Gems in the Rough
March 29, 2010
JoAnn Ferguson

The glint in JoAnn Ferguson’s eye—if you catch it before she evasively looks away—betrays her mischief. The slight curl of her lips barely disguises the pleasure she derives from her devilment. Opinionated to a fault, she needs only a hint of assent or objection to translate her correspondent’s reaction into either glee or resentment. Don’t expect direct statements, just innuendo—usually deprecatory. Her tongue moves with the precision of a lizard’s, striking quickly and with intent. Some call it satire; I find it more visceral than cerebral.

JoAnn is, above all, a gatekeeper, guarding her domain with an animal instinct. Her unvarnished intelligence remains untainted by the fractious liberalism of higher education, a lack of formal training keeping her “in her place” (not without the cost of intransigence). I have never considered her intellectual—quite the opposite. She conceals her comprehension gaps as she does all her deeper sentiments, behind a shroud of ambiguity. Yet, attuned to her sensitivities and her feelings of inadequacy, I accommodate her by offering simplified explanations when necessary. Years of distilling the esoteric details of law into plain speech have trained me well.

JoAnn enjoys the blessing of a pleasing, if unremarkable, appearance. Neither grotesque nor fat, she is best described as “dated.” Her presence inspires neither intoxication nor artistic admiration—certainly not individuality. “Plain” is the word that comes to mind, saccharine, if you will. A pretty vase, but an empty one.

Mr. Ferguson

Mr. Ferguson radiates a constant air of peevishness, as though perpetually annoyed. Everything he encounters carries some objectionable quality, requiring his steady stream of low-level condemnation. He imagines this posture lends him the air of a seer, a man who has risen above the froth of humanity. In truth, it is a projection—a smokescreen to obscure his lifelong capitulation. Long ago, he resolved that he would never amount to anything. He was likely correct.

Still, he has managed to obfuscate this truth by achieving what some might call success. But his accomplishments, like his self-loathing, are warped. Any chance of reclaiming his suffocated private nature is long lost—now drowned in alcohol and dulled by trivial pursuits. And yet, he continues his chase, grasping at hollow material triumphs. His existence is preposterous.

Grantham Daramy

Gran presents a facade of sweetness and light, but it is mere subterfuge. I have never forgotten her cold condemnation of her husband as a man without ambition—an egregious cruelty. Nor was I surprised to hear similar reproach for other members of her family. The conclusion is inescapable: for Gran, others are to blame.

When discontentment casts its net so widely, little remains to sustain even the pretense of happiness. It is impossible to change others, no matter how well-intentioned. Still, at some point, expectations must be tenable. Reciprocity is essential in any enduring relationship—not just tolerance, but output, shared intelligence, even in the mundane trials of life.

I was told Gran is untrustworthy—conniving, even. I was not surprised. Too often, she joked about money and inheritance, a fraught combination. Our social conventions became perfunctory, significant more for their benevolence than camaraderie. Her shell was impenetrable, fossilized. But it no longer matters. I enjoy the cool, oily dampness of my hair, the muted power of the sea. Once, I might have wanted to share it with her. But that will never happen. It is what it is. No great loss either way. The erosion simply took longer than expected.

Trixie and Warren Cruikshank

The Cruikshanks thrive in orbits, collecting people to dine, create, and travel together. They need and feed on the strength of their private clubs. While they like to be known for their involvement and novel exploits, they are rigid about rules—their rules. Years of orchestrating extended projects have honed their skill in manipulating people, not for a particular agenda, but for control itself.

This odd psychological trait is difficult to pinpoint, as neither possesses a defining talent beyond their own sense of correctness and dominion. They exemplify that curious blend of clinical exactitude and Midwestern complacency—the kind marked by shamefully sensible clothes and excessive lawn equipment.

Divert attention from their affairs, and things grind to a halt. They have no patience for idleness. Their bond is gravitational, held together by the force of their perpetual motion. No one else could stand the pace or endure the constant commotion. Besides, they lack the inclination to indulge the less enthralling habits of others—unless, of course, it offers them a chance to exert control.

Igor Mikhailov, OD, BsCd, AMTP

Igor is moderately entertaining, less so when he succumbs—as he routinely does—to “the drink.” His professional credentials reflect his latent intellectual capacity, though he has subordinated those abilities in favor of financial security and familial obligations. These are not unworthy pursuits, but I have always felt he could have transcended the pedestrian. He is a reminder that aging is not always dignified, that even youth’s gifts of beauty and brilliance can be squandered.

His ambition has always been social standing—a common drive among those lacking patrician roots. But breeding, like truth, will always out. There is no escaping it.

Maintaining the trappings of success is paramount for Igor, though he knows, deep down, that it is a hollow victory. In the end, he alone will celebrate his achievements—if anyone does. I amuse myself speculating how quickly he will transition from outward appearances to inward retreat. The chains around his waist are numerous; it is impossible to predict when he will free himself. I suspect, in the end, he will abandon his accomplishments here and return to his origins.

Conclusion and Critical Analysis

No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

John Donne

The people in one’s life have been described as both heaven and hell, and everything in between. The standard rebuttal is that no man is an island. Even so, we do not choose our family or, strangely enough, our friends. Some construct their alliances methodically, surrounding themselves with those who serve their interests. But such people are not friends.

Friends are those with whom one relishes conversation, even gossip—particularly at the expense of others. Yet friends, like family, can disappoint. Perhaps I hold them to too high a standard. Friendship filled the void left by family ties in my youth. Now, I have adopted the same resignation that parents must eventually embrace.

This does not mean tolerating all conduct, but rather ignoring failure and deprivation. Such detachment fosters a degree of remoteness, but it spares one the burden of outright condemnation. At times, though, I wonder if this detachment is merely a lifeline tossed from that proverbial island.