Watch What You’re Doing

Al Pacino tells the story of the night he quit drinking, in 1977. He was at a tipping point in his career, just having won his Tony Award for The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel. Demands for his services and opinions were flying at Al from all corners and he had turned to drink to deal with the strain. One night, Al was out drinking with his friend Charlie Laughton, who was worrying for the great actor. Just as Al was uncapping the bottle, Charlie told him words to this effect: “Al, think about what you’re doing. You’re pouring the bottle. You’re putting the glass to your lips. It’s an action. I can’t prevent you from doing that, but just think about what you’re doing. Please, Al.” Pacino thought for a moment, recapped the bottle, and so far as I know, hasn’t had a drink since. Because of that thought, Al Pacino’s creative brilliance has gone nearly untrammeled for more than thirty years.

I bring this up only to raise the idea that often, a lot of us do things by rote, without actually thinking about what we do, considering the consequences. And just as often, we think very little about what other people are actually doing at any given moment. Let’s see if I can.

It is 5:03PM EDT, Saturday, May 2, 2009. I am sitting in a corner of the Panera Bread at the Clearwater Mall in Clearwater, Florida. I just raised a plastic cup containing Pepsi to my lips, took a sip and wiped my lips with a brown napkin made apparently from recycled elements. I am bobbing my left leg up and down, as it sometimes does when I am inspired. The lady just down from me, an Asian lady wearing a blue sundress, puts her feet up and re-immerses herself in her studies; a large schooltext lies open in front of her, as does a large three-ring binder. I scratch below my nose with my right thumb. The Asian Lady is packing her schooltext and other belongings and moving, as an acquaintance has beckoned her company. Outside, it is a glorious Florida late afternoon. I close one eye to better appreciate it through the blinds—there is nary a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze blows. I scratch again below my nose, this time with a napkin. I pause to reapply hand-sanitizing spray to my hands, cogent of the spread of germs, particularly in view of a recent flu outbreak. A father and daughter have passed me, the restrooms being directly behind me. And now they come back, as another man passes by.

Sure, the above paragraph sounds like play-by-play of mundane doings, but I am trying to bring out the idea of awareness. I am aware that just as quickly as one of the employees brought a high chair to the stack in front of me, two of them were just as quickly taken away by a family with small children. I am aware that a piano scherzo was, until just now, wafting through the speakers, and now is replaced by a string trio. I think that if this is not what the metaphysicians and New Age teachers call being in the present moment, then I have maybe just scratched the surface.

Now let me expand on this, if I can, and take this idea outside the confines of Panera Bread.

It is now 5:19PM, EDT. In Boston, at the Seaport World Trade Center, the actor Diane Keaton is more than likely at the tail end of a lecture on leadership; about 1,500 business leaders, nearly all of them women, are in attendance. Let’s say I’m at this lecture. Am I taking notes? If so, can I even make out what I’m writing in the semi-dark? Do I have a tape recorder to record what Diane is saying? Have I had to reload the machine? Are the muscles in my mouth exhausted from smiling so much because I’m in the presence of so legendary a figure as Diane Keaton? I’m asking myself, will she take questions? If so, does she employ ex-Secret Service agents named Bruce and Joe to gently remove me from the room lest I bring up Woody, Warren, or Al? If that’s what’s on my mind, then I haven’t been paying attention. The point is, when Diane Keaton—or anyone like her—talks, you better listen and remember what she says.

Eleven minutes have elapsed. In fifty-four minutes, for the 135th time, the Kentucky Derby is going to be run. Let’s say, for purposes of this activity, by what can only be deemed as Divine Providence, I’m on line at the betting window. In front of me is a sheik with a moustache and a gray nubby silk suit; behind me is a tanned, patrician Southern gentleman wearing his money like a second tanned skin. Like them, I have a very large amount of money in my pocket that I would bet on a horse. I look up and the morning-line favorite has been scratched. I have two choices. I can plunk down the six-figure sum I’ve been entrusted with on horse X. Horse X can be eased in mid-stretch, I would not be able to make my mortgage payment, my wife would divorce me and bar me from ever seeing my children, I’d lose my job and I’d end up wandering the streets of Tampa growing a messianic beard, wearing tattered clothing and telling you, dear Reader, the exact time and date of the Armageddon.
Or, I can walk away, rejoin my wife and children, and watch the nineteen horses splash down the homestretch with a clear conscience. What would you do if you were me?

Even more importantly, what would you—yes, you—do?

If I’ve done my job with any efficiency, are you asking yourself: Do I know where I am? Do I know where I’m going from here? Did that son of a bitch McIlvain make any damn sense?

I just ask this: if you respond to this, be aware of your fingers dancing across the keyboard.