Varhaus No. 11
Manifest.
April 26, 2029
3:30 Pm
Varhaus
Dress rehearsal. Ruth managed the chaos without moving her feet. Her voice boomed and her finger pointed. “Is the banner up outside? Where’s your uniform? Is Andrew here yet? Hey, go ask AP to come see me. Forty-five minutes! We’re going to get together for final check in forty-five minutes. Ninety minutes to showtime.”
Varhaus now had employees. Long-time listeners, first-time callers. A Kool-aid-drunk hospitality army. Their new Varhaus jumpsuits showing creases from folded packaging. Their hair, perfect. Makeup. Sensible shoes scurried from place to place checking the final readiness of the wine tasting bar or the coffee station. The new gift shop was taking its final shape. Mugs were merchandised...Go to Heaven...faced toward the customer...right next to individually boxed whiffle balls and artist-signed Varhaus Novellas.
Austin St. Pierre was what-up-doe Detroit. Hundred. He wasn’t dressed like one of the bots, Jordan 1’s, jeans embroidered with colorful flowers, skewed baseball cap with the Old English D. Crispy white chef coat with a Varhaus logo and script A.P.
As he walked from the kitchen, interrupted from assembling his stainless steel puzzle, he pointed to people and tasks with a nodding cap. Runner Mats. Squeeze bottles. Wet spot on the floor. Nothing escaped his attention to detail. He directed whoever was closest to the object he found in disorder: “Fix that.” His demeanor punctuated the unstated urgency: now!
He found Ruth in the same spot he left her an hour ago as the employees brought the whole operation directly to her.
“What up?” Ruth turned and smiled at AP’s greeting.
“How you doing back there? You ready?”
“How long does it take to make rice pilaf?”
“I’ve never made it so I don’t know.”
“Well, it takes 22 minutes, but if you open the doors in 16 minutes, it takes 16 minutes.”
“So you’re ready.”
“Bet. How can I help you?”
“This pre-shift meeting is a huge deal. We’ve decided that we want you to lead it. We need to get the staff to move from thinking to acting. To service. From ideas and details to people. We need you to lead with your heart. The tone is more important than the information. Day one. What are we going to do today, Brain?”
“Take over the world.”
“Exactly right. You’re gonna kill it.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Thank you. I’m on it.”
4:00 pm
Lansing Chamber of Commerce Convention
Lansing Convention Center, Michigan Ave
While the chaos of Varhaus was being organized into an experience, Cam Galt was speaking at The Michigan Chamber of Commerce Annual Meeting. He had the opposite goal. Tear it down to the studs.
He trapped the audience with his opening lines.
“Let me tell you how I developed two empty blocks of Lansing into a destination with visitors from the whole country in five years. And since I’ve been asked to speak on this topic to you, the movers of business in our State, the answer is obvious. I did it without you. I did it without thinking like you.”
He paused and let his insolence hang in the room.
“Now that I think about it more seriously, I didn’t do it at all.
And neither can you.”
“I think what I’m trying to tell you, most of our problems of lost industry or flat populations cannot be answered in this room. We rub shoulders and press the same hands. Same questions. Same answers. If we rub two shoulders together, it’s a hug. If we only rub one, we move around in a circle, like having one foot nailed to the floor. Do what you always did, get what you always got.
Here’s the story. Five years ago, I owned an empty 12,000-square-foot building on Michigan Ave. Former Oldsmobile dealership from the fifties. All enclosed. No lot. Arched tall ceiling. Decaying art deco. You all know the building without seeing it. I had been sitting on it for a few years. I just loved the building and I bought it right. One day I received a box in the mail.
It contained three things: a coffee mug, a small paperback book, a beautiful Easter greeting card. It was not Easter time. I looked at the box. No return address. I opened this card:”
He held up a pink, yellow and purple Hallmark.
“Dear Camron. You are a fucking asshole for owning the coolest building in Lansing and not doing shit about it. It’s probably a sin. I wrote a book about what it could be. The mug enclosed holds the philosophy of what we need to do. If you’re going to sit on the building for five more years waiting for someone to pay for it, you may as well allow me to use it to create real value. Figure it out.”
Camron put the card down and waited a second before adding context.
“Weird, right? But, I know this man. I’ve known him for 20 years. A friend, but not an intimate one. I know him as a serious person. An artist, but a serious person. I know him well enough to know that he called me an asshole to get my attention, not to cause offense.
But, he failed to get my attention. I had 3 huge projects going on, plus 20 buildings worth of tenants to manage. A major re-fi. My assistant just had her first baby. I’m busy. Distraction. I absentmindedly took the package home. I recognized that Jason put a lot of effort into this package, plus it was a free coffee mug.”
“The next morning I went to the kitchen for coffee. I found my wife drinking out of the mug, flipping through the little book using the Easter card as a bookmark. She just looked at me like wives do when you missed something. ‘Have you read this?’ She knew I didn’t. She followed me around talking to me about it. She sat on the toilet and read the first chapter while I was showering. Chapter two was for shaving, etc. When I was about to leave, my phone blowing up, late for an 8:00 am inspection, she stopped me in the doorway.”
“She grabbed my shoulder with one hand and the book with the other. ‘I need two minutes of your undivided attention to hear this.’ She read this to me:”
The artist moves first.
Then the little coffee shop. The convenience store. A new builder trying his hand at renting lofts with his own cash. A brewery needing to spend resources on equipment and raw material, not triple-net. Synergy of makers. Small development. Someone buys a city block because it’s still cheap.
Critical mass. Rumblings of activity. A vlog article. Did you hear? Cultural breakthrough. City zoning to leverage taxation. Big bank takes little bank.
*The artist walks to first base. The rest think they hit a triple.
“Ain’t we neat.”
Monetization. Leverage. Protection. Optimization. Appropriation. Entropy. Decay.
The artist moves first. Space and time.
Camron held up the Varhaus coffee mug and read its text aloud to the audience and continued his speech.
“I live in a world of permission. Beg the bank, beg the city. Boards and clearinghouses. Insurance and assurance. Mother, may I? The creative problem solver has the power of suggestion. Our systems have the power of no, and they say no to anything they can’t immediately understand and categorize. The artist does not fit.
But it just takes one person to say: Fuck you, I’m not asking! The creator is the engine. The Creator of the creator is the reason.
The author of the book is named Jason. He has already left the building. I don’t remember what we were discussing, but he once told me in passing that orthodoxy is the only revolution left to pursue.
You’ll never find him. I know you people, because I know myself...you’ll go looking for something like him. You’ll turn Varhaus into a buzzword and do studies on it. You’ll fuck it up because you’ll forget...the artist moves first.”
He stepped out from behind the podium. “I hope you have questions.”
A hand raised from the middle of seated businessmen and officials: “Are you telling us you just let things happen? You just gave him a key, let him be? You simply got out of the way?”
“No, that would be passive. I actively and purposely got out of his way in the way he needed. I used my personal and business connections to keep hurdles out of his way. I kept you out of his way by never telling you something was happening. For instance, we did not file for one license or submit to one inspection for almost two years. I paid the utilities and kept track of them. He caught me up in two years. For his part, he did not take advantage. In fact, he would lean into the groups and events that were close to my heart. Children. Our Food Bank. Catholic holidays.”
A man in a neat, but inexpensive suit jacket:
“I’m a little confused. You’ve aggressively attacked the institutions represented by this conference. You’ve illustrated that we are not needed, that our connections, our thoughts and education are in the way of progress. Hell, you’ve even admitted to breaking the law in your city. If you don’t need this organization, why are you here telling us the story? We protect the public. We regulate capitalism. And we connect good ideas throughout the state, for a better state. Michigan should be a leader. I just don’t understand your motives.”
Camron extended a friendly smile. He took a step toward the audience. He was over the target.
“It’s great to see you, Joe. Let me ask you a question. The philosophy on the mug. Go to Heaven. Do simple commerce. Show people they are not trapped. To whom do you think it applies as an operating statement?”
“I think it could apply to everyone depending on what they believe.”
“Fuck yes, Joe!”
He turned from Joe to speak to the whole. “I know Joe quite well. There is not a more honest and hardworking person in City Government. He truly tries to do what is right. Respect.” He turned back to Joe.
“The why answers all the other questions, Joe. Why am I giving you this presentation? I am living the mug out in the best way I can. Why am I telling you? Heaven first. Simple honest biz, second. The third point...
are you trapped, Joe?”
Joe gave a slight nod as several questioning hands were raised. Cam Galt took a step toward Joe and almost whispered.
“I was, too.”
5:45 pm
Mike pulled the coach bus in front of Varhaus. A banner: Do what you always did, get what you always got. The attendees of the conference filed down the aisle into the street. A woman on the sidewalk stood waiting as they descended the steps. “Welcome to Varhaus. Take off that stupid lanyard.” Most bristled at the terse demand. They acquiesced, noticing fifty discarded name tags from the previous bus, hanging from her shoulder.
The entry was flanked by ten jumpsuited and pinstriped servers holding trays of beer in frosted mugs. The lobby smelled slightly of Krylon as the scripted message behind the host station dried. Be not conformed...in neon green.
With each beer passed to a guest, a “Welcome home” was extended by the team member. Beer in hand, the customer walked into a hospitality arcade for adults. Huge abstract artworks with prices arrogant enough for Soho. London or Manhattan. Paintings titled with the names of angels and saints. Sprawling candelabras passing lights in all directions. A traditional trio playing chamber arrangements of Tom Waits covers. A woodshop that somehow communicated that every piece of restaurant furniture was constructed in-house by the same hands that were serving beer and driving the bus. Same concrete floor.
The Chamber had attempted to control the impact on their guests. This was their most important member event of the year. They wanted agendas, approvals, signage, speaking time. Sara charged them fifty grand and gave them two things: time and space.
She had worked tirelessly to shut down every preconceived notion they brought with them. Ruth would have canceled them in one phone call. Jason would not have taken the call at all. Sara was the only person who could get both sides to yes without either knowing exactly what they had agreed to.
AP was a bit perturbed at the lateness of the guests’ arrival. Timing is almost everything for a Chef, adaptation is the rest of it. He would learn later that the Q & A of Camron’s speech took a whole hour. He held his horses, his cooks and his roasted tenderloins, but had to re-prep and re-fire all the miniature Yorkshire puddings. Not the worst restaurant opening by a long shot.
The guests settled and explored in groups. A man walked up to Cam and pushed his shoulder in, causing a circular dance and laughter. People nodded from across the room. He was so busy talking he didn’t get a beer until Ruth quietly pushed a coffee mug into his hands mid-conversation with a city official from Flint.
The members socialized for forty-five minutes. Stripped of their identification, they were forced to treat everyone they encountered as potential value. Not knowing allowed real discovery, like chatting with strangers in a small coffee shop for no reason.
The service staff circulated Duck Confit and Caramelized Mango, Cubes of Frozen Goat Cheese with Molten Beet Syrup and Fresh Thyme presented on an artist’s palette knife. Varhaus loved puns. Of course, the powdered sugar of fresh beignets seemed to hang in the air like atmosphere. AP had nailed the tone. The staff moved purposely looking for opportunities to serve like the members of The Chamber of Commerce had arrived in their homes. Not for the gratification of tips or thanks, but simply because joy is found in the doing.
Ruth took the stage and asked for attention. Her pearls glistened in the new light fixtures. Pink-soled heels taller than before. Tailored coveralls. She held up a mug, her mug.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks a million for being here. You may not know, but this is our dress rehearsal for the new Varhaus opening next week. Most of you just learned we exist an hour ago. A perfect introduction.
We’d like to thank the Chamber for being here and trusting us to say no to just about everything they’ve requested for this event. For instance, Director Johnson wanted to speak and welcome you. We told him no. They wanted to meet your expectations for a post-conference send-off. As they should. But we see a larger opportunity. A larger value for you, for the Chamber and for us.
We took your lanyards. We serve first names, not last names. We don’t serve work or affiliations. People. We serve people. We believe that when you make something with purpose and put it into the world, you don’t get to decide what happens to it. Sometimes it comes back as something more.
We have a special guest here tonight to illustrate our biggest project of pushing good into the world. If you look behind you and to your right, please. That space used to be an artist’s working studio. The artist who made the paintings on our walls. Now, it is the resting place for The Joyful Mystery.”
The group turned their collective head, some moved their feet to view a sliding velvet curtain revealing a beat-up graffitied garden shed.
“Please meet Andrew Sand. We call him Andy Sandy.” Andrew stepped out from inside the Mystery and smiled.
“We made this shed a couple years ago and revealed it at a Christmas Party. Andy is responsible for all the metalwork including the truly magnificent Crucifix inside. It traveled the country for two years accumulating the prayers of all who wished to pray. It has returned to live here as an exhibit. As proof. Send it out. Get it back.”
The shed rests quietly as a person who has seen the world. Weatherworn. Accidentally dropped off the trailer twice. Adorned with the names of thousands of hopeful prayers. Desperate prayers. And those prayers we dare not share with anyone but God alone.
As if it was supposed to be there all along.
Seriously….yeah. Hell Yeah!
I've missed you!