SEPTEMBER by Asterisk*

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-435020087790887201.post-10021860549653229752007-12-28T05:02:00.000-08:002007-12-28T05:04:12.091-08:00SEPTEMBER by Asterisk*My days as Sydney’s assistant were long and empty, as long and empty as the corridor that I frequently walked up and down in my boredom during the afternoon-slump hours when the light was especially dim back there. I always had the impression that something exciting was happening just out of my reach, and I was purposefully being excluded from all of the activity. When I was first brought to my new office, one of the drawbacks of my seva to which Joan alerted me was not to let any of Gurumayi’s other secretaries “use me” for any of their projects. “You are here to act as Sydney’s assistant, and no one else. It may seem convenient for them to ask you to do things when they’re really busy, but you’ll be really busy too, and it’s important that you accomplish all that Sydney needs you to,” she said forebodingly and peered out at me from over the tops of her spectacles. Despite Joan’s warning, at times I would desperately walk down the hall to Lucy’s and Margot’s office and ask them if they needed help with anything. They were rarely at their desks, and when I heard their sweet laughing voices down the hall, I was always eager to seek out actual human contact and drop by. I would ask their stressed-out faces, “Good morning, may I help you out with something?” They were always cutting things out of construction paper, inflating balloons, or sketching at their desks with expensive, brightly-colored markers. “Thanks, Hilda. We’re good for now.” We would exchange a few sentences of small talk, both of them too intent on their tasks to look up at me. They were always kind to me, but never warm. I knew I was bothering them, so our interactions were usually brief. It was never fully clear to me what their roles were. In this environment, so much was left unspoken that I always had to deduce what was occurring based on overheard whispered words or obscure memos that I happened to catch a glimpse of. I was never sure, but I thought that Lucy’s seva had something to do with Gurumayi’s “interiors” and Margot’s seva has something to do with keeping high-profile guests happy. One rare day when Lucy was alone in the office, we exchanged a little more than small talk. She confided in me that she had once been married years ago, well before she ever moved into the Ashram. Lucy was a petite brunette who had an understated elegance about her, and she always dressed meticulously except for one consistent disheveled detail. That one disheveled detail made her seem “artistic,” if not “eccentric.” I was not surprised to hear that she once had a failed romance with a gorgeous stud who rode a motorcycle. “Sometimes I would be waiting for him by my darkened window,” she shared wistfully, “and I was so comforted by the sound of his cycle revving up as he rounded the corner at 10pm on Tuesdays.” She sighed. “Did you like being married?” I asked her. “At that time, yes, I did.” She answered truthfully, frowned, and then proceeded to whip out a massive eraser from her desk drawer. She began to erase a line from her sketch of a shelf she was working on. Lucy had a degree in architecture, and presumably she was designing something to be used in Gurumayi’s house. When she began erasing under the bright light of her office lamp, I knew our talk about her previous failed marriage was over. I would never get to know what happened. I would never get her advice. I was a gawky young teenager, and she was a pretty woman with a past. She shut down and would never tell me what I needed to know. I took the hint, and started to open her door with my head down. “Oh Hilda, could you bring this sketch to Sydney for me? Thanks,” she gently requested. Weeks and weeks into my new seva position, I still had no projects I needed to work on, nor did I see or speak with Sydney regularly. Sometimes I would go into her glamorous office with its curved white marble desk, upholstered slate-blue chairs, fancy filing cabinets, large-screen television, and just sit there in the dark with the plush crème carpeting massaging my bare feet. Her window overlooked the deck of Anugraha Amrit, and whenever I looked out of it, I never saw anyone in sight outside. It was if the Ashram was deserted, both inside and out. The sky in South Fallsburg was usually so overcast in September, and I felt cold and privileged looking out at it from my borrowed luxurious expanse. I consciously “forgot” to water her plant in a feeble attempt of passive-aggressive expression, but I did manage to straighten her many stacks of papers for her or dust the parts of her desk that were not covered by newspapers, books, or post-its. Every day Lucy would give me important reports to post on Sydney’s bulletin board, and every day I had to shred the previous reports first thing in the morning. These reports usually listed the arrivals and departures of important people visiting the Ashram, or detailed the anniversaries or birthdays of various people of note. Sometimes room numbers were listed under these headings, but usually it seemed to be a straightforward memo meant to help someone “special” appear omniscient. I was almost certain that Lucy posted a similar report in Gurumayi’s house. Once in a while, I would get a knock at my door. That sound brightened my day, as it meant that someone needed me or wanted to talk to me. It broke up my quiet, dull days of ubiquitous Internet surfing and occasional phone answering. In these instances a cheerful, “confidential” sevite would greet me and present me with a sealed folder marked “private.” Sometimes these folders were even marked with a provocative “confidential” stamp. These folders were always colored-coded, though this never occurred to me until months and months went by and I gained the courage to start opening them. I would usually phone Sydney when these deliveries occurred, as I was never sure if these folders contained timely information, but she typically never picked up my calls. Sometimes as many as four folders at a time would sit in the center of my carefully-cleaned modern desk, right next to the running list of messages I was meant to deliver to Sydney. My seva role seemed sillier in light of the fact that Sydney had an Ashram voice mail, as well as a cell phone with its own voice mail. A part of me worried that things were slipping through the cracks, though I reasoned to myself that the items that were being fielded to me must not have been that important anyway. The really, really important people could always reach Sydney directly via her cell phone, and she would be sure to always pick up for them. MartaSzabohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554422492794060801martaszabo@yahoo.com