All posts by William Crow

My Mid-Life Crisis

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Posted: September 25, 2015 at 9:55 am

 

“Maybe you’re just going through a mid-life crisis.”

It was February 2012. Having just taken a bite of my smoked duck breast and gizzards, I started choking. I sat in my favourite booth at Café le Verdun with my medium-level-friend Dan, visiting from Canada. Dan had skipped a few levels on the relationship scale by inviting himself to stay with me in Aix-en-Provence. He heard for the first time I didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, and his conclusion surprised me. How could I be going through a mid-life crisis? I’m only 53! Uh-oh, wait a minute.

Cough. Swallow. I took a sip of Sauvignon Blanc. “No I don’t think that’s it, Dan,” I said. “I’m just so tired of reading contracts and the rest of that shit that I have to do something different.”

“That’s a mid-life crisis, Billy.” Dan was talking with his mouth full and I could see bits of seafood lasagna in there. “You’re asking yourself what it’s all for, aren’t you? Well, I can tell you what it’s all for. It’s all for money. Forget about all that higher meaning bullshit. We do our jobs for the money.  Everyone wants to retire with lots of money and live in a house on the ocean and have a cabin at Whistler. If your job was fun, they wouldn’t pay you so much to do it.”

“But I can’t take it anymore.” I felt whiny. “Besides, last year I had tendonitis in my elbow from clicking my mouse all day.” I drummed the fingers of my right hand on the table, as if proving to Dan their connection to my injured elbow.

“Are you really ready to give up your clients?” Dan asked. “A barista makes ten bucks an hour. How many times does ten divide into your hourly rate?”

I told him the number.

“And you’re complaining? His job is way harder than yours, and he has to clean the toilets too. Are you fucking crazy?” Dan said. The waiter looked up from across the restaurant and scowled.

“I know, I know. My job was easy for me. Easy isn’t the right word, but you know what I mean. I have nothing to complain about, but I was miserable, all the time. I just need to escape. Somehow I thought that during this year in France, something better would miraculously happen to me. I figured I’d find something better to do or I’d meet someone who’d offer me some cool job.” I felt embarrassed saying that out loud, and looked down at my plate so I could avoid Dan’s eyes.

Dan pointed his fork at my chest. “You must have known that wasn’t going to work. What happens when you go back? It took years for you to get that great setup. You won’t just find two perfect clients like that, two huge clients, and start back where you left off. Some lawyers can’t find jobs, you know.”

“But I don’t want to start back where I left off,” I said. “I’m done with it.”

“You can’t do that, can you? How will you live? Don’t you want to retire some day?”

“Well, I can’t retire yet, that’s for sure. I don’t have enough money. But I don’t have to continue making what I was making. I don’t think. I’m not sure. Maybe when I go back, being a lawyer won’t look so bad anymore.” I paused. “What am I saying? It’ll still be bad. I’m an idiot.”

The waiter had appeared at our booth, hearing my last sentence, perhaps understanding. Dan waved him away with a flick of his hand. I could see the waiter roll his eyes and heard a suppressed sigh as he turned.

“Is it SO bad that you can’t do it for another five or 10 years, make a shitload of money and then retire to do whatever you want? Then you can go to France for as long as you want.” It sounded so simple when Dan said it like that, but I instantly recoiled.

“If I thought I had to be a lawyer for 10 more years, and that would be my last job until retirement, I would probably have to kill myself.”

“Really? You’d kill yourself?” said Dan. I saw the woman in the next booth, obviously a tourist, sit up straighter so she could hear the rest of our conversation.

“Of course not. I’m too much of a chicken. And if I killed myself, Carol would really kill me. But I just can’t keep doing what I was doing. I always thought I was smart enough to end up doing something cool or something insanely fun, and I ended up reading contracts. It’s just so boring.”

“What would be your perfect job?” Dan held up his arm to get the waiter’s attention. The waiter looked in our direction, expressionless, then walked toward the kitchen.

“I was asked that once at a party. Without thinking, I joked I’d like a job where I could paint nude portraits of my friends’ wives.”

“That doesn’t sound like it would pay much. Can’t you just do that in your spare time? A real job would be the lawyer for Playboy Enterprises.” Dan giggled. “That would be fun.”

“I doubt they let the lawyers take the pictures. Or hang out in the grotto.”

“You’re probably right. That sucks. I just think that throwing away all those years of school, when you’re at the top of the heap, is crazy. Maybe there’s a different way you can be a lawyer that you’ll like better.” Dan waved at the waiter again, who had returned from the kitchen and was three booths away, intently studying his empty tray.

“Yeah, I thought about that,” I said. “Maybe there is. But I don’t think so. I hate all the lawyer bullshit. And I am tired of having to be perfect. Everyone expects me to be right all the time, everything is so exact. I like broad strokes and ballpark answers, I like artsy stuff, and I’m stuck with the opposite. I’m a total faker.”

“That’s not true. You can’t be a faker for 20 years and still have a bunch of happy clients. You’re good at your job, obviously.” Dan was always a bit in awe of the career I created, and believed me to be much smarter than I actually was.

“Well, it’s not me. I’m not that guy. I don’t wanna be that guy,” I said, without eloquence.

“How can you waste all that education?” Dan asked.

“Who says it’s wasted? Can’t I do something else with my brain?”

“Sure you can,” Dan said. He paused. “Maybe you can do business development for some big company and negotiate their deals.”

“That’s kinda what I was doing already. No, I have to make a clean break. I don’t want any job like the one I had. If I do this half-assed, I’ll end up where I was before. I’ve got to let go completely, turn everything upside down.”

“Wow. I don’t know if I could do that,” said Dan. I was perversely happy that he was afraid to do what I was planning, but I didn’t tell him that.

“I like the idea I’m finally thinking big, but thinking big is scary. I never thought I would have the guts to do this. To leave law. That’s all I know how to do.”

“It’s not the smartest financial decision you’re making.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Every bit of logic tells me the smart thing to do is go back to law, work hard for 10 years and then retire. But my heart and soul are screaming at me to never do law again. It’s not me. So I have no choice but to do something different.”

“Well then, I guess you do.”

“It could be my mid-life crisis. Maybe. But I think I’m now confident enough to not worry about what other people think I should do………..and not for one minute more do something that I don’t want to do,” I said, raising my voice much more than I intended. I certainly sounded more sure than I was. I could see the waiter coming our way.

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” said Dan.

“I have, I guess. I don’t know. I’m freaking out a bit. Oh, here’s the waiter. Should we order dessert?”

The Great One

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Posted: September 10, 2015 at 8:21 am

 

In honor of Wayne Gretzky, the only player in the National Hockey League to wear, or who will ever wear number 99, my  upcoming book will have 99 chapters. Even though we are about the same age, no two people could have different work trajectories. I have spent my working life as a bubbling mass of turmoil, never happy professionally, never sure of myself or the direction of my career. Did Wayne Gretzky ever have to wonder what he was going to be when he grew up? I remember walking by my hometown’s Central Arena in my youth, and on the enormous illuminated sign, the kind where a guy on a ladder slid the big black letters into the horizontal channels and used a backward number three when he ran out of the letter ‘E,’ I could see Wayne’s name in lights. The sign encouraged me to watch a 10-year-old play hockey against 14-year-olds. Ten years old, and adults not related to him were filling arenas at hockey tournaments. Wayne scored 378 goals and had 139 assists that season.

From the time he began skating on his backyard Brantford rink, I imagine Wayne had one unshakable focus, to be a professional hockey player. This in no way minimizes the many years of hard work and determination that led to him becoming the greatest player in history. He didn’t have to waste any brain cells worrying, crying, agonizing, or complaining about his lot in life – it’s amazing that I have any brain cells left, considering my lifelong preoccupation with these four verbs. Wayne concentrated on hockey, and that seemed to work out pretty well for him. All I ever wanted was to have my path laid out for me, have the certainty that what I was doing was the absolute best use of the one life I had. I don’t know the right path yet, but I am positive I was on the wrong one.

I kind of met Wayne Gretzky once. He came into the near-empty bar at the top of what was then SkyDome in Toronto. As he walked past me, he happened to look my way, we locked gazes, and he rocked my world by coming up with the highly original “hi,” before moving on to his private table. I doubt he remembers this brief encounter as clearly as I do.

A Little Bit Pregnant

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Posted: August 27, 2015 at 3:30 pm

 

Writing a book is like being pregnant.

I’m the first one to say that pregnancy is MUCH more difficult than writing – I say that not because it’s politically correct but because I believe it. I’ve seen two babies being born and it’s a good thing the guys aren’t the ones shouldering THAT responsibility. Still, there are several similarities between pregnancy and my current occupation of rewriting my complete book, the book I thought was finished last November.

I feel like I’m 9 months pregnant. I know there’s something really amazing growing inside me and I just want the thing to come out.

The exact moment of a baby’s conception is fun!  It may have seemed like a great idea at the time, but months later the woman balks at the enormity of the undertaking and wonders if she even likes children. When I conceived my book, I had no idea that all the fun stuff was also right at the beginning. After that it’s just editing and difficulties and frustration. Why did I think I would like writing?

Both types of conception usually get going around the fourth glass of wine.

A guy should never ask a woman if she’s pregnant. Because if she isn’t, watch out. Don’t ask me why it’s taking me so long to finish my book. I can be just as testy.

A woman in pregancy’s later stages is asked every day on the telephone if she’s had the baby yet. “Of COURSE I haven’t had it yet. Don’t you think I’d call my own mother if I had a baby?” Don’t ask me if I’ve finished my book yet. Believe me, if I had, you’d know. I would have twisted your arm to buy one already.

The birth of a child and the birth of a book, while not equal in importance or energy required, are both beautiful events (and a great relief!).

Life Before GPS

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Posted: August 18, 2015 at 5:07 pm

 

We were four new residents of Aix-en-Provence, with mobility issues.

We walked down the twisting path from la Pistache to catch the bus to an industrial park in the suburbs of Aix. Big box stores, factory outlets and 10 car dealerships side by side by side. We needed a car while in Aix, and I planned to drive away with one that day. I didn’t think it would be a difficult decision to make as 99% of all French cars were the same: compact, diesel, and ready to get scraped.

“You can’t buy this car,” said Sophie, pointing at a saucy blue number which looked like every other car we saw that day. We stood in the heat of the Peugeot dealership parking lot, trying to decipher the French acronyms posted in the window of the car we had decided to buy. “I don’t like the color.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s blue. What’s wrong with that?”

“It doesn’t even have a GPS,” said Devon, squinting through the driver’s side window. “Let’s buy a different car.”

“It doesn’t have a GPS. So what?” I asked. “Do you know what life was like before there was GPS? We managed.”

“I know you’re joking,” said Devon. “There was always GPS.”

“Nice try, dad,” said Sophie. “Mom?”

“This is one of those rare occurrences when your father isn’t exaggerating.”

“Thank you, Carol, I guess. Anyway, your mom has heard this one, but there was no GPS when I went to Czechoslovakia with Nickipedia about 20 years ago. It was when I was a tour guide.”

“You were a tour guide in Czecho-whatever-you-said?” asked Devon.

“Not exactly. I was hired to check out the country for bike routes. Get it? Check out?”

“Brutal, dad,” said Sophie.

“They wanted me to bike around, taste the food, find all the good routes, and map it out for a future bike tour.  I didn’t want to go alone, and the Internet hadn’t been invented yet, so I took Nickipedia. But when we got there, we found out that communist Czechoslovakia, you know what communism is, don’t you? Anyway, the communists had no maps for sale. The lady at the tourist bureau told us, “maps are in deficit.” It may have been less of a printing problem and more that the Russians, who were ruling the country, decided that, “hey, if you don’t know how to get to a place, you have no business going there anyway.”

“Why were the Russians in charge of Czechoslovakia?” asked Sophie.

“Well, that’s a big question,” I said. “Let’s just say they were in charge of most of Eastern Europe when I was a kid. But when I was about 10, the Czechs were free and ran things for a while, but then the Russians decided to come back. The Czechs were so upset when the Russians invaded, they removed all the road signs in the country so the Russians would get lost. When Nickipedia and I got there 18 years later, they still hadn’t replaced the signs.”

“That doesn’t make sense, dad,” said Sophie. “If there weren’t any maps and no road signs, how could you plan the trip?”

“Nickipedia and I figured that out. Every train station, and these were tiny stations in the countryside, mostly falling apart, every train station had a framed map of the area around the station. So we’d bike from station to station, and at each stop I’d draw the map into my journal. That would give us enough information to bike to the next station.”

“That can’t be true, daddy,” said Devon. “You had a GPS, and you just don’t want to admit it.”

“No joke. And it was much more fun without a GPS.”

“If you stop this made-up story right now, we’ll let you buy the car,” said Devon.