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.

Not That Rare

Things I miss from the campaign….

 

·         No parades, door to door canvassing or picnics. I come to work each day, sit down at a desk, answer phones and write letters. Since that fateful Tuesday last November I’ve gained twelve pounds, and I desperately need a leaflet drop in the hilliest part of Sandy.  

·         No Julie McAdams… in fact, the entire McAdams family have resumed their normal everyday lives. So James, Kate, Robert, Isaac, Susan, Jackie etc. etc. have become a rarity. Their presence gave the campaign a sense of being conducted from the McAdams kitchen table.  Our headquarters had the taste of warm home cooked food, and I miss that.

·         No volunteers. Our staff is filled with people of tremendous intelligence and great experience - I admire them all. But there was something beautiful about the company of work-a-day people who made telephone calls, walked door to door, and pasted fans together simply because they loved Ben McAdams, and they trusted the democratic process.  

·         No suspense. During the campaign I had a sense early on that magic could happen, and we could win. But it was never a sure thing, and even back in February Election Day seemed like it was scheduled for tomorrow. We had a few months to create our version of the future, or watch every effort disappear in smoke. That made life a good deal more vivid.  

 

Things I enjoy about being in county government….

·         We’ve all heard gripes about the absence of a stop sign, or the need for a children’s program and responded by joining in the complaint… “Yeah, isn’t it awful? Why can’t they fix that?” Well, now, I can hear someone make such a complaint and say, “Sure, we can fix that, give me your phone number. I’ll call you tomorrow.” (Fess up, what would you give to say that, just once?)

·         I love to write, and I love to learn new things. Because I have a flair for putting words together, and I enjoy Ben’s kind regards, I spend my days writing to CEO’s, 102 year old women, law professors and bereaved mothers. I write about Brigham Young, botanical gardens, bereaved mothers and bicycles. For me, this is a dream come true.

·         Imagine being a fan of Ben Kingsley, Ben Hogan or Ben Franklin… any Ben of your choosing. Then one day you’re told that Ben wants you to have a back stage pass, it will last for four years, and it comes with a salary.

·         One more thing could be added to the end of either list. It’s the simple joy of being in the company of people I deeply respect, and who deserve my affection. For all the differences between the campaign, and my new role in county government, that one thing has remained the same. Hang around Ben long enough and you’ll start to believe that wonderful people just aren’t that rare.

They Know The Truth

OK, I’ve now been in the Mayor’s office for almost two months. What are my initial impressions? What surprises me, and what requires some adjustment?

 In no particular order of importance, here are a few…

·         Salt Lake County government is a large and complex organization. We have thousands of employees, scores of services and hundreds of buildings. It’s hard to learn it all, even if you’re a full time employee with time to master it. So, I often wonder, how is John Q. Public supposed to figure this out? And, in fact, many never will. That was made clear today when I received an e-mail from a frustrated constituent certain that only “real city mayors” had “real responsibilities.”

“Why should I pay Ben McAdams salary,” she said, “there’s absolutely nothing for him to do.”

·         I had no idea how many beautiful facilities Salt Lake County owns. Places like the Viridian Center, Abravenal Hall, South Mountain Golf Course, The Capitol Theatre and the list goes on and on. By now, if someone told me the Taj Mahal or Pebble Beach were county facilities, I’d believe them.

·         The person who did the numbering system for the Government Center was perverse. I’ve been given office numbers and wound up totally lost. I’ve given office numbers to others fearing they’d never find their destination. Last week I ran into a soul directed to the assessor’s office days before. Worn down, confused, exhausted, he was now resigned to an $800,000 appraisal on his two-bedroom home. “Please,” he said, “just show me the way out.”

·         There’s only one person who’s mastered all there is to know about the county, he’s Ben’s assistant, and his name is Jon Hennington. No bit of County minutia has escaped him; no minor bureaucrat is unknown to him. I swear, if I called out, “Jon, who’s the second assistant deputy director of drainage design?” He’d have a name, a phone number and someone to call if the second assistant was out of town.

·         Whatever else there is to know about our deputy mayor, there is not one single ounce of “stroll” in that woman. Everywhere Nichole Dunn goes she marches with a stride and determination that would challenge any brick wall to stop her.  When she charges out the door at the end of the day I fear for some poor dog at home, soon to be walked, and expected to keep pace at the end of a leash.

·         I occupy a desk just outside the mayor’s office.  It’s the first bit of furniture you see when you walk through the door and into the mayor’s suite. There are two realities existing on either side of that door. First, there are people from the outside who think I’m someone far more important than I am. Second, there are those people whose job exists inside that door, and they know the truth.  

A Star Without Pedigree, A Wonder Without Precedent

For the most part, people who have important positions on the mayor’s staff share a common pedigree. They combine excellent academic preparation with a sequence of ever more responsible administrative positions. You meet them, ask what they were doing before they joined us, and it all makes sense.

There are a few exceptions, however, and I’m on that short list of wildcards. It would take someone far more creative than I am to draw a logical line between a South Salt Lake liquor store and the mayor’s office.

I’m painfully aware of that fact, and I work hard to prevent eyebrows being raised and questions being asked.

However, as short as that list might be, I’m not the only person on it, and when a fellow wildcard proves to be a star it gives me infinite satisfaction.

A case in point is Celina Milner.

She’s a lovely Latina with great interpersonal skills and a quick mind. Be in her presence for a minute and it’s impossible not to want her friendship.

She is that charming.

Celina also belongs to a small cadre I call, “The Miller Musketeers.” We are three in number – me, Joel Freston and Celina. We all report to Justin Miller. We all are recent graduates of a political campaign. And we all have responsibility for some part of constituent relations.

That makes us unique, and it brings us all together.

As I suggested, Celina didn’t take the usual route to the Mayor’s office. About ten years ago she was a newly single mother of two. It was a status she hadn’t planned for, and she didn’t have a roadmap.  Yet, over the intervening decade she found a way to raise two great kids and become a successful sales executive in the hospitality industry.

If she had done nothing more, Celina, like millions of other single mothers, would have qualified for the Congressional Medal of Motherhood.  But somehow, starting with such a terrible deficit and then achieving the impossible, wasn’t all she had in mind.

Celina decided to invest back in her community all the free time and surplus energy that comes with single motherhood. (Feel free to laugh.) She volunteered for non-profit boards and put her hand in the air whenever a worthy cause asked for help. That avocation for community service reached its zenith when last year she ran for the state legislature and lost by only a few hundred votes.

Now, last week, she was sitting at my desk planning a new literacy outreach for Salt Lake County. It occurred to me that while my segue into county government may have been unconventional, hers was miraculous. I danced into Ben’s office with a surplus of conviction and enthusiasm, but like Ginger Rogers, Celina did it dancing backwards and in high heels.

How does that happen? Well, I learned that creativity and resourcefulness played a part.

We were talking about ways to bring reading into the life of poor Hispanic families who have pre-school children. Bookmobiles came to mind.  “Ben’s Book Club For Kids" was another idea. There was a suggestion for story hours to be held at community laundromats.

Then it occurred to me that I should ask Celina about her own experience. What had she done to help her pre-school children learn to love books? After all, the accomplished, confident and articulate woman sitting across from me wasn’t always that way. There must have been a time when Celina was poor, scared and making it up as she went along.

“So, what did you do?” I asked, “How’d you get your kids to like books.”

“We went to Costco,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How would a trip to Costco help with something like that?”

“Well, for us at least, Costco wasn’t just about shopping. It was the only family outing we could afford. We treated it like a carnival or a street fair. There were new things to see, people to watch, and all these wonderful samples of free food. Best of all, the price of admission was free – if you didn’t count the membership card.”

“That’s great, but what does any of this have to do with books?”

Celina looked at me as if I was hopelessly out of touch. “Do you belong to Costco?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you know they sell books, right? They have these long tables stacked with books, including children’s books.”

“Yes, I know, and they’re a bargain. But they’re not free.”

“Who said we bought them?” she asked.

“But if you didn’t buy them, Celina, how could you read them?”

“Easy, we’d go through all the children’s books, every one of them, and find a few we thought promising. Then we’d find the furniture display – there’s always a furniture display with big overstuffed chairs and couches. We’d cuddle together on that couch as if in our very own 100,000 square foot home. I'd read out loud, and gradually, as the story rolled along, it was as if no one else was there.”
 
“Sounds magical,” I said.

“It was.”

“And an object lesson in getting the most out of your Costco membership.”

“That too,” she laughed.

So there you have it, a Latina who found a way to launch herself from a couch at Costco right into the mayor’s office. She’s a star without pedigree, and a wonder without precedent. Next to her story my own little tale about a liquor store seems almost routine and predictable.

Who knows, if I hang around Celina long enough perhaps my colleagues will one day look at me and think, “Yeah, a liquor store, that makes sense.”

The Black Box

Before Ben's inauguration becomes a distant spec in the rearview mirror I'd like to offer a memory.

From the moment of Ben's first assurance I'd be on his staff, until I first occupied a desk outside his office door, my attention did not belong to where I was. I may have occupied a few square feet in a liquor store on Miller Avenue, but my enthusiasm belonged to a future in a very different place.

It was an odd feeling of life suspended. Yes, I was excited, but there was also a growing sense of disconnection from my current circumstance.

I sent Ben a text begging for some small part in the transition, perhaps a bleacher seat from which to watch furniture being moved. Anything.

For a long while there was silence, then I got an e-mail from Donald Dunn. Joel Freston had the flu, could I assume his position on the inauguration steering committee?

Could I?... Where?! How?! When?!

BOOM! That morning I showed up at 9:00 for a 10 o'clock meeting at Rose Wagner Theatre.

The theater's lobby was almost empty. The one exception was a formidable young woman with the bearing of a fleet admiral. She was wedded to a cell phone. As my glance targeted her she turned toward starboard hoping my approach could be deflected.

As her conversation ended the phone returned to her palm like an exercise grip.

"Pardon me," I asked her, "are you here for a meeting about the mayor's inauguration?"

"Yes," she said, "and you are?"

"George, I'm here for Joel... Joel Freston."

"Oh," she replied, "there's a lot to get done. I'm Marla Kennedy, the event planner. Your responsibility is parking, the Ben Bus and the black box."

"The black box?" I wondered, unwilling to betray that I had no idea what "the black box" might be.

"Okay," I said with ersatz confidence, "parking, the Ben Bus and the black box."

She acquired my attention with a direct unwavering stare, "You and I, we'll do just fine if you remember two things."

"Which are?"

"Follow through, and keep me in the loop."

"Yes ma'am."

Then Marla Kennedy walked away and sat down at a long table stacked with folders filled with papers. She conducted herself as a no-nonsense woman with a sense of command and control. I felt like a dimwitted newbie at the top of a run with no experience and skis attached.

My mind ran through a rolodex of blank cards. "A black box? A black box? A black box? Could this be where we keep a list of emergency protocols? Maybe it contains a red button that instantly summons Sherriff's deputies. Perhaps the County has a secret fleet of ICBM's and the launch codes are kept in 'The Black Box'"

I had no idea, but I wasn't about to display my ignorance to Marla Kennedy.

After an hour of silent speculation, during which the Admiral reviewed and sorted papers, pausing only to text someone, the meeting got underway.

Marla Kennedy went around the table pointing at each of us, identifying us by name and announcing our responsibilities.

Finally she got to me. "George Pence, he's new, he'll be responsible for parking, the Ben Bus and... who's handling Market Street Grill?"

"Joel was," a woman named Kimi replied, "but I'll do that."

"Good."

The announcement of assignments appeared to be over, but nothing was said about "The Black Box." I gave way to a sense of temporary relief.

After a few beats of silence another woman named Vicki spoke up, "What about THE BLACK BOX, who's responsible for THE BLACK BOX?"

"Right, that's George."

"Oh," Vicki replied, looking at me with what appeared to be a new found sense of gravity.

A few moments of silence transpired while this announcement sunk in. Would I have to finally surrender and ask out loud, "What's The Black Box?"

"Oh dear Lord," I said to myself, "please pass this cup from my lips. Don't make me admit my unworthiness to all these fine people. Don't force me to confess that the 'Ark of The County Covenant' shouldn't be in my keeping."

I bowed my head and resolved to seal my fate, to let all know I was the joker in this deck of cards.

Then Vicki piped up, "Should George be responsible for the black box? I mean, we stuff it full of staplers, duct tape and Band Aids. Where's he going to get it all? He doesn't work for the county. He can't hijack them from a liquor store."

Admiral Kennedy looked at her briefly, "You're right, the black box is yours."

"Fine," she responded, "if that's all right with you, George?"

"No problem Vicki, besides, I wasn't sure what kind of duct tape the mayor preferred."

That remark describes the end of my first few hours with the McAdams' administration. How I longed for the feeling of certitude when a customer asked me the difference between a fifth and a liter.

Open The Windows

Yesterday Ben sat down at my desk and asked if he could read through his first "State of The County" address. This speech had gone through repeated rewrites, midnight editing and critiques from dozens of experts.

I, however, was yet to read it.

Yes, I was curious... partly because Ben himself gave it so much emphasis. Maybe he thought it vitally important because it was like a first date with his new county constituents, maybe it was because he saw it as a script for the rest of his term, or maybe he's just a perfectionist.

Whatever the reason, I knew he had labored over it and wanted it to be just right.

I listened attentively, appreciating the ideas, the syntax, the delivery. All the while I glanced at my watch knowing this last rehearsal would be necessarily incomplete. We had ten minutes before the speech had to be given for real.

As my eyes again referred to my wrist Ben's voice rose to a crescendo, "I promise to wring every last efficiency from county government."

I looked up doubtfully, "Don't you mean every last inefficiency?"

A mild expletive escaped his lips as his pen scratched the page in front of him. "Open the windows, turn up the heat!" he said in an exasperated tone.

I took satisfaction in knowing that my editorial comment would be the smallest, the last and the surest of inclusion.

As Soon As He's Free

I’ve begun to settle into my new assignment as Constituent Services Specialist in the McAdams’ administration. What’s it like?

 It’s hugely fun and rewarding, but the best single word to describe it is “various.”

Various, because dealing with constituents is only part of what I do. Various, because constituents themselves are various, and so are their problems.

Let me describe the sort of incident that makes my job a real joy.

There was a man with the dawning realization that he had not received a bill for street improvements in a very long time. He was sure the assessment had not reached its end, but there was no bill, and his check register gave no hint of any payments for a very long time.

His voice was stressed, and his manner betrayed grave concern. Visions of a tax sale haunted his waking thoughts and destroyed his sleep.

 

I asked him for his address and promised to follow up.

It’s true the quality of our personnel at Salt Lake County is superb, they’re hard working people and very consciences. But it’s also true that when I call someone their caller ID flashes in bold blue letters, “BEN MCADAMS.”

My calls seldom have to ring twice

A few moments later a division director and an assistant division director were standing in front of my desk. It seems this man’s bills had been sent to the wrong address. A few moments after that I was calling to tell him that all penalties and interest charges had been erased.

 

For that man this day suddenly became Christmas, and I was Santa Claus. (“And I’m being paid to do this?” I thought.)

 

That was a wonderful moment, and something like it happens almost every day.

Then there are the calls that fall under the category of “Comic Relief.” A few days ago an elderly woman called to complain that a game of ping pong was being played too loudly at her senior center. 

 

Her request?

 

She wasn’t interested in having me quiet the ping pong game, or even end it. No, she wanted Ben to ask her husband why HE wasn’t ending the “damn ping pong game.” Why wasn’t HE doing what his wife requested?

“Yes maam, I’ll bring this up with the Mayor just as soon he’s free. “

 

And there you have my day, from the ridiculous to the sublime, and every last drop of it incredibly fun.

Everything To Celebrate

On the day of the inauguration Ben's new cabinet met for the first time. It was two in the afternoon and we'd spent the morning at an awesome ceremony - complete with honor guards, apostles and choirs.

Sitting around the long conference table were four distinct groups. First, there was the remnant of the old guard; those who had served with distinction during the previous administration. They were alone in being familiar with everything, except perhaps with the new mayor himself.

Second, there was a group of newly recruited experts. They had resumes listing elite universities that would have rejected me. And those were't the schools from which they'd graduated, those were the schools where they'd taught.

They were bright hyper-achievers, but most lacked familiarly with both the County, and with Ben.

Third, there was a much smaller group - the group to which I belonged. This group was so small that calling it a "group" is misleading. A better term would be "duet," since it included only Joel Freston and me.

We had been a part of Ben's campaign, and all we were familiar with was Ben himself. We were expert in absolutely nothing else. In fact, just a few hours earlier we learned that "County" wasn't spelled with a "K."

Finally, there was the group that included Nichole Dunn, our deputy mayor, Justin Miller, our associate deputy mayor, and Ben himself. They sat at the head of the table as if on the side of Mount Rushmore. At that singular moment in them resided all authority and all initiative.

When Ben spoke there was the advanced attention hard to find outside the company of air traffic controllers.

His comments were affable, reassuring and full of enthusiasm. But during their entirety most of the room didn't take a breath. It occurred to me Ben's audience was composed mostly of survivors and strangers. They hoped for the best, maybe even expected the best, but they couldn't be absolutely sure of anything.

Eventually Ben's welcome came to an end, and then there was nothing. Not a word. Only silence.

I couldn't stand it.

Something in me wouldn't allow this moment to deny who Ben was, and how fortunate we all were. So the glorified receptionist at the far end of the table spoke up.

"I think I speak for everyone here," I said, "I feel like a kid at Disneyland. We have everything to look forward to, and we're so very fortunate to be here. Thanks for including us Ben. We'll do everything we can to make you the very best mayor in the U.S.A."

The remark about Disneyland was puerile, maybe even fatuous, but it was intentional. I wanted this group of august people to know that even the least among them had nothing to fear, and everything to celebrate.

Ben is the mayor, yes, and that's good news. But the even better news is not "what" he is... it's "who" he is. And if some guy at the end of the table can rattle on about Disneyland fearlessly, then exactly what form of candor is not allowed? What kind of authentic response is off the table?

I don't know if I made my point, and in the end I probably succeeded only in looking ridiculous. Yet I know, inevitably, Ben will make my point far more convincingly than I ever could.

One With a Desk?

The night of the election was a moment of triumph blended with loss. Ben won, but now the campaign, and the community it created were over. Even as I stood by Ben at the Sheraton negotiating the waves of adulation I was haunted by what was ending.

We started in the spring more than a dozen points down, erased that deficit, and then won decisively. Now, my role was to wave "Bon Voyage," as the SS McAdams sailed off to become a new county government - no small project for a burgeoning body politic destined to become, in about eight years, over half the size of the city of Chicago.

At that moment, for me, the ride was over. My friend Joel sensed my mixed emotions. He suggested I might apply for a county volunteer board, and I reviewed the options. One advisory board dealing with bicycles had my interest.

I'd wait for Ben to settle in and make my application.

Then someone mentioned a few positions in the new government that Ben would have to fill. Maybe I should apply. I took a flier and submitted my resume, innocent of any salary expectations - with no position specified. Out of the blue a call came from a woman named Debbie asking to schedule an interview.

What I remember about that interview with Nichole
Dunn is speculation about the cost of a child's college education. No doubt there was more, but that's all that I recall. I spent the hour petrified she'd ask something about mill levies.

A week later I was at work when my phone exploded in my pocket. It was Ben.

"I'm calling to offer you a job," he said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll take it." I blurted out.

He paused for a moment, thinking how to rearrange the script he'd designed for the call.

Ben proceeded with a description of the job title and salary level: the specifics of which hit my ear drum and then bounced off.

Finally he concluded, "Would there be a problem if we announced your acceptance?"

That sentence I heard.

"A problem? What kind of problem could there possibly be?"

I hung up and stood with a blank expression. Eventually a fellow crew member asked, "Who was that?"

"Our new mayor," I replied.

"What did he want?"

"He offered me a job," I said, incredulously.

"Really? One with a desk?"

"I think so."

With that I walked up to the office, sat down, and composed a two sentence e-mail giving my two weeks notice.

Something happened to me that happens to only .0000005% of the adult American population. At the age of 62 I began a new career more excited about tomorrow than at any other time in my wonderfully blessed life.