My morning routine is to walk down to the neighborhood drug store and buy the newspaper. Today, having done so, I was walking back home as I distractedly glanced at the day's headlines, and I couldn't help but feel my foot twitching a little, as though to pull me off course.
Looking down, I saw it: that iconic symbol of slapstick mirth; that crescent-shaped object with the viscosity of whale oil and the stealth of a jungle tiger: a banana peel. It tried to exert its mystical force on me and lure me close, but as an experienced practitioner of the comedic arts, I was immune.
Perhaps I would not have been so inoculated from danger had this been simply (I say simply, of course, but clearly there is nothing simple in this object!) a banana peel. But it was, in fact, the whole banana; black and over-ripe to the point that even the fruit flies ignored it. However, even in this state, the potential for slip-and-fall hijinks was powerful indeed. If there had been any bushes nearby I would have hidden in them until the unsuspecting laborers appeared, each of them holding one end of a long sheet of plate glass, and enjoyed the ensuing hilarity.
But I continued home--though it really did amuse me to see a banana peel there, lying in wait.
An hour or so later, I passed by the same spot again and was not surprised to see that the end of the banana was squished; someone had had a narrow escape. And maybe the banana peel was evolving; stripping down to its comedic essence; in a sort of inside-out metamorphosis, the peel was shedding its cumbersome core to emerge in all its comedic splendor and wreak havoc among the unsuspecting pedestrians. I realized that it was only a matter of time before the peel would be open like a tempting and slippery flower in the center of the sidewalk. Whole troops of Oakland hipsters would soon veer unknowingly toward it, then slip and slide in a scene choreographed with the precision of an Ice Capades spectacular.
Or not. Its possible that in an hour or so, a bicyclist or two will have squished the banana, and some passerby will have crushed it with a boot. The sun may have dried it out, and someone might have kicked most of it to the curb. All that would remain would be a harmless black smear. Comedy is like that. Not like a harmless black smear, but like the banana: the potential is there, but it takes a particular combination of things to actually make it funny.
Humor is rooted most importantly in surprise, but there are some important qualifications to the nature of that surprise. Namely, it is the type of surprise that is neither threatening, nor promising a benefit. If I had actually slipped on that banana peel and fallen, I might have been amused IF I hadn't been hurt. If I were hurt, I'd just feel like a fool with a limp.
But let's take a step back. Let's say you were watching me as I distractedly walked along the sidewalk, reading my newspaper. You see the banana peel. Your expectation is, probably, that I'll step on the banana peel and slip. If you've made a judgement about me for reading the newspaper while I walk--that is, that I'm a fool to do it; that I'm a clueless rube--then if I slip on the banana peel you might laugh because there's a certain surprise and satisfaction in seeing fools get their due.
But maybe you haven't made that judgement about me. Ironically--given the cliched nature of this scenario--if you're watching and I do slip on the banana peel (ideally doing some dramatic twists and turns on my way earthward) you'd probably laugh anyway, not because you're surprised by the actual fall, but because you're surprised by the fact that I did the cliched thing. In part, you'd be laughing at my ignorance, and in part you'd be surprised by your own predictive skills. After all, we don't expect to see our predictions actually come true in the moment.
However, let's say I were an old man (older than I am at least) and I slip, with no slapstick panache, and I break my hip. As I writhe in pain, you'd probably come running to help, and it probably wouldn't be funny to you at all. Unless you're some kind of sadist. You're not, are you? Good. I didn't think so.
I suppose though, even if I were injured in such a fall, and I were in traction in the hospital, recovering, I'd consider the scene and I'd probably laugh at my own stupidity. I'd be surprised by it (though I should never be surprised by my own stupidity) and the pain medication would have kicked in too, so it would be all the more easy to laugh about it. As the observer, you, my rescuer, would probably look back on the scene and laugh, too, because the pain that you observed would by then have become something of an abstraction, and what would be left would mostly be the absurdity of it. You might tell the story at a cocktail party: "This man was walking along, not paying attention, and there was a banana peel RIGHT IN HIS PATH! He didn't see it--he just walked closer and closer, and I thought, c'mon, he HAS to see it. But NO! Bam! He fell! I couldn't believe it!"
Yeah, go ahead and laugh, you cruel monster. Do you know how many months I'll be in physical therapy? And that was a serious break! They had to fasten my pelvis together with steel pins. I clank when I walk! I'm going to set off the airport machines for the rest of my life, just so you could get a few chuckles!
But I digress. Here's another banana peel scenario: As before, I'm distracted as I approach the banana peel. But I stop in the nick of time, and look down at the banana peel as though to tell it it's not going to outsmart me. In fact, to demonstrate my resistance to the banana peel's legendary wiles, I do a little dance around it, as though to mock it. Yes indeed, I'm feeling pretty good about myself. And then I fall flat on my face.
In truth, all of this plays better on film than in real life because in film we know, even if the scene is very realistic, that it's fake. We know that no one was hurt, which removes some of the "threat" from the surprise. After all, that person slipping could be us; there is always a component of identifying with the subject in a film. That's why, to me, the America's Funniest Home Video clips that show people crashing on a skateboard or a bike, or stepping on a rake, or getting hit in the face with a baseball, are not funny, because these people probably really got hurt, at least a little. They're real people, and that could happen to me. Consequently, the protective screen of unreality that film provides does not exist.
Much of the time, like that banana peel, comic potential is unrealized. The banana peel just lies there, a joke untold. It takes deliberate effort to bring it out, but there are many ways to do it, such as, say, writing a brief essay about it.
I am a novelist and humor writer. "The Pyongyang Paradox," the fourth book in my comedic trilogy, "The Chronicles of Huttle," is now available from Genius Books, and on Audible! See links on the right side of this page!
Friday, May 30, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Business Casual
Lisa at Nordstrom found a blue oxford shirt in the rack and I held it up to my face. "That looks good on you," she said.
"It's not too dark?"
"The lights will wash it out. And it's a good color for you anyway."
"Okay." I tucked the shirt under my arm and indicated the brown shoes I held--I'd dug them out of my closet an hour earlier. "Brown, or black?" I said.
She stood back, cradling her chin in her hand, looked down at the black shoes I wore. "Brown. It'll soften the look. She looked again at the brown shoes. "You..." she hesitated. "... could get them polished?"
"Oh, of course. Is there a place here?"
She pointed to another department.
"Great." I selected a brown belt to go with the shoes; she helped me find a pair of socks that tied everything together with the khaki slacks. The outfit screamed Business Casual--a look I had Googled before driving to Nordstrom. I headed over to get my shoes polished while she got my new shirt pressed, and a hundred and fifty-nine dollars later ("You get what you pay for," advised Lisa when I saw the $75 price tag on the belt) I was headed over the Bay Bridge.
I parked in an industrial area near AT&T Stadium and walked a couple of blocks to the address I'd been given. I was 45 minutes early, so I went up to the third floor and clicked in my stiff and shiny brown shoes down a long, wide corridor. Around a corner I found the office; a piece of white paper taped to the door said "Casting."
On the ground floor, I found a cafe and while the barista prepared an iced coffee for me, I used the rest room and when I emerged I saw a tell-tell dot of liquid on my pants, right where my... uhh... well, I could have splashed myself while I was washing my hands... couldn't I have?
Whatever the source of the liquid, I held my notebook at waist height as I made my way back to the cafe. Sitting, I crossed my legs as I drank my iced coffee and let the miracle of evaporation take place.
Ten minutes before my appointment I went again to the elevator. Coming through the door from the street was Young Businessman Incarnate: a handsome, dark-skinned guy with a neatly-trimmed three-day growth of chin stubble. I quietly regretted shaving. He wore a medium blue shirt, khakis, brown shoes, and a brown belt. I couldn't see his socks, but I'd wager they were a diamond pattern; tans with a dash of blue, just like mine. I smiled at him as I pressed the elevator button. "I bet we're here for the same thing." He looked at me like the competition I was, and we rode up the elevator together in silence.
Once again I found the office, but now there was a long line snaking out the door.
In the middle stood a stocky, hispanic-looking man, with a shaved head, and he wore a black suit and a tie. I resisted the urge to shake my head and smirk. He was definitely not dressed in Business Casual. Didn't he read the notice? It explicitly said business casual. Boy, had he shot himself in the foot, I thought. Of course, my competition was a lot younger than me--probably 42 or 43. And ethnic looks seem to be popular. This was an audition for print advertising for a big financial services company, and it stood to reason they would want to appeal to a wider audience than old white guys like me.
I shook myself out of it. Who knew what demographic the company was trying to appeal to? I certainly didn't--even though in my submission for the part, I had written, "I think I'm perfect for this part!"
The casting agent was also looking for "Business Woman," and the majority of the people in the line were women in their early thirties to mid-forties. Unlike my elevator companion, they weren't my competition. If I got the part, maybe one of them would be my Business Partner. Or my wife. But given the age gap, probably my nurse. Were they casting nurses? No.
Two harried-looking women sat at a table, laptops open before them, and one of them motioned me forward. I crouched down to hear her as she opened a form on her computer and asked my name, contact information, measurements, and shoe size, entering the information in a form on the screen. Then she wrote my last name and first initial on a small whiteboard and directed me to the back of the line,
I stood behind a woman about 5' 4" tall, with long dark hair. She wore a shoulderless blue dress. "You do this often?" I asked. Only slightly less original than, "Do you come here often?" But I was really asking out of curiosity, and my own anxiety.
"Hmmm. A little. More for my kids."
"Ah. College fund."
"Exactly," she said.
She indicated no curiosity about me, and there seemed to be an unspoken code of silence here anyway, which was just as well. I didn't particularly want to admit this was my first time.
In the center of the room, a photographer directed one of the women where to stand. First, she held the whiteboard up, chest high. This was more of a mugshot than a portrait. He shot a frame or two, then took the board from her. "Smile," he said, and shot a closeup. Then he stepped back and took a full-length shot. "Turn--face that way," he instructed, and when she was in position he shot a closeup and a full-body shot. Then he had her turn again to face the camera, and did one more full-body shot. "You're done," he said.
Next was a guy who looked like David Beckham: tousled blond hair, tan skin, fashionable stubble. Was that business casual... who could tell? I wondered if I should have shaved. He jutted his jaw forward for the closeup and bared his teeth. I thought, oh, c'mon! They're not looking for a super model, pal! They're looking for a businessman!
But who specifically was this businessman they were looking for? A tech entrepreneur, weeks out of college, launching his billion dollar startup and wanting to invest wisely? An inner-city merchant whose business is growing? A soon-to-retire executive worried about making his nest-egg last? From the group gathered here, it was impossible to tell. The notice said they were seeking "Extras," too, to pose as business people. Maybe David Beckham was auditioning as an Extra... but I doubted it. He seemed to know what he was doing.
My turn came and I stepped into the middle of the room and held the card in front of my chest. "Okay," said the photographer, stepping back. (Smile. Shoulders back. Gut in. Hips forward. Chin forward.) Click. Click.
"Okay, turn facing here," the photographer ordered. I glanced at the computer monitor that displayed the images he had just captured. Gotta suck in that gut more! I turned. They say the camera adds fifteen pounds. (Shoulders back! Gut IN! Hips FORWARD--man, I'm glad that drop of water on my pants dried. Chin forward. SMILE, because business is BOOMING!). Click. Click.
"Okay," the photographer said. "One more facing this way..." I turned, silently reciting my posing mantra. Click.
He looked at the computer monitor to make sure the images had recorded, then turned to me. "And you're done," he said.
As I stepped to the side I glanced at the images too. This may be bad luck in the world of advertising; Lot's wife looking back at Sodom and Gomorrah and turning to a pillar of salt--but I couldn't help myself. Well... no one was going to confuse me with David Beckham. And I didn't look like an earnest, upwardly-striving middle-manager, either. I looked... like a sixty-year-old guy--or maybe 58 year-old one--dressed in Business Casual attire, with neat gray hair of medium length, some lines in my face and forehead, a nice, though somewhat crooked smile. In each pose, my head is cocked jauntily to the side; something I was completely unaware I was doing. Business must be really great!
Leaving the office, I picked up the remains of my iced coffee, and the envelope I had brought, containing a couple of head shots, in case they wanted them.
I went down the elevator and as I passed people in the lobby and then on the sidewalk outside, I thought, "To these people, I probably look just look like a businessman, dressed in Business Casual, coming from a meeting. Had I made some different choices long ago, I might very well be that person, instead of pretending to be one for the afternoon.
I found my car and got into it. I'd been so utterly confident when I'd applied for the job, and really pleased when I'd gotten the audition. Now I had no idea whether I'd be cast or not.
But it's okay. I have an important task ahead: growing my beard. I have three and a half days until I go to a shoot, where I'll be an Organic Farmer. They want the stubbly look.
"It's not too dark?"
"The lights will wash it out. And it's a good color for you anyway."
"Okay." I tucked the shirt under my arm and indicated the brown shoes I held--I'd dug them out of my closet an hour earlier. "Brown, or black?" I said.
She stood back, cradling her chin in her hand, looked down at the black shoes I wore. "Brown. It'll soften the look. She looked again at the brown shoes. "You..." she hesitated. "... could get them polished?"
"Oh, of course. Is there a place here?"
She pointed to another department.
"Great." I selected a brown belt to go with the shoes; she helped me find a pair of socks that tied everything together with the khaki slacks. The outfit screamed Business Casual--a look I had Googled before driving to Nordstrom. I headed over to get my shoes polished while she got my new shirt pressed, and a hundred and fifty-nine dollars later ("You get what you pay for," advised Lisa when I saw the $75 price tag on the belt) I was headed over the Bay Bridge.
I parked in an industrial area near AT&T Stadium and walked a couple of blocks to the address I'd been given. I was 45 minutes early, so I went up to the third floor and clicked in my stiff and shiny brown shoes down a long, wide corridor. Around a corner I found the office; a piece of white paper taped to the door said "Casting."
On the ground floor, I found a cafe and while the barista prepared an iced coffee for me, I used the rest room and when I emerged I saw a tell-tell dot of liquid on my pants, right where my... uhh... well, I could have splashed myself while I was washing my hands... couldn't I have?
Whatever the source of the liquid, I held my notebook at waist height as I made my way back to the cafe. Sitting, I crossed my legs as I drank my iced coffee and let the miracle of evaporation take place.
Ten minutes before my appointment I went again to the elevator. Coming through the door from the street was Young Businessman Incarnate: a handsome, dark-skinned guy with a neatly-trimmed three-day growth of chin stubble. I quietly regretted shaving. He wore a medium blue shirt, khakis, brown shoes, and a brown belt. I couldn't see his socks, but I'd wager they were a diamond pattern; tans with a dash of blue, just like mine. I smiled at him as I pressed the elevator button. "I bet we're here for the same thing." He looked at me like the competition I was, and we rode up the elevator together in silence.
Once again I found the office, but now there was a long line snaking out the door.
In the middle stood a stocky, hispanic-looking man, with a shaved head, and he wore a black suit and a tie. I resisted the urge to shake my head and smirk. He was definitely not dressed in Business Casual. Didn't he read the notice? It explicitly said business casual. Boy, had he shot himself in the foot, I thought. Of course, my competition was a lot younger than me--probably 42 or 43. And ethnic looks seem to be popular. This was an audition for print advertising for a big financial services company, and it stood to reason they would want to appeal to a wider audience than old white guys like me.
I shook myself out of it. Who knew what demographic the company was trying to appeal to? I certainly didn't--even though in my submission for the part, I had written, "I think I'm perfect for this part!"
The casting agent was also looking for "Business Woman," and the majority of the people in the line were women in their early thirties to mid-forties. Unlike my elevator companion, they weren't my competition. If I got the part, maybe one of them would be my Business Partner. Or my wife. But given the age gap, probably my nurse. Were they casting nurses? No.
Two harried-looking women sat at a table, laptops open before them, and one of them motioned me forward. I crouched down to hear her as she opened a form on her computer and asked my name, contact information, measurements, and shoe size, entering the information in a form on the screen. Then she wrote my last name and first initial on a small whiteboard and directed me to the back of the line,
I stood behind a woman about 5' 4" tall, with long dark hair. She wore a shoulderless blue dress. "You do this often?" I asked. Only slightly less original than, "Do you come here often?" But I was really asking out of curiosity, and my own anxiety.
"Hmmm. A little. More for my kids."
"Ah. College fund."
"Exactly," she said.
She indicated no curiosity about me, and there seemed to be an unspoken code of silence here anyway, which was just as well. I didn't particularly want to admit this was my first time.
In the center of the room, a photographer directed one of the women where to stand. First, she held the whiteboard up, chest high. This was more of a mugshot than a portrait. He shot a frame or two, then took the board from her. "Smile," he said, and shot a closeup. Then he stepped back and took a full-length shot. "Turn--face that way," he instructed, and when she was in position he shot a closeup and a full-body shot. Then he had her turn again to face the camera, and did one more full-body shot. "You're done," he said.
Next was a guy who looked like David Beckham: tousled blond hair, tan skin, fashionable stubble. Was that business casual... who could tell? I wondered if I should have shaved. He jutted his jaw forward for the closeup and bared his teeth. I thought, oh, c'mon! They're not looking for a super model, pal! They're looking for a businessman!
But who specifically was this businessman they were looking for? A tech entrepreneur, weeks out of college, launching his billion dollar startup and wanting to invest wisely? An inner-city merchant whose business is growing? A soon-to-retire executive worried about making his nest-egg last? From the group gathered here, it was impossible to tell. The notice said they were seeking "Extras," too, to pose as business people. Maybe David Beckham was auditioning as an Extra... but I doubted it. He seemed to know what he was doing.
My turn came and I stepped into the middle of the room and held the card in front of my chest. "Okay," said the photographer, stepping back. (Smile. Shoulders back. Gut in. Hips forward. Chin forward.) Click. Click.
"Okay, turn facing here," the photographer ordered. I glanced at the computer monitor that displayed the images he had just captured. Gotta suck in that gut more! I turned. They say the camera adds fifteen pounds. (Shoulders back! Gut IN! Hips FORWARD--man, I'm glad that drop of water on my pants dried. Chin forward. SMILE, because business is BOOMING!). Click. Click.
"Okay," the photographer said. "One more facing this way..." I turned, silently reciting my posing mantra. Click.
He looked at the computer monitor to make sure the images had recorded, then turned to me. "And you're done," he said.
As I stepped to the side I glanced at the images too. This may be bad luck in the world of advertising; Lot's wife looking back at Sodom and Gomorrah and turning to a pillar of salt--but I couldn't help myself. Well... no one was going to confuse me with David Beckham. And I didn't look like an earnest, upwardly-striving middle-manager, either. I looked... like a sixty-year-old guy--or maybe 58 year-old one--dressed in Business Casual attire, with neat gray hair of medium length, some lines in my face and forehead, a nice, though somewhat crooked smile. In each pose, my head is cocked jauntily to the side; something I was completely unaware I was doing. Business must be really great!
Leaving the office, I picked up the remains of my iced coffee, and the envelope I had brought, containing a couple of head shots, in case they wanted them.
I went down the elevator and as I passed people in the lobby and then on the sidewalk outside, I thought, "To these people, I probably look just look like a businessman, dressed in Business Casual, coming from a meeting. Had I made some different choices long ago, I might very well be that person, instead of pretending to be one for the afternoon.
I found my car and got into it. I'd been so utterly confident when I'd applied for the job, and really pleased when I'd gotten the audition. Now I had no idea whether I'd be cast or not.
But it's okay. I have an important task ahead: growing my beard. I have three and a half days until I go to a shoot, where I'll be an Organic Farmer. They want the stubbly look.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Eternal Damnation for $1.99
In the supermarket, I came across a display of brightly colored silicone spatulas, priced at $1.99. My kitchen gadget assortment is rudimentary at best, and from time to time a spatula might come in handy. In fact, three nights ago--and I know this sounds pathetic--I was mixing up some chocolate chip cookie mix... well, long story short, but it ended up chocolate cookie cake... but I didn't have a spatula to scrape it out of the mixing bowl. Which was actually a salad bowl... but I digress.
I was at the supermarket. I grabbed a spatula and threw it in the cart, then trolled the aisles and got other stuff I needed. After going through the checkout line, I emerged from the store and saw the spatula wedged into the cart. I thought at first that the bag technician had forgotten to put the spatula in the bag, but then I realized I hadn't paid for it.
Here was my internal dialog:
"You should really go in and pay for that."
"I know... but it's a buck ninety-nine. It isn't as though I hid it."
"But you know the checker didn't see it."
"I didn't remember it was in their either!"
"You know now."
"It's a dollar ninety-nine! They won't even notice." I did imagine the item turning up missing in the inventory control database, though.
"So what if they don't notice? You know you took it."
"But I had no intention of leaving without paying."
"Nonetheless, you did leave without paying. And stealing is wrong."
"I didn't mean to steal it."
"Just the same... "
I thought about a time a few weeks ago, when the barista at Trieste Caffe gave me change for a $20, when I had actually given her a $10 bill. I didn't realize it until an hour or so later, and returned to the cafe and told her what I thought had happened. She shrugged and thanked me. But was it my innate virtue that brought me back, or something else? Did I want to be viewed as an honest person, or am I an honest person at heart? Certainly, a part of me was thinking, "Hey, ten bucks is ten bucks. And it isn't as though I won't spend that and a lot more on coffee in the coming weeks. And what does a cup of coffee cost Caffe Trieste? Twenty cents?"
Then, as now, my arguments against doing the right thing were weak and self-serving.
But today I was tired. I didn't want to go back into the store, find the clerk, explain the situation... and it was a dollar ninety-nine! I continued to my car. I put the groceries in the back.
Then I imagined the interview process for Heaven. Now, I can't say I don't have serious questions about the existence of Heaven, let alone the admission requirements. Nonetheless, I imagined an angel going over my life and coming to this exact moment. "Do you remember what happened May seventh, two-thousand-fourteen?"
"Uh... no."
"Remember a bright green spatula? Lucky supermarket..."
"Seriously?" I said. "You're gonna lock the pearly gates on me for a dollar ninety-nine?"
The angel shrugged. "It's a small failing... but a deliberate one. The commandment isn't 'Thou Shalt Not Steal Big, Valuable Things That People Will Notice.' It's 'Thou Shalt Not Steal.' Period. A moral imperative. No qualifications."
He had me there. But the truth is, I've broken other of the Ten Commandments--definitely broke the "Thou Shalt Not Take the Name of Thy Lord God in Vain" about a million times, and I've coveted my neighbor's goat and sometimes his wife, too... so if there's a very, very strict rule about adherence to The Ten Commandments, I'm going to be spending Eternity somewhere other than Heaven anyway.
But taking something that doesn't belong to me; knowingly possessing something that has that questionable moral taint to it... that was a tough one.
One time in college, my roommate, Tom, came home with a rickety rocking chair that he had stolen off of someone's porch. It was weathered and faded, and hardly staying together. The thing was, Tom didn't even know why he'd taken it, and he said he felt bad about it. Like me, he was ready with a rationalization. "But it was just outside. It was falling apart," he said. "They probably don't even care that it's gone."
He didn't convince himself. Over the next several days, he took the chair completely apart, refinished it, and reassembled it. He did a good job, and when he was done it was really a nice chair. Unfortunately, Tom kept it in his room. He would have made a far different impression had he taken the refinished chair and put it back on our neighbor's porch. But he didn't do that. So now, almost forty years later, I relate that story as an example of moral failure, rather than one of realizing one's failings and doing what one can do to make up for them.
Carrying the spatula, I went back in the store. My intention at first was to return to the clerk and explain the circumstances... and I confess that fleetingly I imagined her doing what the barista at Caffe Trieste did: say, "Oh, that is so nice of you!," thus reinforcing my sense of myself as a moral person. But I didn't want to wait for the clerk, so instead I just went to the self-serve checkout, scanned the spatula, and paid for it.
Then I left the store, puffed up by my own virtue and I thought... do I really need a spatula?
I was at the supermarket. I grabbed a spatula and threw it in the cart, then trolled the aisles and got other stuff I needed. After going through the checkout line, I emerged from the store and saw the spatula wedged into the cart. I thought at first that the bag technician had forgotten to put the spatula in the bag, but then I realized I hadn't paid for it.
Here was my internal dialog:
"You should really go in and pay for that."
"I know... but it's a buck ninety-nine. It isn't as though I hid it."
"But you know the checker didn't see it."
"I didn't remember it was in their either!"
"You know now."
"It's a dollar ninety-nine! They won't even notice." I did imagine the item turning up missing in the inventory control database, though.
"So what if they don't notice? You know you took it."
"But I had no intention of leaving without paying."
"Nonetheless, you did leave without paying. And stealing is wrong."
"I didn't mean to steal it."
"Just the same... "
I thought about a time a few weeks ago, when the barista at Trieste Caffe gave me change for a $20, when I had actually given her a $10 bill. I didn't realize it until an hour or so later, and returned to the cafe and told her what I thought had happened. She shrugged and thanked me. But was it my innate virtue that brought me back, or something else? Did I want to be viewed as an honest person, or am I an honest person at heart? Certainly, a part of me was thinking, "Hey, ten bucks is ten bucks. And it isn't as though I won't spend that and a lot more on coffee in the coming weeks. And what does a cup of coffee cost Caffe Trieste? Twenty cents?"
Then, as now, my arguments against doing the right thing were weak and self-serving.
But today I was tired. I didn't want to go back into the store, find the clerk, explain the situation... and it was a dollar ninety-nine! I continued to my car. I put the groceries in the back.
Then I imagined the interview process for Heaven. Now, I can't say I don't have serious questions about the existence of Heaven, let alone the admission requirements. Nonetheless, I imagined an angel going over my life and coming to this exact moment. "Do you remember what happened May seventh, two-thousand-fourteen?"
"Uh... no."
"Remember a bright green spatula? Lucky supermarket..."
"Seriously?" I said. "You're gonna lock the pearly gates on me for a dollar ninety-nine?"
The angel shrugged. "It's a small failing... but a deliberate one. The commandment isn't 'Thou Shalt Not Steal Big, Valuable Things That People Will Notice.' It's 'Thou Shalt Not Steal.' Period. A moral imperative. No qualifications."
He had me there. But the truth is, I've broken other of the Ten Commandments--definitely broke the "Thou Shalt Not Take the Name of Thy Lord God in Vain" about a million times, and I've coveted my neighbor's goat and sometimes his wife, too... so if there's a very, very strict rule about adherence to The Ten Commandments, I'm going to be spending Eternity somewhere other than Heaven anyway.
But taking something that doesn't belong to me; knowingly possessing something that has that questionable moral taint to it... that was a tough one.
One time in college, my roommate, Tom, came home with a rickety rocking chair that he had stolen off of someone's porch. It was weathered and faded, and hardly staying together. The thing was, Tom didn't even know why he'd taken it, and he said he felt bad about it. Like me, he was ready with a rationalization. "But it was just outside. It was falling apart," he said. "They probably don't even care that it's gone."
He didn't convince himself. Over the next several days, he took the chair completely apart, refinished it, and reassembled it. He did a good job, and when he was done it was really a nice chair. Unfortunately, Tom kept it in his room. He would have made a far different impression had he taken the refinished chair and put it back on our neighbor's porch. But he didn't do that. So now, almost forty years later, I relate that story as an example of moral failure, rather than one of realizing one's failings and doing what one can do to make up for them.
Carrying the spatula, I went back in the store. My intention at first was to return to the clerk and explain the circumstances... and I confess that fleetingly I imagined her doing what the barista at Caffe Trieste did: say, "Oh, that is so nice of you!," thus reinforcing my sense of myself as a moral person. But I didn't want to wait for the clerk, so instead I just went to the self-serve checkout, scanned the spatula, and paid for it.
Then I left the store, puffed up by my own virtue and I thought... do I really need a spatula?
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Hell's Theme Music
Fifty-five minutes and counting on hold with Blue Shield to appeal a denied claim. When the hold music--a loop of an innocuous hillbilly guitar--comes to an end, there's the scratching noise that one used to hear at the end of a vinyl LP. There's probably some poor clerk in there, flipping the tone arm back to the beginning every minute or so.
Blue Shield probably paid a composer a few hundred dollars to write this obnoxious little ditty, and if it has the same effect on other callers that it's having me, which is to make me want to hang up and scream, it was money well spent. They don't have to answer our pesky questions or to reverse their unwarranted denials. Every now and then, a recorded voice comes on to inform me that they have an unusually high call volume (sure!) and to reassure me that my call is important to them and that my call will be answered in the order it was received... but if I'd like to call back another time, they're less busy early in the day.
Last time I tried calling later in the day, the system just kept me on hold until the end of the business day. So I'm not falling for that again.
I wouldn't subject myself to this torture without good reason, so here are the specifics, without getting too graphic. I have a chronically high PSA level, and six months ago I had a biopsy. My third. It was negative. However, my urologist in southern California recommended that I have PSA levels checked every six months. But I'm up in Oakland now, and don't have a urologist. So, with the six month time nearing, I got my doctor here to make a referral to a urologist I found on the Blue Shield site.
I went for the appointment and filled out a form or two. I just wanted them to have my name in their patient roster so if I started peeing blood one day I'd have someone to call. But the good doctor--Columbia and Yale, so I think he knows his business--performed a brief examination and ordered a blood test. I didn't ask for any of this, but I suppose if I were in his position (it was more comfortable than the position I was in, let's say) I'd have done the same. All told, it took around 20 minutes. The bill was $1,096 dollars. Blue Shield paid none of it. They don't seem to want to discuss it, though. An hour and fifteen minutes now, and counting.
I have the phone set on speaker, and the tinny music warbles out; a sound track to my increasing annoyance. About forty minutes a ago, a human (or a very effective simulation) came on the line. I briefly explained the problem.
"Oh, let me connect you with claims," he said. I'd found the number I'd called on the Blue Shield website, but maybe I'd dialed some general number and not a specific one for claims.
"Am I going to have to wait another 40 minutes?"
"Oh, no. I'll connect you." And a moment later, the same theme music came on. I checked the website and indeed, the number I had called was the number for claims. You'd think Blue Shield could afford to commission another tune just so callers would know they were at least making progress.
So here I remain, having memorized every note, fearing I might have gotten onto a hold system that is eternal. Hells theme music. I've read about savants who can play a piece of classical music after hearing it one time. I'm not a savant, but I've heard this tune so many times now that I think I could pluck it out. And I don't play guitar.
I took the phone with me into the bathroom when I had to pee, certain that if I left it unattended for more than five seconds another person at Blue Shield would pick up the line, say, "Hello? Hello?" and then hang up.
No reassuring voice comes on the line anymore to tell me that my call is important to them and that my call will be answered in the order it was received.
But the story has a happy ending. After an hour and 25 minutes on hold, Banny came on the line. She corrected the problem, and from $1096, my actual cost will be $62.40. I'm relieved, and I thanked Banny for figuring out the problem: the medical corporation that the doctor is with is "out of network," but the doctor is in it. I'm grateful to Banny, but I wonder how many people in my position--driven mad by hold music--would have just given up and paid the bill.
Blue Shield probably paid a composer a few hundred dollars to write this obnoxious little ditty, and if it has the same effect on other callers that it's having me, which is to make me want to hang up and scream, it was money well spent. They don't have to answer our pesky questions or to reverse their unwarranted denials. Every now and then, a recorded voice comes on to inform me that they have an unusually high call volume (sure!) and to reassure me that my call is important to them and that my call will be answered in the order it was received... but if I'd like to call back another time, they're less busy early in the day.
Last time I tried calling later in the day, the system just kept me on hold until the end of the business day. So I'm not falling for that again.
I wouldn't subject myself to this torture without good reason, so here are the specifics, without getting too graphic. I have a chronically high PSA level, and six months ago I had a biopsy. My third. It was negative. However, my urologist in southern California recommended that I have PSA levels checked every six months. But I'm up in Oakland now, and don't have a urologist. So, with the six month time nearing, I got my doctor here to make a referral to a urologist I found on the Blue Shield site.
I went for the appointment and filled out a form or two. I just wanted them to have my name in their patient roster so if I started peeing blood one day I'd have someone to call. But the good doctor--Columbia and Yale, so I think he knows his business--performed a brief examination and ordered a blood test. I didn't ask for any of this, but I suppose if I were in his position (it was more comfortable than the position I was in, let's say) I'd have done the same. All told, it took around 20 minutes. The bill was $1,096 dollars. Blue Shield paid none of it. They don't seem to want to discuss it, though. An hour and fifteen minutes now, and counting.
I have the phone set on speaker, and the tinny music warbles out; a sound track to my increasing annoyance. About forty minutes a ago, a human (or a very effective simulation) came on the line. I briefly explained the problem.
"Oh, let me connect you with claims," he said. I'd found the number I'd called on the Blue Shield website, but maybe I'd dialed some general number and not a specific one for claims.
"Am I going to have to wait another 40 minutes?"
"Oh, no. I'll connect you." And a moment later, the same theme music came on. I checked the website and indeed, the number I had called was the number for claims. You'd think Blue Shield could afford to commission another tune just so callers would know they were at least making progress.
So here I remain, having memorized every note, fearing I might have gotten onto a hold system that is eternal. Hells theme music. I've read about savants who can play a piece of classical music after hearing it one time. I'm not a savant, but I've heard this tune so many times now that I think I could pluck it out. And I don't play guitar.
I took the phone with me into the bathroom when I had to pee, certain that if I left it unattended for more than five seconds another person at Blue Shield would pick up the line, say, "Hello? Hello?" and then hang up.
No reassuring voice comes on the line anymore to tell me that my call is important to them and that my call will be answered in the order it was received.
But the story has a happy ending. After an hour and 25 minutes on hold, Banny came on the line. She corrected the problem, and from $1096, my actual cost will be $62.40. I'm relieved, and I thanked Banny for figuring out the problem: the medical corporation that the doctor is with is "out of network," but the doctor is in it. I'm grateful to Banny, but I wonder how many people in my position--driven mad by hold music--would have just given up and paid the bill.
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