During the first half of the eighties I wanted more and more to show I appreciated things from many eras and objectively. There was a song I often heard in aerobics classes, before metronomic electric beats became de rigueur for exercise music, "Back On The Chain Gang" by the Pretenders. Look how open minded I am, I would say. Now a quarter of a century is behind it and when I say it still makes me cry I sound like an "oldies" person.

What was the song about? Chrissie Hynde and others said it was not about the death of James Honeyman Scott, the guitarist, or about "anything", but alluded to perceptions in general catching up and affecting the way a couple dealt with each other: "Circumstance beyond our control, the phone, T. V. and the news of the world, got in our house like a pigeon from hell . . ."

Today I received news of a mandatory meeting in which the major topic would be the future of the humble entry-level management of which I am a part. What is certain are at least a dozen furlough days. In addition, the stories have gathered like swirls of litter as a sudden wind comes up, watched down the street on the approach during a darkening day: Tales of classification layoffs, crew cleaning, and retirement incentives. The Labor Day weekend will mark 38 years for me, practically all in this department and all with the same employer. If indeed my retirement will be based on a position at which I made several dollars more an hour a decade or so ago, the key being if this concept expires after several years out of said position, the almost unimaginable day may be at hand. I have a pair of younger brothers in public safety retired and parents in dwindling ability to care at all for themselves. Time moves, often gracelessly.

Some of the tangibles take shape even as the other details await like a call for my name from a medical office, shadows which contain as much vacuum as substance.