Spuddle
If you hadn't noticed, there's been a pandemic.
spud·dle (ˈspʌdəl)
v
• To work tirelessly without achieving anything of worth.
• To put in a great deal of effort and achieve only very little.
• To make a lot of fuss about trivial things, as if they were important.
I won't beleaguer this long overdue post with musings specific to that development, but it'd be asinine to avoid it altogether.
I was riding high. Viva Video was astonishingly the nexus of a television pilot that seemed a pipe dream until the smoke cleared on its deliverance. Hot on the heels of copyrighting two screenplays after months of editing, I was starting to believe that I might have a chance to make a living off my creative endeavours; having distinctly made the acknowledgement that the video clerk life didn't have me on a provident path, I can only claim ignorance in the guise of ingrained optimism.
In early December of 2019, it looked as though Viva might be kaput. Miguel had long-since forsaken a salary, earning his living in a new career as a nurse and kicking over some of his own funds, only to thereafter rely on the financial assistance of an angel investor, but the store was stretched to a breaking point: our primitive rental software slammed into a time formatting/storage bug signaling our own bespoke Y2K, and, despite the recent upswing in first-rate publicity from our TV gig, profits had declined to a point of entropy. It was in this state that I became completely and utterly defiant: Viva was not going down on my watch, not without a fight. With the help of my valiant co-workers, I was intent on leading the charge for our resurgence. We were not going to manufacture a financial boon of hundreds or thousands in a single shot, I argued, but if we could improve daily intake through small, consistent ventures supplemented by monthly events, we would start making up the shortfall.
That August, me and my fiancée had brought our film screening and discussion venture State Street Movie Night to Viva, and it slowly began to gain traction with the customers. The following January, Viva sponsored a screening of Army of Darkness at a local theatre. Around this time, we began branding and marketing Viva merchandise like pins, stickers, magnets, mugs, and pint glasses. In February, the Viva crew hosted an Oscar party, bringing a princely sum to the store. The next SSMN thereafter was so crowded that there was no room for the staff to enjoy the movie. To start 2020, our profits had increased 25% relative to the previous January and February. Then came March.
Being shuttered for the pandemic wasn't a shock, per se, as we were all witnessing the natural progression that saw the world change. We mused it would be over in weeks or months, and we were wrong. Worldwide, these were hard times, and a true test of our society's fabric. By any metric, I had it easy. I'd hosted an SSMN birthday screening of Ghostbusters , then celebrated in a restaurant and had a few close friends over for a sedate party days before lockdown. For me, the ensuing weeks meant spending more time cooking meals, sleeping in, working on creative projects, and benefitting from government largesse while watching, reading, and hearing about the state of the world from the confines of home. Miguel, meanwhile, was thusly treated to a front row seat of the pandemic at its most grueling.
When it came time to reopen Viva in mid-June, the realities of healthcare work during a pandemic required Miguel to forswear shifts at Viva, and, as a result, I was tapped to captain the ship. For me, this brought about an amusing symmetry: when TLA Video was closing in October of 2012, the profusion of employees jumping ship made me the de facto assistant manager with Miguel insisting I be paid as such. Now, my inimitable qualifications put me in charge of operations. Navigating the good ship Viva through the post-lockdown world saw the addition of two new employees alongside our doughty interns. Though business was down, all was milk and honey in the day-to-day operations of the store, even when the occasional behind-the-scenes drama threatened to tarnish our luster.
Then, in September, my health took a turn for the worse. I developed a heart flutter that was annoying at best, terrifying at worst; one evening at a restaurant, after weeks spent ignoring the problem, I courted serious fears of having a heart attack before settling down at home. Around this time, I finally decided to find myself a personal physician after more than a decade without one. The next morning, I passed my first kidney stone. It was excruciating, but at least the trip to the hospital got me a blood test, urinalysis, and EKG that confirmed my heart disturbance as premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs. All in all, the health scare was decidedly mild and successfully goaded me into getting my medical affairs in order. A few close calls with COVID-19 later, things were back to normal, and by the year's end, I had four new short stories and a renewed vigor for the Life After series, so I naturally assumed I would remember 2021 as a year of rebirth.
Of January and February, I remember very little beyond the obvious. On my birthday in March, I encountered a series of random inconveniences; it's natural for the impact of a few things going wrong to feel heightened on one's birthday, but the compounding effect launched me into a despair I hadn't felt in ages. I had difficulty sleeping, concentrating on things that ought to bring me joy, and though I struggle now to recount all the details, this ennui enveloped me in the pointless desperation of everyday life alongside a complete and utter lack of hope for what lay ahead. I rarely reflect on moments where such feelings could be construed as prognostication, but looking back, this absolutely looks like a harbinger of what was to come.
While the waters remained still on the surface, sinister tides were churning beneath Viva. In between getting double-vaccinated, my stress level was steadily increasing, but whether I would be dragged out to sea or delivered to the shore became immaterial with the appearance of a tsunami on the afternoon of June 25th: Viva's lease had been cancelled. We would be forced to close effective in two months and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
Miguel shared the news with me first, giving me a few days in which to observe the store in its natural state with the knowledge of what was to come; while the two of us were effectively resigned to our fate, I had a feeling my co-workers would have a more sanguine view, and they did. Like a wizened Siddhartha, I ferried between helping Miguel organize a dignified conclusion and the staff's dreams of a grand revival before the former forecast came to bear and the floodwaters stripped us bare, but not before two months spent luxuriating in every last moment until we could smell the surf. Parties, pictures, videos, screenings, and a live musical ensemble colored what could only be described as a fitting sendoff. Not just to the store, but what it represented. What it meant to the people who filled it. And what it meant to my way of life.
At the final bell toll, I could comfortably say that I'd done everything in my power to enjoy those final weeks and walk away with my head held high as I became unemployed for the first time in my life. And I was going to make certain this time would be productive.
First, I sought to undertake several long overdue errands. A replacement windshield, repaired A/C fan, and inspection for my car. An eye exam for new specs and shades. A haircut. Revisiting my doctor for further analysis of my enduring sleep issues and PVCs, leading to blood work and a sleep study. Next, it was seeking a new venture and venue for Viva screenings, and trying to actualize the store's continuation in some form or another. Networking, chasing down leads, seeking publicity opportunities, and trying to find a job that would pay me to write. Whipping my published back-catalog into shape, including revised eBook formatting, seeking new reviews, overhauling background documents, revamping publicity materials, completing re-edits of my screenplays, and entering Noise Pollution into five competitions. I began exploring the possibility of creating audiobooks. Tinkered with improving some social media strategies. Reduced my alcohol consumption. Hosted my first-ever takeover of the Zombie Book of the Month Club . Worked out the kinks on my unemployment compensation. Betwixt birthdays, holidays, and my anniversary, I was just trying to find a job. Any job.
Let this caesura serve as an effigy for a lifetime of spuddling.
I am now employed once more. The PVCs are gone. And I've already been notified that my script has been discarded from two competitions. Between the fate of Viva, my repeatedly dashed dreams of a writing career, and despite my best efforts and generous portions of my time, practically everything for which I work seems destined to die on the vine.
That's not to say that I feel the time or effort was wasted. I had fun, gained experience, and brought entertainment, if not fulfillment, into the lives of many. Don't doubt for a moment that I am a personal optimist and joyful individual who has been extremely fortunate in life. Professionally, from my youth to the present, I have been chasing down a specious future, arguably working hard but not smart in pursuit of unattainable goals, and not only are these decades of failure finally catching up with me, I no longer see a path toward realistic success. It would be an evasion to call this anything else.
This doesn't mean I'm giving up, of course. Just that I'm finally going to be more pragmatic with my prospects; expect nothing, and you won't be disappointed. Perhaps this should become my mantra moving forward.
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