Qanzaspeak

Bumper sticker seen on the commute this week: America is returning to the values Scouting never left.

My response: Eat shit.

T-Shirt on guy in front of me for coffee read: Mexican food so authentic you’ll be afraid to drink the water.

Me: How ’bout, Elitist Racial Insensitivity Sells Our Tacos?

Overheard: I don’t like live music, unless it’s on DVD.

Me: Uh…

So, the college Student Environmental Alliance is selling plastic travel mugs that read, “Save the planet one cup at a time.” Yes, if you use the same cup over and over instead of wasting a paper, Styrofoam, or plastic cup every time you caffeinate, you’re greatly reducing waste. I get it.

Still, come on. Saving the planet…with plastics? It’s kinda’ funny.

You know when something happens that would make a great story, character, or just an anecdote, but nobody would ever believe it? Today’s Wiccan plumber giving me $50 off because I complimented him on his pentagram is one of those things.

Get ready, PDX. The brain trust is movin’ to town. Witness…

Me: I’m Scully.

Larry: I’m Scully.

Me: No, I’m Scully. You’re Mulder.

Larry: I’m Scully. You’re Cigarette Smoking Man.

Me: I’m Scully.

Repeat five hundred times then shoot yourself in the face.

I mistyped “profit” for “prophet.” Is my subconscious suggesting a new career path?

The alumni association is already calling me a member, and I haven’t even graduated yet. I still have summer and fall semester to get through. Does this mean I’m supposed to start giving them money when I’m not even done paying tuition?

Not happening.

Before the days of caller ID and star sixty-nine, the telephone guaranteed anonymity. Those of us born in the seventies or earlier have fond memories of searching the phone book for listings with such unfortunate surnames as Dick, Cumming, or any combination of letters involving the word “butt.” Any citizen given the unfortunate combination Harry Dick by either cruel or clueless parents anticipated at least one prank call a week, their only retaliation to hang up amidst a torrential gale of juvenile laughter screeching through the receiver. The Harry Dicks of 1970s and 1980s Lincoln, Nebraska were tormented mercilessly by my friends and me during many late night slumber parties. As far as we were concerned, a Harry Dick who dared answer the phone after ten o’clock at night was asking for it. A Harry Dick in the phone book was the ultimate payload.

The party’s over. Caller ID removes the anonymity necessary to torment the unfortunate Dicks, Cummings, and Buttmans. Still, instead of improving, phone etiquette has deteriorated. Perhaps this is due to our multi-tasking society, too busy to be bothered with pleasantries.

* * *

1978

“Hello?”

“Hello! This is Jack Schneider. I’m a friend of Lucinda’s from her chemistry class. Is she available?

“I’m sorry. Lucinda’s sitting at the table with her family for dinner. May I have her return your call when she’s finished?”

“Certainly, thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted. Have a good night.”

“No bother at all. I’ll tell Lucinda you called. Good night.”

* * *

2008

“Hello?”

“Mark?”

“No.”

Click.

Considering that one’s name and phone number most likely appear on, and are recorded by the receiving phone, it’s surprising we’re all not a little nicer to each other.

* * *

In my office we’re a happy bunch. We celebrate birthdays. We cover for each other when we need time off. We’re pleasant, courteous, even eager to help the students calling Continuing Education to enroll in such non-credit classes as Cake Decorating, Container Gardening, and Beekeeping. Usually, students enrolling in our classes are functioning with a fairly low stress-level. One should not become hostile at the discovery that Holiday Cookie Icing is full, or that they’ve missed the enrollment date for the E-Bay tutorial. To overreact would be embarrassing. Still, we know who you are. We have caller ID.

You never know when a good day will turn. I stare at the caller ID screen in horror.

“Shit! It’s Carrie Meadows!”

My boss, at the next station, tells me exactly what she thinks.

“Don’t you fucking dare roll that shit to me. I had to deal with her yesterday.”

Elsewhere in the room my co-workers voice their discontent.

“I refuse to ever speak with her again.”

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Carrie Meadows can fuck right off.”

Knowing there’s no way out, I answer with the intention of killing her with kindness. Surely, when met with my calm, polite, and helpful manner, even Carrie Meadows can be subdued.

“Good morning, Continuing Education. This is David. May I help you?”

Already shouting, Carrie starts in.

“David, you say?”

“Yes, that’s correct. How may I help you?”

“D-A-V-I-D, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. May I help you enroll in a class?”

“What’s your last name, David?”

“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to release our last names. I’m the only David in this office, though. If you need to reach me…”

“Whatever. I want to enroll in the Effective Interpersonal Communication class that began three weeks ago.”

It’s laughable, the courses and seminars Ms. Meadows enrolls in: Effective Sales, Customer Service, Positive Thinking. I imagine her shrieking profanities at her instructors while throwing cups of coffee, pens, and handfuls of change in their faces. Still, I am going to kill her with kindness. I boldly continue.

“I’m sorry, but the instructor will not allow registrations three weeks into the course. Fortunately, there’s another one beginning next week. Would you like to enroll in that section?”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

This is the Carrie Meadows tactic. She either argues the policies, or pretends not to understand. Usually she doles out a combination.

“Doesn’t make sense? Well, at this point you’ve missed six of the twelve classes, literally half of the course. The instructor does not want to slow down the rest of the class because of late enrollments. Rather, she’d like students in your situation to enroll in the next offering. Fortunately, as I mentioned, there’s another one starting next week. I’m more than happy to…”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

“I’m sorry. I think we have a bit of miscommunication. The course you’d like to enroll in began three weeks ago…”

“I know. I want to enroll in it. Enroll me in it. Isn’t that your job? Why don’t you stop talking and just do your job. Isn’t that what you’re paid to do, to help me, David?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I am here to help you. Fortunately, I’m able to offer you the exact same course beginning next week. That way, you won’t have missed half of the class. Unfortunately, I’m unable to enroll you in the course that’s already half over.”

“I want to enroll in the class that started three weeks ago, David.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t enroll you in that class. The instructor does not allow late enrollments. Instead, she prefers students who want to enroll late to enroll in the next section, like the one starting next week.”

“I don’t understand, David.”

“Well, the policy is…”

“Is there someone else I can talk to, David? It is David, right?”

At this point, every one of my co-workers has found reason to leave the office. I forward Carrie to my supervisor’s voicemail, as I’ve done time and time again. It makes no difference. I’ll talk to Carrie Meadows again within the hour. She’ll remember my name, and she knows my number.

Somewhere in Lincoln, Nebraska, Harry Dick laughs out loud, puts his feet up, and pushes another pin into a voodoo doll. I am certain of this. Harry Dick, my payload indeed.

Life Science. Seventh Grade. Back left corner.

Jennifer: [singing] You must be my lucky star.

Later, same year. Vicky’s birthday party. Qanzas and ten seventh grade girls. An electronic..chord progression? (not quite) emits from MTV in the adjoining room.

The Girls: [high pitch, perfectly unison, running to TV] Maaaaaah!

I follow, curious. It’s a white set. The three dancers are wearing black fishnet. The one in the middle is singing. You must be my lucky star. Jennifer from Life Science is a nasty, shallow, vapid…and deeply mean girl. She (apparently) loves this woman. I hate Jennifer, ergo I hate this woman. My lucky star? I must be? Fuck. You.

First off, I’m sorry I’ve been absent. I do love you. I’m just trying to keep my head above water in school. December is coming.

Speaking of coming, I want to know which title is funnier.

Hairy Dick Goldmine

or…

Mining For Hairy Dicks

What do you think?