A Word...

I listened intently for an accent or discernable speech defect or impediment. He had none. Given my already blackened heart, it was necessary to answer those questions in the negative in order to tell the tale. If the guy’s problem extended beyond the failure of our educational system, it would be mean spirited to tell you that indeed he said, “CAPACATY” (Kuh-pa-kuh-T). He said it at least a dozen times during the four and one half mile ride. Again and again and again he told passengers waiting to board, “I’m sorry, this bus cannot take any more passengers. It is over capacaty.” Each time he said capacaty, I would forget how much I hated public transportation and instead perseverated over how much I detested the point in fact that the bus driver could not pronounce the word capacity. I even took out a pen and wrote “capacaty” on the label of the jar of peanut butter in my bag. I was getting confused. Each time he said capacaty he hesitated on the last two syllables as if he had a little grammar cop in his head saying, “Dude, you’re going to F**K it up again!” And once more out came capacaty; my head hurt more.

(As an aside: Microsoft Word keeps automatically changing capacaty to capacity as I type. This makes me wonder how far off in the future a spell-check chip for our brains will happen.)

A couple times he changed things up a bit and uttered “capacacy” (kuh-pa-kuh-C) instead of capacaty. That too had a marked embarrassed tone at the end. Then I noticed a girl facing me of maybe 16 or 17yrs., who weighed 275 if a pound. She was wearing skinny jeans. I was a bit jealous of her calves; they were at least twice the size of my own. She seemed so happy although, I noticed that her forehead furrowed each time the driver said capacaty or capacacy. “Yeah,” I thought, “even big girl know he be sayin’ it wrong.”

Les Mails a Package (in one act)

Pardon the formatting here. This blog site does not allow much manipulation of margins and such.


The Setting: The dankest and dingiest of post office locations. The place is almost cave-like in late afternoon. It’s raining heavily outside.

Characters:
LES = Me
MLPC = Mean Lady Postal Clerk
* * * * *

Scene One

(Enter stage right: Les wearing a smart chocolate brown Perry Ellis blazer and in jovial spirits in spite of the rain)

LES
(While waiting in line he is distracted by the horse play of the four children in front of him. The mother is not as amused.)

I would like to mail this please.

MLPC
(The mean lady postal clerk has badly dyed red hair that has been straightened but not curled. She looks tired and as if they tried to make her go to rehab but she said no. She takes the package giving Les a curious once over)

That would be $7.28 to get there tomorrow; $5.08 will get it there Saturday.

LES

Saturday’s fine.

MLPC

Is there anything breakable, perishable...? Do you want insurance or delivery confirmation?

LES

No and no and no. I trust you.

MLPC

What’s in it?

LES

Books.

MLPC

Because you said books, this [package] is subject to inspection.

LES

What? I don’t understand.

MLPC

(In a tone that suggests arrogant superiority. If Les were deaf she would have simply spoken louder.)

It means we can open your package to make sure you did not put anything in it other than books. To make sure there are only books in the box.

(She then writes something on the box which is too small for Les to see as he cranes his neck.)

LES

That’s ridiculous but, if you want the terrorists to win...

MLPC

$5.28 will get it there tomorrow, $2.82 by Saturday.

LES

Saturday

MLPC

(She mumbles unintelligibly and says...)

...delivery confirmation?

LES

I have to tell you that I’m a bit disturbed that my package will be opened. I have never had so much as an over-due library book and now my packages are suspect and subject to inspection?

MLPC

That’s $2.82... out of $5.00.

LES

(Now very pissed)

When you are finally out of business in a few years, think of this moment.

MLPC

Have a blessed day!

We could use a few more like him!

I sat reading a research article in my local library when a boy of about 10 or 12 years raced by. He was followed in hot pursuit by a taller older kid, I thought. It all happened so fast. I also thought that the “race” was perhaps a silly prank the boys had contrived, racing from the library’s back entrance across the length of the library and finally out the front doors. Not giving it another thought, I lowered my head to my work. I guess I’ve learned nothing from Oprah.

As I was about to leave nearly an hour later, I walked over to the librarian’s desk to thank her for her help. She asked me if I had seen the commotion earlier. “You mean those kids that ran through?” The librarian enlightened me to the point in fact that the first runner was 12 years old and that the individual in hot pursuit was his father. Apparently, the kid had run away from school. This wasn’t his first time. The school had contacted an unconcerned mother who called the boy’s father at work across town. The father (who is my new hero) left his job and drove around town until he found his AWOL son. I assume that the foot pursuit started once the two discovered each other.

Just outside the front doors of the library the father overtook his son and threw him into the family car, while telling those concerned about the boy’s safety who he was and why the apprehension was necessary. My first thought was that that kid did not know how very fortunate he was to have such a father.