This is truly a mysterious process; I'm hoping neuroscience will shed some light in the future. (Peter!) But I, and the many people I've worked with on memoirs all discover that if you start writing about some hazy memory, way back in your past; and then if you choose another old image in your mind from another time, and another and another, before long your mind is able to recognize that you do really want to recover some of the stuff it has filed away in the stacks of your library.
So, it delivers you little prizes, like that day when you were maybe six, holding your grandma's hand, walking down a street, learning the names of all the different trees by their distinctive leaves and barks.
***
My car has had a longstanding love affair with Minis, and almost from the first week I joined my current company, necessitating a commute down 101 each workday to Redwood Shores, it (my car) and I have been drawn to a certain orange Mini, whose owner apparently lives near to us, works similar hours to ours, parks in the same parking lot, and works somewhere on one of other five floors of our six-story building!
Today, for the first time ever, my car insisted on parking next to the Mini. They were snuggled together in a two-car segment of our parking garage, away from all the other vehicles. I'm not sure what transpired on this, their first day in such proximity ever, but I did notice tonight, as I fired up my car's engine, a certain bounce in his step and smile on his grill.
Odds are that sometime I'll get to hold the door or punch an elevator button for the pretty Asian woman who owns that orange Mini. But I doubt she will give me more than a passing glance. So, unlike her car, which knows how my car feels, she'll never know she has a secret admirer curious about who she is, what she does, and what she keeps in her glove compartment, for starters.
***
In Safeway tonight, I caused a small scene. The young checkout clerk, a very short Latina with dyed blond hair and a nice smile, didn't recognize two of the items I had purchased -- kumquats and daikon. She frantically tried to locate them on her product list, but she was visibly having trouble. Other customers in line piped up, trying to be helpful.
One woman in the next row, with steel gray hair and a friendly face, offered: "They are like miniature oranges. Why don't you look under citrus?"
Then, to me, she asked, "They're pretty bitter, aren't they?"
This distracted the clerk, who looked up at me and asked, "How do eat them?" I couldn't think how to answer so I made a motion of just popping one of them into my mouth and crunching it. I added a satisfied smile and rubbed my belly afterward.
The ever-helpful woman in the next row had a question: "You just eat them, skin and all, right?"
I offered the same non-verbal response to her, for some reason words were escaping me. Then, "I don't know, maybe some people put them in drinks."
A flurry of additional suggestions from all around us helped the fumbling clerk realize that kumquat started with a "k", not a "c" as she had supposed.
"I remember the price, if that would help," I said. "They are $3.99/pound." (My bag of less than half a pound ended up costing $1.72.
Next, the rather large daikon I had chosen presented this poor clerk with a whole new problem. "It's a type of radish," an elderly black woman suggested. The girl looked up at me and said, "So how do you eat this one?"
"Well, I slice it thinly and eat it raw or I put it into Miso soup."
"Ah ha," she said, but I could feel that what she really meant was, "You are really a weirdo, mister." Not unkindly, mind you. At this moment, I looked up to lock eyes with an extremely attractive Asian woman in the next row, who though eavesdropping on our chaotic exchanges, never uttered a word.
I felt that her expression softened ever so slightly as we looked at each other. Maybe it was the Miso Soup reference that caused her momentary interest in me, who knows. When I glanced back at her, she didn't return the favor.
Safeway trains their clerks to say thank you and then pronounce your name when they hand you your sales receipt. When our commotion came to its blessed conclusion, my little clerk struggled to express, "Thank you, Mr. Wire?"
"Weir," I politely but firmly corrected her. "It's a hard name to pronounce, I know." Again the Asian woman and I looked at one another; probably I hoped she was a Deadhead and might fall for the possibility that I was Bob.
That, at least, would be a conversation starter.
Do you see why I consider standing in line at Safeway just about as good as life gets? If you ever really made a lasting connection in such a place, someone would reach out and make sure you'd meet again. Or, at least post a message to "Missed Connections" on Craigslist, right?
But you've got to be looking to do that sort of thing, not just absorbing whatever comes at you, which is my approach to life these days.
***
In between these various episodes, I got to see most of my 12-year-old's basketball game. It was an exciting game with a disappointing finish, as they lost 23-28. But he is emerging as a team leader and a star. He swished a basket, stole at least four passes, grabbed some rebounds, blocked some shots, and had some assists.
When he plays as hard as he did tonight, he ends up coated in sweat, cut in several places (tonight on his arm and forehead) and red-faced, dehydrated. I bought him a drink, and the he sat with his friends to watch the girls' JV team play.
Up with the parents, from afar, I envied him. To be that young and passionate, smart, beautiful, competitive and engaged is the kind of 12-year-old boy I never got to be.
Luckily, I get to write about him. Because writing about me at his age would be a song of sadness and regret, the story of a boy who would have liked to have been like my sons, but in fact was very different: Alone, sickly, left to his own wild fantasies, none of which would ever come true.
What I would give to be able to have done as Aidan did tonight, driving around a defender toward the basket from the left side, then suddenly pulling up and sending the ball gracefully arcing through the air and down through the hoop -- all net. Or, reading his opponent's eyes and racing in front of the intended recipient of a pass to intercept, and start his own team's fast break toward the other end of the court.
Or, to time his jump, and rip the ball away from others for a rebound.
It is nice stuff. Poetry in motion.
***
We have some potentially exciting news in our corner of Silicon Valley. We are launching a new product called SmartMatch. It is a content block that you can place on your own blog or website (for free) and it updates automatically. It is topic-based, meaning if you are interested in specific topics only, it will refresh your block regularly with the latest and best stories from our vast database of publications.
Best of all, we will pay you for driving traffic to our site!
So, you heard it right here first. This may be the next big thing on the web. My colleagues and I have been working on this for months. If you are interested in setting up a beta version of SmartMatch on your website or blog, please let me know, and I will help you through the process.
I have been testing the product yesterday and today and I love it. Here is a screenshot of how it looks on one of my other blogs:
***
So, you might well ask, what does any of this have to do with Transactional Charisma?
Just this: I have come to believe, based on experience, that whether you are at Safeway, playing basketball, driving along the freeway, or trying to create a new product, the true leaders among us exhibit a contagiously viral ability to advocate attractive ideas.
You might call them evangelists. Some have good intentions, some bad. But we all fall victim, sooner or later. We come under the influence of another.
My hope, for you, is that you discover your own transactional charismatic and that (s)he is kind and wise, not exploitive and cruel. That will make all the difference.
*Robert Stone
-30-
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