-Lucky at cards..-

Dinner was casual, they said, and your cousin's responsibility. Actually, my cousin was also responsible for introducing his girlfriend of a few months, so his plate was full.

In the meantime, my immediate family traveled to the one beach that permits dogs. This way, my brother's pet could run and swim until she puked. She did, thanks to a little girl who never got tired of seeing the animal chase a tennis ball over the waves and back. It was the first time I'd seen the dog actually give up on the game before the humans did.

After dinner, we sat down for cards. Too bad it wasn't real - I won the pot.
$10 from six relatives, minus my entry fee makes $50 that would become very important later.

Later the twenty-somethings would go out to bars and do what twenty-somethings do, I suppose. We would drink expensive shots and try to communicate in sign language and shouts to bartenders who refuse to sign or speak, since they communicate by three distinct facial tics (annoyance, disgust, and botulism).

I never used the fifty dollars. At least for tonight, I'm too cute to buy my own drinks.

On the way home, the same cousin who prepared the meal and introduced a girlfriend took a detour with said girlfriend. They jumped into a hotel pool with their clothes on. Newly single brother of mine - the same brother who had to have his cellular phone taken away at the bar, lest he call his ex-girlfriend - looked on with three facial tics I can only convey as (regret, loneliness, and constipation.) After he jumped in, all the facial tics were gone.

I wonder if someone should tell the hotel guests?

-Scenic route sans air conditioning. And toast.-

My mistake.

I thought we might take the scenic route, but so did everyone else. Plus, the car’s air conditioner had broken.

Yikes.

Much later, about three hours after we’d reached our seaside destination, and twelve hours before I would blot out the specific memory of the automotive crawl, my siblings and I took our parents out for an anniversary dinner.

Much, much later, I would learn that my oenophile brother had ordered a ninety-dollar bottle of champagne for the toast.

Ah, the toast. We’d scrambled to coordinate our speeches before arriving at the restaurant, but our reservation time rushed our preparation. In haste, we settled on three variations to a theme: the effect they had on their parents, their children, and their friends and community. The order of speakers? Oldest to youngest. Which is good, because I needed a few extra moments to pull my phrases together. Our collective effort yielded happy tears.

Dinner was followed by cocktails and skee-ball.

-Extended Weekend-

Coming soon: a longer break.

They have terminals where I'm going, but I can't make any promises. With any luck, however, I will soon regale you with stories of alpacas, cantinas, and the extraordinary voyage of Pytheas the Greek.

No more hints.

-The Instant Message Scuffle-

washboard
Originally uploaded by benedict monk.

Our virtual reference program goes live in less than two weeks. This morning I logged in and sent a salutary message to the reference desk at the main campus. Much later, the main campus reference desk deigned to respond.

I asked if the reference desk would like a trial question, and the response was "sure" followed by "!!!".

Stay tuned, I typed back, and logged into a second session as May_Tag_Man, an appliance repairman forced into early retirement. May_Tag_Man's dream was to start a small Laundromat. He had the skills to keep the machines running, but didn't have much of a head for business.

That was where we came in. He wanted to know if the library could point him toward some helpful "laundry management" resources - and did they have any trade magazines?

This is, I should mention, slow pitch softball,

And they blew it.

The main campus reference desk waited a long time between responses. Sometimes the program indicated that the other user was typing. Then it mentioned that the other user had added text. Then the other user typed again, and perhaps scratched his or her head while staring into space.

After I had made an up or down decision on two books and handled a minor reference question on my own, the main campus snapped to life. Another librarian may have taken control, I can't be sure. The desk jockey's input: a link to the government's census page, and then a cryptic response about "finding the correct NAICS number."

Now, I know, and you know how to work the census page. And if you haven't seen it, you could quickly figure out the system of industry classification numbers, which are linked to state and national statistics. But May_Tag_Man, who can take apart a Buick in an afternoon and drive it to his favorite watering hole the next day, could not. He is not web-saavy. He only made it this far because his eleven year-old grandson is guiding him from keystroke to mouse click. And grandson, who can illegally download music from bands that have been touring longer than he has been alive, has never earned a dime. He doesn't know anything about business or taxes, or NAICS, which is the North American Industry Classification System by the way - you didn't explain that either, did you, you incompetent sows?!

But I let that pass, because staying in character would have required May_Tag_Man to demand the librarian tell him his or her supervisor's Christian name. I asked a follow up question with the implicit "thank you for your time" on deck, prepared to end this charade and swallow my disappointment in my coworkers.

That's when the phone rang.

The librarian who always seems to be on the verge of a panic attack (I like to think that hers is a genuine concern that someone will figure out how useless her position really is) was on the line, with her oh-my-god inflections and hypervenilactation.
"Benedict! Are you May_Tag_Man?"
I exhale and remind myself that I am playing a role.
"Obviously."
"Oh! We didn't know! We thought you might be, but we thought it could be a real person."
My top and bottom teeth have found one another. "It is a real person. And it will be in less than two weeks." So you'd better be ready, I thought.
"Oh! Well, we're very busy down here, and we don't have time for these questions, if you want to talk using your profile that's okay, but we have to concentrate on the serious reference questions.
"You have to take all reference questions seriously." My voice was rising, and I just stopped myself from adding: and if you don't, you're in the wrong profession.

Self-righteous, I know. But true in spirit. And use my profile? What's the point of our trial if it isn't as true as possible, namely, that you'll know very little about the user beyond the clues they choose to give you?

I had to hang up the phone before I said something that would have our bosses filing extra paper, but not before the twit who'd botched the reference question, the experiment, and May_Tag_Man's performance, dared to condescend about how much work I was preventing her from doing.

When I did hang up, I closed my eyes and cursed aloud. Then I told myself that it was my imagination. Everyone I worked with is not incompetent. When I opened my eyes I decided that it was still true. Everyone I work with is not incompetent.

Even so, I'm mailing out cover letters tomorrow.

-They have pluck-

Somewhere in a bar far from home, a pretty woman in a black-lit white dress approached me. She named my high school and my college, followed by a question mark.

Excuse me? I said.

Which do I know you from? She shouted over some 80s music.

Maybe both, I said. Puzzlement was giving way to recognition. We spoke for some time around the music. Her friend was somewhere else in the bar, but she was in no hurry to find her. After the obligatory SO WHAT DO YOU DOs and small talk, we made each other laugh.
Let’s go to the Boiler Room, she said, locals hang out there.
Good idea, I said.
A pair of twins with short blond hair took control of the dance floor. Mesmerizing.
Will you look at them? I said. They have spirit.
Well, enjoy the people watching, she said.
Smiled.
And plucked her friends arm.

Much later I reclined on a couch and reflected on the meeting, and tried to imagine how it might have gone differently. But as usual, I can’t bring myself to paint a bright mental picture.

Suppose she and her friend had come back home with me, and suppose her friend had consumed too many shots. Suppose we talked in hushed tones over her friend’s lolling head, and set the sloppy body in front of the television set, watching the movie of her choice while she, SHE, and I stand on the porch listening to the ocean. So far, so good.

But then my mind insists that the movie of her choice is Muriel’s Wedding. No substitutions, try as I might. And that means ABBA.

This is the worst ear poison I’ve encountered since the Olympic Air flight that only played bad Michelle Pfieffer movies.

-Live Eight at Quarter-of-six-

The original plan called for a 10:00 departure the night before. The view from the garage changed my mind.

That same rain that nearly canceled the firework display brought its own light show. I suppose I could have driven through Philadelphia during an electrical storm, but why? Far easier to nap until it passed, and it passed through the region’s atmospheric kidney before 5 AM.

At fifteen minutes until six, young people with coolers and picnic blankets walked a crew race distance on the river, gathering in front of an art museum already swarming with activity. Even so, there is room enough to bypass the crowds and cops, and to slink onto the Vine expressway.

There is a momentary wrench when the road opens up and the event bringing so many people together passes farther and farther behind. But to stay even a little while is to make a full day of it.

At least the road is clear.

-Hope-

“Elocution would be worth the trouble if it did nothing more than exterminate the rising inflection.. No sentence or sentiment is immune. Simple ones, like I was really pumped? Or She had a gun? And she blew his head off with it? More complex thoughts—My girlfriend thinks Russell Crowe’s a hunk? But I think he’s an asshole?—may be expressed as two queries in one… Hopefully, a reflexive wave to personal humility and unknowable Fate, may have sprung from the same sources.”

Don Watson, Death Sentences p. 20-21.

Like Don Watson, I object to those who would begin a sentence with ‘hopefully’ to defer their opinions onto the listener. I also hate that I’m responsible for doing the same thing.

It slipped out earlier today.

“Hopefully, my boss will take the hint and write the recommendation now, since I’ve got less than a month left for consideration.”

If she doesn’t write it tomorrow, elocution is the least of my worries.

I mean, what do I say to her?

I’m really pumped about this job?
Or I’ve heard about this model employee who had a gun? And he blew off his manager’s head with it when she cost him a better job? More complex thoughts—My girlfriend thinks Russell Crowe’s a hunk? But I think he’s an asshole, so will you write the letter you promised?—may be expressed as two queries in one…

Hopefully, it won’t come to this, but I can’t make any promises. I’m almost out of inflections, so there nothing left to do but elocute* consequences.

*Verbed for your pleasure. If you don’t like it, you can Berryman off.