victories proudly won, she thought. She may not have a clue how she was going to defend her client, who was obviously very guilty of the crime of which he was accused, but she had won the first of what she hoped would be many small personal victories to come.
* * * *
To be continued…
Text only ©2011 Jessica Cocita. All Rights Reserved
Erin McKean’s The Secret Lives of Dresses tells the story Dora’s evolution from unassuming, aimless college student to self-assured, motivated small-business owner. After her grandmother’s stroke, Dora finds that her sense of responsibility, along with her sense of self, lay outside her original expectations.
One of the story’s pivotal settings is on the campus of Lymond College. McKean’s description of bulletin boards filled with student jobs and her explanation of Dora’s job at the coffee shop are accurate and adeptly rendered. It becomes clear early on that the author is no stranger to today’s college campus.The conversational tone also lends itself well to this environment. Dora’s thoughts are divulged to the reader in a way makes her relatable and sympathetic.
Mimi, arguably the most important secondary character in the novel, has a unique presence in the book. Or perhaps it’s her lack of presence that makes McKean’s depiction of her so intricate in the story and necessary for the reader. McKean does an excellent job of incorporating a character, of giving a character a voice, without that character actually speaking throughout the entire novel. We know just as well as Dora what Mimi would have to say about any given topic without her actually having to say it.
While Lymond is believable enough for the reader, the town of Forsyth, where Dora lived with Mimi, is not so precisely portrayed. The interaction of the characters with one another and the details we are given about the town itself are incongruous and create confusion for the reader. At one point, we are told the mall now houses an Anthropologie, and we are told that there is more than one Target. At another junction, however, we are told that the door greeter at Costco inquires how Mimi is faring, and everyone seems to know everyone else’s business. While they may seem minor discrepancies, they are enough to remind the reader of the fictitious nature of the story. If the attempt here is to create the feeling of a small town within a larger city, we can safely say the mark has been missed.
McKean also makes numerous references to cultural icons and events of importance during the nineties. She makes reference to the glove in the OJ Simpson trial, for example, and she makes mention of Dora’s Rachel haircut, an obvious reference to the Friends character. While most readers of today will understand these incorporations, they do reduce the timelessness of the story.
The story concludes as we could only hope it would, and McKean’s overall narrative structure doesn’t disappoint. There is adequate conflict, resolution, and reason to celebrate for the reader to ultimately be kept fully engaged.
The impulse to write is not one that is easily manipulated. Anyone who’s ever tried to write anything will tell you that. When something wants to, or needs to, be written there’s no stopping it. It nags and claws until it forces us to put it down for others to see. But that impulse doesn’t always include a starting point. Sure, we might have the idea itself, but how the idea gains coherence is our responsibility. And lucky us.
Add to that the impossibility of a first page, and the task at hand becomes phenomenally difficult. There is something alluring about the purchase of a new journal, a new place to put ideas, a new place to be something new. And there is always the potential that with each new journal we begin we will become better. Better writers, better readers, better versions of ourselves. More honest versions of ourselves. The possibility is there if only we will embrace it.
But what happens when we accumulate too many different vessels of possibility? Do we experience the pen-and-ink equivalent of an identity crisis? Do we become overwhelmed by the limitless possibilities we’ve allowed ourselves by virtue of each journal? Do we become less productive as the result of so much promise?
Or does each book contain different aspects of our personalities? For example, perhaps the sixty-nine cent spiral-bound notebook contains our minimalist thoughts, the ones we have when we’re put out with the world for being so materialistic. And maybe the fifty-dollar leather-bound journal embodies the thoughts we have when we’ve finished a volume of Shakespeare or Chaucer or something with equal literal weight. The small canvas-covered one positively exudes our words in praise of positivity, and the one with The Beatles on the cover, well, that one’s just for fun.
Some of them are too pretty, too delicate, too important, just too too to tarnish with our humble words, and some have been filled to their absolute last page. Regardless of the type of journal or notebook, the possibilities are never limited based on abundance of choice. The possibilities are only increased for different parts of ourselves to have expression they might now otherwise have found. In exploring different types of journals, we can discover new facets of our own personalities and maybe find that we are more capable than we ever thought we were.
Life, for most of us, is a triumph of individual self-expression. In general, we don’t like other people designing who we are or who we’re going to be. Although we may agree that there is indeed a time and a place for everything, we frown upon arbitrary limitations.
At least this is what we tell ourselves.
We pride ourselves on being able to outwardly express who we are through a variety of channels, but at what point is it no longer self-expression? At what point does it become more about the spectacle of the thing, the flouting of the sense of decorum we’re all supposed to have?
Malls and shopping centers are now teeming with walking examples of attempts to control. The social constructs that dictate what’s appropriate and what’s not are being directly challenged, and what is replacing them is the gauzy sense of entitlement to self.
There is nothing inherently wrong in desiring this self-expression. The problem doesn’t come until we forget what it is we’re trying to express, when we become more the idea of the person than the person itself.
Humans have always felt the need to create; it’s where our sense of and drive for progress come from. But I can’t help wondering: at what point have we created another set of social constructs? At what point have we ceased to self-express and served to formulate the new sense of decorum? And how long has this been happening?
Charlotte sighed out the kitchen window. These moments in the morning were the only ones she could truly call her own. She studied the mother dove on the tree branch overreaching the deck. “If only,” she thought. She chugged the dregs from the coffee mug, took one last whiff of the fresh roses she’d cut, and slipped on her heels. The day stretched out before her, and Charlotte knew exactly what it held. It was going to be a long one. On her way out the back door, her heel caught in the spool of wire by the table. Oh Kip, she thought. Not another project.
This case had come to her in what she assumed was the usual way. Before the divorce six months ago, she never had need for cases like these. But come to her it had, and she was now the lead attorney on the case. Generally she found rhetoric thrilling; proving a point in court sent shivers down her spine. When she was with Darren, she had been able to pick and choose which cases to accept and which ones to hand down to the junior partners. She chose only the meatiest ones for herself. She would indulge herself in late nights of frantic research and early morning coffee-fueled client meetings because these things were intrinsic to who she was. And she was great at them. But this case. This was positively one for the junior lawyers, and now it was just Charlotte.
Kip had moved in with her shortly after the divorce. Not as a reaction to the split, but as one of those circumstances of cosmic import over which we seem to have no control. Ever since they were kids, Charlotte had been close to her sister, so when Kip arrived on her doorstep just days after Darren moved out, Charlotte really hadn’t been that surprised. She would never admit it to Kip, who took all sentiment as an invitation to make herself permanently at home, but Charlotte was glad for the company. In some ways, Charlotte envied Kip’s bohemian lifestyle (she’d never had that artistic wandering impulse herself), but most of the time it made her appreciate her stability. At least it had when she’d had it.
“Good morning, Charlotte,” the receptionist (was her name Elizabeth? Liz?) greeted her as she walked through the door. She mumbled something under her breath and darted over to her desk. Despite the fact that she had been at the firm for a few months, the names of the people in the office still managed to elude her. She would never admit it to anyone, but Charlotte saw her employment there as temporary, a stepping stone. It was a newer firm in one of the shining glass buildings downtown. Charlotte saw herself in one of the more established firms. She liked the heft of their name anchoring hers on her business cards, the clout they allowed her both in the courtroom and out of it. But news travels fast in the legal world, and what had happened between her and Darren had spread like wildfire. Charlotte couldn’t help reminding herself every now and then that there had been a time when she could have entered any law office in the city with her head held high. She would dole out condescending looks to lawyers at other firms as if to say, “It’s nice, your position here. At least it’s something.” At the time, her status as half of a power couple lent her a sense of entitlement. They had been featured in society magazines, every picture flawless, exuding success through the ink on the page. Little did everyone know that the relationship behind the perfect haircuts and the immaculate clothes was more porous than the paper on which their accolades were printed.
There is no time for this, Charlotte coaxed herself. Today was the day she would win. She had to.
* * * *
(To be continued…)
Text only ©2011 Jessica Cocita. All Rights Reserved.