LuncheonLearn
A broad thoroughfare allowed father and daughter to walk directly into the main lobby of the building from the coffee shop and proceed toward the elevators. The coffee shop formed the corner of a tall office building above a busy subway station. The building itself was modern in its first year or so, having risen from the rubble of a demolished one-hundred year old department store. Despite the efforts of organized preservationists, a sequence of new and soulless metal and glass structures had been making a slow but relentless progression into the struggling old nineteenth century business districts of the nation’s capital. The newness of the structure was evident by the mix of smartly dressed office workers with workmen, tool carts, and moving supplies engaged in continuing construction and remodeling upfits. A mishmash of humanity traveled in every possible direction: this way and that, outside in the streets and sidewalks, entering and exiting the shop, up and down the escalator, in and out of the apparent chaos.
Father and daughter walked arm in arm, obviously comfortable in each other’s presence. If not for their difference in ages, they might have been mistaken as sweethearts. He asked, “Do you know anything about the program today?”
Jill pointed to a banner held by a metal stand as they approached. The sign announced, Today’s Lunch and Learn, Tenth Floor (Conference Room). Amika Walker, speaking on today’s topic: ~ The Emergence of (Peace/Harmony) in a Strife-torn World. “Just by the speaker’s reputation,” she said.
“Oh?”
“She’s published some articles and books,” she said as they entered an elevator car and pushed the up button. “You’d know that if you’d been reading your newsletter.”
“I usually glance through it when it comes in the mail,” he grumbled. A bit of an accusatory tone had been working its way into some of Jill’s comments lately, and the criticism was unnecessary and unappreciated. He sighed inwardly at the realization where this role reversal could be leading. She might want to have a talk – the talk. The one between a parent and child concerning retirement homes, giving up the house, driving a car, and all the rest that comes inevitably with the determined progression of time and age. Beginning with her mother’s death a few years ago, then shortly thereafter with his accident, and even moreso now a year into his recovery, Jill had become more demanding and assertive with issues that were, for all practical purposes, none of her business.
He wasn’t that old. Thanks to his devoted exercise plan, he was effectively younger now than he was a year ago. He hadn’t addressed her attitude (if he could call it that). It might be unpleasant. Perhaps he could put it off indefinitely, both the talk and advancing age. That was certainly his intention. He preferred not to make an issue of their changing relationship, but he would not take kindly to being treated like a doddering Methuselah. He’d read somewhere that a relationship is sort of like a dance. It’s a balance of forces; one force pulls spinning dancers away from each other while another force holds them together. Push and pull, rise and fall – forces spin and turn us all.
A friendly chime dinged as they reached their floor. The quiet solitude of the elevator car gave way to a crowded hubbub of activity as the doors opened. “My goodness!” he said, clearly surprised by the milling throng. “I had no idea there’d be so many people.”
Jill tugged at his sleeve. “Quick. Let’s try and find some good seats.” They proceeded toward the conference room and stopped at a table where a pert young couple was enthusiastically collecting admissions and handing out bottled water. An assortment of brochures and newsletters were arranged on a vertical rack for the benefit of visitors and the returning curious.
“Welcome,” said one. “Have you been here before?”
“Many times,” answered Jill as she handed over two twenty-dollar bills.
Father interrupted, “Let me pay.”
“No, this one’s on me. You’re my guest today.”
He let out a slow breath, foiled again, his manhood slipping away another notch.
As they left the table, Jill picked up two brochures and gave one to her father. She led them toward the front of the room where the first several rows of chairs were already filling up. “There,” she said, pointing toward the center of seats an acceptable distance from the podium.
They sat and she asked, “Are these seats alright for you?”
He paused with a wrinkled brow and said, “You know, I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.”
Jill blushed slightly and tried to wave it off. “Oh, please! Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. I can afford it.”
“That seems overly generous. I’m not struggling financially. Nor is the organization. Paying for the seminars you attend is one thing. But they can survive quite well without all your extra donations. You need to save your money.”
“I think of it as an investment. Besides, they have to pay for this building and all the programs they support.” Pausing, Jill was looking toward a door opposite from where they came in. She said, “I think that’s Amika Walker talking with some people. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.”
“You go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll save your seat.”
As she approached the front of the room, Jill encountered a gathering throng of like-minded enthusiasts. She did her best to wade through the swarm without seeming overly anxious. For reasons Jill couldn’t begin to fathom, Amika noticed her in the crowd almost immediately and asked directly, ignoring the other peppering questions and flattery that flew about like a cloud of crazed starlings, “Do you have a question, young lady?”
In a bit of an uncharacteristic, schoolgirlish peep, Jill said, “Yes I do! Thank you.” Then, as if catching herself in her lapsed professionalism, she cleared her throat and took on the professional air that she typically saw herself in. “I was particularly interested in your recent article in the Walker’s Journal, and specifically, what you said about (Loren Ipsom). You seemed to think that an idea possesses an intrinsic energy that can will itself into existence.”
“First, I remind you that I was speaking metaphorically. But whether the force of an idea is metaphorical or metaphysical, we can see how ideas sometimes behave as if they were living entities with a will of their own. I’ll be speaking on this subject today. Now I have a question for you. Tell me, what is that you have there?”
Jill followed Amika’s look and realized she was still holding the DC Herald close to her chest, not for any reason other than she didn’t know what else to do with it. “Oh this?” She was suddenly off balance with the question, “I just picked it up somewhere. There’s an article here that sounded like …”
“I see,” Amika interrupted, trying to mask a bit of agitation. She added quickly, “I believe they’re about to begin and I have a few things yet to prepare for my talk. But I want you to call this number,” she jotted something on the back of her business card and handed it to Jill. “Speak with my assistant and find a time next week when we can get together. I’d be happy to discuss this with you in more detail.”
With that, Amika turned and left, leaving Jill disbelievingly holding the business card in front of her. What a stroke of luck! Jill wandered in a daze back to sit with her father who noticed her stupor. “You won’t believe what just happened,” she said in giddy astonishment.
“Shush! Tell me later. They’re getting ready to start.”
thermodynamics of ideas 