As the spring of 1971 drew to a close, I enjoyed my first
great triumph in the professional world. We met our deadlines—all of them. I spent
the week before the “due date” delivering big boxes of planning reports while
the staff furiously completed the mapping and assembling the remainder. Soon, smiles
seasoned with relief showed all around the office from our success.
True to our pact, the two Bobs at the printing shop and I
had become true friends. They taught me much about the techniques of printing
and I gave them due credit. In addition to learning about printing, I also
learned a lesson that is indispensable in the professional world. Great projects,
most often, require a team effort, and you had better know and respect your teammates.
That’s all I have to say about that.
We each received a hundred-dollar bonus for getting the jobs
out on time. Since I had never received a bonus of any sort in my life, I hadn’t
known what to expect. I didn’t think it was a lot for all the extra hours we
had pulled. I also thought maybe I deserved a little extra for saving my bosses
butts, so to speak. But, I figured it was their money and they could dole it
out as they pleased. It was best that I accept the fact. I think I had read that
somewhere.
Besides, I had also read somewhere that I should not be
anxious about anything, but let my requests be known elsewhere. It was good advice
that has gotten me through many a jam. I’m sure there are many throughout
history who have performed greater things and received less gratitude. Further,
too much focused concentration on ingratitude can burn one’s soul like the sun’s
rays focused through a magnifying glass burns an ant. Ask any Vietnam War
veteran.
Anyway, I took my bonus with a smile and went on my way. I
repaid some small debts to my father with part of it. Then I bought a good bottle of
Scotch whisky and drove to Fayetteville the next weekend to party with my
friend, Mike Dunkum. The rest I spent on silly stuff.
May came, and we tenants learned that we best be looking for
new quarters, as the grand old structure in which we lived faced imminent demolition.
That was my first encounter with the strangely American custom of demolishing the
elegant and grand to make way for the cheap and gaudy. There’s a shabby parking
lot now where that handsome building stood. Ironically, Americans spend billions
each year traveling to see cities where they don’t demolish old structures, except
for purposes of waging war.
Some would say that we are fortunate in not having our cities
destroyed by bombs but by peaceful neglect, avarice, and worship of the automobile.
Who can say?
Knowing the city better now, I could search for a new place
to live with more confidence than before. I knew that the Capitol Hotel was a
whorehouse and was no option despite continued jokes that I check it out. (It
is beyond interesting to know that it was one fine old building they never demolished
and that it is now one of the city’s brightest treasures.) I knew it didn’t
make any sense whatsoever to live any great distance from where one worked. I
knew I still couldn’t afford much. I knew that I was beginning to like Little Rock.
And I knew that I’d best find something soon.
Something drew my attention to Carptebagger Hill. Stretched
along the north side of that portion of Cantrell Road known as Lincoln Boulevard
was a large house converted to apartments, along with three separate apartment
buildings. The easternmost proved the most expensive. The westernmost was the
oldest and cheapest. Moreover, it offered furnished units with air conditioning.
Not far from Downtown, the apartment building stood on land
previously occupied by a Methodist school, so perhaps there was a bit of holiness
remaining. I thought maybe I would take a look. Maybe there was a future awaiting me atop that hill.
Little did I know.
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