Tuesday, May 31, 2011

2008 Volvo…Monday…2:17 a.m.…77 m.p.h….

What is there to say when the unspeakable is…?
The phrase escapes me. Ironic, given that I earn my living telling corporate stories, crafting annual sagas illustrated with compelling financials for the benefit of key stakeholders, these being consumers and investors.
Visited—that’s the word.
When the unspeakable is visited upon you.
Upon your family.
Your child.
            Like the rest of America, I’d read the headlines, watched the crime docutainments, consuming the re-warmed cold cases and counting the minutes before the doors were kicked in and justice was served at the top of the hour. But it was all at arm’s length—or farther—viewed on silent screens while I emailed clients from airports where men like myself—husbands and fathers on vacation—grew annoyed with looping questions from their children.
            Kids like my son.
            I have nothing but questions of my own now, endless fodder for frustration. But the irritation isn’t there. Where is the anger that once smoldered around me every morning on the drive into Manhattan and lingered after heated discussions with finance guys?
            What I wouldn’t give to be pissed off right now.
            Gwen has her yoga, her women’s groups, her centeredness.
            I have inertia.
            Just north of Stamford, a sign along I-95 announces Vacancy at a motel with an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. Proof that there’s nothing like the hospitality of the American road.
            In this spirit, I extend an invitation to rage:
Come on in.
Visit anytime.
            But I already have a guest—my conscience—a presence both quiet and unfailingly polite.
            I pray that riding shotgun with me will change that.

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