Arriving

Jerry sometimes writes things--just for fun. Like an exercise. This is one he worked on this week...maybe you, internets, would like to read and let him know what you think?



Much less notice is drawn to arrivals than departures. Arriving at this house—287th Wally Place—while not common, marked nothing more than another boy counting the days to leaving. The arrival of this particular boy met with the unspoken expectancies of tradition accrued from years beyond the memory of even the oldest occupant. He stood in the entry—small. The vaulted ceiling lent no stature to his scarce four and a half feet, rather only serving to daunt him into an impression of apologetic notice, as if he were somehow sorry for his very presence and would be more comfortable elsewhere, anywhere else. Blond hair under the dingy twilight and greasy glow of the gas lamps, lacking the sun of home, adopted a sandy tarnish, and the nervous perspiration on his forehead matted his hair down in his eyes, making it easy for him to shift his gaze to the floor and pretend he was not standing before the severely stern man threatening above him, or the all too eager woman behind him. He clutched his bag tight in hand.


“What’s your name then?” asked the man.


“It’s Simon—” interrupted the woman before the boy could speak. “He’s a shy thing, but you won’t have any trouble with him. I can promise you that. Never a cross word or a complaint—you wouldn’t even know he just lost both his parents. He’s adjusting very well. I’m sure he’ll fit right in with the rest of the boys here, and you won’t have any trouble with him, any trouble at all,” she rattled on, her speech accelerating as she progressed as if to lend her credence.


“Yes, thank you Ms. Price. You’ve made it quite clear he won’t be any trouble—I did read your letter after all, it was most informative on this point,” said the man. “But if I am expected to take in the boy, I would like to speak with him myself if you don’t mind.”


“Yes of course, begging your pardon Mr. Bander.” Her face flushed with embarrassment, assuming a red characteristic of too much heat, perhaps even fever, at extreme odds with her already red hair. “I meant no disrespect, I only just want to make sure you are will take him off my—I mean, take him in. I can’t be expected to provide for him. I only knew his parents at a—” again she rattled on, but was cut short by Mr. Bander.


“Please Ms. Price. Don’t get ahead of yourself; no one is suggesting you keep the boy.” He appraised her pretentious dress verging on the edge of modesty with obvious distaste. “You are clearly not a suitable option.” With finality, he directed his attention to Simon. “How old are you boy?”


“Eleven,” Simon managed, without raising his eyes from the floor.


“Have you ever been to school?”


“No.”


“Well, if you stay here you will be expected to apply yourself to scholastic studies. We don’t tolerate any measure of lethargy. Do you understand?”


“Yes.”


“Yes sir,” whispered in Ms. Price.


“Yes sir,” said Simon.


“Very well.” Turning back to Ms. Price, Mr. Bander continued, “That will be all Ms. Price, our institution will assume responsibility for the boy now. You may rest assured that we will do all in our power to curb the influence of his parents, and your profession, and equip him with knowledge of respectable society.” At this Ms. Price bristled, but was far to invested to let her temper best her judgment.


“Well I thank you Mr. Bander. If that will be all you need, I’ll be leaving then.” She turned on her heel, and with a flourished swing of the door was gone. The echo rang and the air was silent.

Mr. Bander released a pent up sigh, as if to more completely expel the unwanted presence of Ms Price. Without a word, he turned to ascend the nearby stairs. Simon stood awkward, waiting.


“Well come on then boy,” said Mr. Bander, removing a pocket watch from his vest and holding it to the light. “It’s getting late. I’ll show you to your bed. Have you had dinner?”


“I’m not hungry,” said Simon.


“Why? What’s the matter then?”


“I want to go home,” said Simon.


“Home? You’ve only just arrived. You don’t have a home.”

"Thank you for being the best part...*cough*"

Pithy has found the crux with customer relation jobs and why they can be so frustrating. Agents are trained to consider themselves customer “care” representatives. However, customers are told to call in to customer “service” if they have any issues. This presents a quandary. Care-givers or servants? And is there a difference? We have all been told by our mom—or at least Pithy has…repeatedly: “Clean up your room, I’m not your maid.” The first time we heard this revelatory statement, we were appropriately shocked—didn’t she care?—weren’t we her responsibility?—what did she hope to accomplish by making us clean up our own mess? But now time has worn us down, and we catch ourselves joining the ranks of those who refuse to be maids. Service?—fine, but let’s get some things straight…

DON’T BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU. Jerry had a moment at work today where he felt so sorry for a customer whose phone had been lost by the post office that he personally spoke with every supervisor in the chain of screaming until he finally got the site leader to override the system and send the customer a new phone free of charge. When the order was processed and the only charge remaining the $17 state taxes, Jerry almost used his own credit card when the customer could not afford to pay, and would have if he had not found a way to bend the system. Jerry would not have done this had the customer been the Neanderthal that Jerry later spoke with whose vocabulary was so lacking in adjectives that they all seemed to be related in some way to a certain four letter word. Reason suggests that when we want someone to give us something, or to provide a service beyond the agreed expectations, we should probably treat them nice. There stands a very good chance that if you yell obscenities and hardly allow the rep to speak, their giveashit meter will drop—significantly—as the task of “caring” for you at this point transcends the realm of reason…not even your mom puts up with that.

YOU ARE DISPENSIBLE. Sales agents are the ones that tell you whatever you want to hear—their paycheck depends on it. Once hooked under contract, a care rep is your best friend—they are the only people paid to care about you. Care reps tell you what you need to know to survive—sorry, it might hurt that you went over your price plan and have overages and don’t want to go to a higher plan…but you live in the real world, and when you buy something it usually requires paying for it. If you mess it up—you clean it up. Threatening to cancel your account (and get charged a $320 ETF—probably not the next best action for someone sick of spending money) is not going to change the fact that paying only for 450 minutes, but using 830 minutes, is stealing. The company gave you what they said they would—what’s your problem? Go ahead, cancel—it’s a multi-billion dollar corporation—I’m sure you’re Dallas Texas ego will be sorely missed.

IT’S NOT ME IT’S YOU—but I’m so nice, I’m going to let you think it’s me cuz that’s what I’m paid to do. However, I didn’t use your phone, I didn’t call Spain, I’m not being charged $348—I didn’t drop my iPhone in the toilet and am now wondering why it’s having a hard time getting service—I didn’t put my sim card in a smart phone and then lie about it so I wouldn’t be charged for a data feature…even though I used so much data that the package would be like a birthday present—I didn’t mistake the dollar sign next to the 0.00 as a five and call in to rage about a fifty dollar charge on my bill…I wore my glasses today. However, as this call will be monitored for quality purposes, I will apologize for the misunderstanding, tell you not to worry about the way you treated me when you realized what a total jerk you look like, and ask you if there is anything else I can help with.

After the Latino and Asian accents so distorted they hardly resemble any variation of English, the obscenities, the tears, the passive-aggressive, the just aggressive, the so old that the highlight of their day is calling 611, the confused, the stupid, the belligerent, and the oh so few pleasant—Pithy truly does feel like a parent required to love whatever comes their way (except in our case love is a huge exaggeration—not like with our own mother who lives to love us). As a parent, we strive to equip those we care for with skills that will serve them throughout their lives, and hope they will go on to be decent, productive humans. The ethicality of tantrums as a manipulation tactic was questionable even at the age of two—Mr. Customer, it’s time to grow up and solve your problems like a big kid. It involves a smile, mutual understanding, a willingness to reach a compromise, and a parting handshake. Look—all grown up.

Pithy debated publishing this—it does lack a certain amount of our characteristic panache; these words have a sense of unbridled angst more fitting a rant on craigslist than this venue. But, we did promise the days of our lives as it were—hoping you find the profundity. If you don’t, we will help: Jesus is watching, even calls to customer care—don’t be a jerk.

Isn't It Ironic?

“‘Why does everyone run toward a blood curdling scream?” mumbled the Senior Wrangler. “It is contrary to all sense.’”

Pithy was recently criticized for being too abstract in our writing—that we only allude to a story—that cohesion, in turn, alludes us. The irony of this situation is that Pithy would expound this event in thorough detail—painstakingly portraying the setting, characters, plot and development, even describing the vein of reluctantly melting popsicle trickling down our hand—the faintly sticky stain reminiscent of finished chores and the easily remembered moments of what it was to be young and in love with the intangible perfection of lazy summer—we would describe this all, but the involved party would prefer we left them out of it. It’s ok Mom, we will save that kind of detail for the next posting—this post is all about irony, and alas, we must keep it vague—there are those who would like nothing more than our ruin—“with great awesomeness…” So for those who can’t handle the beauty, the puzzle-fitting perfection of ironic karma, we keep it general; you know who you are—this one is for you.

Irony involves many things—the juxtaposition of unusual or seemingly contradictory opposites which, upon reexamination, display a truth not entirely without humor, often painful to a point, and always good enough to spread on toast. Humor is good and can be generated from any source, sarcasm is better—finding its roots in the instigator, coupling humor with insult, and evoking a sense of well-earned bested; irony is supreme—it surpasses the simplicity of humor and one-ups sarcasm in that the joke is made and received by the same person—there is no comeback, nobody wants to burn themselves twice. It is often said that it takes a sense of humor to make it through life relatively adjusted; this is assuredly true. However, irony guards more hearts, even than humor, for it takes a sense of irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself. Let’s face it, there are only two reader reactions at the end of O. Henry’s story: we can look at the wife—a bald, poor, gift-buying failure—and the husband—replete with a watch-less chain and a useless comb—and laugh, acknowledging that their failures through sacrifice only deepen their love (so is it really a failure?), OR we can suggest they get divorced—the universe obviously doesn’t want them to be together. We choose the former.

Pithy’s most favorite irony episodes generally start, or at least involve, the attitude or statement, “Look what I can do.” “Look, I’m Goliath, I’m huge—look what I can do…” “We’re the British army, we’re the best army in the whole world—look what we can do…” “We built this huge boat, it’s titanic—look what it can do…” “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me; I’ll be single forever; it’ll happen to all my friends first—look what I can do…” This last one provides us with much opportunity for enjoyment and we feel it will soon join the other historically marked monuments to irony.

Our critics would caution us to be careful—that we are playing with fire. How do we dare print this? We appreciate irony. Mark our courage—look what we can do.

It's Time

It can’t be the end of the world. It could be time for all sorts of things—tubs of ice cream, letting laundry stack up, listening to Staind’s “Everything Changes” on loop repeat (in fact, it was time for this last item—Pithy sang along—loudly), but the end of the world? This too shall pass. Pithy knows this to be true, except we would like to complete this sage wisdom with the epithet: “…like a kidney stone.”

“If we could stay here together, if we could conquer the world, if we could say that forever was more than just a word.” Problem is, forever does have meaning beyond its etymological parts—meaning that doesn’t always agree with what we pictured. Time marches on, and pretty soon you realize it’s marching right across your face. Generally we like change—when it happens years ago and we can be comfortable with the easy motion of the safe and secured. Change in real time? That depends…are you giving us a present?

Old proverbs can be irritatingly accurate, and the one about change being the only constant is no exception. It seems that every time we find the meaning of life, they change it--until we finally learn life is change—growth is optional. Pithy realizes that things are only recycled to make way for new life and potential. No one wants to be the fallen, rotting tree blocking the path, but you can’t help missing the solidarity of roots and establishment. Still, it’s stupid to sit stuck, just because you can’t see the table, or the book, or the home that is waiting on the tree. Change is ok, as long as it's in the right direction.

It’s time. It’s time for all sorts of things—a new month, a new year for Jerry ( :-O), new smiles, new steps to our updating futures—all sorts of things, but not the end of the world. So, Pithy takes the song off repeat and tries out the next track on the playlist…