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.