When I was in seventh grade, the administration of our school introduced a new character. Ostensibly, the assistant principal, this guy’s sole purpose was to be ‘the enforcer.’
Not that there was much enforcing to do out in innocent suburbia.
Still, administration believed, I think, that the best way to ensure a proper education was to crush even the slightest hint of misbehavior. The worst offense of all, it seems, was when a bunch of adolescents were talking with friends at lunch. Wouldn’t want that.
Whenever the noise level in the lunchroom would reach an arbitrary level – no one was ever certain what that level was – the henchman would step forward with great glee and bring down the full force of marshal law. To all the kids, he would gleefully bellow: “Ayyyyy! Quiet lunch rest of the wayyyyyy! Ayyyyyyy!”
This meant, of course, no more talking for the rest of the lunch period. I always found it somewhat curious that in order to achieve quietness, the enforcer had to be so loud.
Irony can be such a strong literary device.
Ooops.
Take, for example, our experience the last time we attended a U2 concert.
The four of us were sitting comfortably before the show when a young lady struggled to climb to her seats. She asked if she could sit down with us, temporarily, and naturally, we said ‘Sure.’ As she engaged us in conversation – as many concert-goers might – she worried that the climb to her seats might trigger an outbreak of Vertigo.
To this day, I was never convinced that she really suffered from the aforementioned medical condition…that she saw Paul and I exchange quick glances…or that she realized we were trying hard not to make the obvious pun.
Ooops.
Maybe the attendance of such concerts – or the loud lunchroom for that matter – led to my slight hearing loss.
Of all the senses, let’s just say that hearing is not the strongest one in our gene pool. My father doesn’t have a strong sense of hearing, I definitely do not hear very well and Holly reports that the deficiency has been passed along to the next generation.
In situations with lots of low-level background noise, I really have to concentrate in order to get every word. I must have suffered from a momentary lapse during the story I am about to relate.
In a discussion about nutritional supplements for needy patients one time, I listened as some champions celebrated a donation. They talked about how the commodity would be helpful, nutritional and comforting.
After the conversation went back and forth a few minutes, I just had to ask the obvious question. “How is a donation of alcohol going to be helpful?”
Everyone looked at me with the same quizzical expression and I clarified “You mentioned you had secured a donation of booze. How is that helpful?”
Just then, a tense moment eased; the expressions turned to mirth and laughter erupted.
“Boost,” one lady replied. “We received a donation of the nutritional supplement BoosT. Not BOOZE!” They laughed some more.
Let me say that, in no way, am I trying to make light of the nutritional needs of cancer patients (or anyone suffering a serious illness for that matter). No, the only jocularity here is pointed at my inability to discern a key message because my sense of hearing isn’t so good.
In the moment, I felt slightly red-faced. The background noise had obviously eliminated a critical ‘t!’
Ooops.
If you think I was embarrassed by the BoosT incident, imagine this faux pas from my days as an intern.
I was chatting with a fellow intern about our respective childhoods. My counterpart mentioned his favorite kid toys were his Big Jim and Big Jack action figures. What a small world, I replied. I had a Big Jim and Big Jack. In fact, I still have them.
One of the cool features of the Big Jim/Big Jack is that you could push a button on the back of the dolls and their arms would flex in a ‘chopping motion.’
The next day in my internship, I brought my Big Jim and Big Jack and, as I was showing them off to my colleague, I decided to push the ‘flex’ button and start Big Jim into the chopping motion.
Just then, our boss – the big boss – stuck his head in the door and did a double take. Interns playing with toys. He quickly left. I felt like finding a place to hide.
Career experts will tell you that an internship is a wonderful opportunity to learn how to assimilate into the world of work. And learn I did. The obvious teachable moment, here, is that ‘You don’t play with action figures in the office.’
For just a moment, though, I felt really awkward about that misstep; like I was back at Middle School. Maybe I should have had Quiet Lunch for the rest of the day.
Ay.
JG
Originally posted 11/14/2013
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