Yellow Pants

Yellow Pants

Jumpstart for 3/20/10-4


     Ian just doesn't the the idea of flying under the wire," said, John, my thoughtful, but hyperactive co-worker. Ian was his 10 year old son who was having troubles at school. "He keeps wearing yellow pants to school." The three of us, John, Scott and I trekked through San Francisco's 10-block high-tech district on the prowl for a lunchtime burrito. We were technical writers for a software start-up housed in a glass and steel building overlooking San Francisco's only canal. A block away, the SF Giants battled the LA Dodgers at ATT park.
     John used the expression, "flying under the wire," to describe the high-tech corporate work we do, translating the arcane technology of computer scientists into instructions comprehensible by customers. To fly under the wire is to come to the office, do your work quietly and no draw attention to yourself. "You gotta lay low," he would say, "so you don't get hit by a stray bullet." Then he would list the names of people at the company who didn't lay low, and ended up getting RIF'd--Reduction in Force--laid off.

     Start-ups are the glamour companies of high technology. Every Google, Apple, Microsoft, Youtube and Facebook began as a start-up. The Grandaddy of them all, Hewlett-Packard, invented the concept of the start-up concept in the 1930s and became the early paradigm. The Palo Alto garage where Bill and Dave--names known by every technology worker in Silicon Valley--started the company is a shrine to technology companies everywhere.
     The glamour of start-ups is the idea that with a good idea, hard work, generous stock options and luck, not only can a young college graduate (Steve Ballmer, Jerry Wang) or college drop-out (Steve Jobs, Bill Gates) can become a billionaire, but many hundreds of the early hires can become millionaires. This dream of high-tech lucre drives young employees to work 60 to 100 hour weeks and give up huge swathes of their twenties. However, with the long hours and high-pressure, start-ups, especially those not immediately successful, experience a lot of employee churn--the hiring, firing, quitting and replacement of its skilled workers.

     The place where the three of us worked was old for a start-up. It had been founded, like most start-ups, by three graduate students from Stanford. The company had some interesting technology--software that analyzed software--but never got over the hump and went public with their stock so that workers could cash in their options. It spent its history on the cusp of success, toiling as if, just over the horizon, IPO Valhalla lay if everyone could just work a little harder and smarter.
     Though the dream of IPO riches drove many through the long soul-crushing work weeks, and equal number of us, John and I among them, just wanted a decent job. In any case, this little company made enough money to pay its employees well and rent a sexy office building on the San Francisco Bay. The work environment, however, was infused with tension and a very high employee churn. Unless you were a technical superstar or a 60 hour a week true believer, flying under the wire was a decent strategy for keeping your job.

     Our burritos were still a few blocks away, and John was still rolling. “Ian likes to wear yellow pants,” he repeated. “The girls like it too. They think it shows style. But the 7th grade boys throw basketballs at him when he rides his bike to school. They call him 'piss pants.' I don't want to quash his style, but I told him if he just wore blue jeans he could just fly under the wire. He hears me, but he just doesn't get it.”
     Yellow pants. In September 1968 my mother bought me a pair of yellow pants when I was in 7th grade. I hated them. Over the summer, a growth spurt had rendered all my old grade school pants impossibly small. My thrifty Mom, who no doubt purchased the pants at a 50% off sale at JC Penney's, brought them into my room and laid them on the bed. I was speechless, and, unfortunately, pantless except for the yellow disaster that lay before me. It was Monday morning and school was ten blocks away. I pulled on the yellow pants and ran out he front door. First flak came from my best friend across the street with whom I walked to school every day. “Hey! Look at those pants! Are those your dancing pants? Cool fancy dancing pants, man!” He began dancing an absurd middle school dance that mocked my yellow pants. I had no retort and walked to school in dread and silence.
     In the hierarchy of childhood traumas, the humiliation of a 7th grade boy forced to wear yellow pants to his middle school is not very high, but unlike Ian I was not aware enough to notice if any girls liked those pants or not. As soon as I could, I ditched the yellow pants, and they remained only in the dust heap of bad adolescent memories.
     At the time of our burrito excursion, I was a contractor at the start-up. Each day I rode the train into the City, laid low in my fox hole for 8 hours, then rode the train back home. Contractors are non-permanent employees and are the most expendable and easily laid off. We don't get the perks of regular employees--stock options, insurance, matching 401K plans--but we do get a high hourly pay rate. Still, all contractors have a relatively short expiration date. As the completion of a crucial deadline approached, along the inevitable end of my contract, I asked my boss if I could continue working part time “as long as the company needed me.” It wasn't a great job, but I needed the money.
     “Ok,” she said. Then she promptly forgot the conversation.
     On the day after the deadline she said, “I guess I'll need to get your badge and computer today.”
     
Whaaat?!?! “Um. You said I could work part-time until you didn't have any more work.”
     “Oh,” she said, “I thought you meant part time up until today.”
     “Um. No.”
     A couple of palm-sweating hours later she returned and said that she had talked to her boss and that I could stay until there was no more work. “Great!” I said, relieved. Then I left for the weekend, thinking I'd fly under the wire for at least a couple more months.

     On Monday I arrived at the office prepared to work, but without the pressure of a deadline there was nothing or urgency. I shuffled electronic papers for a while, but by mid-morning a slow realization began to sink in: I had no work to do. I left the office and took a walk around the canal to think: if I asked my boss for work, and she couldn't think of anything, then we would each be looking at each other knowing there was no reason to keep me around.
     In mid-afternoon I stared blankly at my computer screen while my boss, who sat 3 feet away separated only by a small fabric-covered press board divider, clicked busily on her keyboard. My strategy of flying under the wire sputtered like a dying airplane engine. I took another walk along the canal and watched part of the Giant's game on the jumbotron that could be seen outside the stadium. At least those guys have work, I thought glumly. At 5 o'clock I left in a hurry to get to the train station.
     The next day I returned to the slow inevitability of getting canned from my job. After another walk around the canal, I realized that in addition to dread, I felt bored. No one likes to sit in an office chair pretending to do work--do it too long and you lose your soul and become a working zombie. When I returned to the office, for the hell of it, I started reading the oldest fattest technical manual in the company. It was as incomprehensible and as inscrutable as a Zen koan. Like many technical manuals, it was so old and unexamined that its existence had been taken for granted and its unreadability had become ignored. "What a pain for new customers to have to read this," I thought.
     I paged through the manual shaking my head and jotting down questions: What does this mean? How does it work? Why do I have to know this? Obvious questions, but questions not asked unless you analyze this stuff for a living.
     I told my boss about the book. "This manual sucks," I said, then I listed its problems.
     "Interesting," she said. "Andy mentioned the same thing in a meeting I was at today."
     Andy was the Chief Technology Officer of the company. He was a Big Deal. "Maybe," I said, "I could write up some of the problems and see what he thinks." Like many underlings in the company, my boss tried to shield the CTO from interruptions, but to my surprise she said, "Ok."
     I had an ulterior motive for sending an email to Andy. If I could articulate an interesting significant problem--computer programmers think in terms of interesting problems and their counterpart, the elegant solution--maybe I could scratch some work out of this. But to do this, I had to come out of my foxhole and wave a red flag over the problem. I had to convince the technical guru of the company that this interesting problem required an elegant solution by a true visionary—me. That was the first part of the problem. The second part involved deep diving into the guts of excruciatingly esoteric technology and capture it in elegant and clear prose. The creators of this software were computer science PhDs from Stanford. I was a creative writing major/casino card counter from a little college in Lake Tahoe Nevada. To pull this off I had to believe that I was as smart as them--albeit in a different way--and a far superior writer. There would be no flying under the wire for this project. I had to wear the yellow pants.
     That evening I composed a long email to Andy outlining my thoughts and ideas. People don't read long emails in corporate America. They don't have time, or they think that the writer has not taken the time to be concise. This, however, was a complex issue that required my best and most persuasive writing. The first draft was many hundreds of words. Then, like Michelangelo sculpting David, I took my editorial chisel and removed everything that wasn't my vision. After a couple of hours, my David of a technical email was finished. I sent it off.
     The next day, Andy read it and responded! He agreed with my findings and suggested I consult with a couple of software architects. I wrote them immediately.

     In the world of high-technology, the left brain rules. Everything of value--things that make money--start from the brains of extremely intelligent and creative engineers. Near the top of the engineering pyramid are developers, engineers who design and create the features and products you use in, say, email, Adobe Illustrator or the Google search engine. Higher up the pyramid are the software architects who, like exalted Egyptian priests, deign to look at someone's technical problem and/or solution, then render a judgment (elegant solution). Above them are the Distinguished Engineers, who have reached such an elevated level of technical genius that they are seen as Christ-like technical figures who have come to this earthly to show regular engineers the Technical Way. Think Steve Wozniak.
     On the other hand, a company cannot thrive on only left brains. Silicon Valley is littered with dead companies that were controlled by left-brain types who couldn't see the forest because they were focused on a single technical tree. It takes a good right-brained marketing guy to make a company work. Think Steve Jobs.
     The position of technical writer is a weird hybrid between the creative and the technical. On one hand you had to be somewhat creative to figure out how to capture technology in elegant structured prose. On the other hand, you often had to understand extremely complex left-brain technology to capture it. Because of this weird position in the industry, technical writers, often become the kicking dogs of high-tech engineering world. Not technical enough to run with the engineers and not ambitious enough to to kick with the marketing geeks, it's where liberal arts majors go to get a job. The technical writing world has become a computer ghetto of poets, novelists, musicians, painters, activists and lit majors. Many of us do our time, fly under the wire, then go home and try do our own art--make music, take photographs, write poems, do volunteer work, be a great parent.
     Normally software architects ignore email from technical writers, but with Andy's name on the cc line, they paid attention. They argued with my premise, my findings, my grammar, but eventually found salient points on which they could latch on to. Other engineers were drawn into the discussion which soon turned into a company-wide technical debate.
     High tech companies work like that. Once an interesting and useful problem in introduced, the engineering brains of the company argue over the best way to solve it. The best argument prevails and that solution is developed. The key is to articulate an interesting and useful problem. As a writer, however, I was not in the position to argue for a solution. Instead my position was to mediate and gather arguments from various solutions and weave them into a singular useful solution. As arguments ensued, I took the best ideas and integrated it into a compelling vision.
     One morning as I sat at my computer, I nodded to John who just arrived. Before he could settle himself in for a day of work, his manager and his manager's manager called him into a meeting. Ten minutes later he returned to his desk, shaken, and picked up his things. "See you later," he said.
     He quickly walked out the door, but I chased after him and caught him outside. "What's going on?" I said.
     "Got laid, off, man" he said, not looking at me. "It's ok. I'll see you later." Then he walked off.
     The rest of the day was lost. John was right, you could get shot at any time at that place. But it didn't matter if you were laying low or not. I sat at my desk in a daze and left work early.
     The next day, however, I got back to it. I wrote emails, called meetings, walked into engineers offices to gather information. New thoughts and ideas came forth, and I layered them into the vision. At any moment, I felt like I could catch a bullet. No matter, I stood up for my ideas and argued forcefully for them, integrated new ones. Soon I was given time and resources to make the vision happen. A few weeks into the project, my boss, the one who carried my bullet around with her at all times, said, "Hey, good job."
     I don't want Ian to get basketballs thrown at him, but I also don't want to to quash his style for 40 years. Sometimes, a man just has to wear the yellow pants.

my real name -- Dixie

Ozzy was the boy next door
Izzie was my great great aunt
Zazu was our chow chow dog
And Ferris Paris was the cat

My cousin's name was Esmeralda
Once we lived on Rhinestone Lane
I called my Latin teacher Gilda
Father's boat was named Verlaine

At night I dream of other me's
Of Jasmine, Lilith, Xanadu
But morning come I'm back inside
Just Sue

til Dad comes home -- Dixie

Graveyard. Dad always worked graveyard. That made it hard for Mom to threaten us like our friends' moms did. By the time Dad got home, like 8 in the morning, the Dad-worthy transgressions were all forgotten or buried in our dreams far, far away.

"Wow, are you lucky!" Nick would say after one of those big chewing-outs he got from his Dad. "It's like having no dad!"

"No way," I'd explain loudly. "He yells at us good, it's just during the day."

But no one believed me, even if my brothers tried to confirm it by showing their ripped shirts and black eyes. We didn't want our dad to be weird. But the truth was, the little guys ripped their own shirts and gave each other black eyes, like boys do. It was never Dad. Not only did he work graveyard, but he didn't whack us around, or Mom, and he hardly ever yelled even when he hit his own thumb with a hammer.

We wished we had a normal dad, but we didn't, so the other kids teased us and called us the lucky ducks, and it took us like forever to realize they were right.

2010 prompts

1/2/10-2/20/10
1. the missing link
2. egret on snow
3. it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers
4. the test is graded by outside sources
5. that might even happen tonight, right?
6. refigerator art
7. the right door
8. the center of the house
9. my real name
10. My grandfather lied to my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family. PLUS We were drinking champagne and losing our shirts.
11. I was dressed in a completely inappropriate shade of pink. PLUS I decided the only solution was to seduce him.
12. the naket tree
13. must of just been the day
14. changing the subject
15. til Dad comes home

It will kill him to hear that / 9/19/09 Melinda Jean

It’ll kill him to hear that.
He’s already dead in ways that lie dormant
Like a frightened possum
The more you poke the stiller it gets.
A funny reaction.
Really the thought of telling him originally is to wake up this that is dead.
To have the presence of exchange.
The frame that is promised initially is trust.
Yet the other can have criteria that are
Cradles from the past
Fall or rock, you take the chance
It seems every time
You take the chance,
Believing that a place of safety and connection
Can be created
For that underground world of the dead.

Why We Broke up in the First Place 9/19/09 / Melinda Jean

Why we broke up in the first place
Second place
And third
Home base and he’s out.

It seems chilly in the before thought of breaking up.
Chiller still after. The silent absence weighted like a bottomless pit.
Topless, I can imagine her boobs saying desperately, reaching for home plate. Yet the referee shouts “out,” it’s too late, too late.

For the guy it’s some image you don’t quite match.
For the woman, the loss is the consistency, and she’ll notice it missing.
The elevator going up but there is no floor.
The stakes get higher, rising
Each floor more baggage is added.
And then it’s like a stroke.
That irregular cut off that effects the existence of the relationship itself.
Some strokes you survive, others
Well, it’s the reason you broke up in the first place.

How to be Happy / Dec 12, 09 / Melinda Jean

Reach out
Stay in
Pull the stray lingering hairs off your sweater.
Pet the curls of kitties.
Graze on all the frozen grass
Drink the cocoa, hot
Make your bed
Make-up your face
Listen to sirens knowing
they’re going to help.
Know things change
Put on a new thing
Reach, stay, linger
Pet, graze, drink
Make, listen
Help, know
Change.

Momentary Lapse of Irresponsibility / Melinda Jean

He saw her through the window. She was in her curlers pealing apples from the tree. It was late or fall, the clocks moving forward backwards, he didn’t know. He pulled the squeaky screen door. She turned. The bowl half-full, pieced apples that had been cut away from the worms.
“I feel bad, I’m taking away their homes, but most of them have left their hollows.” She was talking about the worms, he smiled.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started. An apron was taut around her melon belly; it pressed against the porcelain sink. She turned the water off. The tap drip, drip dripping.
She saw in his hand a golden shaped dolphin. He’d given her a sliver one when they meet; he had traded some artwork.
“You think, I think, married is, we should. Do you want to?” He had moved closer, her belly pushing into him.
It was dark out but still early. She thought maybe they could make it.

Scissors with black handles / Melinda Jean

The idea, owning her own. Grandmother was a seamstress and her anxiety around Andrea using them made sewing a task not a pleasure, which she dearly resented as the smell of fabric, could seduce her.
The sound the paper pattern made when her hand swept across the crinkles flattening it onto the cotton print. Pinning each long pin with its brightly colored balls on top. When the brown shaped tissue lie with all the pin-tops showing she felt she was part of some tiny celebration, a carnival of sorts. Then moving the blackhandled scissors the sharp precise blades coming together as the fabric fell to either side freeing it into the possibilities of becoming something. The thoughts of the finished dress, putting it on and all the places she could go dazzled her. Excitement filled her limbs. She almost shook with happiness as she pressed each seam through the zipper foot. The singer clomp clomping along, the rhythm of her own life, her own dress and one day her own scissors.

Refrigerator Art / Melinda Jean

To her it was art. The pictures of her niece and nephew, the Chronicle’s worn photo of the Obamas gleefully all hand and hand in coordinated colors.
To Him it was clutter.
She moved a few feet away, “How’s that?”
He moaned then smiled.
From year to year the pictures of her beautiful niece with the beautiful brown eyes, younger in black and white and then later in color. She was special you could tell. Her mom in other photo leans in exuberant, a single mom their close relationship beaming back from the cream refrigerator.
She took off a few more.
He allowed the eye clutter not to disturb him.
They had been together for years.

Refrigerator Art- Cyndi

She stood and stared into the open fridge trying to decide what to eat, or even if she wanted to eat anything at all. She knew it was mealtime, but she just didn't feel that hungry, and with no one else in the house she thought it was kind of pointless to cook very much anymore. Slowly she shut the door part way until the light went out and she caught a glimpse of paper held up by magnets on the other side. She leaned against the door, shutting it all the way and relaxed her body- almost as if she were embracing the old appliance. There were more and more pieces of colored papers all over the fridge- wrinkled, tattered and faded from the passing of the years. She gave in and let herself wander down the path of times past, when the house bustled with the chatter of childrens voices. And it was not just her own that had filled the space that was now so empty around her. There had always been a parade of friends in and out, having meals and snacks, hanging out and adding to the general revelry that always seemed to be a part of their home. She tentatively reached out her hand to touch the worn pictures and recalled the preschool days of finger paints and learning the alphabet. Then came the grade school years with each kid in turn doing the same required art projects, only putting their own slant on it when it was their turn and making it uniquely theirs. Middle school brought academic awards and certificates and the poor fridge had overflowed as the papers gradually crept onto the side wall of the kitchen. They were taped in place, lower at first as far as the little arms could reach, and slowly the artwork climbed higher and higher as the kids grew. They had been reluctant to remove any, so the wall eventually became a gallery of sorts. Eventually some of the lower ones were taken down, as the dog they had begged for, started ripping into them.

Now the kids were grown and gone and there was nothing new from them to grace the sacred space. At first there had been postcards and a few letters, but now they only communicated by phone or email. You can't post that on the fridge! She sighed and opened the door again. Life moves on and so must she. She reached in and grabbed a plate of leftovers to warm in the microwave.

-Cyndi
January 16, 2010