Quickie

So I am driving home last night and the traffic slows terribly. The cause of the problem is not far ahead so my tensions ease. I creeped along the highway, closing the distance to the flashing lights of two state trooper vehicles.

I strained between sweeps of my wiper blades to see what caused the troopers to respond. In the ditch along the right hand side, a car lay on its side. The undercarriage faced back toward the highway.

No ambulance parked on the shoulder. None moved through the thicket of autos behind me. Maybe one wasn't needed, I thought. And when I pulled alongside my intuition proved correct.

What I needed was a video camera. This what I saw: A man in his late 30's protruded from the open window of the rear passenger side window. I could see his head, shoulders, arms and upper chest. I don't know what he stood upon to have so much of his body protrude from the window. Maybe he had really long legs or some stilts handy on the back seat.

The man's elbows rested on the outside of the car to give him balance. In one hand he clutched a blue and white umbrella, because getting his hair wet was a big problem at the moment.

In the other hand he held a cell phone. I wonder who he was talking to?

"Honey. You won't believe what just happened."

"Boss. About the company car..."

"Dad, remember when you told me I was a shitty driver?"

"Is this Triple A? My membership ran out and I was wondering..."

The best part? The troopers were doing an awful job of holding back the smirks and bursts of laughter. After witnessing that scene I'm grateful for three things:
1. It wasn't me.
2. He wasn't hurt.
3. It made the rest of my ride home pure joy.

All for now.

Haircuts and Oxycontin

I must be a glutton for punishment. It's my only reasonable defense for continuing to frequent the same hair cutting joint. By now I should have switched to another place and washed my hands of it.

Today topped any past trip. And trip is the most accurate description I can use. I joke about the twilight zone often and this place is the epicenter of the weird.

The guy that owns the place is top notch. He cuts hair only a couple days a week and those days change without warning. The other chair changed frequently the first few years I went there. But one woman, let's call her Alice, has worked there the last four.

Alice is a piece of work. Fueled by painkillers, nicotine, bitterness, sporting poor health and possessing a voice sure to annoy even the most tolerant patron - Alice is unique.

I don't know if it's the nasal whine, the lousy command of the language, the simultaneously shaking hands and head or her awful haircuts that keep me coming back. All analysis defies logic. Maybe it's the car accident syndrome; I keep going back to see if it's gotten worse. Today did not disappoint.

Surprisingly, it started off on a good note. A warm greeting. Polite questions. Quick start. Then the voice wore me down. Conversation turned to complaining. Whining. The turning point came suddenly, catching me off guard.

Alice handed me a mirror and said, "How's it look?"

I put my glasses on. I thought it looked like crap. It was too long on top and the sides looked ridiculous. So I said, "Can we make the top shorter? I'd like it to be a lot shorter."

Without a word she walked from my left side to my right. I removed my glasses. She placed a hand on my shoulder and her eyes fluttered. She wobbled a bit. I didn't have my glasses on now so I couldn't read her face in the big mirror. Now she stood completely still. I could hear her breathing. It was shallow and quick.

"Alice is going to hit the floor," I thought. But she regained some control and placed a hand on my head. I relaxed thinking that she was going to pull it together. But when Alice's right hand came up with the scissors it trembled badly.

"Crap," I thought. "She's gonna put my eye out."

Alice made four or five more cuts on the right side of my head. She never came around to the left. She slurred, "How's that, hon?"

I hesitated only slightly then nodded, "Perfect."
"Are you sure?"
"Yup. Just right."

Some talcom powder on the neck and awkward smock removal later, I was out of the chair. "That'll be thirteen dollars, hon."

"You should pay me thirteen dollars for what you did to my hair," I thought. But I paid the ransom just to gain my freedom and raced home.

I drove home, cursing myself for going there again. I swore to never again step foot in that building again. Luckily. Melanie was able to clean it up with our home clippers and the junk drawer/cat-dingleberry scissors (thanks, John Heffron).

So in the end it all worked out. My hair looks good and I'll never see Alice again. I can't help but wonder what will become of her. There's that car accident syndrome at work again. Unfortunately I think Alice is destined to crash and burn.

More Runaround

As promised, I'll continue the Runaround story.

I looked forward to visiting North Carolina. My last business trip in 2010 landed me in the town of Davidson. The people acted so genuinely friendly it was hard not to become attached to it. Our office was down the street from a place called the Soda Shop. Sliced out of classic Americana, the restaurant had the charm and welcoming feel of another time. A simpler and more caring time. Such care that it became one of the primary reasons I looked forward to my return visit to Davidson.You can check it out at http://davidsonsodashop.com

 I never made it back to the Soda Shop on this trip. Huge bummer. But the memory of it will do for now. I met a woman named Cheryl at our office. I kept coming to her desk with questions about A/V equipment and printers. She took it all in stride and couldn't have been more accommodating. A few other folks popped into the conference room we were using or chatted with us in the lunch buffet line. The same openness radiated around the place.

Backing up just a bit, when I arrived at the Charlotte airport I planned on the possibility of a disappointing trip. Not from a business perspective but from a human one. I didn't think the folks I encountered last time could repeat last year's performance or I'd likely run into somebody who would burst my bubble.

I had to rent a car for a few days. The fella who typed my info in the computer searching for my reservation got things off to a rocky start. His role is primarily to interact with customers, get them assigned to a car, up-sell the gas and insurance options and then point you in the direction of the car. He didn't eat his Wheaties before work that morning and it showed. And believe me, he needed every edge he could muster because first impressions do matter.

I walked into the office and I had the choice of approaching two agents with no customer in front of them. On the left stood a 6' tall African American man with dreadlocks and a flat expression on his face. On my right was a woman I can remember nothing about aside from the downward curvature of her lips. No one greeted me.I felt as though I had interrupted them. I chose the man. He didn't smile. After my initial approach he didn't make eye contact.When you don't look into people's eyes it shouts disconnect. It also allows me to look at things longer than I might dare if someone were looking back.

So that's what I did. What I saw surprised the crap out of me. This tall well-proportioned man had the shortest fingers not connected to a child's hands I'd ever seen. We've all seen ugly hands before but this guy had blue-ribbon contenders if I ever saw them. I couldn't stop looking down at them and since he couldn't be bothered to look at me, I stared in wonder.

The wide, flattened fingernails added to the impression that the man's hands had become trapped in a machine when he was younger and stunted their growth. Anyway, the booking dragged on until he finally came to the closing instructions. Once he completed his orders, something weird happened. He smiled and started asking me questions about my stay, what the weather was like back home, etc.

I thought, "Why are you being friendly now? All I want to do is get the hell out of here." So I did.

One of the projects I was working on needed to be completed before we left NC. Teamed with a peer, we commandeered a small conference room and we furiously attacked the work. One of our department bosses kept checking in on us when he could break away from another meeting. He would pop in and curtly ask, "Solve world peace?". Without waiting for a reply he was gone again.

My return flights on Delta left Charlotte for a layover in Cincinnati and then back to Hartford. A man in his mid 40's seated across the aisle from me shamelessly stared at a college-aged female passenger. She was struggling down the aisle with a large purse and two carry-on bags. All of them looked heavy.

I frowned, aghast that she slipped past the gate agent and the flight crew "good evening-ing" everyone as we boarded. My neighbor made a groaning sound that phonetically might be spelled "mhmyeshmyes". He leapt from his seat and immediately helped her stow her bags in the overhead compartment. His eagerness to help even creeped me out. She then took the seat in front of the guy. He stretched forward to look around the seat but when he couldn't get much of a view, he settled back, defeated.

We landed in Cincinnati in under two hours. Guess who helped the young girl get all her bags down? he offered to carry her bags but she declined, her face growing flush, eyes downcast. She struggled up the aisle, past the flight crew and off the plane. She stopped at the gate to look through her bags. Her eager helper stood to the side to wait.

I moved on, spurred by hunger. I stepped onto a moving sidewalk. I stood still and felt lazy since the belt did all the work. I passed a restaurant that served Mexican food. I spied the word burrito. I drooled a little. When the moving sidewalk came to an end I doubled back for a burrito.

In the fast food style place, a disheveled looking woman bracing herself inside the frame of a walker with wheels stood at the order counter. The woman behind the counter, a friendly looking woman in her 50's waited patiently while the customer decided on her order. The woman behind the counter had an open paperback book perched on the cash register. She read a few lines while the customer stroked her chin.

I did not get impatient. The customer appeared to be both physically and mentally handicapped. Her clothes, posture and speech caused me to make this assumption. She finally ordered and took out a small purse and began fumbling through it. After about 30 seconds, the woman behind the counter said, "Ma'am, you just have a seat and we'll bring your order on over to you." She looked at a male co-worker who was preparing the food. He nodded.

"But I need to pay," she said.
"You're all set, ma'am. Just have a seat."
"What are you saying?" the customer asked. "Are you saying I don't have to pay?"

At this point the woman behind the counter looked at me. I nodded ever so slightly. She looked back at the customer and said, "You're all set."
The customer let out a "Whoop!" and put a hand to her forehead. She said, "This would never happen in Toronto! You are an angel!"

She wheeled over to a seat to wait, continuing to mutter and marvel at her good fortune. I placed my order and when my burrito was ready, took a seat where I could watch the moving sidewalk traffic. I took a few bites when a loud voice caused me to look up.

"I did one year of college and then I got pregnant. Never did go back. You stay in school no matter what, ok?" It was a TSA worker speaking. She looked about 24, blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was talking to the college girl from the plane who was sweating and struggling with her three bags. The TSA agent wasn't helping her because she was pushing a wheelchair. The passenger? My aisle neighbor from the plane. A smile spread across his lips, he reveled in his ride through the airport. I shook my head, immediately thinking very "Twilight Zone" thoughts.

I finished my food. It tasted fantastic. I looked at my receipt and saw the name Priscilla. I approached the counter and only saw the male worker. "Can I speak to Priscilla, please?" I asked.

The man's guard went up. I saw it in his face. He sloughed to the door to the back room and said, "Priscilla, a customer is looking after you." He waited for a moment and then came back over to me. "She'll be right out." He stayed beside me while we waited. Priscilla emerged from the back room and walked sheepishly toward me.

"Priscilla, I just wanted to tell you, to tell you both really, two things. First, my food was great. Thank you." The looked relieved. Priscilla's shoulders visibly rolled forward and she smiled displaying very white teeth.

"Second, I wanted to tell you that I feel very fortunate, honored even to have been here to see what you did for that woman. It's all I 've been able think about. Thank you."

Priscilla didn't answer with words. Her smile grew wider and she humbly titled her head down. I said goodbye and moved off toward my gate.

That's all for tonight. More to follow. Good night, friends.

Runaround

Hello friends. I’ve been awfully inconsistent with blogging the last three months. It reflects my life. Changes and challenges always arriving at the door. So here is Part 1 of a my so-called journal I've been keeping. I'll add more when I think you've had time to digest this piece.

I traveled to some new places over the last couple of weeks for work. I guess they’re not really new to me, but anything that breaks up the monotony of the same old commute feels welcome. Missing the family developed pretty quickly with each trip. Though I was up to my ears in work so it distracted me enough not to think about it all the time. I’m writing this while flying on a plane from Charlotte, NC to Cincinnati OH. From there I’ll fly to Hartford. Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed. I just hope I don’t wake everyone up since I’m getting in around 11:30pm.

So here’s a rundown on what I saw and experienced.

Trip 1: Long Island, NY.

This was an easy one for me. I considered taking the ferry from Bridgeport but the $51 fee for a one way crossing and the non-functioning web site convinced me to drive. I chose to leave really early on that Wednesday morning for two reasons. The first was traffic. I knew if I could get to the bridges early enough most of my struggles could be avoided. The second was my workload. I needed to visit a bunch of different sites and traveling on the roadways of LI can be unpredictable.

My mission was successful. I rambled down I-95 with no issues and crossed the fogged-in Throgs Neck Bridge with ease. The Long Island Expressway and subsequent arteries offered no challenges either. So with driving out of the way, my mood was on the way up the emotional elevator.

I proceeded to meet some extremely friendly people at my first  stop. I was warmly greeted and folks politely answered my questions. I made some notes and after a few goodbyes shoved off. The second stop had much to live up to after stop one and it didn’t reach the bar. The people meant well enough but the stuff I was there to evaluate and measure brought my mood down a fraction. And so the day went on. Drive. Introduce. Query. Scribble. Train or fix. Goodbye. Drive. I kept a pretty good pace, keeping to a schedule I mapped out the night before.

Those of you who don’t work with me but know me from other circumstances need a clarification point here. At work, I am a fanatic about agendas and schedules. I like things mapped out. I fill every hour of an Outlook calendar with what needs to get done including time to read e-mail, take or return phone calls, eat lunch, take a brake and leave for home. Sound crazy? It’s really not.

In the past I worked without an agenda and always found myself staying late and not getting everything done that needed to. Are some people pissed off they can t reach me every minute of the working day? I don’t know and I really don’t care. I can’t think of too many calls I’ve received at work in the last 18 years that were such an emergency that I needed to react in seconds. I’m not a 911 operator. I don’t wear the matching nuclear missile key around my neck. I’m not a surgeon or a fire fighter.

Time is perishable. You can’t stretch out. You can’t save it. Time can’t be stopped. Time is intangible and is impervious to all attempts to manage it. I was recently asked to work on a project involving priority planning/time management. In my mind the project title should have been “Priority Planning and Wild Imagination”. I’ll get back to this later.

So my hectic day progressed. At last it was time for the hotel. I checked into the Courtyard in Ronkonkoma in the driving rain. That’s when the wacky personalities emerged from their dens.

I decided to have dinner at a BBQ joint called Smokey Bones. I chose SB’s because the rain encouraged me to stay close and the menu looked pleasing. The quality of the food resulted in a very happy stomach while some of the other patrons left something to be desired. I sat at a busy corner of the bar. That seat usually gives you great views around the room. I also had a great look at the inner workings of the bar and the area near the kitchen door where the servers congregate. Perfect setup for people watching!

I was greeted by a muscular barman who introduced himself as Freddy and shook my hand. That set me back a bit. I wasn’t expecting that kind of welcome. I had always thought most bartenders were taught to grunt, “What can I getcha?” or “What’ll it be?” The greeting made me feel comfortable and ready for a beverage. “One Guinness, Freddy!”

The man seated to my left was a piece of work. He had two appetizers before him. One was nearly gone and I’ve no idea what it was. Some large, soft pretzels lay upon the second plate. Apparently they didn’t measure up because Lefty (he sat to my left) snapped his fingers, ye, he snapped his fingers for Freddy to approach. He said, “Freddy, these pretzels taste like you dug up some stale pretzels in the kitchen and microwaved them. They’re hard.” He shoved the plate across the bar toward the hulking barman. I could see Freddy’s nostrils flare as he sucked in a breath. Without missing a beat, he breathed out, “No problem, sir. I’ll take care of that for you.” He grabbed the plate and made for the kitchen. 

Freddy was back in a flash and assured Lefty that new pretzels would be on the way. “Can I get you another Guinness, sir?” Freddy asked me. “It’s Rob, Freddy. And yes. I’ll have another when you get the chance.”

Lefty’s pretzels were delivered by a barmaid named Heather. I didn’t notice her before. She slid the pretzel plate toward Lefty on the bar and said, “Here’s your replacements, Hun.” She whirled away before he could thank her. All I could think was that the kicked those pretzels around on the floor before they hit the plate. You couldn’t have paid me to eat one. But Lefty dug in, dipping his food in mustard colored sauce.

Three seats to my right, an older man with the same skin tone as Freddy sat down and started yapping for service. Freddy came over and shook the man’s hands but there was no introduction needed. The man was a regular from the sounds of things and Freddy looked impatient right from the start. The man asked for a tap beer and a glass of ice. In my experience, beer over ice means someone is stretching their dollar and their beer because they probably drink every day.

I remember sitting in the Five Burro Café in the Forest Hills section of Queens watching a guy pour beer over ice and unsuccessfully try to borrow money from anyone who would listen so he could buy another round. Great margaritas in that place.

So that guy ended up shouting out random stuff every 10 minutes like someone from the other side of the bar had just yelled a question him. Trouble was that the other side of the bar was the swinging doors to the kitchen and a bunch of staffers avoiding eye contact with the old geezer. In between us, a sophisticated looking couple sat between us. Both the man and woman appeared to be in their late 50’s. She ordered a whiskey sour and he ordered a Jim Beam Black on the rocks. I knew I liked them!

So the night went on. Lefty poked and prodded his steak. The geezer shouted at the kitchen. I ordered beef brisket and another Guinness and lamented that it was too windy and rainy for a cigar. I didn’t stay long and went back to the hotel after Freddy shook my hand again.

The next day I stopped for lunch at a burger joint. In the parking lot a tense looking guy paced restlessly talking into a cell phone like he was shouting across a freeway to a deaf person on the other side. I cherished the restaurant noises once I got inside, opposed to that guys call volume.  I ordered food and dug in. Guess who comes in talking on his cell phone. Yup. The funny part is that he came in with some other guy who looked annoyed at having to stand next to someone who was talking so loud on a phone in restaurant.

Everyone noticed him. I counted several heads shaking in disapproval. I could describe his antics further but my blood pressure is rising just thinking about it. Then as I’m getting ready to leave, his silent friend pauses while eating his food. And then…you guessed it. He sends it back. I wonder what kind of treatment his replacement food received once it was known the most annoying guy in the restaurant sent it back?

So there’s not much more to tell about that trip. The second trip was much more eventful. I needed to attend a meeting North Carolina. I flew out of Hartford at 7:15am on a Sunday morning. A great time to fly. The terminal was nearly empty. Not that Bradley is ever jammed like the bigger airports, but it was noticeable.

I did hit my first bump in the road at BDL. I forgot to get a baggage tag for the bag I was checking. I know, I know. You’re not supposed to check luggage to prevent it from getting lost and save cash. In this case though, the bag is a piece of crap and there was nothing in the bag that couldn’t be easily replaced. 

So, I get through security and as I’m putting my belt back on I get paged back to the Delta desk. “Mr. Robert Bortaz, please report to the Delta ticket desk. Mr Robert Bortaz…” I knew it had to be me. When your name has been publicly butchered for all your recorded memory you get used to it.

The most memorable butchery had to be my freshman (high school) 7^th period study hall. I admit I was lucky to have a 7^th period study hall as a freshman. I needed it to get away for sports when the bus had to be on the road before school was out. Yes, I can hear you disgruntled jock-haters mumbling something about arrogance and entitlement and blah blah.

Anyway, the study hall teacher is a math guy by the name of Mr. Kern. One day, the phone on the wall in the study hall rings and Mr. Kern crosses the room to answer it. He’s awkward in his brown, too-big for his feet wing tips. His woolen, brown hounds tooth jacket is too warm for the day’s temperature. Kern grabs the beaten old phone off the hook and says, “Mr. Kern here. Yes?” his face pinches together and says. “Who? Can you say that last name again?”

Without hearing the opposite end of Kern’s conversation I knew what was coming. I just didn’t know how bad it was going to be. Kern destroyed all my chances of being cool with his next words. Words that would echo in that study hall for the rest of the year. “Who’s Rob Booberson? There’s no Rob Booberson in here, is there?”

The laughter reached such heights that I don’t think it qualified as laughter any longer. Roaring seniors pounded their desks, rolled out of their chairs and onto the floors. Notebooks and pencils, swept from desktops, rained upon the tiles.

“I can’t hear you,” Kern shouted into the phone, “everyone’s laughing!” Everyone but me. I busied myself blushing like a ripe tomato and burying my head within my folded arms on the desk. Someone finally recovered enough to grab Kern by the arm and said, “Bottass. They must be looking for Bottass.”

Kern saw the light. His head tilted to one side and he smiled like an idiot. “Yes. Bottass. Third on the roll call sheet. Robert, you’re to report to the principal’s office immediately. And don’t you… “I was out the door before Kern could finish.

So I get back to the Delta desk and they tell me about the bag. First they asked if it was mine. I started looking for German shepherds and guys with automatic weapons. But none sprang upon me so I went along with the questions. I got the tag on my bag and brought it to the baggage drop area. A TSA guy in a bright blue shirt and dark pants said to me, “I hope you learned your lesson.”

I thought “who the fuck are you?” and shot back at him. “Nah, your mom is still pretty feisty for her age.”

Of course I didn’t say that. But that and a few other comebacks jumped into my head instantly. It’s crazy how quickly the switch can be flipped when you get fired up. I left him behind yucking it up with his pals and went through security a second time. Everything else was routine until I got on the plane.

My seat was near the rear of the plane. I was one of the last 20 people to board. I wasn’t in a hurry to sit down and listen to people breath, cough, sneeze, etc. As I’m moving back I see that I have a window seat. The center seat is occupied by a pleasant looking woman in her mid twenties. The aisle seat is occupied by a pleasant but much larger friend. They are staring at person who gets close and then look almost giddy each person takes a different seat. “Not today,” I thought. When I got beside them I stopped and leaned in, saying, “I’ve got some bad news. I have the window seat. The bigger one popped out of her aisle seat saying “No problem. “ The other didn’t say anything. I decided to use my Manager Tools airplane etiquette on the woman in the middle since she was wedged between two 250lb+ people.

I asked, “Hi, how are you today?” She said, “Great (to my surprise).

I said, “Are you heading out or heading home?”

Meeting my eyes briefly, she said, “Out. Going on vacation.”

“Nice,” I said. “Where are you off to?”

“Tampa, “ she said.

“Great,” I lied. I don’t anything about Tampa.

“And you?” she asked me.

I thought, “Now we’re getting somewhere. May be a little conversation to take away the awkwardness. Here we go.”

“I am headed out, for work,” I said.

And that was about the end of the conversation. Not so hot but I gave it a shot.

I landed in Atlanta later that morning and witnessed some cool stuff. Since Atlanta is a major hub for connecting flights, it doesn’t really matter what day of the week you are there. It’s always busy. On this particular day, military personnel tramped all round the airport. I couldn’t tell at first if they were returning home or heading out. Most sported the same stoic, business-like faces. They moved through the terminal, on and off trams and in and out of shops as deft as any seasoned traveler. One thing I noticed is that they all had the same carry-on item: a backpack.

That backpack carried their essentials and though they were adorned with different technology or name stitched on the flap; they shared something else in common apart from their size: they fit in the aircraft overhead storage bins!

At a Seattle’s Best coffee stand, I approached the “bank line” of serpentine stanchions and ropes, eager for a hot cup of coffee. A pilot stood at the counter placing his order. I would have been next but the captain spotted some GI’s who were about to get in line. The captain waved them forward and said they should go first. The soldiers reacted humbly. Respectfully. They all ordered ice coffees. The two women behind the counter remarked, “Every soldier gets ice coffee.”

The pilot said, “You would too if you just spent a year in the desert.” I watched the scene unfold, patient as a spider.

At baggage claim, two army soldiers waited for their bags. They held hands. I guessed them to be a couple. A civilian in his late 40’s greeted them and struck up a conversation. I didn’t eavesdrop, but the man raised his voice a bit saying, “You don’t need to like golf to go. It’s a great event. I’ll give you my tickets if you’d like to check it out.”

The soldiers politely declined stating that they only had a few days to see their families and then had to report somewhere soon. I knew there was a professional golf tournament in the area that week. Pretty generous of that guy. 

I'll cut it off here. More to follow. Cheers!