Under the Desk

   The photo in the New York Times showed a Hollywood studio executive at his desk, on the phone, surrounded by exactly what you would expect such a man to be surrounded by. Elegance dripped from every corner: the perfect framed photos, the finest flowering plant, the best pen set, a hand-loomed rug. Only one thing seemed out of place: the wastebasket. It was just like mine, a simple black container with a plastic hefty bag liner. Try as this fella might he was unable to find a pretty way to present that utilitarian feature. Thank God. It gave him a little humanity.

    We ought to always have things in this world we can't gussy up. I thought the bathroom was one such place, but no. When we first called it the restroom we started down the road to making it something more than it was, pretending in a way. Let's not do that to the wastebasket. Let's leave it alone, so that guy's like this are forever stuck with at least one thing in their lives that has no exotic alternative.

    Some things can't be made pretty. One hundred, for instance, as in the age. We see more and more people reaching the age of 100. They're often featured in newspaper articles. They all look alike to me, and none are pretty. Some appear noble, some wise, some impish, but none pretty. You can't pretty up 100. People who are a hundred look 100. Ok, some look 90, but 90 looks like 100.

    What a glorious day it must be for older members of society when they first realize  there's no more point in trying to pretty things up, cover things up, enhance or alter. Their age is there, front and center, there's no getting around it. Freed at last from our culture's appearance demands, they end their days as just plain old people. They're like the waste basket, they are what they are, no faking it.

    There are old folks homes in Hollywood where the stars no longer look like stars, they look like people, old people. Their lives appeared stunningly glamorous for decades. The photos showed impossible beauty, enviable opulence. But there are no new photos anymore, they don't allow them, they sit near the garden, many in wheel-chairs, and face their mortality. And in that moment, they merge with all of us.

    I'm drawn to equalizers. Those things that show how similar we all are instead of how different.

    If you see certain people in their prime and you can't find how they're like you, because they're better looking, have more money, travel more, or have amazing adventures, look for their wastebasket. It's a start. It will look like yours. Stick around long enough, look deep enough, and eventually you'll see their kids break their hearts. And if you hang in there for the long haul, one day they will be old, feeble, dying and scared, and no one will be able to tell the difference between them and you, as you all sit quietly, near the garden, wondering what it's really all about.