Getting Directions — by Elazar Aslan

By Elazar Aslan

It was an interview disguised as a dinner. I had met with the CEO in New York, for a possible assignment of major scope. Although the multi-hour meeting went well, he felt a meeting with the Board of Directors was necessary, especially since they were all going to meet in Tampa the following week. So we agreed that I would fly in, meet everyone for dinner and give my presentation the following morning.

All the arrangements were made and I flew into Tampa, checked into the hotel and awaited directions to the restaurant. For some reason, the simplicity of all of this was overshadowed by a feeling that I was Mr. Phelps, awaiting the secret assignment for a Mission: Impossible. At the prescribed time, the phone rang and the person, who never introduced herself, gave me my step-by-step instructions. Right outside the hotel was the first highway. I was to take it going south for 3.7 miles. At that juncture I was to take the next highway west, 9.7 miles. My next move was to take that particular exit and go on a main boulevard. If I had made it so far, then I would notice a very large water tower on my right. Apparently, that would be the sign; three traffic lights after that sign, I was to make a left, go 1.2 miles and then a right, another left at some juncture, pull into a strip mall and voila—I would be at the restaurant—mission: accomplished. Dinner at 7. Sharp. The ride should take twenty minutes. I allowed 45 minutes as missions of this magnitude cannot fail!

I pulled out of the hotel and all was well. The first highway was exactly where she said it would be. I went the 3.7 miles and as expected, another highway was there ready to take me closer to my destination. I followed that highway as instructed and found the specific boulevard that was my next step. I drove on that boulevard, a bit arrogant that all was well and that we were quite ahead of schedule. I began reviewing my agenda for the dinner. I began noticing the landscape. In retrospect, this drive was when the seed was planted that should I ever have only one day left to live, I would want to spend it in Tampa—because it is so boring, I wouldn’t mind dying; but that’s another story for another time.

In my meanderings, I realized that I did not spot any water towers. I felt strongly that the instructions alluded that this marker would be close to the highway when I exited. I had been driving on the boulevard for almost ten minutes, but there was no such water tower in sight; I must’ve missed it early on—probably when I was being blinded by pride. In any case, I made a U-turn. I drove back looking more intently for my marker, but without much worry. I thought I spotted it, but a little off to the side. I decided I had enough time to drive towards it and make sure that that was the water tower, as it wasn’t exactly where I was told it would be. As I took lefts and rights to get closer, I soon realized that the structure, though high, was not the water tower I was seeking. I took some more turns to get back to the main road. They did not take me to places I was expecting. I kept making moves trying to compensate for the last error in judgment, only to get further away from any road that would take me to any water tower. Time was clicking by quickly now. What was a comfortable margin, was now a miracle in the making to get there on time. With only five minutes left before I would be late, I decided to ask for directions. As a male, I was looking forward to getting directions; you can imagine how nervous I was getting. Since cell phones were not prevalent at the time, I decided to pull into this old Texaco gas station. I quickly asked the slow walking attendant, “Is there a water tower anywhere around here?”

“Yep, yep.”

The pause was probably less than a second, but still too long for me.

“Well, do you know how I could get there from here?”

He probably surmised that I was from New York and went straight to the directions— a series of lefts and rights and I should be there in about ten minutes. I followed those very carefully and lo and behold, there was the water tower. I was coming at it from the other direction, so I reoriented my mind and made the necessary adjustments to follow the original directions from the water tower to the strip mall.

In about ten minutes, I pulled into the strip mall and could see the restaurant sign at the end of the strip. Time check: 7:20. Not a good showing, but we got there. As I got out of the car, I froze; right across the street, was the old Texaco gas station I pulled in to get directions.

I had asked the wrong question. If I had asked, “do you know where this restaurant is?,” he would simply have pointed over to the strip mall and I would have shown up right on time.

* * *

I have lived much of my life, acting out that story. I started out with some instructions: do this, then that, go there, then move there and you’ll get what you want— what we all want: Happiness. So, my mission, validated by some TV shows, not to mention most all of society, was clear. Make something out of yourself, we’ll show you how, and when you’ve collected enough points, you can cash them in for the big prize. At first the highways were just where they said. Behave well, get rewarded; misbehave, get punished. So my intention to get “there,” get there on time and get there on the roads they planned out for me got even stronger.

Somewhere along the line, I couldn’t find the water tower. I was more engrossed with the ride than the destination. I got lost. I panicked. I started asking for directions again. Do you know how I can get better? You know, good enough to be loveable? Whose company should I keep? What possessions do I need? What is the best accomplishment for me now, given how late it is?

How many times did I ask the wrong question?

How many times was I more focused on the markers of what I should have and what I should do than who I was? How many times was I just across the street from happiness, but couldn’t go there, because I was too busy looking to collect the markers I needed, to pay down a debt—plus interest, for a loan that wasn’t even mine?