John Singer Sargent: Study for the Prophet Obadiah,
Boston Public Library (1892-1894)

"I'm no prophet …"

Now that The Muse serves as an elected Port Commissioner, she finds herself under increasing demand. She's already been invited to join several non-profits as a board member or advisor, her electoral success perhaps perceived as a transferable skill. She remains wary since she's not yet fully aware of all her Commissioner role might demand of her, but she accepts the invitations if only to learn what's going on here. She's seen as one of the powerful now. Like anywhere, this valley benefits from many non-profits focusing on helping the less fortunate. They try to provide safety nets but often fail to fully satisfy the needs. The poor will, indeed, always be with us. These organizations employ armies of dedicated people and many volunteers, paying back and paying forward what their success afforded them.

The Muse sometimes insists that I tag along. She repeatedly nurses the fantasy that I might volunteer or serve on one of those boards, though I accompany her in my role of Arm Candy rather than as a potential recruit. She seems to thrive in these gatherings while I quietly slip to some corner where I hope to prove indistinguishable from the wallpaper. I wear my mask, which renders my speech incomprehensible. With the background milling-around noise, I can only make out a little of what anyone else says. I smile beneath my mask and nod my head while The Muse engages. I struggle to make sense of the business.

My internal dialogue then tends toward scathing self-critique. I prefer to be seen as tall, dark, and dashing, effortlessly engaging, but I suspect I seem more sullen. I will not very often agree to a glass of wine, the preferred social lubricant in this wine valley, if only because my mask prevents me from sipping. Nor do I agree, for the same reason, to munch anything from the donated charcuterie board. Everyone around me grows increasingly animated while I stand baffled by the gathering's purpose. I seem to be the only one not connecting with some long-lost best friend. The Muse fails to catch my eye while people hug and chatter around me. She had wanted to introduce me to the executive director, but I'd slipped further into the wallpaper.

Part of my job there might be to remind The Muse that she's not indispensable. While it might seem nice to help just this once, she has already allocated most of her time to other causes. Supper's still late most evenings, delayed until after one of her meetings, and she's already missing most of every day. With the other car out of commission, I often feel abandoned while she's out on another of her missions. I have my work to focus on, and she has her responsibilities; sometimes, the twain almost meet.

I was fortunate to enjoy limited success in my careers. I was able to successfully avoid assuming many lofty titles and never qualified for any of those much-vaunted stock options that would have allowed me to retire young to become someone's prime benefactor, even if I wanted to. I'm nobody exceptional. I do not enjoy leisure, and I've yet to find myself bored enough even to consider taking up golf. I consider it my ethical imperative not to tell others what I think they should do, lest I rob them of the potential to discover for themselves. This world sometimes seems bound for Hell without handbaskets. While I sincerely appreciate the intentions behind the invitations, I'm no prophet, no soothsayer, and nobody's benefactor, so I usually wisely choose to disappear into the wallpaper.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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