politics. He is also fond of talking on the phone, and that is why each afternoon at four, while I am sitting at my desk at the GMHI, I close the door to my office, make a gin and tonic, and call Mack. At this exact hour, across town in the leafy Cherrywood neighborhood where he lives, Mack is at his desk, in his home office, fixing himself a gin and tonic. When we talk, we first go over the minor annoyances and triumphs of our day, and then we begin to discuss the political and cultural events of the world's day. At five o'clock Joseph comes home from the bookstore, leaving the evening retail hours to his assistant manager. Joseph is quieter than Mack, a kind and gentle man who is decidedly not fond of talking on the phone and is not exactly tolerant of disruptions in the daily routine. And so, when Joseph presses the Open button on the automatic garage door opener, Mack says goodbye and goes to the kitchen to prepare some cocktails and snacks for his partner of twenty-seven years, and I close up my office for the day. Someday, I would like my domestic life to be that way, as predictable and easy as Mack and Joseph's, but until then, I have a telephone and Mack and I have our conversation and cocktails.
Some may find it a bit surprising that I drink alcohol at the office, but the end-of-day cocktail is a civilized and well-deserved reward. We would do well as a culture to honor that sacred hour. Think of the productivity that we might inspire if the last hour of the workday was for cocktails: what a lovely, dangling carrot! I'm not talking about some forced social interaction in an unsightly break room or a mass retreat to the corner bar. I simply mean that each individual would pour himself or herself a generous drink while seated at his or her desk. How easy it would be to answer that annoying e-mail or return the awkward call if you had the perfect heft of a cocktail tumbler in hand. Think of the happy homes we might encourage if Mommy and Daddy didn't come home from the office washed out and sullen, but rosy-cheeked, with ears abuzz. I often wonder if my own father wouldn't have benefited from something as simple and civilized as cocktail hour. He was a sort of teetotaler, other than the four beers he permitted himself during Green Bay Packers games (one per quarter). Otherwise, he said, alcohol was for the weak. An emotional crutch, he said, and he was firmly against those. I said this to Mack one day, and Mack burst out laughing, almost choking on his cigarette: "Oh, I am all about emotional crutches. I have so many!"
Today, Mack answers the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hello?" he says.
"It's me," I say.
"I didn't think you'd call today, Zeke. It's Friday."
"Friday!" I exclaim. "I forgot."
Every Friday, I join Mack and Joseph for dinner, and so usually I do not make my customary happy-hour call.
"Right!" I say. "I'll see you at six thirty! What can I bring?"
"Just yourself," Mack says, as he always does.
I decide that I will talk to Mack and Joseph this evening about my mother's insistence that I begin thinking seriously about marriage. In fact, it occurs to me that I should set a target date for marriage, as the article in
Simply You
magazine suggests. This odd quest mirrors one of the classic drivers of the literary subgenre known as
chick lit,
in which a youngish (but no so young) woman, in a moderately successful but unfulfilling career (usually of an artistic or cultural bent), decides that she must find a life partner but experiences many travails and obstacles in her quest for said partner—married men, bad dates, the blurting out of unpremeditated declarations, chunky thighs, et cetera. You may find it odd that a man of my age, particularly one with a little bit of money and decent looks, would have that same desire for domestic tranquillity. Ah, but even in the Preamble of the U.S. Constitution there is that phrase—
insure domestic Tranquility
—a charge to the newly forming federal government to
Some may find it a bit surprising that I drink alcohol at the office, but the end-of-day cocktail is a civilized and well-deserved reward. We would do well as a culture to honor that sacred hour. Think of the productivity that we might inspire if the last hour of the workday was for cocktails: what a lovely, dangling carrot! I'm not talking about some forced social interaction in an unsightly break room or a mass retreat to the corner bar. I simply mean that each individual would pour himself or herself a generous drink while seated at his or her desk. How easy it would be to answer that annoying e-mail or return the awkward call if you had the perfect heft of a cocktail tumbler in hand. Think of the happy homes we might encourage if Mommy and Daddy didn't come home from the office washed out and sullen, but rosy-cheeked, with ears abuzz. I often wonder if my own father wouldn't have benefited from something as simple and civilized as cocktail hour. He was a sort of teetotaler, other than the four beers he permitted himself during Green Bay Packers games (one per quarter). Otherwise, he said, alcohol was for the weak. An emotional crutch, he said, and he was firmly against those. I said this to Mack one day, and Mack burst out laughing, almost choking on his cigarette: "Oh, I am all about emotional crutches. I have so many!"
Today, Mack answers the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hello?" he says.
"It's me," I say.
"I didn't think you'd call today, Zeke. It's Friday."
"Friday!" I exclaim. "I forgot."
Every Friday, I join Mack and Joseph for dinner, and so usually I do not make my customary happy-hour call.
"Right!" I say. "I'll see you at six thirty! What can I bring?"
"Just yourself," Mack says, as he always does.
I decide that I will talk to Mack and Joseph this evening about my mother's insistence that I begin thinking seriously about marriage. In fact, it occurs to me that I should set a target date for marriage, as the article in
Simply You
magazine suggests. This odd quest mirrors one of the classic drivers of the literary subgenre known as
chick lit,
in which a youngish (but no so young) woman, in a moderately successful but unfulfilling career (usually of an artistic or cultural bent), decides that she must find a life partner but experiences many travails and obstacles in her quest for said partner—married men, bad dates, the blurting out of unpremeditated declarations, chunky thighs, et cetera. You may find it odd that a man of my age, particularly one with a little bit of money and decent looks, would have that same desire for domestic tranquillity. Ah, but even in the Preamble of the U.S. Constitution there is that phrase—
insure domestic Tranquility
—a charge to the newly forming federal government to
Similar Books
