Very Easy to Type

The phone rang.

I offered my usual greeting, “Mayor McAdam’s office,” after which a beat transpired for a touch of additional gravity. I finished with, “May I help you please?”

“I have a story to tell.”

That sounds like an odd assertion to begin a conversation with someone in the mayor’s office. But our mayor is well described by his own campaign tag line... “Yeah, he’s different.”

Ben’s still new in office, but he’s been the source of thousands of letters. They congratulate Eagle Scouts, extend sympathy to the parents of children passed away, appreciate school crossing guards, tell a restaurant cook her meal was enjoyed, and so on, and so on. 

I type them, but they originate with him, they express his sentiment, and they bear his signature. 

So it’s probably no surprise, with thousands of letters in circulation tracing his short time in office, people now assume the mayor is interested in a story. 

“Yes ma'am, what’s the story you have to share?" I asked.

The woman on the other end bubbled, “I’m Meredith Franck. I work in Criminal Justice Services teaching recovering addicts. I’ve got a story about our office and the people who work here.”

I connected Meredith instantly to a program assisting drug offenders identified as “corrigible.” They are put through an individualized course of coaching and support that hopefully leads to redemption. At the end, those who succeed attend a graduation in council chambers. 

These are moving ceremonies. Family and friends couldn’t be happier if their loved one were getting a diploma from Harvard. Dads throw arms around sons, much like the father who some years ago said, “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

Meredith continued, “I help people trying to get straight. Some come to my office once a week, some once a day, some for a few minutes, some for an hour. Our program is no longer new, and by now I guess the results speak for themselves.”

“Yes, they do,” I answered.

“But a few years ago, when the bottom of the economy fell out, things seemed to change somehow.”

“Really?”

“Yes, the people I served were more distracted. The typical client wasn’t as motivated or able to give their full attention or priority to the program. All our people are different, of course, but I could sense a change, and it concerned me. I struggled with my impression before it finally occurred to me, ‘They’re hungry!’ They’re living life on the margin in a bad economy. Probably unemployed and almost unemployable, many are alone with most of their bridges burned.”

Meredith’s dawning realization was easy to understand. The program had a sustained record of success and then suddenly the economy fell off a cliff one Tuesday at 2:12 PM. You’d have to be paying very close attention to sense the first intimation of behavioral change. 

“So, what’d you do?”

“I went to our division director, Gary Dalton, and I shared my suspicion. I suggested we put a large food basket on the floor outside my office and find some way to keep it filled. Gary was supportive, so I started looking around for companies or services to help out. Tom Cordova, who owns Great Harvest Bakery, donated bread once a month. And soon Leslie Whited, of Lutheran Social Services, was sharing their delivery from the Utah Food Bank.” 

“Did it make a difference?” I asked.

“Yes, it did. But the need was greater than expected. One basket became two, and then shelves were added. Tom and Leslie were quite generous, but still, in the beginning the baskets would frequently run out.”

“How’d you fix that?”

Meredith paused for a moment, “That’s the crazy part,” she said, “I really didn’t do anything.”

“Nothing?”

“No, I had a lot going on, but the situation just seemed to fix itself. I sort of assumed we’d found an equilibrium between need and what we had to offer. But one day not long ago, for reasons hard to explain, I took an accounting of what was in those baskets.”

“And...?”

“I was the one who picked up the bread from Great Harvest. And I was the one who checked in food donations from Leslie. I knew what we were receiving, and I knew how much. Yet, when I looked in those baskets, much of the food I saw didn’t come from the Food Bank, and it didn’t come from Great Harvest.”

“Where did it come from, Meredith?”

She laughed, “Darned if I could figure. So I decided to watch those baskets carefully and see if I could identify the secret benefactor. And eventually I did...”

“So who was it?”

“Everyone,” she replied. “virtually everyone in the office was rummaging through their pantry and bringing in anonymous donations. They would stop by those baskets, quite surreptitiously, and drop in their donation. They wouldn’t take credit, they tried not even to be noticed.” 

“That is a beautiful story,” I said.

“Yes, I thought so,” she replied, “do you think the mayor might like to hear it?”

“I’m certain he would.”

And so, a few hours later Ben sat at my desk listening to just that story. An hour after that four letters were in his outbox... one to each important actor in the delightful story that Meredith had to tell.

Letters which were very easy to type.

A Time That Was Perfect

Four months have passed since the inauguration. 

Not long ago I visited the Rose Wagner Theater to see "The Central Park Five." I arrived early and parked in the east lot. It was almost empty and as I stood there in that vacancy I remembered the last time I had been there. 

It was inauguration day, January 7th, and everything asphalt and proximate to the theatre was my responsibility. Including that lot. On that day I arrived in the early darkness, parked a block away, and walked toward the theater in a new suit. It was cold, and the frozen remains of a snow storm were stacked in dirty lumps along the theater's wall.

I stood on those icy lumps trying to tape "reserved" signs on the wall's pebbled surface. It was a frustrating exercise. My footing slipped away and the cold masonry refused to marry with the masking tape. 

Now, one hundred and twenty days later, on a warm and balmy evening, I inspected that wall looking for some vestige of those signs. If nothing else, the temperature should have confirmed how much time had passed. But the weeks bridging back to that January date have been so full of the wonderful, the various, and the new, that the passage of one hundred and twenty days seemed improbable.

I walked over to the wall and inspected the surface well above my head, the very place I must have touched as I stood on a block of snow. But nothing; no paper, no tape, no faint mark of adhesive.

A part of me wanted to find some evidence to prove it happened, and not so long ago. Minus that, I wondered at the possibility of waking up, knowing not days had passed, but years had passed, and this memory was contained in a recollection separating sleep from being fully awake. The moment psychology reserves to remind us of a time that was perfect.  

Best Table In The House

Here there’s no such thing as normal, ordinary or consistent.

Where I’ve worked in the past there was always a sense of sameness, a homogenized form of predictability. The people I associated with were of a common class, race and educational background. There were similar values and aspirations. Even religious affiliation fell into a narrow range. Give yourself a week’s experience and you knew what to expect.

That’s not the case if you’re on Mayor McAdams’ staff.

Let me describe my dining plans on Friday March 22^nd and Wednesday March 27^th. On Friday I attended the annual Caesar Chevez Banquet hosted by the Utah Coalition of La Raza. And on Wednesday I attended the “Giant of Our City” dinner hosted by the Salt Lake City Chamber of Commerce.

These two dinners could not have been less alike. One was held at a popular venue for cage fighting, the other in the ball room of the city’s only five diamond hotel.  At one dinner grace was said in Spanish by the local Catholic Bishop, the other featured an address by an apostle of the LDS church. One dinner had a menu of tortillas and burritos, at the other we feasted on steak and lobster.  

With all these obvious differences, exactly what did these two banquets have in common besides plates and chairs?

Probably two things.

First, the people being honored at both occasions are outstanding humanitarians.

Harris Simmons and Scott Anderson, the two top executives at Zion’s National Bank, are men of vast achievement. They have graced scores of important and worthy causes with their leadership. The celebration in their honor at the Grand America, as deluxe as it was, understated the value of their contribution.

The Caesar Chevez banquet celebrated people of similar worth. Sylvia Garcia Rickard, Barbara Arriola Adams, Rebecca Chavez-Houck and Graciela Italiano-Thomas are also “giants.” These women have excelled as advocates and community organizers for their own Hispanic community.

But what is that “one other thing” the two events had in common?

I would suggest it was a single table where a half dozen people were seated – perhaps the only people who attended both events. That table was our table, the table of Ben McAdams. The table of the Salt Lake County Mayor.

It occurred to me this week that those two dinners were significant of what good democratic government is all about. In a world filled with differences. In a world where we are segregated by distinctions of class, wealth, sex, ideology, religion et al. - there are too few institutions that unite us. Yet, surely, one of those institutions is our common democratic government.

Both these groups, regardless of their differences, and regardless of their shared agnosticism about one another, have the same government, and the same mayor. His table is the place where divergent circles occupy a single place. His person is the hinge by which class and culture are united.  

So, at the second of those two dinners, it was a particular honor to meditate on all this. I may have been in the company of thousands who could easily duplicate my yearly salary in a month, and I may have been sitting far from the stage, but that night it was easy to believe I was at the best table in the house.

Brown Shoes, Again

It’s occurred to me that Ben is becoming more comfortable in his role as mayor. In one of my earliest posts I remarked that Ben had the habit of wearing brown shoes with grey and blue suits – a major sartorial misstep. The day after that post the brown shoes disappeared and he stopped by my desk to demonstratively point to his nicely shined black shoes.

I smiled, taking satisfaction in the reform that I had inspired.

Now, however, the campaign is over and he’s safely in possession of the mayor’s office for at least the next four years. Because of that transition our address may have changed, but still I’m parked ten feet from his office door.  Ben walks by my desk with approximately the same frequency and I’m able to report that his brown shoes have reappeared.

Ben reminds me of the eager suitor who, through long and patient effort, managed to get his beloved to say yes, she would be his bride. On the way to that sweet moment of assent he conformed himself in a thousand ways, both large and small, to be that version of a man he believed could win her approval.

Then, after the marriage, there was a “norming” process. Gradually some small but treasured idiosyncrasies re-emerged. She found out the old red shirt, with its unattractive western detailing, wasn’t thrown away after all. His need to drive the car reasserted itself. His disapproval of broccoli regained its past emphasis.

Oddly, in a good marriage, with every jettisoning of the reserve disguising those details, there comes a greater commitment to the essential truths at the foundation of that marriage. He gradually learns new reasons to love and honor his wife; reasons that don’t include red shirts, driving habits or broccoli.

So when I see Ben’s brown shoes walk past my desk I manage to say nothing. I know they’re a sign Ben is comfortable in his relationship with our county, and with each passing day he’s finding new reasons to appreciate and value the fact that he is mayor.

Orange You Proud?

Today Club McAdams was back in campaign form.

The Ben Bus was gassed up, a call for volunteers went out, and we took our place in the annual St. Patrick's Day parade. The only things we were missing were the distribution of brochures and the constant repetition of our once hallowed chant, "Vote For Ben!, Vote For Ben!, Vote for Ben!"

Well, it appears most folks did exactly that.

What else has changed? Ben and Julie's children are noticeably older. Kate is now more a girl, less a child, and significantly more lovely. Isaac arrived without a stroller, and the baby we knew last Spring has disappeared.

The population of McAdamsville has evolved. During last year's campaign we were partly staff and mostly volunteers. Now my colleagues in county government comprise the largest faction of our population.

And The Ben Bus finally came into its own. The great orange rectangle of hope which, last year, quickly became synonymous with "The Perfect Campaign," is, ironically, the greatest single proof that our campaign was, in fact, not perfect.

If you put out a casting call for the ultimate attention getter in any parade, that call would be exquisitely answered by our large flamboyantly colored bus. Yet in last year's campaign, how many, of the scores of parades we entered, featured the Ben Bus?

Not one!

We acquired this fabulous symbol of lighthearted inclusiveness at the very end of the parade season. So today was its first chance to fulfill the role for which it was destined. And I'm proud to report that our bus acquitted itself with warmth and charm.

Orange you proud?

The Man Who Deserves It

There is a fellow named David who delivers the mail at the government center. He's tall, friendly, well liked and handicapped.

When David was born his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and his complexion was a deep and exaggerated blue. That misfortune left David with limitations, but one of them is not the ability to deliver mail.

Every day he pushes a cart around two large buildings and a total of ten floors. One fortunate employee in every suite receives both the mail, and the pleasure of David's company, twice each day.

I am one of those fortunate people.

Someone told me they remember David missing work once, but that person, like David, has worked here for a very long time. David is as much a part of the government center as our well attended cafeteria, or our cave-like absence of natural light. His simple ebullience is the compensating glow of an internal sun.

I've introduced myself to a few county employees who look mystified when I tell them I'm on Ben McAdams' staff. "McAdams, is he new?" they'll ask.

"Ben McAdams," I'll say, "the new county mayor."

Yet so far I've not met anyone who doesn't know David. In fact, the two syllables of his quite common name are enough to identify him to anyone. It's as if he is "the David," and those who share his name are simply "a David."

I have an affinity for acquiring the friendship of important and popular people. No doubt that unerring sensibility explains many of the blessings I now enjoy. So perhaps it's no surprise I found myself immediately attracted to David.

And, whatever quality makes my company attractive to such people, also had its effect on David.

From the first day on my new job we began forging a friendship. He'd pause at my desk, make small talk, and give me a pound or two from his ever-present ton of good cheer.

Then a while back he started to tell me about a surprise he wanted to share. "It's a really excellent newspaper article," he said, "I know you'll like it."

But then, the following day, he'd not have that "really excellent" newspaper article and I'd tease him, "Where's that article David? I wondered about it all night. I hardly slept."

He'd blush and tell me he was sorry, he'd forgot. I'd remind him not to forget tomorrow, and he'd agree he'd try to remember.

Then, finally, after a few weeks of going back and forth, he gave me a copy of an old yellowed article in "The Deseret News." It was about a winter version of The Special Olympics held at a local ski resort. At the top of that article was a picture of David tucked into racing posture, and coming down the hill at breakneck speed.

The gist of the article was a description of David's achievement. Despite his disability, he was an exceptional skier, by any standard, special or non-special. His performance in the slalom had won a collection of silver and gold medals.

Ten years ago David was something of a star, and for a brief period the subject of local notoriety.

I said, "Wow David, this is really something! I can't imagine winning medals like that. I've never won a medal in my life, and you've won four or five. You must be so proud. I'm jealous!"

He flashed his trademark blush and tried to assure me I must have won some medals too. "No," I said, quite candidly, "I've never won a medal in my life. They are special, David. Most people are just like me, they've never won a medal."

After that a week passed with no more mention of the article, the Special Olympics or the medals.

Then David returned to the same song I'd heard before. "I have a big surprise, George. I know you're going to like it."

And I returned to my former refrain, "Where's my surprise David, you promised. Please don't forget, bring it tomorrow."

Another week of promising and reminding passed before David finally arrived at my desk with a huge smile. "I remembered," he announced.

"What did you remember, David?"

"Here," he said, "and he reached out a hand gripping the ribbon of a silver medal."

I took it and inspected it carefully. "This is beautiful, David. I've never seen a real one up close, let alone held it in my hands."

After a proper interval of appreciation, I tried to hand it back. "No," David said, "It's for you. You should have a medal too."

"David, I can't take this."

"Yes you can, I want you to."

It couldn't have been more obvious he was intent on me keeping it. My acceptance was important to him, probably more important than the medal itself.

I tried to calculate all the options, but quickly realized my absence of alternatives. "Thank you," I said, "but I simply can't take this from you sitting here at my desk."

He looked confused for a moment, "What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't there be some kind of presentation ceremony? Like when they gave you the medal?"

"Maybe," he replied.

With that I gave my cell phone to a colleague and asked him to photograph the presentation of my first silver medal.

While I whistled the national anthem, David solemnly placed the ribbon around my neck. So, for the last few days, I've been walking around the office with a bright silver disk hanging from my neck.

Eventually, I'm sure David will take me aside and patiently explain that real champions don't wear their medals everywhere. I can imagine him saying, "There are better ways to show everyone that you're a good person."

And I can see myself agreeing with him before returning that medal to the man who deserves it.

The Marrying Mayor

Yesterday a fellow approached my desk. He identified himself as a member of the Treasurer's staff, and he explained that he had a colleague named Jennilyn who wanted to be married - tomorrow. Evidently, she and her intended had planned their marriage for June, but her fiance was working at Hill Field and the sequester resulted in his furlough.

Therefore, her future husband’s health benefits were in doubt.

This resulted in Jennilyn and Robert deciding to preemptively tie the knot. Originally they were simply going to get a license from the County Clerk, recite the necessary formula, and let it go at that. But, over the process of the day, Jennilyn’s co-workers decided to dress up the event a touch and give it some sense of ceremony.

This brought to me a request to have the mayor perform the ceremony in the lobby of a very busy Treasurer’s office. In the midst of our discussion Ben approached my desk, so I quickly turned this request over to him, and he just as quickly agreed to do it.

Therefore, it became my responsibility to write up some vows and prepare Ben for his first performance as "The Marrying Mayor.”

That evening Ben announced this development to his family as they gathered around the dining table. “I’ll be marrying someone,” he enthused.

Shocked, James, Ben’s oldest son, swallowed hard and reminded his father that he was already married to someone. And, in fact, that someone was his own dear mother.

Ben quickly provided clarity on his use of the verb “to marry.”

“Don’t worry, James, your mom is my one and only.”

So, this morning, I placed the sacred rite of marriage in Ben’s eager hands as we walked together toward the Treasurer’s office. “One of the things I love about this job,” Ben said, “is the huge variety of things I do… visiting a fire station one day, learning to use a sat phone the next, and today a marriage.”

When we entered the Treasurer's lobby we beheld a vision of utter discontinuity. Lined up at the counters was the typical variety of citizens paying property taxes, or attempting an explanation of why they couldn’t. There were potbellied men in suspenders, young mothers with strollers, men in suits, old ladies with canes and a smattering of employees with ID’s hanging from their necks.

And there, standing in their midst, were the bride and groom - separated from the rest because one held a gold and purple bouquet, and the other wore a gold and purple corsage.

At the far end of the lobby was a jury-rigged altar supporting a vase of flowers, all of the same colors and kind. Soon Ben stood in front of that altar as the bride and groom zigzagged between constituents looking on with curiosity and amazement.

A few moments later the vows were over, and the new bride stood there beautiful, and freshly kissed. Friends of the couple descended upon them with joy and congratulations, while county officials descended on the mayor with complements and questions.

At the end of an appropriate interval I interrupted the “county klatch” surrounding Ben. “Your honor,” I said, “it’s nearly 12:00, and you’re scheduled to deliver a baby at noon.”

Ben smiled and we rushed from the “Treasurer’s Chapel” in the direction of the escalator.