Nobody Reads This Page – “Calendar Crossed”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.” – Oscar Wilde

 

When pursuing career goals, earlier in my life, keeping track of days was undeniably important. Everything I did throughout the calendar year, literally every waking moment, was governed by some sort of schedule. I arrived on-time and eager, at venues around my home area, and the country. Feeling a motivational sense of purpose. I was, at least it seemed, a necessary component of many groups, relating to business, family, friendships, and such. It mattered that I was present. My value as a human entity could not be disputed. Every moment seemed to be doled out with that credo in mind. To be always on the go. Moving, watching, studying, and learning. As part of a continuing education and pursuit of serving others.

 

But one crisp, fall day in October of 2016, that benevolent paradigm was dashed forever.

 

My last work shift as a business manager arrived with little drama. I woke early, showered, had coffee and toast, watched a local news broadcast from Cleveland, and departed feeling a bit like a mechanical device with its inner-spring overwound. There were no warning bells or sirens audible as I drove a familiar route to reach my employer. No trumpets blaring from the skies. Nothing appeared to be amiss. It was indeed, a rather boring day to be alive.

 

I suspect that those who perish in an accident of some sort must have had a similar rush of emotion at the end. A chilling, terminal burst of recognition that overwhelmed all their senses, broke up their fragile bones, and blinded their vision. With no opportunity left for protest or debate over what occurred. That confrontation with mortality was in mind as I sat listening to owners of the firm where I labored.

 

“Thank you for your service here, we appreciate all that you have done, sir. With that being said, your position is now redundant. You will receive a small severance, paid over the next few weeks. Please leave the building immediately. And keep in mind that what we say about your exit will be determined by what you say. This separation can and should be on friendly terms. Otherwise, legal action may result to recover the generous compensation being offered here...”

 

My mouth went completely dry, something I had never experienced before. I shook hands with everyone in the office, expressed my gratitude for seven years of employment, and departed without engaging anyone else in conversation.

 

At home, my Black Lab was confused. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. I should not have returned so soon, after starting a regular work day. I sat in my favorite recliner, and drank a cold brew.

 

To quote a line from one of my poems, written during a turbulent time of personal woe, ‘That was how the story ended.’

 

I had originally believed that despite the onset of mobility issues, which involved the use of a cane to get around, my return to the ranks of laborers-for-hire would be swift. My management career had spanned decades. I carried a competent resume, full of documentation. On the list were five different retail chains, all of which had contributed to my skill set. I did not worry over finding another place to land. Despite being unprepared for this kick-to-the-curb, I felt sure that new opportunities would arrive, for expanding my own horizons.

 

That assumption was completely incorrect. Only with the passage of weeks and months did I realize that my unemployment was likely to be a permanent status.

 

There were many new realities to consider, as this era of solitude began. But most vexing of all, at first, was being disconnected from the calendar, and clock. After such an extended period of chasing intangible goals, I found myself rooted in circumstance. I was, literally, on an island of irrelevancy. Nothing mattered, from sunrise to sunset. I would sometimes rise in the wee hours, make coffee, and putter at my desk in the home office. Or walk my pooch, long after midnight. Sometimes, even sit outside on the front porch, with an adult refreshment, just to feel the cold, damp breeze of an early morning in its chronological infancy.

 

Living alone meant no one chided me for keeping to such an odd schedule.

 

With a progression of years, my infirmities multiplied. I grew more handicapped, and yet able to cope with strategies tested by a patient routine of trial-and-error experiments. When my beloved pet eventually reached his own limit of physical endurance, his death snapped the final bond I retained to any sort of responsibility. One day literally assumed the characteristics of another. I was in a cocoon of nebulous nothingness.

 

I stopped hanging a printed document for charting weeks and months on the kitchen wall. That venerable tradition had lost its meaning, in my household.

 

This development was a precursor to transcending time itself. Much like Doctor Who, I was now a traveler through dimensions of space and progression. Able to surpass the everyday discipline of regular folk, while soaring across the cosmos.

 

These things came to mind recently, when explaining to my niece that I had lost track of my days. She spoke about a holiday that was approaching, and I did not perceive it to be drawing near. Moreover, it did not register with importance, as before. We must celebrate? Honor an anniversary of sorts? Because it was deemed important with a reminder on the calendar? The idea had become, for me, quite preposterous.

 

A weekend had passed, but I thought it must be Saturday. Befuddlement caused me to shake my head. Who was right, and which of us was wrong?

 

The end result came as an epiphany. My life-path had been altered. She and I were now on opposite sides of the veil. Her own needs reflected marriage, motherhood, and family stewardship. All noble causes to be honored and cherished.

 

And I was, simply, an old man in a singlewide box. Creaky, cranky, and very much on my own.