The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 15): The Settlers of Catan
Ξ October 5th, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |
By this time I had apparently climbed the Health Club corporate success ladder and was just below Minoto in terms of responsibility and authority at the Right Stuff. Cora became extremely unfriendly and finally just left one day and never came back. So, I was now in charge of hiring new employees, which included posting positions on Monster and Jobdango and screening resumes, calling applicants, and setting up interviews.As I sorted through the masses of incoming applications, I set aside the good potentials, shaking my head at the resume that had actually listed, under “skills”, “Filing, both alphabetically and chronologically.” After narrowing the search down to five strong candidates, I conducted the phone interviews, using the same familiar script I’d heard Minnie use just months earlier.
Three candidates seemed good over the phone—Darlene, Adrian, and Tana—so I scheduled those for interviews with Minoto. Adrian was a certified personal trainer, and scheduled for the following Tuesday in the later afternoon. However, on Monday, I was talking with Jeanette and mentioned that we were interviewing a new personal trainer. I showed her Adrian’s resume.
“Adrian? It’s a woman?” I was taken back.
“Of course it’s a woman, this is a women’s health club.” I stated the obvious.
“Well, I know, but I mean, Adrian can be a guy’s name.”
“Well it’s not a guy because I called and did a whole interview with her. Adrian’s a girl.” Jeanette’s eyes danced the way they did when she sensed something ridiculous going on. She leaned back and folded her arms, grinning at me.
“Are you absolutely sure?” I thought back to our conversation. I mean, it had sounded like a girl, but I couldn’t remember specifically discussing whether Adrian was a female or not. I started to doubt.
“I mean . . .” my eyes widened thinking about the possibilities, “I think Adrian’s a girl.” Jeannette tossed her head back and laughed, loving the scenario.
“I’m going to call. I want to hear for myself.” She grabbed the resume and headed to the trainer’s office like a little kid heading to candy. I trailed behind her.
“What on earth are you going to say? Hi Adrian, are you a man?” She waved me away as she was already dialing.
“I’ll think of something!” She whispered and put her finger over her lips to shush me. I waited as I heard the faint sound of the phone ringing on the other end and a person answer. Jeannette was grinning. “Adrian? Hi! It’s Jeannette at the Right Stuff Health Club. Hey, we had some confusion about your appointment tomorrow—did we book that for 3 or 3:30?. . . 3? . . . Oh ok, good, that’s perfect. Thanks, we really can’t wait to meet you!” I rolled my eyes at her choice of words as she winked and hung up the phone.
I folded my arms and raised my eyebrows, “So?”
“It’s SO a man!” She said, satisfied.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see for sure!” We shook hands, in a silent bet.
The next day, Jeanette left her client on the treadmill to cool down while she strolled to the front desk at 2:55pm, smiling at me. And, sure enough, at 2:58, a man, dressed in a sweat suit, walked in from his car and came in the front door. Jeannette turned her back to the front door so only I could see her face, mouth open wide, mouthing I told you so.
Fortunately, Adrian didn’t seem to notice that there were only women in the club, and perhaps missed the sign at the front that read “Women’s Fitness Club.” Also fortunately, we had alerted Minoto of the questionability of his gender, so she was prepared. She actually behaved with remarkable poise, explaining during the interview that she was responisible for conducting all preliminary interviews before sending all applicants on to the final interview with the owners at the co-ed club. I applauded her quick thinking, and as poor Adrian thanked us and walked to his car, we decided that I was no long allowed to conduct phone interview with applicants having gender-neutral names.
The humorous little mishap provided a way for Jeannette to tease me and really spend more time talking. I truly enjoyed her company, so when she invited me to her card-making party at her house, I convinced Candi to go with me and we did, sipping apple cider and creating little cards with stamps and stickers. She knew I was a Christian, and I knew that she was not, but for whatever reason, God gave me such favor with her. She made no bones about the fact that she loved me. She said she loved my joy and loved how when she walked in the door every morning, I acted truly excited to see her. And I was. When everyone else came in complaining about weather or traffic or a long line at Starbucks, she managed to take those same complaints and make them jokes, she seemed to have that perspective that enabled her to weather the frustrations of daily life.
The other two applicants were, thankfully, actually women. Both Tana and Darlene were great, so we hired both. Darlene was the mom of teenagers who stayed at home but needed some extra income. She was black as night and loved to talk. And talk and talk and talk. She was also a Christian, which was, I admit, part of the reason I really pushed to hire her. It was refreshing to have another believer around. We’d talk about Jesus and encourage each other in our walks and our witness there at work. We prayed for Minoto together and tried to help each other not be critical of her peculiar ways. A few times we actually succeeded, too.
Tana was a Life Coach. I wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but she had her own business doing so. However, I suspected that perhaps business as a Life Coach wasn’t booming if she was willing to take this job for $10/hour. Tana was very pretty, with flawless, dewy skin. I figured she was in her late 20s, but couldn’t be sure because she didn’t put any dates by her university attendance on her resume. Finally, one day, she mentioned how old she felt, to which I responded that she wasn’t old at all. Then she told me she was forty-two. I was stunned, absolutely stunned. I demanded she tell me her secret, which she said was Swiss Chard. I’d never even heard of it, but she insisted that it was magic. She grew it in her backyard and at it by the pound, cooked down into a green mush.
What was great about Tana was that because she was a life coach, she was very into personality studies, behavioral psychology, and philosophies of life and success. This opened the door immediately to talk about religion, spirituality, and Christianity. She wasn’t a Christian, but each time I would share a biblical truth, she would be amazed because it would line up with exactly what she had found to be true in her studies of people and behavior and success. She was a challenge, because she turned out to be somewhat flaky and irresponsible at work, but I advocated for Minoto to keep her on because we had such fabulous discussions and her heart truly seemed open to listen. Conversations, of course, were punctuated by phone calls, members complaining or needing clean towels, and Minoto’s incessant need to monitor all things at all times, but they still were little kisses from God, encouraging me that He had me there for a reason.
—
Back at home, January brought an addition to our lives that we had no idea would be so significant—or so addicting. My cousin, Matt, who has the huge biceps and helped us move into our apartment, came over for dinner one evening, as he did once a month or so. As an extremely health conscious bachelor, he lived on cans of tuna, carrots, and protein shakes, so he usually responded pretty favorably to our offers of homemade soup or chicken enchiladas.
One Saturday, we invited him over for lunch because Megan, my friend from Oregon, was down visiting us and we thought we could all hang out together. Aaron and Candi brought homemade bread and Megan, who couldn’t cook to save her life, tossed the salad as instructed. Matt came in, as always, ducking his head to miss the top of the door jamb, and carrying his 6-foot-eight-inch self across the room toward the kitchen. This time, he dropped a box on the table, a game box. In our family, Matt is the game guy. He’s brilliant and creative and always manages to find some new game to bring home to Oregon for holidays. He was the one who originally discovered Cranium, long before most people had ever heard of it.
“What’s that?” I glanced over from the stove.
“It’s called the Settlers of Catan.” It’s a German game and someone gave it to me a long time ago, but I’ve never played it.
“Hm.” I turned back to the stove and continued sautéing. After lunch, we all decided to give it a try, and though the first time was frustrating and confusing, by the second round we had all gotten the hang of it. Here is the scary thing—we played for nine straight hours that night. At 11pm, Jeff finally put his foot down, insisting that we had to go to bed. But we were hooked. Matt insisted we keep the game.
After that night, an epidemic ran through the Acropolis #9 and #10. At least three nights a week, Aaron and Candi would knock on our door, or we would quietly tap on theirs, and upon opening we’d go inside and make small talk for a minute before admitting the real reason for the visit. . . “Do you wanna play?” And of course they did. This went on for weeks and weeks. Eventually we decided that we were only allowed to play one night a week, but on that night, we went for it. Usually it meant staying up until 2am. We were always the same color, and created names for each player—I was the Red Raja and Jeff was Ninja. Candi, Jeff and I all had our tea. I drank green tea while Jeff and Candi had chamomile. Candi and I ate chocolate chips, and we all shared a bowl of popcorn. This was the ritual. Game, tea, chocolate chips, and popcorn. As soon as one of us would be victorious, we’d all look around, waiting, until one of us would say, “Oh just one more game!”
We’d rotate who would host the game night, depending upon who needed the heat most. See, we’d both, in our ridiculously stubborn attempt to give as little money as possible to the California economy, insisted on never turning on our heat. Ever. So, when our apartments got cold, we lit candles, which, because of the tiny size of our units, actually kept them livable. We layered sweatshirts and socks, and one late night of Catan provided enough body heat to really boost the host apartment a degree or two. So, the coldest apartment usually won the right to host Catan – and the heaters stayed off the entire winter.
Yes, it was only a game. But we knew, as we sat around those cold nights, enjoying our game night ritual, that we were creating something. We created a tradition, an environment where we would talk, laugh, play, relax, be ourselves. We were creating memories, and as we all talked about and contemplated our futures, we knew that wherever God took us in the future, we’d always remember Catan and those innumerable long nights sipping tea and trading resources by the flickering light of our candles.
–
In the end of January, on a Friday afternoon, I pulled the car up after work and walked around to the middle of the complex to get the mail. As I sifted through bills and missionary newsletters, I glanced at a large manila envelope addressed to Jeff. The return address was Multnomah Biblical Seminary.
I tore it open and found a letter to Jeff from a recruiter named Clive Cowell. Also enclosed was a catalog with general information on the school and a list of degrees offered, course schedules, and financial aid information. That night we sat up and read the entire thing cover to cover. As we read, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, could feel a sense of excitement wash over me. I had hardly even known Multnomah existed, and now we sat, reading, overwhelmed by the feeling that it was exactly, exactly, what we had been desiring to do for so long. As we finished reading, Jeff pulled me close, under his arm, and kissed the top of my head.
“What do you think, Sauce?” I sat in silence for a minute before responding.
“We can’t afford it, and about a million things would have to fall into place to make it happen.” He pulled me closed and kissed me again.
“Let’s pray.”
–
Before we’d gone home for Christmas, we’d been, once again, approached by Jack Brush. This time we were informed that he and Kathy were in charge of overseeing the couple’s Valentine’s Day Dinner, hosted at the church in conjunction with the annual couple’s retreat. Jack informed us that he and Kathy were in charge of the dinner portion of the retreat, and he asked if Jeff and I would oversee the table hosts. He explained that each table had a couple host it, which included facilitating conversation, etc. He wanted us to oversee these couples, ensuring that they knew where to go, what to do, etc. We said that would be fine, and he said he’d let us know what to do when we got closer to the event.
So, Jeff and I signed up for the retreat and paid our fee. The final week of January, the day we got the Multnomah enveope in the mail, Jack Brush called us at home and said we needed to get moving on recruiting couples to be table hosts. Since we really knew no one at church, we were a little unsure of how to do that, but he assured us that it would be easy because probably all the people from the year before would sign up again. The following Sunday we saw an announcement in the bulletin directing everyone that was helping with the couples retreat and dinner to stay afterwards for lunch and a brief meeting. So, after church we said goodbye to Aaron and Candi and made our way to the prayer room where the meeting was held.
About a dozen people were there, milling around over sub sandwiches and chips. We introduced ourselves to a few couples, and a few moments later Jack and Kathy came in. Jack raised his voice and directed us to sit, explaining that he knew we all had things to do so he would make it short and sweet. He then began, in his booming military voice, to go over the major components of the weekend and what were supposed to do and why it was such an important responsibility. As he finished he asked us and another couple, the Peters, to stay afterward. We hung around obediently while everyone filed out, and were joined by an elderly couple, presumably the Peters. We introduced ourselves and found that they were indeed Jim and Loraine Peters. Jack came over to us as we exchanged pleasantries.
“So, Jeff and Kari, this is Jim and Loraine. You guys will be working together in this. I’ll let you take over from here. Here is a packet that goes over everything that a table host is expected to do. Make sure everyone has this information and that they arrive on time. Also make sure you have alternates in case people have to cancel. We need twenty-five couples, one per table, with two alternates. You should call them every few days just to check in and make sure they’re still on board and don’t have any questions.” He acted like he was finishing and I began to panic, realizing the immensity of this task.
“Twenty-five couples? Fifty people? We only have two weeks? Where are we supposed to find these people? Can we offer them some sort of discount on the dinner or do they get to come for free or something?” I tried not to sound as panicked as I felt.
“Oh the Peters know lots of people. No, nobody comes for free. And here’s the list of all the couples who did it last year. So just talk to all of them and ask them to do it this year.” I looked down the list and my heart sunk. Calling strangers and asking for involvement in something I knew nothing about? Ok. I had no choice. And with that, Jack was off. I looked at Jeff. He took charge.
“Ok, so Jim and Lorraine, should we divvy these up? We’ll call half, you call half?” They looked at us.
“Well, that’s not really how we did it last year.” I stared at them. They’d done this before?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d done this before.” Jeff was genuinely surprised.
“That’s fine. We’ll just talk to the people we know when we see them. We know a lot of people on here.” Jeff nodded slowly.
“Ok, well, should we call the rest?”
Jim shrugged, “If you want.” Jeff took a deep breath.
“Ok, well, can you tell me who you’re going to talk to so I know who we should call?” He held out the list so he could cross off names but soon realized that was not going to work. They looked it over and vaguely would say, “Oh you know her” or “I might see him this weekend” but never committed to anything and we soon realized it would be useless to force the issue. Finally, Jeff resigned. “Ok, well let’s all just work on it and we can talk later this week. That ok?” They nodded. With that, we excused ourselves and escaped out the front door, walking around the front of the sanctuary to avoid a run-in with Jack who had another couple cornered in the back.
I procrastinated as long as I could, the list sitting next to the phone, haunting me, hanging over me as I dreaded sitting down and calling people. Finally, I did. Mercifully, most were not home, so I left messages, trying to sound enthusiastic. Several kids took messages that I knew would not be passed on to parents, and several couples who were home, apologized and said they could not attend this year. When I’d finished calling, a weight was lifted—at least I’d done my part. The problem was that after a week I’d only found eight couples. We called the Peters and spoke with Jim. He’d found eight couples as well and had spoken to everyone he knew. We were at sixteen, which was way more than I thought we’d get, but still far from our necessary twenty-five.
We talked to all the couples in our small group, introduced ourselves to couples at church, and asked each of the church staff couples. Miraculously, the night before the dinner, we found the twenty-third couple. We had no alternates, but we just prayed that God would keep everyone healthy and let them all show up. By now I was exhausted, having spent all my spare time organizing, returning phone calls, calling back numbers who never responded, fielding questions that I had no idea how to answer, and futilely attempting to communicate concrete details with the Peters.
As I had read through the information packet, I saw that each table host was responsible for providing the tableware for their table. There was a very detailed list of what to bring, and unfortunately I had not closely evaluated the list with regard to what I had. I had effectively communicated the list to all the couples, but at about 11pm the night before the dinner, it dawned on me that I was responsible for a table as well, and I better check to see that I had all the dinner table components. My heart sunk as I realized I was far from well-equipped. I thought that I had a very satisfactory set of table ware. We had dinner plates, salad plates, bowls, silverware, and water glasses. We even had four champagne glasses for drinking sparkling cider. We even had a fiesta ware water pitcher. What else could we need? Apparently a lot. I didn’t have chargers, wine glasses for eight, dessert plates, steak knives, matching serving utensils, matching serving platters, a gravy boat, the list went on. But, I am a firm believer that simplicity is elegant, so I found some simple white pieces, packed them up in towels and put them in a laundry basket for transport, and was satisfied. For a centerpiece, I found a red square plate at Pier 1 on sale and some little red glass beads. I thought it looked modern and smart with the plain white dishes. I didn’t have a fancy dress, but figured black pants and a red sleeveless top would be appropriate for the night, and went to bed relieved that the stress of the event was over. I thanked God that the hard part was done–the next day would be a breeze.
