No. 221 - 14th Century Russian Literature

"I want to read 14th century Russian literature, the esoteric stuff," she said, with her trademark grin — the same grin I fell in love with when she was a little girl, when her innocence floored me, when I'd get home from a long day at the bank, exhausted from poring over 10-Qs.

When the hum of the train and a book were all I had to alleviate the disappointment — the disappointment of getting exactly what I wanted: to be a banker, to wear a suit, to work in a skyscraper, only to realize, eventually, that I wasn't cut out to be a corporate man. Let alone a banker.

Who spent every day looking over his shoulder, wondering if the axe was going to fall that day.

Who was terrified of meetings with my boss, who despised me, who hated that upper management — the executives — took a liking to me.

That the power brokers saw in me a drive — one that included blinders, like those on a racehorse — a myopic existence that they too had as young men.

Blinders that career middle-management men don't have, and loathe, especially when their newest employee doesn't have the awareness to occasionally take them off.

And in the end, a storm of resentments builds.

Especially when I was in the corner office, leaned back in a chair laughing, talking about fly fishing and The Masters, while my boss looked on, knowing he was never going to have a seat at that table.

But this upstart, in custom suits, thirty years his junior, was indifferent to these opportunities — these luxuries that corporate men salivate over — to be in the boss's office, bonding without trying, just two men enjoying fellowship.

And I — the young buck with a target on his back — was completely unaware of it, because nothing was out of the ordinary.

I was, in hindsight, being the most authentic version of myself, incapable of understanding how it made my boss's blood boil.

But I'd pay for it.

I always did.

And it never occurred to me to change — to not bullshit with an executive, to not add conviviality to the day.

My "why not?" attitude was the very reason I spent the rest of the day waiting on the axe, and counting down the minutes to hopping on the train and opening a book.

But most of all, to come home and see my daughter's face.

The excitement in her blue eyes.

To have her leap off the fourth stair into my arms, to wave her around like a helicopter blade while she laughed and begged for more spins and more hugs and more kisses.

To have her sheepishly grin with her big cheeks and blonde hair that smelled of kiddie shampoo — a three-foot-tall human who owned me.

Who I lived to be owned by.

Who'd grow up to tell me she wants to read 14th century Russian literature.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Calders Coffee Cafe in Highlands, NC