A Random Ride-by

Now if this little tale does not warm the cockles of your frozen heart, I am not at all sure what will. For those of you who have allowed yourselves to become more jaded than myself (which is hard to do), I should make note that this is indeed a true story.

Around three in the afternoon yesterday, I decided to have Dunch or Linner. I seldom eat both lunch and dinner in any given day. If I can I usually eat a meal early and a small snack later on if I get hungry. I was chilled yesterday, one of those days when you cannot seem to get warm. I decided that vegetable soup would put me right. What’s this? There wasn’t a cracker in sight and I can’t eat soup without crackers. I made half a sandwich of PB & J for some quick energy and then bundled up for a long walk. Even though I was chilled, I also needed some exercise. The now old ankle injury stiffens if it does not get out as much as it should. I set my sights on the grocery store 2 ½ miles away. The trip to the store was uneventful. I was annoyed by the gray skies and landscape. My brain seemed to chant, “Where the heck is Spring?” every step of the way.

At the store I purchased three boxes of crackers; Saltines, Ritz and Graham. As well, I purchased a big arse double box of bran flakes. I bore you with those details only to signify that I made the return trip with a large, over-sized bag in each hand. The bags weren’t at all heavy, just over-sized. About three blocks from the store I could feel someone on a bicycle to my left slowing down. I slowly turned to notice a rather fit gentleman of about 60 years, I’d say. He had a full gray/silver beard and blue eyes. He smiled and asked, “Do you have far to go?” Before my twisted jaded mind could reach the conclusion that, old dude was going to off me, the man followed with, “I ask because if you have far to go you are welcome to take my bike. You can bike your groceries home and then come back. I’ll wait for you on that bench there.” Huh? No, I had never seen this guy before in my life! I was speechless. It seemed sunnier out and that chill I had all day was g one. I thanked the man and smiled broadly as I declined his offer. He smiled back and nodded and was then off. I almost skipped home.

After I got home, I made myself a cup of tea with lemon and dissected the event in my head in my usual attempt to ruin just about everything. I imagined that upwards of 99% of people would not have returned with the man’s bike. I thought further that perhaps he was a perv and that I might have ended up on a milk carton. I came up with all sorts of other stupid explanations and scenarios and finally settled on a truth… We should all slow down and care.

Of St. Patty’s Day Past

Way back in the day when I was a college student at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with zeal (and whoever else wanted to join in). We, along with many other students would eat breakfast together prior to heading off a mile and a half up the road to Thirstys Pub in Pittsford, New York... I’ll get to Thirstys later. It was quite the big deal back when I shared a room with Mark Natalie.

The average sized dorm room was a suite connected by a common bathroom. We were all neat clean guys so, things worked out pretty well. The cleanliness of the bath is important because in the wee hours of St Patty’s morn’ it became a make-shift kitchen. In the days before this we made our way to the Wegmans’ supermarket up Fairport Road and purchased bacon, bread, eggs, O.J. and whatever else we need to make breakfast. The anticipation of this breakfast might only be matched by Christmas morning. Around five on St. Patrick’s Day morning we would convert the sink counter in the shared bath to a kitchen. We used all manner of electrical kitchen appliances to cook our meal. It is decades later and I can still smell the bacon and taste the orange juice. We were smart in that we wanted full bellies for what was yet to come. Like giddy children we prepared the meal and swiftly ate all the while monitoring friends down the hall and about the building as to their progress. We finished up and washed ever inch of the place as if it were ballet. We wanted no sign of our fun in that it was not legal to cook in our rooms much less the John. We were now ready. It was time to go.

Laughing and joking every step of the way up East Avenue past Nazareth College of Rochester,15 or 20 of us reached Thirstys at 7:00a.m. at their special St. Patrick’s Day opening time. We wanted to be the first there and usually were with the exception of regulars who I always imagine slept over. I remember it like yesterday, we’d step to the counter and slap down a one dollar bill and the friendly bartender would return with twenty cups of beer. Yeah, five cent beers! Hours later I remember waking up in my suite shower naked. I cannot tell you what happened much after the first couple beers. I’ll tell you what did not happen, murder, mayhem or disrespect, save Thirstys floor. It was a different time. We would never think of driving and the armed forces could learn a thing or two from us about leaving no man behind. We drank massive amounts and had fun and bonded forever. I offer no apology.

Things were different then, at least for us. No one was found face down in a stream and there were no real “incidents” as I recall. We were different people than students are today. We helped and cared about people we did not even like. I guess you might call it responsible fun/drinking. “Well, how can you say you lost a full day and call it responsible?” We were different then, we looked out for each other.

Ten years later I returned to Fisher to teach in its English department. MADD was all the rage and Thirstys St. Patrick’s Day event was gone. Somewhere in those ten years someone decided that students could not drink and look out for each other. They raised the drinking age and outlawed the panty raids too.

Another case for a personal assistant.

Sometimes, okay very often, I skip merrily along in life ignoring a lot of stuff. The result is that more times than not I end up with a "duh" look on my face. Early last evening I presented such a look. Someone gave me a Burger King Gift card. I was so flustered that I wasn't sure later if I even said thank-you. I emailed one this morning.

A Burger King Gift card? I had never heard of such a thing. I can't remember when I was last even in a Burger King. I stopped going there because that "king" clown guy gave me bad dreams. That was maybe ten years ago or so and I believe it was to just buy a drink. I guess I can buy Burger King drinks for a little while now. If I had a personal assistant I might have been made aware of this fast-food trend or at least have someone to blame for not knowing what "everybody knows." I can't help thinking that my embarrassment might have been averted if the card had been simply left with my assistant. You're right, it is morning and I do need a shave.

Manipulating the data

Having recently filled a USB flash drive it was time to purchase a new device. While looking through the Sunday newspaper's sale circulars I found several on sale although, there did not seem to be any rhyme or reason for the pricing. Some stores offered 2GB drives for more than others sold 4G drives. Later that day I was in Rite Aid which actually wanted $49.99 for a 2BG drive. It finally appeared that Kmart might be the “best buy.” (Yeah, that pun was intended also.) Kmart had a 4GB flash drive for a mere $9.99.

On Monday off to the mall I went in that Kmart is next to the thing as is a US Post Office where I needed to purchase more stamps. While at the mall I wandered through Sears. Sears of course had a Vegas wedding of sorts with Kmart a couple three years ago. Oddly, enough Sears wanted more than twice the Kmart price for flash drives but, in all fairness they weren’t on sale there. On the way out I noticed that they had 3 pairs of thick cotton glove liners on clearance for a couple bucks. These I also needed badly. I took them to the nearest counter.

No bubbly chick, I do not want them free for opening a Sears charge today. Yes, I do have a rewards card! Yes, I will remember to go online at my earliest convenience and fill out your dang customer satisfaction survey. Really, you don’t actually care but your manager does? (Wait a second. That voice in my head is asking me, “Why are you telling me this?”) Really, when I go online to fill our your survey you are suggesting that I rate you a nine or ten because, if you get ratings lower than that you will get into trouble with that same boss who cares? (Wait a second. That voice in my head says you are a liar and that you really do care. As well, you are very bad at customer service. –Yeah, that voice can be a little judgmental.) Yes, I will have a nice day and you do the same.
As I walked away, I wondered if she really wished me a good day or if she only said it because her manager wants her too. Would this be addressed on the questionnaire? For those of you who are not accustomed to my sarcasm, that was some. Winding things up, the obvious moral to the story was: I have a price, it is just higher than most. If you want a definite nine or ten point rating regardless of your performance, maybe you should sweeten the deal. Being entered in your bogus gift card contest isn’t cutting it!

...but, it's more important to be nice.

About four blocks from the house is an extended care facility for elderly folks. Roughly a couple hundred feet from their entrance is a short path. That path leads to or rather connects to the parking lot of a shopping plaza. Like most plazas these days, its occupancy is either half full or half empty. On occasion I have seen a grizzled gent of perhaps 70-75 years of age and with one leg in a wheel chair. The chair must be only 30 or 40 years younger than the man. It is metal, rickety and not motorized. I have noticed that the man wears no gloves and the chair gets stuck in the ice and snow. As well, the path is at an incline causing the man to have to maneuver backwards or risk flying forward much too quickly to control. Also, I have seen him have a b***h of a time getting back up the path. That’s where I come in. I have offered assistance in the past when I have seen him. I’ve guided the chair up or down the path as needed. I’ve always hesitated to offer help because the old dude looks so pissed off or so it would appear. He nevertheless accepts my push or pull with gratitude.

On Monday morning the street plows had inadvertently created a small mound of snow at the top of the path. The man in the chair was stuck there trying in vain to move. The chair rocked back and forth going nowhere. I of course offered my help, which he accepted. When we got to the bottom of the path, we both noticed that the plaza’s lot was barely plowed. He immediately got stuck again. I pushed the chair along and finally asked where he was going. He was headed to the dollar store on the opposite end of the plaza. I moved him along at a steady clip. When we arrived, I was thanked again and continued on my way.

On Tuesday morning the mound of snow at the top of the path was gone however, the old dude was sitting there in his chair, again with no gloves. I should bring him a pair, I thought. As I approached him I asked if he was okay. “Could you just give me a little push?” he asked while adjusting himself in his seat. Once at the bottom of the path he was on his own. He then immediately rode the chair into a patch of ice and got stuck. I unstuck him and again off to the dollar store we went. “Glad to help and have a great day,” I told him.

On Wednesday… (See Monday and Tuesday).

On Thursday… (See Monday, Tuesday and then Wednesday). The only change was that the two guys who remove snow for the plaza greeted me along the way.

On Friday there was a bit of a snow storm with a great deal of wind. The man was not at his usual spot at the top of the path. I continued on through to the plaza walk. I saw one of the snow workers who asked, “Where’s your friend?” He meant the old man in the wheelchair. Snow removal dude went on to tease me about pushing the guy. I don’t remember his exact words but, he made it sound as if I had been taken horrible advantage of by the old man. There was a hint of anger in his voice. Indeed, I had for about a split second noticed that pushing the man had somehow become my “job.” I had quickly let those thoughts perish. I gave snow removal dude a big smile and nod indicating, “I know what you mean.” Actually, I did not really know what he meant. I did not quite understand why this was such a problem for him.

As I continued along, I now started to wonder and question why the old man was there every morning. Why did he need to go to the dollar store every day? And for god’s sake, why did he not pick up a pair of gloves while he was there? Who knows? The best that I can come up with is that the dollar store must be a part of his daily routine, his outing. Perhaps, he has waited for me each morning because he now looks forward to someone being kind to him. Perhaps, I had not taken a moment to reach this conclusion before because on some level I ready knew this.

Poop head: a lesson

Last Friday I allowed myself to get all publicly loud and black, if you will. Picture this… For those of you who have never been trapped in an elevator with this writer, you are most likely unaware that I suffer from IBS. If you don’t know what that is then go to Google and well, Google it. My primary care physician prescribes medication that coats, soothes and altogether relieves the problem.

Early Friday morning I dropped off the last refill prescription to my local pharmacy. Around lunch time I went to pick up the medication. I’m not going to lie, I was in a bad mood, one that had been impacted for roughly five days, if you get my drift. I gave my name to the cashier girly at the pharmacy and she could not find my filled order. After some searching she discovered that the order had not been filled because the insurance company only pays for prescriptions that are filled within the first six months of the original prescription/write date. My original prescription date was July 2010 and was good for several refills until July 2011. Why it’s only February, you say? I have had this problem before; the doctor writes a prescription that is good for a year and the insurance company only honors it for six months. After that the bound-up patient must get a new prescription because the pharmacy’s tail is wagged (like all of us) by those who pay us and in this case that would be the insurance company.

Anywho, as I stated I was in a foul mood to begin with when the girl told me to “go back to the doctor and tell him to give [me] a new script.” Her tone and demeanor were condescending. It was as if I were greatly her intellectual inferior and she had no patience (pun intended) for that . I tried to explain that I had been here before, and she interrupted and spoke slowly and loudly as if… Now, if there is one thing I hate it is being talked down to. The main reason is not because I am all snooty fancy pants (which is probably true) but, rather as an educator at heart it is about the most ineffectual means of communicating information that I know. It is just stupid. Especially stupid if you are less than half my age and can’t look me in the eye while behaving this way. Anyway, I said some things and while tempting was not disrespectful in any way. She parroted her original position louder each time. I found myself shouting that I needed the meds and did not understand that if this was a hard-and-fast rule why my doctor’s office seemed surprised when I asked them to refill an open prescription in the past. There were a half dozen people behind the pharmacy counter who stopped what they were doing to watch yet, none intervened. I was getting nowhere so, I turned on my heel and walked away. The girl was still parroting.

As soon as I got home I called my doctor’s office and requested a new prescription. It’s an automated system and I never know if it has worked until the pharmacy leaves me a voice mail message stating that my order is ready for pick-up. That message never came. Over the next four days I used over-the-counter meds that only worked a bit. I happened to be in the drug store on Monday afternoon and it suddenly occurred to me to check with the pharmacy again. I discovered that my order had been called in by the doctor and filled on the Friday before and had been sitting there for four days. As well, the new prescription is for a year starting with last Friday’s date. When I got home I embraced the meds like they were drugs.

In sum, there are three lessons here: 1. Never talk down to me. , 2. Did somebody say health care reform? (And most importantly), 3. Never yell at stupid people, they will get you for it every time.

Where were you when the lights went out?

So, I arrived home and I was starving as usual. I ate a dinner of left over roasted chicken, egg noodles, mixed veggies and a corn muffin. I worked most of it off shoveling the snow that wasn’t there early that morning. When all that was done, I looked about the kitchen for something to call dessert. Unfortunately, nothing fit the bill. I bundled up and hobbled down the great hill and over a few blocks to the local Family Dollar. All I wanted was a box of Vanilla Wafers. Ultimately, I had to settle for a package of imitation-like shortbread cookies but, I’m getting ahead of myself.
As I searched for the cookie aisle I was distracted by what appeared to be the home décor section. In particular my eye was drawn to a plaque. That plaque read simply, “AS FOR ME AND MY HOUSE, WE SHALL SERVE THE LORD.” My mind raced even though I had seen the plaque a few months ago. I stood chucking to myself trying to imagine the wall this would hang on. I also thought it a great deterrent from fun or “devilish” behavior. How could you ever laugh or be anything other than contrite in the room where that plaque hung? No more scolding disobedient chil’ren or scowling at Edgar for his penchant for a pipe and a glass of demon liquor. Granma could just point her chubby index finger towards the plaque. It would say it all. Loud talk or bawdy jokes? There would be none of that, just point to the sign. The old gal would wonder how she ever kept them all in line before and it was a bargain at only $6.00.

Moving right along... I handled a couple vases which were surprisingly attractive. “Enough of that,” I thought. I asked a tiny 30-ish woman where I could find the cookies. Through a nicotine coated larynx she called me, “sweet heart” and pointed me toward two aisles over. It was amazing how many cookie-like products that store sells. I don’t believe that there were any name brand cookies there. Think Little Doris or Little Helen rather than Little Debbie. It would be a mistake to call them imitations. Even from the pictures on the packaging you could tell that they tasted somewhere between a store brand (not even a name brand) and going hungry. I kind figured that if they couldn’t even Photoshop a good picture for the packaging, it probably was not worth the gamble. A case in point might be the oatmeal cookies that looked badly carved from a hunk of driftwood or something. The “Scooter Pies”-like product weren’t much better. The filling looked like that spray foam insulation stuff from the can, same color and all. After research that took about a half hour, I decided that the imitation-like shortbread cookies might be the lesser of evils. This was only after discovering that the Vanilla Wafer-imitation-like product was sold in a plastic bag rather than a box. I actually tried to break one of these morsels through the bag without luck. “Maybe they’re good for teething babies,” I thought? Anyway, how could you screw up a shortbread cookie? I discovered later that dunked in a cup of hot tea, they could be made almost bakery fresh... not. Anywho, I grabbed a package that was offered at the very odd price point of 92 cents and headed towards the counter.

As I walked towards the counter it appeared as if some lights in the back of the store went out. They had, although it was hours before closing. Then the tiny woman reappeared looking all official and in emergency mode. She shouted, “All customers to the front of the store, NOW!” I had swiftly made my way to the cash register as she shouted. I was next in line. I was confused and looked about for someone anyone to say something. Everyone just stared at the five foot, 85 pound woman. What was going on? All I know is the back lights of the store were off and the tiny woman was now demanding that, “All customers leave the store, now!” She seemed to be taking instructions from her cell phone. I imagine that there was some Family Dollar security mucketymuck on the other end. That’s probably spelled wrong if it is even a word? Anyway, we had to leave without explanation. ...but, but, my cookies? I asked the guy at register if I could pay for the cookies or did I just need to leave? “No, I can always take your money,” he smilingly offered. Bewildered I paid him and left the store where I found a large group of confused looking people waiting outside. They looked to me as if I had a prepared statement. Huh? I walked quickly way hoping the terrorists hadn’t won.

I was enlightened later in a superior tone (I will protect the identity here to avoid a slap on the back of my head) that this is standard procedure if a store’s lights go out for any reason. I asked why and was told, “Because people will loot.” Loot from the dollar store, I wondered? Oh, the humanity! On the other hand... hmmm, I wonder what’s the street value of imitation-like-Fig Newtons?