Our friend and fellow consultant Kevin is in town, working with Susan to plan a large charity benefit concert this Friday night. He brought his own laptop, fax and scanner in a duffel bag - the complete portable office worker. With the three of us crammed into Oxygen Communications' small office, sharing one phone line, one fax line, and a cell phone, it's sort of like being in a white-collar penitentiary.

I like Kevin. I'm impressed by his habit of chewing nicotine gum and smoking a cigarette at the same time. It reminds me of my old friend Maynard, a Paramedic I worked with when I was an Emergency Medical Technician. Maynard was an enormous man with a handlebar mustache, a pack-a-day smoker whose idea of a perfect 8-hour shift was having no 911 calls while "Bonanza" was on television. When he married his second wife, the two of them vowed to quit smoking, and both started using nicotine patches. Maynard didn't really feel like he was getting large enough dosage for a man of his size, so he took to wearing a second patch on the other arm as well. Even then, he found himself having cravings. So, with a patch on either arm, and blood nicotine levels that few creatures outside the lab ever experience, he would still light up a cigarette from time to time. That kind of reckless, fatalistic behavior was common for many of the Emergency Medical Technicians I knew, which was one reason I enjoyed their company so much. Kevin's careless self-medication has a comfortable feeling to it, and of course, he brings cigarettes into the office. I found it ridiculously satisfying to close a deal with a new client yesterday with a smoke hanging out of my mouth.

I'll be serving as "volunteer coordinator" for the charity concert, despite the fact that unlike me, many of the volunteers were present at last year's event. I'm a little nervous about "coordinating" them. I think I lack the tact and feel-good sensibility to makes for a good manager of people. I've surrendered the hope that I might someday lead an organization or social movement, having come to understand that I just don't like most people very much, and that most people return the sentiment. I would have backed out of this role, but Susan only offered me the choice between that and the terrifying job of driving VIPs around Washington in a monstrous Cargo van. I would rather bruise some feelings than break bones. As "volunteer coordinator" I'll get a headset radio, and I would do almost anything to get a socially-sanctioned chance to play with a walkie-talkie for an evening.

Susan and Kevin, who display what must be a God-given talent for connecting with other people, make me sick with Envy. I've been listening to their phone conversations during our period of forced professional companionship. They seem to be more comfortable and convivial with clients and colleagues after a couple phone conversations than I am with people I've known a year. If there were a pill or class that would allow me to do that, I would take it. I watched Kevin argue fiercely with the manager of the concert venue, then somehow patch things up in only a few minutes. There's a fluidity to his interactions, like the natural motions of a talented dancer, that contrasts sharply to my own club-footed interpersonal blundering. Which perhaps explains why right now he's out assembling the efforts of dozens of people for a good cause, while I'm writing about it to an unknown, unseen, and perhaps imagined fellowship.