The Right of Refusal

Dearest Rachel –

By rights, I probably should have spent last night preparing myself for the trip down to Tennessee, rather than going out to dinner with the girls as planned online with them shortly after Kevin signed off from our last gaming session together (look, how were we to know?). I had put together words to say about him, and there is a certain school of etiquette that would likely have insisted upon my presence.

Always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise they won’t go to yours.

Attributed to Yogi Berra (but actually, in other wordings, older than him entirely)

There was a time when I took this to heart, and even went so far as to not even so much as take propriety into account while prioritizing my presence. You’ll recall how we first bonded over my story about losing Petra back in high school from our church youth group. When I heard about where and when her visitation was taking place (and yes, I discovered this as it was taking place), I wasted no time; I got on my bike and rode to where the street we lived on emptied out onto Route 14, where the funeral home was. I never thought about whether I was dressed appropriately; I was wearing the T-shirt from the group’s bicycle marathon to Wisconsin that was done in part to help raise money for her medical situation only a few months previously. How, I might have thought (if I considered it at all) could that be considered inappropriate?

Well, you can guess the resulting awkwardness. Here I am in a red-and-white baseball T-shirt, wandering around among a crowd of adults in subdued suits and dresses. It’s possible that I got a pass for being heartfelt in my attendance there, but I felt terribly self-conscious once I was actually there, standing out like that.

Of course, the days of high formality in church have all but been set by the wayside (and I say good riddance, even though I rarely wear anything less than a collared shirt when I attend any service), so that’s a scenario that’s not likely to ever play out again. Still, there are other reasons to debate whether to go or not.

Among other things, I’ve always had a rule about travel: if you spend more time getting to your destination (and returning from it; let’s bear in mind that it’s supposed to be a round trip every time) than you do at the destination, you’re wasting your time to do so.

Granted, there are certain situations where it’s required of one to make such a trip, especially when it’s part of one’s job. I remember vividly how, when I was still a part of the workfarce, that our recently appointed CEO was ordered back to our parent company’s headquarters in Japan. The U.S. subsidiary had suffered several financial reversals, in part due to general macroeconomic conditions, but also due to poor decisions made by the previous CEO (a tall, handsome American who, in the eyes of our diminutive founder, could seemingly do no wrong – although he was terminated, but given a multimillion dollar severance package to simply go away, so I may be wrong about that). Nevertheless, this new CEO was instructed to show up at the founder’s office; requiring a fifteen-hour flight to Japan (and all the additional transport to get from Narita to headquarters), several hours of sitting outside the man’s office like a school boy waiting for the principal to discipline him – to say nothing of the hour or two of haranguing he would get from the founder about the company’s misfortunes. After that, he would be whisked back to Narita for another fifteen-hour flight back to Chicago – all as a punishment for a situation that hadn’t been his fault in the first place, and everyone (even the founder) knew it. But he had to go through with it, anyway, despite it being a waste of time and money on both his part and the company’s.

Now if I had been in that position, I would be seriously questioning my priorities about working for a place like that. The salary he received as CEO would have to be awfully good to make me want to endure that kind of injustice. Maybe it’s a cultural thing that I never will – and would never want to – understand.

That aside, this is the sort of situation I’m looking at (minus the harangue, thankfully, but substituting a long drive for the flight), if I’m at all serious about going down to Tennessee for Kevin’s service. Despite the fact that I would probably have to spend both tonight and Sunday night down there in Franklin (in a hotel, no less – we never stayed anywhere but at Kevin’s house when we went down there), the main reason for being there would be a service of between an hour or two, compared to some eighteen, twenty hours of driving there and back. And I wouldn’t know anybody there other than his mom and stepdad. It’s enough to give me pause.

Interestingly enough, though, my folks aren’t insisting, or even suggesting, that I go. In fact, they have been rather explicit in stating that they aren’t encouraging me to make the trip. It’s not the same as actively discouraging me from doing so, but it doesn’t seem to be all that far removed from it. I admit to wanting to stay, but sense a certain level of obligation; but if they don’t see it as an absolute necessity, perhaps I have the right of refusal toward this request to attend, after all.

Besides, it’s been ages since all of us got together for a meal, especially a meal like this (and indeed, it’s a trip that’s been a little more than a year in the making). Best to celebrate the good times with the living while we are still living, and maybe make a few more memories in the bargain.

The fun was in watching the girls’ (and Logan’s) reactions to the robot servers.

One thing I’ll have to remember for future visits is to be a little more judicious in my ordering. While it’s true that, at most restaurants, the soup course precedes the main meal, here it’s reserved for afterwards, since otherwise, you have nothing to boil your food in. But once you finish your meat, and you’re left with only the broth (and maybe, some noodles to cook in it), what remains is the liquid essence of beef, and it’s just amazing. You have to save room for yourself to truly savor and enjoy it, and I almost missed out on doing so. As it was, come this morning, I’d gained two and a half pounds compared to Friday morning, but it was well worth it.

Granted, it’s one more place neither you nor Kevin got to try, but I would imagine that even this pales against the wedding supper of the Lamb. Still, I figure I might as well send you word (and pictures) of our meal, as you can’t do the same from your side.

So, with these arguments taken into consideration – as well as the need to recover from such a repast – I’ve decided not to make the drive. I hope Kevin will be okay with that.

For now, honey, keep an eye on me, regardless, and wish me luck. I’m probably still going to need it.