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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Instant Karma the Down in the Dirt September-December 2023 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Key Performance Indicator

John Farquhar Young

    “A key WHAT...?” Walt, a tall, gaunt pensioner in his late 70s, still possessing a full head of hair but now somewhat deaf and disdainful of the need for a hearing aid, shouts across the table in the noisy bar of the golf club in the direction of his friend Greg.
    “Key performance indicator,” Greg, also a pensioner, repeats patiently, but at the same time reprimands himself for revealing how he acquired the gash in his forehead. I should have just said that I tripped up.
    In his mind he imagines the voice of his late wife. “How many times have I told you: Don’t try to explain your thinking processes to people! Because...”
    Because people might think I’m a bit eccentric, he mentally responds.
    “Correction - actually people KNOW that you’re eccentric,” comes the sharp response. “But you don’t have to emphasise that, do you?”
    He sighs imperceptibly. I miss you Mary. Even your scolding.
    Jacob, rumoured to have been a priest before he discovered a new calling in the arms of a parishioner, later to become his wife and the mother of his five children, draws a breath, straightens himself in his chair and clears his throat. The elderly men around the table compose themselves for one of Jacob’s mini-lectures.
    “Ah... performance.” Jacob pauses for a moment to check the attention level of his audience. “Focussing too much on performance – that’s bad. There’s far too much of that in my opinion - too much of thinking about life as a matter of performance. People kill themselves because they are consumed by the idea of performance - and the related idea of becoming perfect. Young women fret because they can’t get their faces to conform to some ideal image. All this social media stuff...” He scowls and shakes his head.
    “We need to keep things in balance,” Greg says, immediately aware that he has exposed himself to verbal mischief from one predictable source.
    “Ah yes ... balance.” Peter, a long-retired police detective, chortles and points at Greg’s head. “Or the lack of it.”
    Jacob, his mind still captured by the perils of performance, gazes at his beer glass. “I knew a man once - at work. He was a nice enough chap, very clever, but very weird, and very obsessional. I don’t know how we got to know but, apparently, he had a chart. He recorded everything, ABSOLUTELY everything.” Jacob stops for a moment smiling at his companions as he recovers a further fragment of memory. “EVERYTHING!” He lowers his voice, leans forward and glances around the table. “He even recorded his bowel movements.”
    Greg joins in the laughter but in that instant is thinking about his own carefully kept ‘performance’ diary. Ways of thinking about life in a fairly objective way - absolutely necessary, he thinks. Otherwise ... His thoughts return to the dark space he found himself in after his wife died. Focussing on small challenging tasks and small performances in his day-to-day life affirm his hold on life.
    Greg abruptly becomes aware that Peter is looking intensely at him, an ominous glint in his eye. “Do you keep a chart, Greg?” he asks. “I bet you do. Putting on your socks ... big tick in the box.” He points at Greg’s stitches. “Or a cross.” A brief and potent pause. “But what about bowel movements? Is there a section in your chart for bowel movements? Come on Greggy, confess. You’ll feel better if you confess.”
    Greg manufactures a smile and takes a breath, but before he can respond Donny, a tall, grumpy man draws himself into an erect position.
    “Performance,” he growls. “Utterly unimportant in my case. I don’t have a body that’s performing well nowadays. I have pills for blood pressure, clogged arteries everywhere, arthritis, a touch of diabetes and...”
    “You’re going to go on forever, Donny,” Peter says, sharply interrupting Donny’s often rehearsed litany of ailments. “You have such a sunny personality.” He glances at Greg clearly keen to continue the interrogation.
    “I don’t want to go on forever,” Donny continues grumpily. “Everything is going to hell.” He waves his hand around to indicate the planetary scope of his judgement. “Not just my body. EVERYTHING!”
    Peter nods impatiently and returns to his quarry. “So, Greggy, might we conclude that you have, just perhaps, revised your thinking about the value of key performance activities?”
    Now strongly wishing to put the topic to rest Greg adopts a tone of a patient teacher addressing a backward child. “Peter. Losing your balance is a sign of advancing decrepitude. Putting on your socks without sitting down is a way of testing your balance - a small daily challenge if you like. But, Peter, perhaps - unlike Donny – you want to ignore the signs of your physical decline, perhaps ignore the significance of the odd wobble - like when you try to pick up a golf ball.”
    Peter gestures towards the window and the 18th green beyond. “I can still beat you at golf,” he responds huffily. “Time after time.”
    Greg nods and shrugs. “You can and you have, and in spite of my best efforts there is little doubt you will continue to do so...well as long as you don’t fall over. But, Peter my friend, that’s not the point, is it? Being able to walk around a golf course and pick up a golf ball without grunting or nearly falling is the point.”
    Peter glances around the bar as though searching for a different topic of conversation then eagerly engages in an emerging debate about the suppression of gardening pests.
    As Greg starts to make his way home, he glances at his watch noting the time. Being able to walk at a reasonable pace is another key performance indicator. “Twelve minutes to get to the front door,” he estimates.
    A week later the old friends arrange themselves around their table. Peter, however, is late.
    “Not a word. Not one single word,” Peter declares when, after several minutes, he enters the club room and approaches the group. He raises a stern finger and points to Greg. “Especially you. Not one word.”
    Frowning he seats himself and carefully positions his heavily bandaged wrist on his thigh.
    Bending to one side in an exaggerated manner as though trying to inspect Peter’s wrist, Greg nods. “Well done, Peter,” he chuckles, defying his friend’s injunction. “Keep at it, Peter. Don’t be discouraged. Believe me, your performance will improve in time.”
    Frowning Jacob glances at Peter’s injury then shakes his head. “Performance! Like I say. There’s too much talking about performance.”
    “It’s a matter of balance,” Greg murmurs inaudibly and smiles.

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