Togetherness

Every new job starts in a sea of strangers.  Some of us are timid and vulnerable.  We shake hands and ask what is expected of us before we use our phones to shield us from prolonged eye-contact.  Half-hearted small-talk ensues, and we discover our mutual fondness for Mexican food.  Inevitably the alphas emerge.  They spill their guts or gloat in high-decibel voices and bray with laughter without fear of judgment.  Somewhere along the way bonds are formed.  They are sparked by shared hobbies or like-mindedness, and they are perpetuated out of convenience and proximity.

This is my fourth seasonal job while working and living on-site with fellow employees, and I’m careful when I throw myself into an unfamiliar population.  My biggest concern is that I’ll misjudge someone who appears cheerful and decent at conversation or basketball only to discover a darker side prone to selfishness and brooding. 

I once befriended a man because he could dribble well, and his post-up game was impressive.  We had lunch a few times, and I soon learned he was dreadfully boring.  He would talk about the callouses on his thumbs he got by cutting vegetables in a sparsely lit room for eight hours each day.  I would tell him of my bike rides through rain forests with misty waterfalls, and he would respond with non-stories about steel walls and frustration.  Because of my initial connection, I was stuck with this man until I developed the audacity to tell him I was no longer interested in being his therapist. 

I try to avoid that situation from the beginning, so I observe the crowd and get a feel for each person before sharing much about myself.  I introduce myself to everyone so as not to give the impression that I’m a hermit.  I resist the urge to speak in long-format.  Words tend spill loosely out of my lips and then gush like blood from a slit carotid artery.  But until I’m comfortable, I don’t converse; I interview.  I start by asking where they are from and why they decided to come here.  I am hunting for common ground in broad categories:  What do you like to do for fun with your eyes and ears and feet and hands?  We always start with what gives us pleasure before commiserating in misery and complaints.

In the past I have been judgmental and critical of behavior and intelligence.  Those morsels of me still exist, but I hope they are shrinking.  I am set off by cues such as excessive hair gel, a severe inclination toward cheap beer, and improper grammar with especial regard to the misuse of count and non-count nouns.  I catch myself rolling my eyes or writing someone off, but then I think:  there must be something we both can enjoy.  Surely we can meet halfway on cereal choices and Marvel movies. 

A new friend of mine has the opposite approach.  When he goes to a party, he wants to meet everyone in the room, and he assumes that everyone is a nice person worthy of knowing. 

“I know that’s not true,” he said.  “I know some people are shitty,” but still he gives them the benefit of the doubt.  

He gives them a chance to prove him wrong, and he is often rewarded for his open-mindedness.  This friend is very honest with his statements and is aware of his ego’s input on decision-making.  Everyone wants to talk about themselves if given half a chance.  I don’t have to judge their words.  I should let them flow over me without assigning labels. 

I decided to try this method when I walked to the beach with a group of people who will remain anonymous.  We talked about the local price for a gram of marijuana and the proper etiquette and word-choices to score some cocaine in a fancy hotel bathroom.  This is not my usual topic of conversation, but I was curious about this lifestyle that wasn’t mine and never will be mine.  I tried to be understanding rather than dismissive. 

Another member of the group picked up an empty crab shell and became ecstatic with childlike wonder.  This person had never seen the Atlantic and was frolicking in the novelty of the eastern shore, even though it was clogged with seaweed and the horizon was covered by fog.  Normally I would belittle this behavior and chock it up to inexperience and stupidity, but I was enamored with and jealous of this person’s unfiltered joy.  I realized she had strengths that were lacking in me, and that I was only a blip on the personality spectrum.  I don’t have the best personality, and I wear mine like an ill-fitting shirt with holes in the armpits.  My personality just happens to be the one I stumbled into and continue to wrestle with. 

This harshness in me is heavy but can be useful to help me judge character, so I can surround myself with optimism and encouragement.  I am living on an island where it frequently rains, and I have no means to leave.  I am stranded with fifty people, and I am vulnerable to their moods.  These communities can easily gather dark clouds.  Pessimism festers and spreads, especially when people don’t know how to entertain themselves.  When boredom sets in, others can make me feel like there is nothing to do, even though I know very well there are trails I haven’t hiked and books I haven’t read.  When the morale sinks, everyone is vulnerable to infection.

To stay sane, a person needs a balance between the self and the community.  I need to exercise for the endorphins.  I need to enrich my mind.  I need to be alone so I can find new topics of conversation and reenter the public domain armed with witty quips and tidbits to contribute to a growing dynamic.  I need to do this just as a bear needs to hibernate to conserve its strength only to emerge in spring to roam the fertile valleys in search of sustenance. 

Despite my bouts with anti-social behavior, I need friends to stay afloat.  When I am scanning the crowd, I am looking for reliability, humor, rationality, playfulness, an indulgent simplicity and a complexity to get lost in.  I often sit in the cafeteria with a book beside me that I’d rather not read because I’d prefer to have a chat.  We can bond over complaints, but I don’t want to be bogged down in bitterness.  I want someone there to articulate our matching fears so I can prove I’m not crazy.  I want someone to make me laugh so I can forget the drudgery and the mental fatigue.  If we repeat this process long enough, we’ll develop ruts in our neural pathways that are overrun with pleasure. 

In this world of seasonal work, managers like to throw around terms like “friends for life” and “family.”  Those are heavy and uncertain terms, but what’s unquestionable is a connectedness among people enduring the same struggles and celebrating our endurance.  I still have friends from these jobs, and they’re scattered all over the world.  I’ve visited a few of them, but most of them I text or message on Facebook.  A friendship is successful even though our exchange devolves into words typed onto a small keypad.  We compare notes and send each other pictures of the places where we choose to live and work.  We talk about the old days and the new ones that will become old eventually.