by Marina Carrucciu-Parker
Greetings fellow city dweller. You don't mind if I allow myself this informal approach, but after all, we have a common bond. You and I are a rare breed. We, along with few hundred million other Americans, have decided to live not in the country, not on a farm or suburb or island retreat, but in a city.
…Yes, I know, it's the job. That brilliantly stifling, existence choking, mind numbing, but ever so financially satisfying job is keeping you in the city. Keeping you in your city, where espresso bars and sushi bars, convenience stores and car hops, daily events, and decadence, struggle for your attention and monetary worth. Oh, to escape the nonstop barrage of information and inundation of chaotic turmoil. How can we make it through another day of bumper-to-bumper bumpers, and wall-to-wall wallowing?
But wait. Before you take that final commute over one of the town's numerous roof tops, let's think. We are now in the 21st century, with technology that allows computer communications from places as foreboding as Mount Everest. Most professionals can work from anywhere in the world. Are you trying to tell me that the only thing keeping you in the city is the fact that your manager loves to see your body on site, even if you choose to leave your head elsewhere?
Come with me then, to the near future, your future. Things are beginning to change, as we speak. First, they fire your boss....
Okay, take that grin off your face. Stop laughing and calm down. Lets get back to our fiction. Your new manager, the former head of the EPA, insists that everyone telecommute. Meetings will now be held via laptop attached cameras. She doesn't care if you join in from inside the shuttle Challenger as it's launching on its next mission, as long as the picture doesn't bounce too much. So would you still live in a city, or would you move?
Have you thought about it? Let me take care of this for you. I've decided. You are moving to the country. No, no, you don't need to thank me…I did it for your own good. After all, haven't you been complaining about the traffic, crowds, pollution, crime and claustrophobic neighborhoods for years? Now you can say good-bye to all of that. With a wave of my laptop wand, you are living on top of a mountain outside Durango, Colorado. The snow is falling softly on your ten acre parcel; your dogs are scratching at the log cabin door, begging to chase that huge skunk hiding behind the work shed; your horses eat peacefully at the bale of hay you kicked off the tail of you pickup truck this morning. The coffee in your hand warms the tips of your fingers as you approach your cable ready laptop and get ready to log on.
Sounds good huh? You love it. You want to be there. But wait, there's more. The tips of your fingers are cold, because the heater in your cabin gave out last week, and you're still waiting for Hank's Heater Inc., to stop by. He's a busy man during the winter season, and as he said "No heat? Try more logs in the fireplace, till I can get there. When? My 4-wheel drive is in the shop, so I can't make it your way till the snow clears. Sorry buddy."
That's okay. You figure it's part of the give and takes. As long as your hard drive keeps rotating, you should be all right. Oh, oh. You've got a presentation in 3 hours, and Kinko's has refused your pleas to set up a 24 hour shop on your property. You try to get their representative's hysterical laughter out of your head.
Never mind, you tell yourself. You can email the presentation to Ralph, in Pittsburgh. He's got a Kinko's down the block. Oh no! You suddenly remember he moved to some remote Hawaiian Island last week. It rhymed with Aku Apu, or was that Pupu?
Forget it. You'll send the PowerPoint presentation and everyone can launch it on their laptop while the meeting is going on. Let's log on. Oh my God! The phone lines are dead. Quick, get the cellular. Roam? Roam? Come on, find something, anything, a satellite, radio tower, a Volkswagen with a big antenna. Nothing!
Well, there's always the snowmobile. You bundle up in your parka, stuff your presentation diskette into your inside pocket, protect your face with a ski mask, swear under your breath, and pray as you turn the key. "Yes," you yell to the rather unimpressed horses, dogs and skunk. With determination, you rev up the engine, and take off.
A couple of hours later, you stare out the Denny's in downtown Durango, drinking your third cup of coffee, hoping that this one will defrost the snowmobile keys off of your tongue. Sadly, as you stare down at the frozen, shattered presentation diskette, you suddenly realize, it's only Sunday.
So next time you are stuck in traffic, or soaked to the bone by the splash of passing motorist as you run to your office on a rainy Monday morning, don't get depressed. Remember the story of that poor soul in Durango, weeping quietly into his coffee, and realize that things could be worse. You could be living in the country.
