by David D. Horowitz.
“But someone with your educational background shouldn’t settle for being a conference room attendant at some law firm!”
“Well, I love the job, and it fits my overall life plan.”
“But you have a master’s degree in English! You’ve taught, you’re educated…”
“Yes, and I know academic life is not always a writer’s most congenial environment.”
“Well, okay,” my college student friend conceded. “But I still don’t understand it.”
Indeed, for almost seventeen years, before retiring in 2017, I worked as a “conference room attendant” for the hospitality department of a Seattle law firm. I typically serviced five floors of a downtown high-rise, each featuring two kitchens and several with conference rooms to which I often delivered food and beverages. I refilled coffee-maker hoppers and bins; wiped food-stained countertops spotless; restocked dishes, utensils, and office supplies; and catered parties celebrating employee marriages, childbirths, promotions, awards, and philanthropy. I set out countless ice buckets brimming with bottles of craft ale, European-brand lager, and fruit-flavored sparkling water. I learned the difference between a chardonnay and a cabernet, and I typically served the former chilled and the latter at slightly cooler than room temperature. I learned how to place tongs and serving spoons on the platters of Brie, cheddar and provolone slices, four kinds of crackers, hummus, finger-food veggies, ranch dressing, and whatever else was ordered from our cafeteria. I made sure the spinach-artichoke dip and pasta and sauce stayed hot in their chafers, and I swept up the residue of the occasional broken wine or champagne glass. I cleaned microwave ovens, sinks, dishwashers, and refrigerators, rigorously separating recyclable and compostable items from garbage. And I knew who was primarily a Husky fan and who was a Seahawk freak, who rooted for the Mariners and who rooted for the Cubs or Red Sox or Yankees or Twins, who opined about politics and who did not. And this job helped me sustain my publishing company, Rose Alley Press.
I sold hundreds and hundreds of poetry books to fellow employees. They’d buy from genuine literary interest, gratitude for a favor, as a gift for a relative, or as a talisman by which they could remember me. I washed what seemed like millions of filthy dishes and wiped down more stained countertops than there are waves in Puget Sound on a windy afternoon. And I comforted the occasional tense or annoyed employee visiting a kitchen to get a break and some fresh perspective. I started as a temp, but an opening emerged, and I applied and stayed—and stayed. I loved the job and felt lucky to have it. But it was a means to an end: publishing poetry, particularly books featuring contemporary Northwest rhymed metrical poetry—my own and that of many fellow poets. I dashed around five floors tending to fine details—and I likely used hundreds of Post-It Notes, slips of paper, and napkins to jot down observations and rhymes, albeit respecting the firm’s privacy: “cup of coffee/photocopy”; “corporate board/extension cord”; “cheddar/chatter.” My feet were on the ground, but my mind was on a flight path to poetry. Some could barely hear my jet passing overhead, but they might faintly glimpse a contrail and sense something deeper was occurring than my merely earning money.
And, of course, virtually all of us have a flight path passing far above the details of our jobs and chores, conflicts and companionships, paychecks and payments, and strolls and sprints. For one person this entails commitment to a church-managed charity, and for another it means money to donate to a political activist’s campaign. For this person it means a trip to Europe to visit museums she’s dreamed of seeing her entire life, and for that person it means the trip to Disneyland his kids have been dreaming of for five years. Somewhere in back of “hello” and the obligatory courtesies of mundane co-existence is the larger sense of purpose, a goal few others might understand or share but which requires singular commitment to fulfill.
Like most Americans I had numerous jobs during my work career: college English teacher and tutor, telemarketer, dishwasher, softball umpire, library book reshelver and document retriever, data entry temp, and hospital office clerk, and the list goes on. But all along my goal was to nurture my commitment to literary creativity—to write poems, to publish poems and poetry books, and, above all, to stay an authentic person.
Yes, many times in my life people have wanted me to be something I wasn’t, and I could sense they were disappointed in my wariness about joining movements and groups. For this person I wasn’t liberal enough. For that person, I wasn’t conservative enough. For this person, I wasn’t successful enough and should relentlessly market my writing. For that person, I was too committed to success, but I didn’t make enough money and should get the kind of job that would allow me to buy a house, raise a family, and settle down. No, no, advised another: I shouldn’t buy a house and should just get wild and crazy and high and party all night long. No, no…
I simply strove to stay considerate, authentic, literary, and diligent, and I trusted in my flight path to help me reach my destination: writing and promoting good poetry, particularly finely crafted formal Northwest verse. That’s me. My jet is not going to be diverted, hijacked, or downed. I will not change my flight path simply because it can feel a little lonely in my part of the sky. But I’ve had my share of companions, and I’ve cultivated and maintained a strong sense of purpose. In my late teens I married poetry, and divorce is not on the horizon; the view from up here is still marvelous.