A fellow I once worked with is now the press secretary for a very powerful political figure – someone you’d know if I “dropped” the name. (I won’t.) He and I were hired on the same day to do similar jobs at a large law firm. He went on, apparently to greater things. I just went on.
My former co-worker handles the affairs of people with influence – and that makes him a person of some influence, as well. Because when powerful people virtually eliminate direct access to themselves, the ones who have it are somehow elevated to a special status of their own.
It’s odd, isn’t it, that one of the hallmarks of power is distance? Few people who have achieved notoriety or power are without “horse-holders,” handlers and other hangers-on. They seem to come with the territory. The powerful don’t fly coach or carpool. They have limos. Drivers. Schedulers. Personal assistants. They occupy corner offices and frequent executive washrooms. They don’t answer their own phones. Ever. Many rarely place their own outgoing calls.
I live in a city of nearly 5 million people, on an old, quiet street with nice neighbors. Two private universities and one of the largest medical centers in the world are minutes from my front door. So are lovely shops, cozy restaurants and at least half a dozen Starbucks. Most of the cars parked in driveways nearby are less than five years old. On either side of me, my neighbors have put up elaborate Halloween decorations on their porches and in their yards, spending more to delight the neighborhood kids for one night than most folks do for the entire Christmas season.
If you walked down my street, you’d think it was full of people without a care in the world. People in complete control of their neat-as-a-pin lives.
I’m a late adapter. I don’t typically jump on the bandwagon first and set the trend. I finally got a microwave in 2001…grudgingly. I watched my black and white TV until it was mostly white, then really did “fade to black.” I don’t own a DVD or anything to play one on. And I was the last of my friends to get a maid.
Three months ago, while I was deep into a major project at the office and working on a book manuscript at night – I realized my cleaning was leaving something to be desired. When my upstairs neighbor mentioned that her maid, Julia, was looking for another client, I took that as a “sign.” Julia took on the downstairs half of the 1938 duplex where I live, coming every other week to do the basics. (Not the laundry or the dishes, mom – I still do those myself. Often.)