Every now and again I run smack-dab into the living, breathing definition of a word. It's not a typical occurrence, but it happens often enough that my faith in language cannot be utterly lost. (Lost, I say, despite the seemingly constant, unforgivable sins against language and all things verbal so often committed by...well...just about everyone, be these sins written or spoken.)
This morning I ran into one of those definitions. Well, okay, I didn't run into it--I heard it coming from about thirty feet back as I sat in the quiet of St. Joseph's up on Capitol Hill after Mass this morning. I have three Hail Mary's left to go in my rosary. I hear the door at the main entrance creak open and then swing shut, but I pay it no mind, as people are always coming and going in the churches in D.C. Then I hear footsteps which defy the traditional description of "heavy footsteps." This person sounds like he's rehearsing for his lead role in Babar's Halloween celebration. I half expect the entire floor of the 100-year-old building to cave in beneath him. He walks with a preponderous "HEEL -- TOE -- HEEL -- TOE,'' so it's impossible to miss either part of the foot as it hits the floor. (Just for comparison's sake, most people's gait sounds like this: "HEEL, toe, HEEL, toe," so the noise of the upper foot hitting the floor is barely heard. This fellow clearly wanted his toes to get as much credit as his heels.)
On he came. Very, very slowly. Mind you, St. Joseph's is a small church, no more than 30 or 35 pews long. But it must have taken him five whole minutes to get from the back to the front of the building. Then again, in all fairness, if I were plotting out each footstep so carefully I'd probably take a little while getting anywhere myself. At last he passed by my pew (I sat about four pews from the front), and I snuck a peak at him.
I hardly know what I expected, but he wasn't it. A thin, stooped older man of normal height (no taller than 5'10"), his hair gray and curling wildly around his head, a scowling profile (which, I discovered when he turned around at the front of the church to head back, was part of an equally scowling face), carrying a plastic red cup which I pray, hope, and assume contained water. The pace never changed. "HEEL -- TOE -- HEEL -- TOE" he continued to the cantor's podium and scowled at it; reached inside, grabbed some papers, scowled at me, and began his long journey back to the entrance of the church.
I heard him clump through the vestibule; a pause in the constant footsteps, and some keys jingled. A door creaked open, and the same footsteps began to ascend to the choir loft, the same HEEL -- TOE continuing unremitting on each step. "He must be the organist," I thought. The footsteps continued above my head now, accompanied by rustling papers, keys jingling, and the organ bench being scraped along the wooden floor.
I thought, "Oh good. No more footsteps--we'll have some music."
No such luck. The footsteps made their plodding way back to the choir loft stairs; descended; paced the vestibule; then began the long trek back to the front of the church.
And an old line of poetry from my school days (oh so long ago) popped into my head: "...and went gallumphing back."
So there it was--the living, breathing, scowling definition of the word immortalized in Lewis Carroll's "The Jabberwock." there's no getting around it: I have seen (and heard) "galumph."
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
After All, That Other Person's Time and Space Is More Important Than Yours.
I realized recently that I appreciatively note everything I see. Some things I probably shouldn't delight in, as often what amuses me most are the antics of the populace and I find myself laughing at someone else's expense. But they are vastly entertaining.
People fascinate me.
Every Body on earth naturally thinks of himself as the Exception.
I am prone to this also, but it occasionally baffles even me. While I don't find my imagination too often staggered at what they could possibly be thinking when they do some of the things they do, I am curious as to why on earth they would think it.
This past Friday morning a woman made her way by car to the local Starbucks to get whatever is her idea of a delicious beverage. The Starbucks of my story is located on the corner of a popular intersection that crosses a busy street lined with restaurants and bustling tourist gift shops. This road in particular is designed to be traveled by foot; no parking lot or garage is available for any one business, and street parking is never guaranteed. My story happened around nine in the morning (namely, Starbucks time), in which case available parking spots at the curb were virtually nonexistent. However, there was one open space when the lady drove by, and she pulled into it hastily, seemingly in fear that someone else would beat her to it. This haste was unnecessary because the spot was right in front of a fire hydrant.
She turned off her car and went into Starbucks.
About fifty-four seconds later, a police car pulled up behind hers. Out stepped a not-too-surprised policeman who checked the car's tags and license number, and then began writing a parking ticket for its absent owner.
The car, as I have stated, was parked in front of a fire hydrant.
The woman, still waiting in line (it was a long line), saw from the window and immediately elbowed her way back through the crowd and to the door, burst through it into the sunlight, and ran towards the cop waving her arms foolishly.
"Wait! Wait! Don't do that," she cried.
He blinked at her.
"Um...did you even see where you parked?" He indicated her small vehicle, and I have never seen a car look so embarrassed as hers did, sitting badly aligned with the curb and in a place it oughtn't be. I almost felt bad for it.
"But--but it was just for a minute! I thought it would be okay," she stammered, badly flustered.
At this the policeman looked at her. Then he laughed, bewildered. He laughed! Right at her. Laughed at her lapse of judgement. At her typical human narcissism. At her belief that she was above the rules. The exception. The Special Person Who Could Park In Front of Fire Hydrants.
"Look, I'm leaving right now, see?" And she quickly got into her car and drove away. He also left, still chuckling.
She never did get her coffee.
People fascinate me.
Every Body on earth naturally thinks of himself as the Exception.
I am prone to this also, but it occasionally baffles even me. While I don't find my imagination too often staggered at what they could possibly be thinking when they do some of the things they do, I am curious as to why on earth they would think it.
This past Friday morning a woman made her way by car to the local Starbucks to get whatever is her idea of a delicious beverage. The Starbucks of my story is located on the corner of a popular intersection that crosses a busy street lined with restaurants and bustling tourist gift shops. This road in particular is designed to be traveled by foot; no parking lot or garage is available for any one business, and street parking is never guaranteed. My story happened around nine in the morning (namely, Starbucks time), in which case available parking spots at the curb were virtually nonexistent. However, there was one open space when the lady drove by, and she pulled into it hastily, seemingly in fear that someone else would beat her to it. This haste was unnecessary because the spot was right in front of a fire hydrant.
She turned off her car and went into Starbucks.
About fifty-four seconds later, a police car pulled up behind hers. Out stepped a not-too-surprised policeman who checked the car's tags and license number, and then began writing a parking ticket for its absent owner.
The car, as I have stated, was parked in front of a fire hydrant.
The woman, still waiting in line (it was a long line), saw from the window and immediately elbowed her way back through the crowd and to the door, burst through it into the sunlight, and ran towards the cop waving her arms foolishly.
"Wait! Wait! Don't do that," she cried.
He blinked at her.
"Um...did you even see where you parked?" He indicated her small vehicle, and I have never seen a car look so embarrassed as hers did, sitting badly aligned with the curb and in a place it oughtn't be. I almost felt bad for it.
"But--but it was just for a minute! I thought it would be okay," she stammered, badly flustered.
At this the policeman looked at her. Then he laughed, bewildered. He laughed! Right at her. Laughed at her lapse of judgement. At her typical human narcissism. At her belief that she was above the rules. The exception. The Special Person Who Could Park In Front of Fire Hydrants.
"Look, I'm leaving right now, see?" And she quickly got into her car and drove away. He also left, still chuckling.
She never did get her coffee.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Office mysteries
It's been over a year, and I still find myself stymied by so many mysteries in this office.
For instance, how does the paper towel dispenser in the kitchen actually work? I have to fight to procure even one square, and I simply cannot figure out how to get a new roll set up in it when the old roll runs out. I groan (really--all-out, gut-wrenching groan) when I realize I'm about to use the last available paper towel. Now what? I usually wait till the kitchen has cleared out, check the hall two or three times, then run furtively to the cabinet, grab a new roll, and leave it unwrapped and ready to go right next to the dispenser so someone who actually knows how it works can come in and set it up. I like to think it's really very complicated, but something tells me I'm the only dope here who has no clue.
And which hot water dispenser are we actually suppposed to use? The one in the coffee maker, or the one in the water filter? I've heard conflicting stories, but both make it very clear that one ought always to be used, and never the other. I have to check constantly over my shoulder whenever I use hot water now, terrified that I'll be caught in the act of using the wrong spigot. (And another mystery: what will happen to me if I am caught?)
Another mysery that plagues me: what is the secret to sending faxes? We have a fax machine, and I know it works; I've heard plenty of other people use it. But I can never get it to do what I need. The other day I went to send a fax to the designated "fax number" and somebody answered! Imagine my embarrassment and surprise to hear an impatient male's voice speaking to me through this supposedly mute machine.
Or this curious circumstance: there is always, always, always at least one wadded up paper towel lying on the floor beside the trash can just inside the door of the ladies' restroom. It's a reasonably sized trash can, and never over full. All I can conclude is that someone in this office has terrible aim.
And what is the secret code for ordering office supplies? For instance, Post-it notes. You may not think this very important, but when your entire life happens to be recorded in Post-it notes...well, let me tell you, it becomes tantamount in importance. Yet no matter how many times I fill out the little order sheet, entering what I am sure is the correct combination of numbers and letters, I end up with something else. And what if I want one bottle of white-out, not a full case of it? Or blue ball point pens, not blue highlighters? Well, let's just say my office is now full of supplies I'll never use, and I continue to languish for the supplies I need.
Another mystery: the reading of the pay stub. I'm told it will reveal to me all the secrets of my remaining vacation time. I'm afraid all it really reveals to me are cryptic numbers and letters with odd decimals and the somewhat ambiguous term "balance." Does that mean what I have left, or what I've used up? And what do the numbers mean, anyway? I guess I'll have to put off vacations for a little while longer....
For instance, how does the paper towel dispenser in the kitchen actually work? I have to fight to procure even one square, and I simply cannot figure out how to get a new roll set up in it when the old roll runs out. I groan (really--all-out, gut-wrenching groan) when I realize I'm about to use the last available paper towel. Now what? I usually wait till the kitchen has cleared out, check the hall two or three times, then run furtively to the cabinet, grab a new roll, and leave it unwrapped and ready to go right next to the dispenser so someone who actually knows how it works can come in and set it up. I like to think it's really very complicated, but something tells me I'm the only dope here who has no clue.
And which hot water dispenser are we actually suppposed to use? The one in the coffee maker, or the one in the water filter? I've heard conflicting stories, but both make it very clear that one ought always to be used, and never the other. I have to check constantly over my shoulder whenever I use hot water now, terrified that I'll be caught in the act of using the wrong spigot. (And another mystery: what will happen to me if I am caught?)
Another mysery that plagues me: what is the secret to sending faxes? We have a fax machine, and I know it works; I've heard plenty of other people use it. But I can never get it to do what I need. The other day I went to send a fax to the designated "fax number" and somebody answered! Imagine my embarrassment and surprise to hear an impatient male's voice speaking to me through this supposedly mute machine.
Or this curious circumstance: there is always, always, always at least one wadded up paper towel lying on the floor beside the trash can just inside the door of the ladies' restroom. It's a reasonably sized trash can, and never over full. All I can conclude is that someone in this office has terrible aim.
And what is the secret code for ordering office supplies? For instance, Post-it notes. You may not think this very important, but when your entire life happens to be recorded in Post-it notes...well, let me tell you, it becomes tantamount in importance. Yet no matter how many times I fill out the little order sheet, entering what I am sure is the correct combination of numbers and letters, I end up with something else. And what if I want one bottle of white-out, not a full case of it? Or blue ball point pens, not blue highlighters? Well, let's just say my office is now full of supplies I'll never use, and I continue to languish for the supplies I need.
Another mystery: the reading of the pay stub. I'm told it will reveal to me all the secrets of my remaining vacation time. I'm afraid all it really reveals to me are cryptic numbers and letters with odd decimals and the somewhat ambiguous term "balance." Does that mean what I have left, or what I've used up? And what do the numbers mean, anyway? I guess I'll have to put off vacations for a little while longer....
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Circles...Sort of...
Angela likes to draw. She draws with crayons. With pencils. With pens. She draws with anything that will draw. She especially enjoys drawing flowers, or watching you draw a flower for her and then taking it from you to admire it, after which she will add her own finishing touch.
When Angela has made her "finishing touch," your flower will no longer resemble a flower at all.
Angela likes to draw circles even more than she does flowers. If she had the attention span, I'm sure she would sit in her favorite spot at the window all day, with her bucket of crayons and pad of paper, and draw circles.
Every time Angela takes a crayon from the bucket, she announces its color to you before beginning her work. Just in case you were wondering whether that purple crayon really was purple. Or the green, Actually green. If she happens to select a paler shade of crayon, like yellow or white, and discovers it doesn't show on her off-white-colored paper, she furrows her brow and hands the offending object to you indignantly.
"This one doesn't work very well," she will say. But, upon finding one that suits both her fancy and her need to see her masterpiece, she sets her crayon to the paper enthusiastically and makes a shape.
No matter the true shape of this shape that Angela makes, whether it has three sides, four sides, six sides or no sides at all, she will claim it as Circle. As you can see above, this particular one--which is not an Angela original, but a copy done by myself for the purpose of emphasis--is not very similar to the shape we all know as the circle. It looks more like the letter "A" with a very long antenna.
But, whatever the blob of color actually is, you don't argue with Angela if she dubs it Circle. If you try, the closest you will get to consent is her admittance that it might be shaped more like a cloud (which, in my experience, can be shaped like a number of things. Why, just yesterday I saw one that looked like a praying walrus wearing spectacles. Or perhaps it was holding binoculars), but is still, in spirit, a circle.
I tried my own hand at circles but, although in picture mine more closely resembled Webster's description of the word, I couldn't help but feel it lacked some of the liberalism that Angela's portrayed.
When Angela has made her "finishing touch," your flower will no longer resemble a flower at all.
Angela likes to draw circles even more than she does flowers. If she had the attention span, I'm sure she would sit in her favorite spot at the window all day, with her bucket of crayons and pad of paper, and draw circles.
Every time Angela takes a crayon from the bucket, she announces its color to you before beginning her work. Just in case you were wondering whether that purple crayon really was purple. Or the green, Actually green. If she happens to select a paler shade of crayon, like yellow or white, and discovers it doesn't show on her off-white-colored paper, she furrows her brow and hands the offending object to you indignantly.
"This one doesn't work very well," she will say. But, upon finding one that suits both her fancy and her need to see her masterpiece, she sets her crayon to the paper enthusiastically and makes a shape.
No matter the true shape of this shape that Angela makes, whether it has three sides, four sides, six sides or no sides at all, she will claim it as Circle. As you can see above, this particular one--which is not an Angela original, but a copy done by myself for the purpose of emphasis--is not very similar to the shape we all know as the circle. It looks more like the letter "A" with a very long antenna.
But, whatever the blob of color actually is, you don't argue with Angela if she dubs it Circle. If you try, the closest you will get to consent is her admittance that it might be shaped more like a cloud (which, in my experience, can be shaped like a number of things. Why, just yesterday I saw one that looked like a praying walrus wearing spectacles. Or perhaps it was holding binoculars), but is still, in spirit, a circle.
I tried my own hand at circles but, although in picture mine more closely resembled Webster's description of the word, I couldn't help but feel it lacked some of the liberalism that Angela's portrayed.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
To Think How Long She'd Have Gone Without Knowing If Someone Hadn't Told Her!
Today, my roommate Joan received a notice from Sun Trust Bank congratulating her on her recent wedding. They even threw in a gift: a deposit of $100.00 if she opens a "Solid Choice" joint checking account. How thoughtful, seeing as Joan doesn't bank with Sun Trust.
Unfortunately the notification only distressed Joan, as it served to inform her that she missed her own wedding. You see, she had been under the impression this whole time that she was, and is, most decidedly single. At least that's what she's been telling everyone. Imagine her surprise at finding out she was lying! She was a bit shaken, so I helped her compose a reply:
"Dear Sun Trust Bank people,
I'd like to thank you for recognizing my achievement. I understand getting married is quite an ordeal. I have no experience firsthand, but I am told so by friends and family members who have done it. I'm delighted to see that some large bureaucratic companies are still capable of personalizing their services for such magical times.
However, I do wish you had invited me to the wedding. I was not aware that it was happening. I hope carnations were not used in the bouquet, since I detest them. I also hope my Aunt Imelda was not too offended at my absence. Perhaps I will send her a letter. I wonder what sorts of gifts I received?
My whole life I've looked forward to seeing what I look like on that special day, and now I've missed it entirely! Please do send me pictures.
As a suggestion, I think you should add the sending of invitations to your list of services, since many people require one in order to participate in events (myself, for instance). I would have been much more at ease with the idea of a wedding if I'd known about it before I was supposed to be there. As this was not the case, I now have thank-you notes to write for presents I've yet to receive; bills to pay for the reception I did not attend; postcards to send to my family from the honeymoon that happened without me; and a husband I'm sure I've been neglecting.
That being said, I think you'll understand when I insist that your welcome gift of one hundred dollars be doubled. This has been quite an inconvenience to me, but I have faith in the fine people of your establishment to satisfy my needs, and when this happens I can guarantee my loyalty as a customer.
Sincerely,
Joan Harris"
Unfortunately the notification only distressed Joan, as it served to inform her that she missed her own wedding. You see, she had been under the impression this whole time that she was, and is, most decidedly single. At least that's what she's been telling everyone. Imagine her surprise at finding out she was lying! She was a bit shaken, so I helped her compose a reply:
"Dear Sun Trust Bank people,
I'd like to thank you for recognizing my achievement. I understand getting married is quite an ordeal. I have no experience firsthand, but I am told so by friends and family members who have done it. I'm delighted to see that some large bureaucratic companies are still capable of personalizing their services for such magical times.
However, I do wish you had invited me to the wedding. I was not aware that it was happening. I hope carnations were not used in the bouquet, since I detest them. I also hope my Aunt Imelda was not too offended at my absence. Perhaps I will send her a letter. I wonder what sorts of gifts I received?
My whole life I've looked forward to seeing what I look like on that special day, and now I've missed it entirely! Please do send me pictures.
As a suggestion, I think you should add the sending of invitations to your list of services, since many people require one in order to participate in events (myself, for instance). I would have been much more at ease with the idea of a wedding if I'd known about it before I was supposed to be there. As this was not the case, I now have thank-you notes to write for presents I've yet to receive; bills to pay for the reception I did not attend; postcards to send to my family from the honeymoon that happened without me; and a husband I'm sure I've been neglecting.
That being said, I think you'll understand when I insist that your welcome gift of one hundred dollars be doubled. This has been quite an inconvenience to me, but I have faith in the fine people of your establishment to satisfy my needs, and when this happens I can guarantee my loyalty as a customer.
Sincerely,
Joan Harris"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Detail Oriented
I handle a lot of details in my line of work.
A lot of details.
I could put it in poetic terms: the simple, often-overlooked aspects of life take on deeper significance when they cross my desk. Suddenly the seemingly inconsequential issue of whether or not periods should be included in acronyms such as "U.S." (or US?) becomes all-encompassing. Dangling participles provide reasonable grounds for all-out shouting matches. Heated emails fly. Red pens scratch and scratch again...and again...and sometimes even again.
People come to me now with their detail questions. I'll hear a "tap-tap" at my door and glance over. A somewhat shamefaced colleague crosses his or her arms and leans casually against the doorframe.
"Hey," he or she says, "quick grammar question for you...you got a minute?"
I put down my red pen and fold my hands, feeling like a doctor preparing to hear his patient's symptoms.
My personal favorites are the "who vs. whom" questions, and the queries dealing with apostrophes. Ellipses lend their fair share of entertainment as well. In the end, regardless of the question, they go away relieved ("The editor said it's this way...") and leave me with the conflicting feelings of warmth and tenderness at having provided my services--and terror that I have led the poor, unsuspecting masses astray.
I handle other, non-grammatical details as well. Writing schedules, drafting style sheets and lists, filing books with the Library of Congress, making sure all the necessary components of a book are there when the book goes to press, composing letters to authors, and coming up with the most diplomatic way to say to an author, "Dear Sir, your proposal was, to say the least, atrocious, and your book just won't fit into our publishing plans. Good luck finding another publisher and all that..."
As I said, I handle a lot of details at work. I always hope to close those details into my office at the end of the day and wend my way home, a free woman. Commas in compound sentences? Who cares! Split infinitives? Have at 'em. Copyright law and permissions requests? I'll handle those on Monday, thanks. Sometimes, though, the details must follow me home. And you know what? That's fine.
But when they intrude on my lunchbreak, then I have to speak out. Then I am forced to stand up for my rights as an obsession-free individual.
I often go to Mass up the street during my lunchbreak. It works out well, and the peaceful interlude in a busy day is always most welcome. Today at Mass I knelt in my pew after communion, closed my eyes, and tried to pray. I say "tried" because no sooner had I swallowed the Host than this woman came up beside me and stood there, fidgeting, obviously trying to get my attention. So I finally turned my best customer service face to her and let her state her needs.
She held out a shaky hand to me, palm upwards, containing a shiny gold button that probably came off the cuff link of a man's sportscoat.
Panic was written in every line of her face.
"Somebody dropped this... it's a button... it was on the floor."
It should be mentioned that this was a very small button. She would practically have to have been crawling back to her pew from communion to have noticed it. Maybe she had. Either way, I had to marvel at this mind so attentive to details even at noon Mass. It's all I can do at that point, despite--or perhaps because of--my line of work, to stay awake. A button on the floor? I wouldn't even have seen it.
Perhaps, I thought, she thinks this button is mine. So I smiled and murmured, "Oh...no, that's not mine," and prepared to return to prayer.
The expression of panic on her face only intensified.
"What--what should I do?" she asked in a frightened whisper.
Ah. Then I realized--I was being called on to answer yet another detail question, to solve yet another detail problem. I told her it would probably be best if she were to put the button on the pew in front of me. She nodded and bowed and placed the button gingerly down and practically raced away, relieved of the burden of detail.
It would seem my work has taken to following me everywhere. But I've devised a method of escape: the blindfold. I'll bid farewell to sight except between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 5:30 p.m., Monday-Friday. A hefty price to pay, but it might just be the solution.
A lot of details.
I could put it in poetic terms: the simple, often-overlooked aspects of life take on deeper significance when they cross my desk. Suddenly the seemingly inconsequential issue of whether or not periods should be included in acronyms such as "U.S." (or US?) becomes all-encompassing. Dangling participles provide reasonable grounds for all-out shouting matches. Heated emails fly. Red pens scratch and scratch again...and again...and sometimes even again.
People come to me now with their detail questions. I'll hear a "tap-tap" at my door and glance over. A somewhat shamefaced colleague crosses his or her arms and leans casually against the doorframe.
"Hey," he or she says, "quick grammar question for you...you got a minute?"
I put down my red pen and fold my hands, feeling like a doctor preparing to hear his patient's symptoms.
My personal favorites are the "who vs. whom" questions, and the queries dealing with apostrophes. Ellipses lend their fair share of entertainment as well. In the end, regardless of the question, they go away relieved ("The editor said it's this way...") and leave me with the conflicting feelings of warmth and tenderness at having provided my services--and terror that I have led the poor, unsuspecting masses astray.
I handle other, non-grammatical details as well. Writing schedules, drafting style sheets and lists, filing books with the Library of Congress, making sure all the necessary components of a book are there when the book goes to press, composing letters to authors, and coming up with the most diplomatic way to say to an author, "Dear Sir, your proposal was, to say the least, atrocious, and your book just won't fit into our publishing plans. Good luck finding another publisher and all that..."
As I said, I handle a lot of details at work. I always hope to close those details into my office at the end of the day and wend my way home, a free woman. Commas in compound sentences? Who cares! Split infinitives? Have at 'em. Copyright law and permissions requests? I'll handle those on Monday, thanks. Sometimes, though, the details must follow me home. And you know what? That's fine.
But when they intrude on my lunchbreak, then I have to speak out. Then I am forced to stand up for my rights as an obsession-free individual.
I often go to Mass up the street during my lunchbreak. It works out well, and the peaceful interlude in a busy day is always most welcome. Today at Mass I knelt in my pew after communion, closed my eyes, and tried to pray. I say "tried" because no sooner had I swallowed the Host than this woman came up beside me and stood there, fidgeting, obviously trying to get my attention. So I finally turned my best customer service face to her and let her state her needs.
She held out a shaky hand to me, palm upwards, containing a shiny gold button that probably came off the cuff link of a man's sportscoat.
Panic was written in every line of her face.
"Somebody dropped this... it's a button... it was on the floor."
It should be mentioned that this was a very small button. She would practically have to have been crawling back to her pew from communion to have noticed it. Maybe she had. Either way, I had to marvel at this mind so attentive to details even at noon Mass. It's all I can do at that point, despite--or perhaps because of--my line of work, to stay awake. A button on the floor? I wouldn't even have seen it.
Perhaps, I thought, she thinks this button is mine. So I smiled and murmured, "Oh...no, that's not mine," and prepared to return to prayer.
The expression of panic on her face only intensified.
"What--what should I do?" she asked in a frightened whisper.
Ah. Then I realized--I was being called on to answer yet another detail question, to solve yet another detail problem. I told her it would probably be best if she were to put the button on the pew in front of me. She nodded and bowed and placed the button gingerly down and practically raced away, relieved of the burden of detail.
It would seem my work has taken to following me everywhere. But I've devised a method of escape: the blindfold. I'll bid farewell to sight except between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 5:30 p.m., Monday-Friday. A hefty price to pay, but it might just be the solution.
Monday, October 19, 2009
It Works This Way, See...
I work at a lady's shoe store. Said store is located in a charming historic city which, naturally, attracts gaggles of tourists, who travel in groups of at least five at all times and must (simply must) walk all of them abreast along the potentially ample sidewalk so as to hamper pedestrian traffic, and they always look either up at the tops of buildings or down at the tour maps in their hands, so it strikes me that they miss a lot more of the city than they see of it.
The aforementioned shoe store has an entrance - as I imagine do most shoppable shoe stores - that looks a lot like a large pane of glass in a wooden frame and with a door handle. When you attempt to enter the store from the outside, you must pull (not push) the handle, and the door will yield. I can't explain it - that is simply the way it is.
I must add that this is a double door, one side of which we keep locked for whatever purpose. Therefore I feel it must be admitted that only one half of the door is an entryway, and the other half is a lie. It often confuses customers, especially the ones who reach first for the handle to the door that doesn't open. But humans are rational, and after yanking once or twice with no results they almost always realize that only brute force will open it, and almost always eagerly reach for its neighboring handle, sure of success, and are almost always right.
I say "almost always" because this past Saturday I witnessed a situation that shook my faith in mankind.
I stood at the rear of the store behind the cash wrap counter. My part-timer Denise stocked shoes along a nearby wall. A woman approached from the outside and tried to open the locked door.
It didn't open.
I had glanced up at hearing it but this happens so frequently I rarely acknowledge these cases anymore. I resumed whatever task I was doing.
She tried again on the same door. Oh my, it was still locked. Imagine, its still being locked! I paid no heed. She would figure it out soon enough.
Again, she jerked hard on the same unyielding door. And then again. And again. By now the noise had really begun to intrigue both Denise and myself. We looked up to see the woman throwing her hands up in exasperation and giving us some nasty looks as if to say, "WHAT THE HECK IS YOUR PROBLEM WHY CAN'T I COME IN?!"
Denise made a few emphatic arm gestures and mouthed the words "other door" in an attempt to communicate with the estranged creature.
At this the lady finally grasped the other door handle. Phew, I thought. It's over.
She gave it a not-even-half-hearted tug, so the fact was not readily apparent to her that it would have opened had she really tried. I suppose she assumed that this door was also locked, and would believe nothing else. Another dirty look shot in our direction. I couldn't believe it. This woman was attempting to open the unlocked door and was failing.
By now several other customers were staring curiously at the scene, a few onlookers seemed as if they wanted to help communicate but were too amused to do anything about it, Denise was still motioning frantically to the distressed person locked outside - as it were - and I was shaking with mirth but couldn't laugh, for the sake of professionalism.
At this point a man who happened to be in the store at the time, and who found this situation as unbelievable as I did, walked briskly to the door and effortlessly swung it open.
"THIS door." was all he said.
I think what I took away from all this is that I should never expect too much of anyone.
The aforementioned shoe store has an entrance - as I imagine do most shoppable shoe stores - that looks a lot like a large pane of glass in a wooden frame and with a door handle. When you attempt to enter the store from the outside, you must pull (not push) the handle, and the door will yield. I can't explain it - that is simply the way it is.
I must add that this is a double door, one side of which we keep locked for whatever purpose. Therefore I feel it must be admitted that only one half of the door is an entryway, and the other half is a lie. It often confuses customers, especially the ones who reach first for the handle to the door that doesn't open. But humans are rational, and after yanking once or twice with no results they almost always realize that only brute force will open it, and almost always eagerly reach for its neighboring handle, sure of success, and are almost always right.
I say "almost always" because this past Saturday I witnessed a situation that shook my faith in mankind.
I stood at the rear of the store behind the cash wrap counter. My part-timer Denise stocked shoes along a nearby wall. A woman approached from the outside and tried to open the locked door.
It didn't open.
I had glanced up at hearing it but this happens so frequently I rarely acknowledge these cases anymore. I resumed whatever task I was doing.
She tried again on the same door. Oh my, it was still locked. Imagine, its still being locked! I paid no heed. She would figure it out soon enough.
Again, she jerked hard on the same unyielding door. And then again. And again. By now the noise had really begun to intrigue both Denise and myself. We looked up to see the woman throwing her hands up in exasperation and giving us some nasty looks as if to say, "WHAT THE HECK IS YOUR PROBLEM WHY CAN'T I COME IN?!"
Denise made a few emphatic arm gestures and mouthed the words "other door" in an attempt to communicate with the estranged creature.
At this the lady finally grasped the other door handle. Phew, I thought. It's over.
She gave it a not-even-half-hearted tug, so the fact was not readily apparent to her that it would have opened had she really tried. I suppose she assumed that this door was also locked, and would believe nothing else. Another dirty look shot in our direction. I couldn't believe it. This woman was attempting to open the unlocked door and was failing.
By now several other customers were staring curiously at the scene, a few onlookers seemed as if they wanted to help communicate but were too amused to do anything about it, Denise was still motioning frantically to the distressed person locked outside - as it were - and I was shaking with mirth but couldn't laugh, for the sake of professionalism.
At this point a man who happened to be in the store at the time, and who found this situation as unbelievable as I did, walked briskly to the door and effortlessly swung it open.
"THIS door." was all he said.
I think what I took away from all this is that I should never expect too much of anyone.
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