only you know and I know

Both of my parents died from colon cancer in their 60s. That puts me — statistically — on the bad side of susceptibility of getting colon cancer. I have been to my doctor many, many times since my parents passed away. Whether it was for a yearly check-up or a follow-up for one of several hospital visits, my doctor has always asked me — in his run-down of "the usual questions" — "Have you had a colonoscopy?" As I shifted uncomfortably upon the examination room table, rebuttoning my shirt, my answer has always been the same. And that answer is "No." His reaction is always the same. He frowns, tells me I should really have one, and then he hands me a many-times Xeroxed list of area doctors who will happily perform the procedure. I take the paper, fold it up and, when I get home, I toss it on the pile of other copies of the same information I have received on previous visits.

It's not like I am afraid of getting a coloscopy. I'm not. Not at all. My brother — four years my senior — has had about a thousand since he turned fifty (the ideal age at which the medical profession suggests that a regimen of coloscopies begin). A friend of mine encouraged me to get one, reporting that the drugs they give you to knock you out prior to the actual procedure are — and this is a direct quote — "fucking awesome." You would think that the promise of an experience usually associated with the side effects of a Grateful Dead concert would be enticement enough to get me to make an appointment, but.... I still didn't. The actual reason (excuse?) I have been lax in scheduling a colonoscopy is convenience... or in my case inconvenience. Yeah.... I know. LAME! That is that lamest excuse. But, taking a sick day off from my various jobs has been — for lack of a better word — a hassle. When I worked at a law firm, my boss would throw so much guilt on me when I scheduled a vacation, as though the most important person at a multi-office law firm was the graphic designer. My next three jobs didn't offer as many sick days and vacation days as I would have liked, so a day off was pretty precious and I didn't feel a preventive care procedure was worth a day off from work. (Stupid, right? Yeah, I know.)

In January, I was in the hospital for a few days and, as my discharge instructions recommended, I scheduled a follow-up visit with my family doctor. As usual, as my visit drew to a close, the subject of a colonoscopy breached the line of questioning. My doctor cocked his head at me, expecting my answer to be one he had heard before. Then, he asked if I would be willing to take a Cologuard home colon cancer detection test.. He offered this alternative as sort a a "secret weapon" to counter my usual "no" response. Once I agreed to the Cologuard test, he muttered "you seem to be afraid of a colonoscopy" and he trailed off. I agreed to the Cologuard, dammit! and I'm not afraid of a colonoscopy! I thought. Instead, I forced a grin and said nothing. A Cologuard test was ordered for me and I was told it would arrive at my house in a few days.

Because of the television programming I usually watch, I have seen a lot of commercials for the Cologuard home test, mixed in with those for other prescription drugs, incontinence remedies, retirement homes, Medicare supplements and reverse mortgages. The Cologuard commercials are clear in their purpose, but are somewhat vague on the actual procedure. To be honest, I didn't pay that close attention to them. 

As promised, a few days after my doctor's visit, a plain white box arrived at my house. I actually ignored it for a couple of days. I also ignored the texts that the good folks at Exact Sciences (Cologuard's distributor) sent me on a twice-daily basis. Finally, I watched an instructional video that one of the texts contained.

I will not elaborate on the actual details of preparation, procedure, post-procedure and getting the completed test back to the company for analyzation. However, I am well aware of what everyone who has taken a Cologuard test at home has done. And, conversely, they are aware of what I did. I know what you were instructed to do and, if you followed the instructions, I know what you did. I will not say what we did. Now, we are like Freemasons. We are now part of a secret society with covert, unspoken rituals known only to those who have been let into the fold. We did these things behind closed doors. Alone... while hundreds or even thousands of other folks were doing the same thing at the same time. We don't wear a badge or any kind of insignia to identify ourselves to each other. We know that we are not the only ones who did what we did. In five years, over two million people did what we did. When we see someone at the UPS office holding that square white box, we know the sequence of events that transpired to bring you to this moment.

We just know.

My test came back negative. Let's just leave it at that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't tell a soul

I started a new job recently. I have had many, many jobs and — at this point in my life — it's just a place to go every day and get a paycheck so I can take care of the things that really matter. 

Over the years, I have had interactions with co-workers on both a professional and social level. I have remained friends with a handful of folks long after I have left a particular job. At my past few jobs, I decided to keep things at a strictly professional level. Friendships that form at a job — once you've hit the later stages of your career — are... well.... unnecessary. I'm not saying that I'm rude. I'm just cordial. I go to work to do work, not to socialize. I say "good morning," but my conversations are brief and always — always — work-related. My current co-workers know practically nothing about me. The cemetery calendar that hangs above my desk is the only glimpse into my personal life and, perhaps, that is all they need to know. No one has asked about it in the almost six months of my employment. I think that's a good thing. I just want to do my job, get paid and that's it. So far, my new job has been just that.

My weekly routine is pretty repetitious. Every Monday, I assemble an advertising circular for a local chain of supermarkets and deliver an electronic proof by the end of the day. On Tuesdays, I receive a regular barrage of emails from the supermarket owners regarding their ad. I spend the day making changes and corrections until a final approval is received and I get to go home. Wednesdays and Thursday are spent assisting a co-worker, Maggie, on her circular. I am assigned two pages of a four-page broadsheet. Maggie works on the labor-intensive front and back pages while I run through an ingenious automated process to populate the inside pages with nearly a hundred little blocks of copy and photos that have to be pleasingly arranged on the page. Honestly, I have been doing design work like this throughout my career.  It is not difficult work. I am not, by any means, making any sort of impact on the world. It's a functional piece of commerce with a relatively short shelf life.... but it pays the bills.

The first time I worked with Maggie (who is approximately 30 years my junior), she offered instruction as though it was my first day as a graphic designer. I have learned (admittedly the hard way) to sit by and keep my mouth shut. Listen to the instruction given, do the work, get paid.... you know. My first layout on Maggie's supermarket circular was heavily criticized by Maggie. She seemed to relish pointing out where photos should have been aligned, how type should have been placed, what words should have been capitalized and which words could have been abbreviated. I listened silently to her critique and promised to do better as the weeks went on. Happily, I got the hang of what exactly was expected and soon Maggie's list of "layout infractions" lessened and lessened. With a few circulars under my belt, I work almost independently, with little to no input from Maggie, aside from last-minute additions or deletions that she receives from the store owner. But, early in the process, she was relentless.

Well, Maggie just gave her two-weeks notice and will be moving on. I feared that I would be tasked with becoming the "lead designer" on her weekly ad, but, alas, the one I create on Mondays and Tuesdays conflicts with the print schedule of her ad. It was given to another designer, with me still offering assistance.

As Maggie's final day approaches, I was sitting at my desk, happily banging away at the keyboard and clicking away on my mouse, when another co-worker, Angela, walked up to my desk. I met Angela on my first day, but have had little interaction with her, save for a cordial morning greeting since we both arrive at work at the same time and park our cars near each other. In hushed tones, Angela invited me to a department "happy hour" this coming Friday at a bar in a South Jersey town I'm sure has been referenced in at least one Bruce Springsteen song. I listened to her invitation and neither accepted nor declined. I sort of just eked out a "thanks" along with a smile. I really have no intention of "happy hour"ing or anything else with my co-workers. I just want to come in, do my work, get paid... you know. 

After delivering her verbal invite, Angela turned and began to exit, only to turn around and approach my desk again — this time a bit closer. She spoke in an even quieter whisper than earlier. 

"Don't say anything to Maggie about this.," she said. I immediately assumed that this planned get-together was a surprise send-off for Maggie's departure. I pictured a tearful assemblage of longtime co-workers with warm hugging and mistily-related memories. But, Angela followed up her request with a bit of blunt clarification. "This isn't a 'going away party' for Maggie. It's a 'glad she's gone' party for us." Angela made herself very clear. A look of astonishment must have washed across my face to cause Angela to state: "You haven't worked with her for five years."

Without any provocation from me, Angela launched into a lengthy list of incidents and anecdotes that painted a very unsavory portrait of Maggie. Over the course of Maggie's tenure, she reported all of her co-workers to the Human Resources Department for various incidents, most of which were merely things that pissed her off. She pointed out the shortcomings of colleague's work output. Angela went on for nearly five uninterrupted minutes about how Maggie's leaving is the first step in making the production department a happy, friendly place to work again.

But, I just want to come in, do my work, get paid... you know.

No drama.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your mom threw away your best porno mag

I am on vacation right now, so I present a story that was originally published on my illustration blog in 2010. It is one of my favorite stories. If you haven't heard me tell it before, I think you'll get a kick out of it. If you have heard it before, you'll find it funny all over again.

My dad was a simple man and he loved simple things. He loved the Philadelphia Phillies. He loved breakfast at the Heritage Diner. And he loved pornography. 

I'm not talking about the occasional Playboy magazine that, as a nine-year old, I stumbled across hidden under some shirts in a bottom drawer or the lurid novel stashed behind the clothes hamper in the bathroom. Sure, my dad owned several copies of Playboy and Penthouse, but his tastes leaned towards the more — shall I say — exotic.  These weren't artful shots of lithe beauties, softly-lit and airbrushed to flawless perfection. I'm talking full-color, foreign-published, plain-brown-envelope, hard-core stuff. These tomes were filled with grainy photos of skanky women in various stages of undress, bent into impossible positions and inserting any one of a number of varied objects into any one of a number of body orifices. This was harsh and shocking stuff in the pre-Internet days of the 1960s. A thousand times more shocking than the sanitized material distributed by Hugh Hefner's fledgling publishing empire. 

My dad thought he was clever and wily and that only he had knowledge of his pornography collection. I can't understand how he could believe this while sharing a house with his wife and two young (and curious) sons. My father was terrible at hiding birthday gifts and his beloved Tastykake snacks  from his family and he was just as terrible at hiding his pornography collection. My mom used to joke that nothing could get past her, but my brother and I were not so sure she was joking. She knew about things that she couldn't possibly have known — from the whereabouts of a mysteriously missing cupcake to a failing grade brought home on a hidden school test. My father's porn accumulation was no exception. My mom was fully aware of my dad's explicit cache. On a semi-regular basis, while my dad was at work, my mom would gather up his X-rated stockpile. She'd load it into several heavy paper grocery-store bags until they were at the point of bursting. Then she'd cap each one with another inverted bag for extra security and privacy. She'd carry each bag, sometimes numbering four and five, to the curb and place them alongside our metal trash cans, where they would wait until the municipal sanitation department truck came for its weekly pick-up. After a few days, my father was obviously frantic. He would search for his pornography in the most casual and unassuming manner. My mom would smile silently and relish in his frustration. He couldn't very well come out and say to his wife, "Hey, where's all my pornography?" It was an unspoken ritual. They were both aware of what had transpired, but neither one would dare give verbal acknowledgement. 

One day, my mom decided the time was right to "clean house" of my dad's smut reserve. While my father was at work, she went from hiding place to hiding place and gathered the material up into the grocery bags. With the second bag securely capped on top of each bundle, she placed five or six of the obscenity-stuffed packages at the curb in front of our house. Soon, the trash collection truck appeared, slowly making its way up the block as the workers methodically emptied the neighbors' refuse into the truck's rear receptacle. When enough trash had filled the open cavity at the truck's posterior, one of the workers would pull a lever and the garbage would be compacted back into the large storage area that made up the bulk of the vehicle's size. Eventually, the truck rolled up to the Pincus curb. One of the workers ambled over to our trash cans, while the other hefted two of the paper sacks holding the lewd contents. He tossed them into the truck. They mingled with the coffee grinds and empty cans and the usual household discards as he returned to the curb for the remainder of the bags. After adding the last few bags to the repugnant mix, he decided the mass needed compacting to make room for the rest of our blocks' rubbish. He pulled the lever and the machinery roared to life, as a huge steel plate forced the garbage back into the depths of the truck's auxiliary stowage. Suddenly, under the pressure of the equipment and the sheer volume of trash, several of the bags burst, spewing their lascivious filling into the air. A cloud of vulgarity rained down. One worker realized what had happened and yelled "Stop! Stop!" as the other quickly disengaged the compacting switch. The two workers dropped to their knees and grabbed at the printed material that was now scattered in all directions, shoving it in their pockets and arranging it into neat little stacks. The driver climbed out of the cab to investigate and soon joined his colleagues in their pursuit of free porn. My mother watched, unnoticed from our kitchen window, as the trash collection was halted for a good twenty-five minutes, while the three sanitation workers reaped the spoils of hitting the erotica jackpot. When every last piece of my dad's collection had been retrieved, the truck continued on its way up the street. 

Inside the house, my mom chuckled to herself. She knew she had a great story that she wouldn't tell to me until years later. A story she never told my father.  

you might like to hear my organ

 

A few months ago, Sly joined the Marketing Department at work. Sly is the web master and spends his day... oh, I don't know... web mastering, I suppose. Whenever I walk by his open office door, I catch a glimpse of his shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair bobbing over the top of the two monitors that span his small desk, his brow furrowed in deep concentration and his fingers flying frantically across his keyboard. I can only assume that he is busy. Heck, we're all busy.

But Sly, like Bruce Wayne, has another life.

Last night, I met a couple of co-workers at the mysteriously named Kung Fu Necktie, a bar-cum-concert venue in Philadelphia's renaissance Fishtown neighborhood, to witness Sly's "other" life. Kung Fu Necktie was presenting a three-band show — the first band being fronted by none other than our pal Sly.

"Did someone lose their key?"

As the clock ticked towards nine, the tiny performance area, just a few cramped feet from the bar and pool table, began to fill with beer-toting audience members. Sly and his band mates entered from the bar, cut through the mingling patrons and easily climbed up onto the darkened stage. The guitarist and bassist each checked their respective amplifiers, fiddling with knobs and securing plugs. The drummer impatiently twirled his sticks and gave a few sample thumps on the kick. Sly took his place behind a massive vintage Hammond organ, his last-minute adjustments hidden from view by his instrument's considerable bulk. Suddenly, Sly grabbed his microphone and screamed out "ONETWOTHREE!," in true ass-kickin', rock-n-roll bravura. The band obliged by bursting into a raw but funky beat. Sly leaned forward and, with the same focused intensity he exhibits while tapping out HTML code on his Microsoft keyboard, took the lead by banging out a sensually playful riff on the Hammond's keys. With the sound mix at full blast, Sly's garage-y voice was just another instrument, the actual lyrics indistinguishable. The band tore through one song after another, most paying deep homage to the incomparable Booker T., with lyric-less organ-heavy leads and 60s funk-drenched bass lines. All through their set, Sly was pounding intensely on the organ. As he pummeled those keys, he kept repeatedly sucking the tip of his right ring finger, obviously trying to accelerate the healing process on a fresh contusion. He laughed and displayed his finger to the bass player, who smiled and acknowledged the wound by shaking his long, grey dreadlocks in the affirmative. At the song's conclusion, Sly apologized for a few sour  notes, citing a broken key. Then, he violently yanked the culprit from among the other eighty-eight and lobbed it into the crowd, where it disappeared into the swirling mood lighting.

Sly and his cohorts wrapped up the set and thanked the crowd above a round of approving applause. As the piped-in, between-set music swelled, the band began to break down their equipment to make room for the next group of performers. Sly and another man wrestled the organ off the stage and sequestered it to a far wall where it would be dealt with at the end of the evening. After, shaking hands and sharing hugs with a few members of the audience, Sly made his way over to me and his other co-workers. He thanked us for coming and we told him how much we enjoyed his set. 

But we secretly wondered how our minds would envision Sly at his desk on Monday morning.

* * * UPDATE * * *

 The organ has been repaired and lives to funk another day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com