Give Me the Good Stuff
“It’s okay,” my wife said. “He’s a writer.”
My wife says this a lot. To be clear, it’s not the way someone might say, “It’s okay, he’s a doctor.” Because the subtext of that line is calming. It’s like announcing that somebody with a practical skill has arrived to perform an emergency tracheotomy on the lunch lady who lodged a pastrami sandwich in her throat while singing “That old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.”
The subtext of my wife’s refrain, “It’s okay, he’s a writer,” is variable. Sometimes it’s to set people at ease when I ask a perfectly reasonable question. For instance, every time I interact with a bank teller, I immediately ask, “How many times have you been robbed?” Most of the time I’m met with bug eyes or a disgusted scowl that’s the equivalent of “Well, I never!”
Occasionally, though, someone indeed answers the call to interesting conversation. You might be surprised how often bank robberies go down. One teller I met had been robbed several times, twice by the same guy. Déjà vu is a mother fucker. (related, I actually know three people who have robbed banks—story for another time—but one of them robbed In-N-Out Burgers, and if you haven’t read my previous story about In-N-Out impropriety…)
I’m a curious person, particularly when it comes to the weird or the unusual. Most recently, and what got me thinking about this, was when the air conditioner went out in a hotel room we were staying in. They sent up a handyman. Tall and lanky with straight chestnut hair, he looked like the lowest common denominator of a 1,000 different white dudes.
“Have you ever knocked on a hotel room door that you wish you hadn’t?” I asked.
“I’ve never gotten that question before,” he said. I could tell the prompt had brought a poignant memory to the surface for him but didn’t know if he should share.
“It’s okay, he’s a writer,” my wife said.
“Oh.” he said. “In that case, I serviced a couple of guests a while back and they propositioned me to join them in bed.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
“Are those part of your handyman duties?” I asked.
“I wish,” he said.
And there’s the reward. At first, he was just a run-of-the-mill handyman. Now, though, he’s a lonely handyman in need of intimacy, no doubt hamstrung by the oppression of hotel human resources and modern decency. That’s a guy I can root for, a flawed human being I can care about.
While I’m constantly on the search for flawed heroes, I’m also on the lookout for villains. Whenever I meet a teacher, I ask this: “Can you tell which of your students are going to serve time in prison?”
“Not enough of them,” one teacher told me. Unlike the bank tellers, teachers are much more likely to participate. Pay teachers shit wages, overwork them, and under-appreciate them, and they spill all the tea. I met one teacher who could have filled a spreadsheet on her predictions. Which kids would do time, which would do rehab, which would be extradited from Argentina for crimes against humanity. It’s the kind of great conversation that only comes when you step out in faith and ask the fun questions.
However, when I flex the writer muscle, it isn’t always about curiosity. Often it’s about taking temperature. I have a difficult time knowing where the boundaries are with someone I just met, so I’ll make an observation and see how it lands:
At my daughter's volleyball game, commenting to another parent about an opposing player: “That girl has the kind of face you hope ends up on an episode of Dateline.”
To my son’s new basketball coach after he asks, “Where’s Sam?”: “I don’t know, but we better find him before someone else does. Little blonde haired boys fetch a pretty penny on the black market.”
To a random stranger who sat way too close to me at the school assembly: “Personal politics aside, a room full of 13-year-olds is a solid argument in favor of women’s reproductive rights.”
To a nun while lining up for a flight on Southwest: “Intelligent design my ass.”
In that last one, hand to god, the nun shrugged, as if to say, Good point. Which is the point I’m trying to make here. I could probably have a beer with that nun. I didn’t have to go through the boring waltz of small talk.
She and I could just belly up to the bar and she would tell me the story of how she ended up in a nunnery. Maybe she fell in love with the wrong man who pressured her to perform impure acts with a hotel handyman, but the last straw was when he robbed that bank for the second time and ended up in prison just like his high school teacher told him he would…
I should admit that my wife has had to apologize for me on more than one occasion. As have other friends and family members. And even professional acquaintances. I was once invited to a meeting to help brainstorm on a creative problem for this fortune 500 company, but the person who extended the invite said, “We really need you in here, but try not to say anything…weird.”
One of my favorite writers, Elmore Leonard, offered this writing advice, which is also good life advice: “Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.”
Small talk, pleasantries, how-do-you-dos, and nice-weather-ain’t-its? Skip it. Give me the good stuff. It’s okay, I’m a writer.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this one, then maybe indulge in some Revenge Fantasies. Or perhaps meditate on The Philosophical Solution of Evil. Or heed the warning of the Avocado of Doom.
Loved the teacher remark!!🤣 I’m going to chk out your author rec!! ❤️
Love your curiosity and your unpredictability — in your writing and IRL. You keep us on our toes, Norm.