Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Old Man In Pulled Up Socks, Shorts, And Glasses: "Do you have any Asterix or Tintin?"
Me: "Yes. It's over--" OM: "Do you have it in French, German, or Swedish?" Me: "No. Only English." OM: "That's a shame. I think Asterix is an excellent way to teach foreign languages. It's so funny. My first language was French, and when I came here, I took a class over" he waves in sort of the direction of Harvard, "there? No, there. There, probably. Anyway, they told me I had to learn German, and I thought 'I already speak two languages.' They gave me a paragraph in German to translate to English and a book in English to translate to German. And that's now how I learn. But they said that's the way they've taught it for hundreds of years. Well, the nuns that taught me just threw it at us and--" The phone rings. OM pauses. Person On Phone: "Hi. I need to talk to the person in charge of your Merchant Services account." Me: "We don't have one." POP: "According to my records, you--" Me: "We don't have one. We use Square." I hang up the phone. OM: "--and I was in tears. So I went to Schoenhoff's, and the guy told me he could help me, and do you know what he gave me?" Me: "Asterix." OM: "That's Right! It really is--" The phone rings. POP: "Sorry, we got disconnected. Can I speak with the person in charge of your Merchant Services Account." Me: "We. Don't. Have. Or. Want. One. Goodbye." I hang up the phone. OM: "It really is the best way to learn a language. I like" he puffs himself up "Obelix and the little dog the best. They're very funny, don't you agree?" Me: "Sure." The phone rings. POP: "We got disconnected ag--" I hang up the phone. OM: "Who is calling you?" Me: "Telemarketers." OM: "Oh, they're the worst. They always call when you're trying to get something done and they just talk and talk about things nobody cares about." Me: "Can you imagine?" The phone rings. POP: "It's me ag--" Me: "Our owner's name is (Name), he'll be in Friday and Saturday from 11-7. If I hear your voice even once between now and then, I'm reporting you to the Better Business Bureau. Don't. Call. Me. Again." I hang up the phone. OM: "So I've loved Asterix ever since. The problem with reading it is that it doesn't teach you the pronunciation. I can read Swedish very well, but I don't know about pronouncing. There was this cute little Swedish girl about fifty years ago." He shivers. "I guess that's another story." Me: "Yeup." OM: "I like this store it's very earthy. If you had books in Swedish, I would buy them." Me: "Well, we barely have room for all the books in English, so we stick to that." OM: "Maybe you should branch out. You're a pretty new store, so you might find an audience." Me: "This store is 45 years old." OM: "No." Me: "Yes." OM: "Well I've never seen it." Me: "We're very close to The Earth." OM: "Do you have any Asterix in Russian?" Me: "No." OM: "We need to learn it when Trump's golfing buddies show up." He says something in Russian. Me: "Sure." The phone rings.
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Loud Talking Man who was speaking to himself about spiders has gone outside to do Loud Tech Support over speakerphone, complete with the whole "HAVE YOU TURNED IT OFF AND ON AGAIN? BUT HAVE YOU TRIED IT? TRY IT! I SAID TURN IT OFF AND -- HELLO? HELLO? DID YOU? HELLO?" -a brief wondrous minute of silence- "HI. NO. NO. I DIDN'T MEAN YOUR PHONE. DON'T TURN OFF YOUR PHONE. YOUR COMPUTER. HAVE YOU TURNED YOUR COMPUTER OFF AND -- HELLO?"
I picked a lousy day to leave my flamethrower at home. "Look, I don't have the right to tell anyone else what their sexual identity is. You can call yourself whatever you want to call yourself. I'm just saying that we've known each other since we were ten, and thirty years is a hell of a long time to be going through 'An Experimental Phase'."
Me: Did you ship something to the store this week?
My Dad: Yea. Me: I thought so. You addressed it to yourself and you didn't put the store name on it, so nobody was sure who it was for. My Dad: Yea, I wrote my name with your address on one label, and your name with my address on the other. I figured the address was the important part. Me: Ok. What's in it? My Dad: Oh, I got you a pair of jeans, a windbreaker, and a leather jacket. Me: For my birthday? My Dad: Oh no. It was your birthday? Me: Yea. Tuesday. My Dad: I didn't even get you a card. Me: But you got me jeans and two jackets*. I can wear those. I can't wear a card. This man has bought me clothes exactly once since I was in high school. A few years ago, he sent me four xxxl t-shirts and a pair of jeans I could have used as a hammock. My Dad: I think I got you the right size this time. If not, you can return them. Me: Ok. Where did you get them? My Dad: From a catalog. Me: Ok. What catalog? My Dad: I forget the name of it but I put the catalog and a bunch of coupons in with the clothes, in case you wanted to order more. Me: Ok. I'll let you know if everything fits. My Dad: Sounds good. I'll work on getting you a birthday present sometime soon. What did your mom get you? Me: A card. My Dad: You can't wear a card. Does this mean I win? The moment of panic when the bus takes an unexpected turn in the completely wrong direction, and you think "I'm on the wrong b--" and everyone else on the bus changes their posture, and the driver says, "Sorry. I usually drive a different route, I'll turn around." And we all relax. And he circles around the block, and takes the wrong turn Again.
Yea, I've had days like that, too, driver. I know I have been too friendly when a customer I've spent about five minutes talking to about comics comes back into the store an hour later to show me that his daughter texted him about how his granddaughter peed in the potty for the first time.
I'm fairly ruthless with closing hours on days I want to go home (which is nearly every day). Last Tuesday, all I wanted to do was get out of the store, and maybe vanquish it to another dimension for a few days. We closed at 7, and I'd spendt about 45 minutes after closing, putting up the new books, taking down the table, cutting up boxes, and tinkering with the window display when a woman jiggled the handle and started waving at me.
I opened the door. "Sorry." I said. "We close at seven on Mondays." "Oh." She said. "I thought you were open until nine." "Wednesdays through Sundays we're open until nine, sometimes ten. But Mondays and Tuesdays, we close at seven." She turns to her son, who's about elevenish. "Sorry. I was wrong, they are closed. Maybe we'll come back tomorrow." I've seen at least thousands of kids throw temper tantrums like they're auditioning for the role of Kidnapped Clone Baby Of Nicholas Cage in an episode of Two Broke Girls. I worked with kids long enough to be totally immune to this reaction. But this kid doesn't wail, doesn't demand his mother get him the books. He looks like he's been shot. "Ok." Sniffle. Sniffle. Trembly voice. "to...mo....r" and then there is no more sound coming out of him, as he walks up the stairs. "Do you already know what you want?" I ask. The mother says his name a few times but he seems physically unable to speak. "Lucas? Lucas?" And then, to me, "He's been very sick. And so bored. And so good. We just wanted to get a Calvin & Hobbes." "Come on in." I say. My coworker, who has not heard most of the gives me The Glare. "They're over here." The kid points to Something Under The Bed Is Drooling, and then picks it up, walks immediately over to the register while his mother starts speaking to him in French. "Thank you." He says, weakly. His mother has not asked him to do this. She is asking if he's sure he hasn't already read this one. "Thank you so much." "Oh! Yes!" His mother says. "This was so important. We will try and come earlier next time. I only knew nine o'clock. Thank you for letting us in." Like I'd smuggled them across a border in a war zone, instead of letting them buy a book after hours. This week, unless I can confirm actual monsters (yes, vampires, zombies, politicians, homophobes, white supremacists, mens' rights activists, employees of Diamond Comics Distribution, telemarketers, the Comedy Central executives who cancelled Not Safe With Nikki Glaser, and Nazis are actual monsters) are chasing you, your ass better be on this side of the door before seven, or you're going to have to hit the streets and get Chick Tracts to get your comic fix. |
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