With two dozen or so responses to the questions posed on page 362 of ALMA'S JOURNEY in hand, I have summarized the responses I received on my website, tlyenbooks.com. Go to tlyenbooks.com and click on Alma's Journey Quiz.
Thank You,
t
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
AWAKENING
Jeffrey walks to the station and catches the seven-fifteen express to work. Traveling from the suburbs through the countryside, his mind streams with thoughts about the passing landscape, events at work, worries, vacation, the past, the future, and a myriad of other fleeting thoughts and no thoughts at all. For years, Jeffrey exits the train with dozens of people, whom he has seen for a dozen years, but with whom he has only exchanged glances, let alone spoken. He walks three long blocks along Thirty Fourth Avenue, turns into the print shop, and sits behind his desk at the back of the shop, waiting for the first project of the day. Certainly, Jeffrey’s life is a dull, featureless, colorless life, his existence mind numbing. Even lower forms of life eek out better existences than Jeffery’s.
Sarah walks to the same station, catches the same train, and travels to the same town to work, as Jeffrey. She sits by the window, three rows behind Jeffery. Every morning, Sarah chats with anyone sitting next to her. She listens carefully to the stories strangers and friends share. She laughs, empathizes, and nods, interacting with strangers. Before long, she, too, exits the train at Thirty Fourth Street and walks the same three blocks, as does Jeffery. She turns into the print shop, walks the stairs to the second floor, greets her fellow workers, gets a cup of coffee, and sits behind her desk, waiting for her first project of the day. Sarah’s life is more interesting than Jeffery’s, but is it really? I am confidant that some of us would answer, “Hell yes,” while other of us would answer, “Hell no, she’s the same as Jeffrey.” Sarah is social, but she still lives a life, punctuated with the petty events she creates in her mind. Even lower social forms of life eek out better existences than Sarah’s, many of us would say.
One blustery spring day, Jeffery boards an unusually crowded express train to find every seat taken, except for the seat next to Sarah. For a moment or two his world is turned upside down. He has never sat anywhere else on the train, except in that one seat by the window. Now, he’s face with sitting on the aisle. The option repulses him. Reluctantly, he sits.
“Good morning,” Sarah cheerily says,” You didn’t get your usual seat by the window.”
“No, I didn’t.” Jeffrey says with bitterness in his voice.
“I’m sorry. That must make you feel terrible.” Sarah says with great pathos.
“Lady, what do you have to be sorry about,” Jeffrey replies.
“That you didn’t get your usual seat and that you seem upset.”
Sarah’s reply is met with stony silence that lasts until the train reaches Thirty Fourth Avenue. Jeffrey propels himself out of his seat, as if he were a tightly coiled spring, snapping into action, leaving Sarah bobbing in his wake. Sarah, shrugging the situation off for the moment, follows Jeffrey, who picks up speed, walking to work in a huff. He storms through the front door of the print shop to his desk, plops himself down, and angrily waits for the first project to reach his desk. Climbing the stairs to the second floor of the same print shop, Sarah can’t get the thought out of her mind about failed to engage Jeffrey in conversation and cajole him out of his blue funk.
After work, Sarah and Jeffrey head out the door of the print shop at the same time, when their eyes meet. Jeffrey’s steely glare meets Sarah’s soft eyes, quashing any chance of conversation. Jeffrey takes advantage of Sarah’s hesitancy, walking first out of the shop and down the avenue. Sarah stands wounded at the door, barely able to give a cheery response to those, wishing her a good night. Crestfallen, Sarah slowly walks to the station and stands by Jeffrey. He briefly looks down at her and walks around her to get on the train to take his window seat. The train leaves. Sarah is left, standing at the station. She has never avoided anyone in her life. Her world is turned upside down, as she grapples with the thought that life is not as marvelous, as she once thought. Her heart and soul exposed to the stormy winter winds, she feels as if her life lays broken open like a dropped watermelon on the cold sidewalk. For Jeffrey, life goes on, as it had before. He is back in his seat, happy with the routine life brings. He loves solitude and the uncomplicated nature of his existence.
Weeks later, Jeffrey is back to work in his own seat and looks through his window at the landscape passing. His thoughts flow by uneventfully, punctuated with petty affairs, until the thought crosses his mind that he has not seen that women he sat by on the cold winter day several weeks ago. He ponders why he is thinking such a thought. He never has given a single thought to anyone before. “Why now?” He dwells for a moment. Having nothing come to mind, he slips into mindless meditation, focusing on the passing landscape. He is calm, relaxed, unbothered by the world around him. Waking, he steps into consciousness and disembarks. Sarah allows him to pass and boards the train. Struck by the latent thought of her presence, he hesitates, then, stops for a moment. He turns toward the train, seeing only the last car leave the station. “What is going on?” He puzzles. Dismissing the question, as fast as it appeared, Jeffrey walks to work and sits at his desk, waiting for the first project of the day. Throughout the day, the thought of this girl, who a few weeks ago spoke to him on the train, this girl that passed him this morning without speaking a word occupies his mind.
“Jeffrey, may I have a word with you?” His supervisor, who has spoken to him less that a hand full of times, leads him to the office.
“Do you know Sarah Jane?”
“Not by name; but, I did speak to a woman several weeks ago on the train going to work and I think I saw her get on the train this morning, when I got off the train,” Jeffrey says, “What’s this all about?”
“Hum,” begins his supervisor, “She quit work this morning and left this letter for you.”
Jeffrey takes the letter from the supervisor’s hand, thanks him, and returns to his desk. Placing the sealed letter on his desk, Jeffrey stares at it. He wonders what could Sarah possibly have to say to him. He doesn’t know her at all. Scratching his forehead, he thinks. But, nothing comes to mind. So, he tucks the letter in the corner of the blotter on his desk and continues working on his projects. The workday ends like any other workday, except for the letter on the top of his desk. Jeffrey is in the habit of always leaving his desk clean at the end of the day. This bit of unfinished business is disconcerting and nails him to the floor. He picks the letter from his desk, flips it over, and slices the sealed flap open with his Toledo made sword opener. He pulls the blue letter from the grey envelope and reads.
“Go anywhere in the universe in search of life and we find that life is, indeed, a rare commodity. Even more precious than life is the appreciation of life.”
Jeffrey crumples the letter into a ball, throws it in the wastepaper basket under his desk, and begins his walk to the train station. His mind works Sarah’s words to him over and over until he has distilled her idea to his own liking. Sitting in his seat on the way to the suburbs, the thought Sarah planted in his brain runs through his mind like a mantra, keeping time with the homes and empty lots and cars and people in the landscape flashing by his window.
That night, he falls to sleep to the rhythm of the mantra. He wakes with the mantra and carries it through his usual daily routine week after week, month after month. The mantra permanently lodges in his brain. In time, the mantra dissipates and is no more prominent in his thinking than the mindless passing of the landscape or the fleeting routine at work. Years later, he is back to normal, having completely forgotten Sarah and the contents of the letter she left behind.
Wednesday afternoon, Jeffrey’s supervisor again requests to speak with him.
“Jeffrey, I want you to know you’ve been working here for twelve years and, speaking for the print shop, you have done a good job. Everyone on the second floor appreciates your time and efforts. We would like to have you join us for cake and coffee and a little recognition plaque in celebration of your years of service.”
Jeffrey considers the offer and says, “I think I’d like to stay here and finish my work and go home.”
Not surprised in the least, his supervisor says, “If that makes you happy, Jeffrey, that’s what we want for you.”
The supervisor leaves; and, Jeffrey continues working. But, the supervisor’s words—appreciates, cake, coffee, recognition, and celebration—stick in his mind and trigger memories of Sarah. The mantra—Life appreciated is more precious than life itself—is resurrected and is as relentless in his thinking as it ever was. For Jeffrey, life does not have to be appreciated. He is content with life, as it is: taking the seven fifteen express to work, working at his job, eating, and sleeping. The supervisor’s words disturb his peace. His memories of Sarah and her words, he thought were long buried and forgotten, disturb his peace. He thinks, “What possible connection exists between Sarah and anything that really matters in his life? Only silence follows the question.
Sunday, April 24, Jeffrey takes the train to Andronico’s. He’s looking for his favorite olive—the small black Amfissa olive. From behind him, a familiar voice sounds in his ear. He turns and sees no one; but the voice softly continues.
“If you eat enough Amfissa olives, you may be able to tell the future.”
Standing in front of the olives in the vegetable aisle, Jeffrey isn’t about to hold a conversation with a disembodied voice. All he wants to do is pick up his jar of favorite olives and leave the store, not converse with the air about olives. The voice does remind him of someone, though. Sarah, of course, the voice is clearly Sarah’s voice.
“You might want to buy some wild greens to go along with your olives, Jeffrey?”
He turns to face the voice, and sees Sarah, standing by the eggplant.
Hesitatingly, he says, “I . . . I don’t like hortas, even in the springtime; I only want my olives, thank you.”
Jeffrey can’t believe he’s in a conversation with Sarah about hortas and Amfissa olives. Although, he denies liking wild greens with olives, he really doesn’t have a basis for his comment because he has never tried eating wild greens and olives. He has always eaten Amfissa olives alone. The Amfissa olive is the only olive he knows in life and isn’t about to compromise the taste of his soft, sweet olive that melts in his mouth. Besides, how can he ever allow himself to discuss such intimacies in public with Sarah, a woman he barely knows? Jeffrey feels uncomfortable. He feels as if his life has been split open like a watermelon fallen to the ground. His eating habits are exposed for the first time in his life. Grabbing the olive jar from the shelf, he bolts from the vegetable section to the cash register, pays for his olives, runs out of the market, and boards the train for the safety of the suburbs. He is highly distraught. The event has unhinged him greatly. He’s not seen Sarah for years. His heart explodes with his encounter with her. In the hope of returning to normalcy, he reaches inside the paper bag for his jar of olives. Maybe the tangibility of something he knows will settle his stomach. He clutches the jar to his chest, feeling the tightness in his chest relax and knot in his stomach loosen. He relaxes. His breathing is less shallow. The landscape flickering by brings more contentment to his heart. Before reaching his station, he glances at the jar of olives that has mended his heart and soul and realizes that, in haste, he’s grabbed the wrong jar of olives. They’re Italian olives! Large Sicilian green olives, for God’s sake! He hates Sicilian green olives; their harsh sourer taste grabs his palate, devastating his taste buds.
He will take the jar of olives back to the market and exchange them. However, he does not want to draw any attention to himself. Maybe he’ll simply ditch the olives in the first garbage can he passes? No, his mother always told him, “Waste not, want not.” The olives didn’t deserve to be handled unkindly. They couldn’t help being Italian. “I’ll just put them at the back of the pantry and forget about them,” he thinks. But, then, he thought about all those starving children in China. He couldn’t live with that thought either. Jeffrey walks around the suburbs for hours perplexed by what action he needs to take. He thinks, “I can give the jar of olives away to the first person I meet.” He dismisses that idea too because he will have to expose himself to another person and that person may not want to risk taking olives from a stranger.
A black and white car pulls up along side of Jeffrey.
A police officer steps from the car and says, “Excuse me sir, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, officer,” Jeffrey says in his best honest citizen voice.
“How long have you been walking around this neighborhood, sir?”
Jeffrey thinks before answering.
“Possibly hours, officer. Why, is something the matter?”
“Not necessarily, but we’ve receive several calls from concerned citizens about a stranger walking around her, talking into a bag.”
“Well, that would be me, officer.”
“May I see your identification, please?”
Jeffrey slowly takes his wallet out from his back pocket and hands it to the officer.
“Are you Mr. Jeffrey Ashton Frasier that lives at 1727 Thorn Street?”
Jeffrey nods his head affirmatively.
“Why are you walking around this neighborhood, Mr. Fraiser?”
“Trying to get my bearings, sir.”
“Bearings about what, Mr. Fraiser? You only live two blocks away.”
“Olives, officer; I’m trying to get my bearings about what I should do about buying the wrong jar of olives at Andronico’s this afternoon.”
“Why don’t you take the olives back and exchange them for what you want the next time your in Andronico’s?”
“That’s a good idea, officer; I think I’ll do that.”
“Have a good day, sir,” the officer replies, “And, it’s probably a good idea if you leave this neighborhood, immediately. That will calm your neighbors, who are a little anxious about you walking around, talking in a bag for hours.”
Jeffrey nods and watches the police car move down the street and turn left at the corner. He looks around and the houses and can’t detect anyone watching him. He leaves the area at once and goes back to the station, boarding the train that will drop him two blocks from the market. But, what is he going to do? What will he say? He has never exchanged anything in his life. What happens if he sees Sarah?
Jeffrey stops a half a block away from the market and peers into the window of a shoe store. Not really looking at the shoes, he reviews every scenario the thinks could happen when he enters the market to return the olives. Breathing deeply, feeling he is prepared, Jeffrey enters the Andronico’s.
“Jeffrey, your back. Surprise, surprise,” Sarah greets him, “How can I help you?”
With his eyes averted to the ground, Jeffrey replies, “I like to return these olives.”
“Were the olives spoiled, Jeffrey?”
“No, I didn’t open the jar.”
“You picked the wrong jar of olives in your hurry to leave?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“You don’t like Italian green olives?”
“No, I don’t like the sour taste?”
“Really, Jeffrey. I would have thought green olives would have been your favorite olive of all?”
“No, I like soft, sweet olives that almost melt in your mouth,” Jeffrey replies, not feeling a bit self-conscious.
“You could have fooled me.”
“Why do you say that, Sarah?”
Sarah chooses her words carefully.
“Well, it seems to me, from the little I know about you, that you’re best suited with sour or bitter tasting foods.”
In his mind, Jeffrey acknowledges the truth of what Sarah says.
Taking advantage of the pause, Sarah continues, “Have you ever tasted Italian green olives?”
Before thinking, Jeffrey blurts out, “Not since I was a child.”
“Tastes change over time, Jeffrey, “ Sara responds, “Tell you what; why don’t you try one of those green olives on the house? If you like them, you can keep the jar, free of charge.”
He twists the top off the jar and puts a large green olive with a drop of brine forming on its apex in his mouth and chews slowly. The sour taste is not as jarring as he remembers. The juices of the green olive spread over and under his tongue, creating a burst of succulence with a pleasant taste of lemon or vinegar, making him linger in the moment, not at all the brassy taste he experienced, as a child.
“Not bad, Sarah, not bad at all.”
“Follow me over to the sampling table. I bet you may have an appreciation for foods, you never thought you would ever have?”
All kinds of mezédhes lay on the table—grilled octopus, garlic breads, fava beans, hot pepper walnuts, rice-stuffed vine leaves, fried vegetables, grilled cheeses, sheep, goat, cow, lamb, diced pork stew, meatballs, and all kinds of olives. Sarah skewers a Greek spiced lamb meatball and hands it to Jeffrey.
“Excellent,” Jeff responds, “I’m getting a little thirsty. Anything to drink?”
“The best water in town, Jeff. When you drink water, you savor the full flavor of the dish.” Sarah suggests.
“You’re right, Sarah. I’ve never tasted anything this good before!”
Sarah smiles.
“What’s this, Sarah?” Jeff says as he pops a sauce soaked piece of bread in his mouth.
“Greek bread dipped in Muhammara,” Sara answers, “Like it?”
“What’s not to like?” Jeff exclaims.
He buys pints of everything he’s tasted and a loaf of Greek bread and lots of pita bread. He plans to freeze everything and prepare it for lunch at work for the next week. On his way out, he hugs Sarah and tells her he has had the time of his life. Sarah watches Jeff walk to the train station with a spring in his step, a spring she thinks he has never had before.
The next morning, Jeffrey prepares lunch, having no idea of what it is but assured in the fact that it’s going to be a great lunch and a great day. Waiting for the train, he strikes up conversations about Greek food and delicious Italian green olives with anyone who will listen to him. Boarding the train, he sits where Sarah used to sit. He carries on conversations with everyone. Never once does he peer out the window at the flickering landscape, passing by like sepia flickers.
Entering the print shop, he stops by and sticks his head in the supervisor’s office.
“Sambo, is there any more of that cake left you told me about yesterday?”
Sam jumps out of his chair.
“Hell Jeffrey, you scared the pants off me!”
“Good morning, boss,” came Jeff’s reply.
“What’s come over you?”
“I don’t quite know, but I like it.”
Sam continues, “I think the cake was finished by the end of the day, Jeffrey. Sorry.”
“That’s Okay, boss. Here’s some Greek baklava for you. Have a good day.”
Sam watches Jeffrey bounce back to his desk at the back of the print shop and wonders, “What happened to him?”
At noon, Jeffrey goes up to the employee’s staff room on the second floor and has lunch with his co-workers for the first time. He puts a platter of baklava in the middle of the table and is greeted with stares of disbelief.
“What’s the special occasion?” Millie asks.
“My name is Jeffrey and I’ve worked here for a dozen years and thought it’s about time to have lunch with you.”
Fifteen employees stare at Jeff, not really knowing what to say.
“I know. I’m a little slow to warm up with people.”
A roar of laughter breaks the silence. Some laugh until tears come to their eyes.
“That’s the understatement of more than a decade,” comments Sam, setting off another round of laughter.
Lunch ends. Everyone makes a point to pass by Jeff on their way back to work; they keep patting him on the back and welcoming him to the clan. With everyone gone, Jeff sits for a while, absorbing the feelings welling up from inside of him. He sighs and returns to his desk at the back of the print shop, a different man.
At day’s end, he approaches the front door of the shop to go home bathed in the smiles and greetings of his fellow employees. He walks down the street to the train station, smiling and nodding to everyone that passes him. He sits in his old seat and looks at the landscape passing by. He notices the colors, the names of the stores, and the new buildings going up in lots that had remained empty for years. He looks at the people walking along, recognizes their features and expressions, and muses on how their day is going. He engages a stranger, happening to sit by him, in a long conversation about Greek foods. The man is a gourmet cook and enjoys Jeff’s company. They talk about great restaurants and cultural events taking place in the area. In no time, Jeffrey’s station comes up. Patting the stranger on the shoulder and wishing the gentleman a good day, he leaves, feeling content—but not the contentment of being let alone and isolated, more of the satisfied kind of contentment that follows accomplishing something well.
His walk home from the station takes on a new flavor. He notices and greets the people he passes. Many, who have seen him in the neighborhood for over twenty years have never heard a peep out of him. They stop and turn and watch him. They watch him stops to talk with a man walking his golden retriever. The dog rolls on its back, relaxes with limp paws, and invites affection. Incredibly, his neighbors witness Jeffrey sit on his haunches to pet the dog’s chest and belly.
“What’s the dog’s name?” Jeffrey asks.
“Bishop,” the owner’s replies.
“Bishop . . . that’s an interesting name,” Jeffrey responds.
“Yes, from the House of Bishop’s,” the dog’s owner continues.
“The dog is an Anglican?” quips Jeffrey.
Laughingly the owner says, “No, more like the house I live in is Bishop’s house.”
“So you are the master of your owner’s house, are you?” Jeffrey says, looking Bishop in the eyes and scratching his chest and tummy.
“Okay, Bishop, old boy, we’ve taken enough advantage of this good man’s kindness. It’s off we go.”
“I had a great time Bishop. Thank you, Mr. . . .”
“Jacobson, Phil Jacobson; and you?”
“Jeffrey Frasier.”
“Nice meeting you, Jeffrey. Say good-bye to the kind man, Bishop.”
“The pleasure is all mine, gentlemen.”
Jeffrey watches Phil and Bishop stride away. Walking to the end of Thorn Street, he arrives home and goes straight to the kitchen. He pulls Petra fries and a lamb gyro from the freezer and places it in the micro oven for two minutes and pours a glass of water.
He takes his dinner from the oven and carries it out to the patio behind his house. He places the fries and gyro on the small table in his backyard that looks out to Mount Diablo. The fries are superb; the gyro delicious, and the cool water refreshing. Finished he leans back in his chair and breaths deeply, his eyes leisurely climbing Diablo, a mountain he has never taken time to notice.
“What majestic view,” he thinks.
He reflects on the past two days—the people he’s met, the discussions he’s had, the laughter, connecting with his coworkers, his supervisor, and reconnecting with Sarah.
“What a great life,” he says to himself, “And, what a great Italian olive that was.”
Sarah walks to the same station, catches the same train, and travels to the same town to work, as Jeffrey. She sits by the window, three rows behind Jeffery. Every morning, Sarah chats with anyone sitting next to her. She listens carefully to the stories strangers and friends share. She laughs, empathizes, and nods, interacting with strangers. Before long, she, too, exits the train at Thirty Fourth Street and walks the same three blocks, as does Jeffery. She turns into the print shop, walks the stairs to the second floor, greets her fellow workers, gets a cup of coffee, and sits behind her desk, waiting for her first project of the day. Sarah’s life is more interesting than Jeffery’s, but is it really? I am confidant that some of us would answer, “Hell yes,” while other of us would answer, “Hell no, she’s the same as Jeffrey.” Sarah is social, but she still lives a life, punctuated with the petty events she creates in her mind. Even lower social forms of life eek out better existences than Sarah’s, many of us would say.
One blustery spring day, Jeffery boards an unusually crowded express train to find every seat taken, except for the seat next to Sarah. For a moment or two his world is turned upside down. He has never sat anywhere else on the train, except in that one seat by the window. Now, he’s face with sitting on the aisle. The option repulses him. Reluctantly, he sits.
“Good morning,” Sarah cheerily says,” You didn’t get your usual seat by the window.”
“No, I didn’t.” Jeffrey says with bitterness in his voice.
“I’m sorry. That must make you feel terrible.” Sarah says with great pathos.
“Lady, what do you have to be sorry about,” Jeffrey replies.
“That you didn’t get your usual seat and that you seem upset.”
Sarah’s reply is met with stony silence that lasts until the train reaches Thirty Fourth Avenue. Jeffrey propels himself out of his seat, as if he were a tightly coiled spring, snapping into action, leaving Sarah bobbing in his wake. Sarah, shrugging the situation off for the moment, follows Jeffrey, who picks up speed, walking to work in a huff. He storms through the front door of the print shop to his desk, plops himself down, and angrily waits for the first project to reach his desk. Climbing the stairs to the second floor of the same print shop, Sarah can’t get the thought out of her mind about failed to engage Jeffrey in conversation and cajole him out of his blue funk.
After work, Sarah and Jeffrey head out the door of the print shop at the same time, when their eyes meet. Jeffrey’s steely glare meets Sarah’s soft eyes, quashing any chance of conversation. Jeffrey takes advantage of Sarah’s hesitancy, walking first out of the shop and down the avenue. Sarah stands wounded at the door, barely able to give a cheery response to those, wishing her a good night. Crestfallen, Sarah slowly walks to the station and stands by Jeffrey. He briefly looks down at her and walks around her to get on the train to take his window seat. The train leaves. Sarah is left, standing at the station. She has never avoided anyone in her life. Her world is turned upside down, as she grapples with the thought that life is not as marvelous, as she once thought. Her heart and soul exposed to the stormy winter winds, she feels as if her life lays broken open like a dropped watermelon on the cold sidewalk. For Jeffrey, life goes on, as it had before. He is back in his seat, happy with the routine life brings. He loves solitude and the uncomplicated nature of his existence.
Weeks later, Jeffrey is back to work in his own seat and looks through his window at the landscape passing. His thoughts flow by uneventfully, punctuated with petty affairs, until the thought crosses his mind that he has not seen that women he sat by on the cold winter day several weeks ago. He ponders why he is thinking such a thought. He never has given a single thought to anyone before. “Why now?” He dwells for a moment. Having nothing come to mind, he slips into mindless meditation, focusing on the passing landscape. He is calm, relaxed, unbothered by the world around him. Waking, he steps into consciousness and disembarks. Sarah allows him to pass and boards the train. Struck by the latent thought of her presence, he hesitates, then, stops for a moment. He turns toward the train, seeing only the last car leave the station. “What is going on?” He puzzles. Dismissing the question, as fast as it appeared, Jeffrey walks to work and sits at his desk, waiting for the first project of the day. Throughout the day, the thought of this girl, who a few weeks ago spoke to him on the train, this girl that passed him this morning without speaking a word occupies his mind.
“Jeffrey, may I have a word with you?” His supervisor, who has spoken to him less that a hand full of times, leads him to the office.
“Do you know Sarah Jane?”
“Not by name; but, I did speak to a woman several weeks ago on the train going to work and I think I saw her get on the train this morning, when I got off the train,” Jeffrey says, “What’s this all about?”
“Hum,” begins his supervisor, “She quit work this morning and left this letter for you.”
Jeffrey takes the letter from the supervisor’s hand, thanks him, and returns to his desk. Placing the sealed letter on his desk, Jeffrey stares at it. He wonders what could Sarah possibly have to say to him. He doesn’t know her at all. Scratching his forehead, he thinks. But, nothing comes to mind. So, he tucks the letter in the corner of the blotter on his desk and continues working on his projects. The workday ends like any other workday, except for the letter on the top of his desk. Jeffrey is in the habit of always leaving his desk clean at the end of the day. This bit of unfinished business is disconcerting and nails him to the floor. He picks the letter from his desk, flips it over, and slices the sealed flap open with his Toledo made sword opener. He pulls the blue letter from the grey envelope and reads.
“Go anywhere in the universe in search of life and we find that life is, indeed, a rare commodity. Even more precious than life is the appreciation of life.”
Jeffrey crumples the letter into a ball, throws it in the wastepaper basket under his desk, and begins his walk to the train station. His mind works Sarah’s words to him over and over until he has distilled her idea to his own liking. Sitting in his seat on the way to the suburbs, the thought Sarah planted in his brain runs through his mind like a mantra, keeping time with the homes and empty lots and cars and people in the landscape flashing by his window.
That night, he falls to sleep to the rhythm of the mantra. He wakes with the mantra and carries it through his usual daily routine week after week, month after month. The mantra permanently lodges in his brain. In time, the mantra dissipates and is no more prominent in his thinking than the mindless passing of the landscape or the fleeting routine at work. Years later, he is back to normal, having completely forgotten Sarah and the contents of the letter she left behind.
Wednesday afternoon, Jeffrey’s supervisor again requests to speak with him.
“Jeffrey, I want you to know you’ve been working here for twelve years and, speaking for the print shop, you have done a good job. Everyone on the second floor appreciates your time and efforts. We would like to have you join us for cake and coffee and a little recognition plaque in celebration of your years of service.”
Jeffrey considers the offer and says, “I think I’d like to stay here and finish my work and go home.”
Not surprised in the least, his supervisor says, “If that makes you happy, Jeffrey, that’s what we want for you.”
The supervisor leaves; and, Jeffrey continues working. But, the supervisor’s words—appreciates, cake, coffee, recognition, and celebration—stick in his mind and trigger memories of Sarah. The mantra—Life appreciated is more precious than life itself—is resurrected and is as relentless in his thinking as it ever was. For Jeffrey, life does not have to be appreciated. He is content with life, as it is: taking the seven fifteen express to work, working at his job, eating, and sleeping. The supervisor’s words disturb his peace. His memories of Sarah and her words, he thought were long buried and forgotten, disturb his peace. He thinks, “What possible connection exists between Sarah and anything that really matters in his life? Only silence follows the question.
Sunday, April 24, Jeffrey takes the train to Andronico’s. He’s looking for his favorite olive—the small black Amfissa olive. From behind him, a familiar voice sounds in his ear. He turns and sees no one; but the voice softly continues.
“If you eat enough Amfissa olives, you may be able to tell the future.”
Standing in front of the olives in the vegetable aisle, Jeffrey isn’t about to hold a conversation with a disembodied voice. All he wants to do is pick up his jar of favorite olives and leave the store, not converse with the air about olives. The voice does remind him of someone, though. Sarah, of course, the voice is clearly Sarah’s voice.
“You might want to buy some wild greens to go along with your olives, Jeffrey?”
He turns to face the voice, and sees Sarah, standing by the eggplant.
Hesitatingly, he says, “I . . . I don’t like hortas, even in the springtime; I only want my olives, thank you.”
Jeffrey can’t believe he’s in a conversation with Sarah about hortas and Amfissa olives. Although, he denies liking wild greens with olives, he really doesn’t have a basis for his comment because he has never tried eating wild greens and olives. He has always eaten Amfissa olives alone. The Amfissa olive is the only olive he knows in life and isn’t about to compromise the taste of his soft, sweet olive that melts in his mouth. Besides, how can he ever allow himself to discuss such intimacies in public with Sarah, a woman he barely knows? Jeffrey feels uncomfortable. He feels as if his life has been split open like a watermelon fallen to the ground. His eating habits are exposed for the first time in his life. Grabbing the olive jar from the shelf, he bolts from the vegetable section to the cash register, pays for his olives, runs out of the market, and boards the train for the safety of the suburbs. He is highly distraught. The event has unhinged him greatly. He’s not seen Sarah for years. His heart explodes with his encounter with her. In the hope of returning to normalcy, he reaches inside the paper bag for his jar of olives. Maybe the tangibility of something he knows will settle his stomach. He clutches the jar to his chest, feeling the tightness in his chest relax and knot in his stomach loosen. He relaxes. His breathing is less shallow. The landscape flickering by brings more contentment to his heart. Before reaching his station, he glances at the jar of olives that has mended his heart and soul and realizes that, in haste, he’s grabbed the wrong jar of olives. They’re Italian olives! Large Sicilian green olives, for God’s sake! He hates Sicilian green olives; their harsh sourer taste grabs his palate, devastating his taste buds.
He will take the jar of olives back to the market and exchange them. However, he does not want to draw any attention to himself. Maybe he’ll simply ditch the olives in the first garbage can he passes? No, his mother always told him, “Waste not, want not.” The olives didn’t deserve to be handled unkindly. They couldn’t help being Italian. “I’ll just put them at the back of the pantry and forget about them,” he thinks. But, then, he thought about all those starving children in China. He couldn’t live with that thought either. Jeffrey walks around the suburbs for hours perplexed by what action he needs to take. He thinks, “I can give the jar of olives away to the first person I meet.” He dismisses that idea too because he will have to expose himself to another person and that person may not want to risk taking olives from a stranger.
A black and white car pulls up along side of Jeffrey.
A police officer steps from the car and says, “Excuse me sir, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, officer,” Jeffrey says in his best honest citizen voice.
“How long have you been walking around this neighborhood, sir?”
Jeffrey thinks before answering.
“Possibly hours, officer. Why, is something the matter?”
“Not necessarily, but we’ve receive several calls from concerned citizens about a stranger walking around her, talking into a bag.”
“Well, that would be me, officer.”
“May I see your identification, please?”
Jeffrey slowly takes his wallet out from his back pocket and hands it to the officer.
“Are you Mr. Jeffrey Ashton Frasier that lives at 1727 Thorn Street?”
Jeffrey nods his head affirmatively.
“Why are you walking around this neighborhood, Mr. Fraiser?”
“Trying to get my bearings, sir.”
“Bearings about what, Mr. Fraiser? You only live two blocks away.”
“Olives, officer; I’m trying to get my bearings about what I should do about buying the wrong jar of olives at Andronico’s this afternoon.”
“Why don’t you take the olives back and exchange them for what you want the next time your in Andronico’s?”
“That’s a good idea, officer; I think I’ll do that.”
“Have a good day, sir,” the officer replies, “And, it’s probably a good idea if you leave this neighborhood, immediately. That will calm your neighbors, who are a little anxious about you walking around, talking in a bag for hours.”
Jeffrey nods and watches the police car move down the street and turn left at the corner. He looks around and the houses and can’t detect anyone watching him. He leaves the area at once and goes back to the station, boarding the train that will drop him two blocks from the market. But, what is he going to do? What will he say? He has never exchanged anything in his life. What happens if he sees Sarah?
Jeffrey stops a half a block away from the market and peers into the window of a shoe store. Not really looking at the shoes, he reviews every scenario the thinks could happen when he enters the market to return the olives. Breathing deeply, feeling he is prepared, Jeffrey enters the Andronico’s.
“Jeffrey, your back. Surprise, surprise,” Sarah greets him, “How can I help you?”
With his eyes averted to the ground, Jeffrey replies, “I like to return these olives.”
“Were the olives spoiled, Jeffrey?”
“No, I didn’t open the jar.”
“You picked the wrong jar of olives in your hurry to leave?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“You don’t like Italian green olives?”
“No, I don’t like the sour taste?”
“Really, Jeffrey. I would have thought green olives would have been your favorite olive of all?”
“No, I like soft, sweet olives that almost melt in your mouth,” Jeffrey replies, not feeling a bit self-conscious.
“You could have fooled me.”
“Why do you say that, Sarah?”
Sarah chooses her words carefully.
“Well, it seems to me, from the little I know about you, that you’re best suited with sour or bitter tasting foods.”
In his mind, Jeffrey acknowledges the truth of what Sarah says.
Taking advantage of the pause, Sarah continues, “Have you ever tasted Italian green olives?”
Before thinking, Jeffrey blurts out, “Not since I was a child.”
“Tastes change over time, Jeffrey, “ Sara responds, “Tell you what; why don’t you try one of those green olives on the house? If you like them, you can keep the jar, free of charge.”
He twists the top off the jar and puts a large green olive with a drop of brine forming on its apex in his mouth and chews slowly. The sour taste is not as jarring as he remembers. The juices of the green olive spread over and under his tongue, creating a burst of succulence with a pleasant taste of lemon or vinegar, making him linger in the moment, not at all the brassy taste he experienced, as a child.
“Not bad, Sarah, not bad at all.”
“Follow me over to the sampling table. I bet you may have an appreciation for foods, you never thought you would ever have?”
All kinds of mezédhes lay on the table—grilled octopus, garlic breads, fava beans, hot pepper walnuts, rice-stuffed vine leaves, fried vegetables, grilled cheeses, sheep, goat, cow, lamb, diced pork stew, meatballs, and all kinds of olives. Sarah skewers a Greek spiced lamb meatball and hands it to Jeffrey.
“Excellent,” Jeff responds, “I’m getting a little thirsty. Anything to drink?”
“The best water in town, Jeff. When you drink water, you savor the full flavor of the dish.” Sarah suggests.
“You’re right, Sarah. I’ve never tasted anything this good before!”
Sarah smiles.
“What’s this, Sarah?” Jeff says as he pops a sauce soaked piece of bread in his mouth.
“Greek bread dipped in Muhammara,” Sara answers, “Like it?”
“What’s not to like?” Jeff exclaims.
He buys pints of everything he’s tasted and a loaf of Greek bread and lots of pita bread. He plans to freeze everything and prepare it for lunch at work for the next week. On his way out, he hugs Sarah and tells her he has had the time of his life. Sarah watches Jeff walk to the train station with a spring in his step, a spring she thinks he has never had before.
The next morning, Jeffrey prepares lunch, having no idea of what it is but assured in the fact that it’s going to be a great lunch and a great day. Waiting for the train, he strikes up conversations about Greek food and delicious Italian green olives with anyone who will listen to him. Boarding the train, he sits where Sarah used to sit. He carries on conversations with everyone. Never once does he peer out the window at the flickering landscape, passing by like sepia flickers.
Entering the print shop, he stops by and sticks his head in the supervisor’s office.
“Sambo, is there any more of that cake left you told me about yesterday?”
Sam jumps out of his chair.
“Hell Jeffrey, you scared the pants off me!”
“Good morning, boss,” came Jeff’s reply.
“What’s come over you?”
“I don’t quite know, but I like it.”
Sam continues, “I think the cake was finished by the end of the day, Jeffrey. Sorry.”
“That’s Okay, boss. Here’s some Greek baklava for you. Have a good day.”
Sam watches Jeffrey bounce back to his desk at the back of the print shop and wonders, “What happened to him?”
At noon, Jeffrey goes up to the employee’s staff room on the second floor and has lunch with his co-workers for the first time. He puts a platter of baklava in the middle of the table and is greeted with stares of disbelief.
“What’s the special occasion?” Millie asks.
“My name is Jeffrey and I’ve worked here for a dozen years and thought it’s about time to have lunch with you.”
Fifteen employees stare at Jeff, not really knowing what to say.
“I know. I’m a little slow to warm up with people.”
A roar of laughter breaks the silence. Some laugh until tears come to their eyes.
“That’s the understatement of more than a decade,” comments Sam, setting off another round of laughter.
Lunch ends. Everyone makes a point to pass by Jeff on their way back to work; they keep patting him on the back and welcoming him to the clan. With everyone gone, Jeff sits for a while, absorbing the feelings welling up from inside of him. He sighs and returns to his desk at the back of the print shop, a different man.
At day’s end, he approaches the front door of the shop to go home bathed in the smiles and greetings of his fellow employees. He walks down the street to the train station, smiling and nodding to everyone that passes him. He sits in his old seat and looks at the landscape passing by. He notices the colors, the names of the stores, and the new buildings going up in lots that had remained empty for years. He looks at the people walking along, recognizes their features and expressions, and muses on how their day is going. He engages a stranger, happening to sit by him, in a long conversation about Greek foods. The man is a gourmet cook and enjoys Jeff’s company. They talk about great restaurants and cultural events taking place in the area. In no time, Jeffrey’s station comes up. Patting the stranger on the shoulder and wishing the gentleman a good day, he leaves, feeling content—but not the contentment of being let alone and isolated, more of the satisfied kind of contentment that follows accomplishing something well.
His walk home from the station takes on a new flavor. He notices and greets the people he passes. Many, who have seen him in the neighborhood for over twenty years have never heard a peep out of him. They stop and turn and watch him. They watch him stops to talk with a man walking his golden retriever. The dog rolls on its back, relaxes with limp paws, and invites affection. Incredibly, his neighbors witness Jeffrey sit on his haunches to pet the dog’s chest and belly.
“What’s the dog’s name?” Jeffrey asks.
“Bishop,” the owner’s replies.
“Bishop . . . that’s an interesting name,” Jeffrey responds.
“Yes, from the House of Bishop’s,” the dog’s owner continues.
“The dog is an Anglican?” quips Jeffrey.
Laughingly the owner says, “No, more like the house I live in is Bishop’s house.”
“So you are the master of your owner’s house, are you?” Jeffrey says, looking Bishop in the eyes and scratching his chest and tummy.
“Okay, Bishop, old boy, we’ve taken enough advantage of this good man’s kindness. It’s off we go.”
“I had a great time Bishop. Thank you, Mr. . . .”
“Jacobson, Phil Jacobson; and you?”
“Jeffrey Frasier.”
“Nice meeting you, Jeffrey. Say good-bye to the kind man, Bishop.”
“The pleasure is all mine, gentlemen.”
Jeffrey watches Phil and Bishop stride away. Walking to the end of Thorn Street, he arrives home and goes straight to the kitchen. He pulls Petra fries and a lamb gyro from the freezer and places it in the micro oven for two minutes and pours a glass of water.
He takes his dinner from the oven and carries it out to the patio behind his house. He places the fries and gyro on the small table in his backyard that looks out to Mount Diablo. The fries are superb; the gyro delicious, and the cool water refreshing. Finished he leans back in his chair and breaths deeply, his eyes leisurely climbing Diablo, a mountain he has never taken time to notice.
“What majestic view,” he thinks.
He reflects on the past two days—the people he’s met, the discussions he’s had, the laughter, connecting with his coworkers, his supervisor, and reconnecting with Sarah.
“What a great life,” he says to himself, “And, what a great Italian olive that was.”
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