On Having a “Thing”

In a collection of letters from Kurt Vonnegut, he talks about going out to buy a single envelope. His wife asks him why he doesn’t buy a thousand envelopes and keep them in a closet, “You’re not a poor man.” To which he says, “Hush” and he goes for a walk. He takes us through his journey down the block and cites the moderately interesting things that have happened to him concluding with “We are dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and do something.” I read this in his book, A Man Without a Country, while working at a kebab stand my sophomore year of college. I had just declared my major: literary studies with a concentration in writing. Submitting that Google form didn’t feel like a big deal, I knew that’s what I wanted to do. This was until I realized writing might be my “thing” now. But was I even confident in that? How did I get this far? Did I have any other things? There was one thing I was sure of: making doner kebabs was not one of them.
That summer, while staying at my Dad's house, my days consisted of two activities; watching Breaking Bad and going on whatever excursion I could. One of these excursions was sitting in the box seats of the Grant Park Music Festival at the last show of the season. It was my dad’s girlfriend’s last day as assistant choral director before starting her new job at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It was also the last day for the Principal Conductor, Carlos Kalmar, who retired after a twenty-five-year residency. His time is marked by experimental songs and “pushing the repertory envelope,” according to a reviewer from The Chicago Tribune. The show ended with flowers and a long-standing ovation, marking the end of “The Carlos Kalmar Era.” Afterwards, all I could think about was the twenty-five years he spent. I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do for a quarter of a century. During that time, musicians came and went, the venue was completely redone, and a global pandemic happened. Not to mention my entire existence is comfortably contained within the length of his career. Almost a year later, I still haven’t finished Breaking Bad. I don’t have Netflix so sometimes when I’m at my friends’ apartments we’ll watch an episode or two. During my last fix, Walter White is introduced to Gale Boetticher, a chemist, hired to set up a new underground meth lab and to be his assistant. Gale has his masters in organic chemistry with a concentration in X-ray crystallology. He mentions this in his introduction to Walt, to which Walt replies, “Oh. I could talk about that for hours.” Then quickly goes back to inspecting the new, perfectly set up lab.
That’s when I heard that faint buzzing in my ear again: what can I talk about for hours? Because it is certainly not classical music or chemistry. I can’t name all the authors in the literary canon. I haven’t read every Kurt Vonnegut book. I haven’t listened to the full discography of most of my favorite bands. I read the news but stop at the opinion pieces. I like cooking, but I tend to make the same basic meals and I’m not a particularly good artist. A while ago, my dad sent me a TikTok of a middle-aged man who said the people who don’t know what they want to do are the lucky ones and I don’t know if I believe him. The idea was that success happens when the goals aren’t so linear. Someone who wants to be a doctor will only feel successful when they are wearing scrubs and performing a surgery. Not to discourage anyone from wanting to pass certain milestones, we need doctors. He said that the uncertain ones will try all sorts of stuff, and will in that experience gain a knowledge they would not otherwise have. That itself could be a thing. But I still don’t know if that makes me feel better. What does make me feel a little better, and I hope does the same for you, is that Carlos Kalmar didn’t start that job until he was 41. Walter White is a fictional meth cook. And Kurt Vonnegut was 30 years old when he published his first novel. So, for now, there is time to get up and do something, how beautiful is that.