#368

When Megan came to work with me recently, she said, "I can't wait until you get upgraded. Then you'll have an office." Awkward silence. Actually, it wasn't awkward at all; I explained that I hadn't earned an office yet – either by recognized achievement and commitment or boldness, or whatever it takes. And at my work, most of us are in – what I'll call – a wide-open, common workspace, Google-style, so to speak, as they implemented the layout when they briefly owned us and moved us to downtown Chicago. I'm very grateful; we have an awesome space. It's true that directors and VPs have doors and offices. My daughter knows I work hard. She knows I was laid-off and rehired. And maybe that kind of corporate ascension skips a generation? Papa Mike did his part, ending in CEO-ships of roughly billion dollar companies (we'll see if he asks me to strike that; I'll assure him my readership is small; no need for undue modesty). Meg's grasping for the word – upgraded? – for, presumably, 'promoted,' was cute. Meg is a smart little thing, and wonderfully – and sometimes unwonderfully – lacking any kind a confusing or punch-pulling filter. I always know her mood, what she's thinking. Not so with Michael, he of the one word answers. Especially when texting. Me: "How was your game?" (He is playing in a season-ending tournament today.) Michael's return text: "Good." What is implied by my question: Did you win? Did you pitch or play third? Did you get any hits? Any extra base hits? Was it a close game? Did Paulie or Joe or Andrew pitch? What the hell happened? Details! What is implied by Michael's answer: Good. And so it goes. But I think it's lethargy, and nothing like detachment, angst, or attitude. I could be naive, and wrong, but when I pry for those details he seems magnanimous in giving them. For example, upon clarification, he didn't pitch, he singled a few times, and they won the first game 7 - 0 and the second 4 - 2. Next game starts in 25 minutes. Go Michael!