Communications Breakdown

Greetings, WYMOP fans!

Karma. The Cosmic Balance. God has a sense of humor. Whatever.

All I wanted was a smartphone.

You see, I’ve never had a smartphone. Neither has my son or his mother. I figured it was time. More accurately, I thought it was time I was able to use a Square when I do author events and sales, so I can run a credit card through my phone: cash only doesn’t really cut it any more. But there was no way I could upgrade my own phone alone. Not with a thirteen year old boy on the plan. Not gonna happen.

I upgraded all three phones.

I was going to be out of town when they arrived, so I arranged to have them delivered to two different locations: my phone would meet me in Colorado, while the other two would go to their home in Massachusetts. I arranged this with a lovely Verizon Customer Service rep, and she handled both the upgrading of the phones and their disparate delivery. She was wonderful—truly a delight to deal with—as have been every Verizon CSR I’ve ever dealt with.

Until now.

SB and I were in Estes Park, a little tourist town right splat in the mountains of Colorado, a place where cell service is a little bit like Bigfoot: they’ve heard of it but never actually seen it, and though they secretly believe in it you’ll have a hard time getting anyone to admit it. It was there, in this mobile-coverage Bermuda Triangle, that I received a voicemail alert. I froze in place—a little like when we used to adjust the television rabbit ears back in the 70s, and found that the only way to see the picture was to touch the antenna with your left pinkie while standing on one foot—and took the message.

There was an issue with my smartphone order confirmations, and if I could just call the telephone number at the end of the message and give them the confirmation codes included in the email Verizon had sent me a week earlier, all would be well.

Aw, Christ! I thought, punching the replay button and motioning frantically toward SB for something to write on. She slipped a pad and pen under my hand and I copied down the number before I lost my balance; standing on one foot while touching your phone with your left pinkie is hard in a small, crowded shop like that. We left the shop and drove around a bit, searching for another one of those temporary little windows into modern communications: a place with a signal. It was Saturday, and the phones had been slated for Monday delivery, and I really didn’t want anything to slow the process down: sure, I’d never had a smartphone, but now that I was getting one I wanted the damn thing. Besides, if delivery was delayed too long, I’d be back in Massachusetts when the phone arrived in Colorado, and that would never do.

Have I mentioned I wanted the damn thing?

We found a spot where cell service was more than a modern-day myth, right in front of a quilt shop. SB went in the shop, because, as she says, “Quilty!” while I sat in the parking lot with the pad and pen, calling Verizon’s customer service line; all I had to do was talk to one of Verizon's almost magical CSRs, I thought, and they'd fix everything. I provided all the initial information the automated system required before letting me talk to a human being: my name, cell number I was calling about, the issue I was calling about, the account billing password, the last four digits of my social security number, the town in which I was born, my mother’s maiden name, my first pet’s name, my best friend’s mother’s middle name, my race, blood type, sexual orientation, type of underwear I prefer (“Press three for boxer-briefs”), and what Bud Light camp I’m in: Less Filling or Tastes Great.

I was finally connected with a real person, who mumbled her name and asked, I think, how she could help me. She was speaking slowly and unclearly, and reminded me just a bit of the adults on those Peanuts television specials I watched as a kid: someone talking through a trombone. I hurriedly explained that I was trying to confirm my order over the phone, or, if possible, have her give me the confirmation numbers from the email so I could call their special Order Confirmation line—also that I was in the mountains of Colorado, where cell service would require an upgrade to reach “spotty,” so I was in a bit of a hurry to finish before my signal degraded.

“Excuse me?”

I suddenly recognized her drawl as belonging to one of the southern states, and realized she’d have had a hard time understanding me at normal Boston speed; she didn’t have a chance with me set to hurriedly. I downshifted into verbal four-wheel low, and tried it all again.

“Oh, sure. We can do that.”

“Terrific,” I said. “Do I have to—”

“And if we get disconnected, I can call you back.”

“Awesome,” I said. “But can we—”

“At this number?”

“Yes,” I said, then paused a beat. “At this number. Now can I—”

“Fine,” she said, somehow packing at least five syllables into those four letters. “Now, let’s get started. Can you give me your confirmation numbers?”

“No,” I said. “That’s what I was calling about. I don’t have access to my email right now, and I—”

“Aren’t you on your phone?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, all you have to do to access your email is—”

“I can’t access email from this phone.”

There was a pause—go figure—then: “But, sir, you’re on your phone?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well,” she said, “then all you have to do to access your email is—”

“I do not,” I said, speaking at least as slowly as she was, though much more clearly, “have the ability to check my email on this phone. No matter what you tell me, I still won’t. The phones I am trying to have delivered are smartphones, but this one I’m using right now is not.”

Silence.

“It’s a dumb phone.”

Silence.

“An old-fashioned mobile phone,” I said. “A slider.”

Silence.

“With buttons.”

I finally heard a sound: the long, drawn out suck of air being pulled in through teeth in thought. I held my own breath for what felt like five seconds or so before the most baffled grunt I’d ever heard slipped through the line to whack me in the face with the despair stick: “Huh.”

My heart sank.

Well, she looked into things for a while, and came to the conclusion that she couldn’t complete the process for me, but she could give me those confirmation numbers I was looking for. She asked for my two order numbers, which I gave her with painstaking slowness, and then I told her I was ready for the confirmation numbers attached to those orders.

“Now, I’m going to text you those numbers in a minute.”

“But,” I said, “I’m all ready to copy them down right now. Pen and paper in hand. Right now.”

“No,” she said. “I’m going to text them to you so you have them in your phone with no mistakes or anything when you call the confirmation line. Okay. You ready?”

Wondering why the hell I’d have to be “ready” to receive a text, I gave her an affirmative. The line beeped with the incoming texts just as she drawled “There ya go.”

“Just a second,” I said, tearing the phone from my ear to look at the screen, punching buttons rapid-fire to see what she’d sent me so I could write it down—and there, on the small screen, rather than the confirmation numbers I had called for, were the two order numbers I had just so carefully dictated to her. She had simply copied them down and sent them right back. Struggling to keep my temper in check, I jammed the phone to my ear once more.

“No!” I said. “I had those! I need—”

Three rapid beeps sounded in my ear. I tore the device away to look at the screen once more, and saw the waiting message:

SIGNAL FADED—CALL WAS LOST

“Son of a bitch!”

Right about then I'm pretty sure I, as I have in the past, actually heard God laughing at me.

We managed to get the Monday shipment by Wednesday.

*sigh*

*************************************************

Since you’ve read along this far, I’ll treat you to an announcement:

CAROL OF THE BELLS, my not-so-short story of traditional terror will be coming to you in all e-formats from The Storyside Press!

"Christmas?"

"Too commercialized."

"Krampusnacht?"

"Too mainstream."

When Brian and Carol came to England, all they wished was for the most traditional holiday celebration they could find: a dance in the village square, dinner in the inn's taproom, and a lovely winter stroll beneath the stars.

No one told them to be careful what they wished for: they just might get it.

This little dollop of holiday horror will be available on Amazon on December 6th.

Grab yourself a copy. Spread the word.

Happy horrordays!

What A Funny Guy!

Some of you may know, heck, all of you may know, that I drive a Jeep. A grand Cherokee. It started out with the Laredo package, but at the moment it's got the "duct tape and hope" package.

There are a few things wrong with it, sure. I've been adding coolant to it every month since I bought the thing. At one point I had a transmission leak, but it "healed". I don't know what else to call it - one month there was a leak in it, the next, the leak was gone and it hasn't come back. That was almost 2 years ago now. The only other cars I've ever heard of that could do that were Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, Herbie the Love Bug, and that other one... what was it called? From the Stephen King movie. Oh yes. Christine.Yeah... I think it's more like that one, actually.

I've had a fan replaced, a new water pump, thrown a rod (twice, actually) and a host of other stuff. Right now what I have is a weak oil pump. I can watch the pressure drop while I drive, right down to zero.

But that's not what I'm here tonight to talk about. It's the whistle.

My Jeep whistles. Loudly. Constantly. While I'm driving, while I'm standing still, coasting, cruising, whatever - I have a whistle. And it's maddening.

My brother-in-law is a mechanic, and he says it might be the air-filter. If the cover's not on tight, or cracked so it's not sealing properly, that could create a whistle. It should be easy to check that, right? I mean, even I know where the air filter is located. All I should have to do is open the hood and give a listen. Follow my ears. Maybe even lean on the filter cover to see if the whistle changes in pitch. Something like that. Anything like that.

But there's a problem. The whistle stops. Not when I want it to, like when I'm running on to work late and the parking lot is -full of my co-workers and I just don't feel like hearing about my whistling car all morning. Then the damn thing whistles a tune, "Zippidy-Doo-Dah" coming out from beneath my hood to make certain to capture everyone's attention! No. Not then. The whistle stops when it wants to stop, and that appears to be every time I stop to give it a listen!

I tried this afternoon when I left work. I was driving along, the damn thing whistling away. I wasn't in a hurry for once, so I decided to give it another try. Up ahead, past the stop light I was sitting at, was a parking lot - the perfect place to pull in and pop the hood.

I was stopped at the light. The jeep was whistling.

I pulled up to the light. The Jeep was whistling.

I turned into the parking lot. The Jeep was whistling.

I pulled into a parking spot preparatory to getting out to finally giving it a good listen and isolating the cause of the whistle. The whistle died.

I stepped on the gas, trying to make the whistle come.

Nothing.

But now I know what it is. He's tipped his hand again, and I've figured it out.

If I had chosen that exact moment to look skyward, rather than kicking my Jeep and shouting curses across an empty, uncaring parking lot, I might have seen something in the clouds. It's been referred to before, but not by me. Most people simply call it the Finger of God.

The Finger of God. It's been seen pointing at sinners in condemnation. It's been seen stretching forth to grant Adam the spark of Life. But no one's ever reported seeing it as I would have seen it, bouncing and jiggling rhythmically up and down, in time with His shoulders, which shake in time to the motion of His belly.

God is laughing and pointing at me.

I picture him up there in Heaven, one finger pointing me out to His friends, the other poised on the Switch.

"Look at him," I picture Him saying. "Keep your eye on him! He cracks Me up! There he goes, there he goes! Look! He's heading for a parking lot again! let's see if I can time this right - wait! What am I saying, of course I can time it right! I'm God for My sake! I created Time! Look, look, right when he gets out to pop the hood.. and... now!"

And He flips the Switch.

And the whistle stops.

And I lose my mind a little more.

And the pointing finger of God shakes with His laughter.

And I know how the Platypus feels.


Talk to you later!

Talk to you later!

Growing Up Giggles

Handsome and I went to the roller rink again today. We got there, got all skated up, and were out there on the floor, circling left, and left, and left, like some seriously low-cost Nascar knockoff. As we skated, I would occasionally lose sight of Handsome. I'd look about for him, and eventually find him skating right behind me. he was making a game of following me as closely as he could, weaving in and out among the other skaters as he tailed me.

That's fun, I thought, but I wish he'd find someone else to skate with, find some friends here.


Then, sometime later, I lost sight of him again. I looked about; no Handsome. I looked behind me; no Handsome. Eventually I found him out by the video games talking with another boy his age. The other boy skated off as I skated up.

"What's up?" I said.

"That's J," Handsome answered. "He used to go to my school, but he doesn't any more. I'm going to skate with him."

"Oh. Ok."

Handsome went to meet him and they skated off together, weaving about in the crowd of skaters circling endlessly on the hardwood rink. I watched them go by a few times, then I jumped into the crowd. I skated up behind Handsome. I stayed low, making myself no taller than he is, and tailed him closely through the people. J turned back to say something to Handsome and spotted me. His eyes widened, and he pointed back toward me. Handsome turned back, saw me, and gave me a nonchalant wave. Then he turned away from me and skated a little faster, catching up with J.

"That's just my Dad," I heard him explain, in a very matter-of-fact, I'm-too-cool-to-hang-out-with-my-Dad way. "I wish he'd find someone else to skate with."

I cruised to a stop, chuckling, as they skated on.

Be careful what you wish for, I thought.

Then I went off to talk to the odd little guy who skates at the rink every single day, as far as I can tell.

Somewhere, I'm pretty sure I heard God giggling.

Talk to you later!

Dust To Dust

The Bible (as I understand it) says that God created Adam from clay. There is the burial prayer that mentions 'dust to dust', and in Genisis, 'Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return'. There are some out there, Skeptics they are called, who would have you believe that this is all simply a story, part of a Christian mythology. There are also some out there who would argue that Genesis was a stronger band while Peter Gabriel was singing with them, while the rest of us feel that the band only became stronger when their drummer, Phil Collins stepped up to become their front man. But that is an argument for another day. 
Ashes to ashes. Dust thou art. Skeptics would say this is metaphorical, or allegorical, but I have proof that this is a completely different kind of -orical.


Historical.


Historical fact that we, as a race, as a species, were formed from clay and soil. And I have proof. Not something as dry and dusty (pardon the pun) as research. I am not going to simply extrapolate and infer from what others have said before me; instead, I will document a fact. A modern fact, from yesterday, today, and most likely tomorrow. An ongoing fact that seems so common it is often overlooked for the miracle it is. That miracle?


My son, Handsome.


As he did yesterday, and the day before, and probably will tomorrow, I know that when I get there tonight and check to see if Handsome needs a shower, he will smell of dirt. He will smell of dirt, and soil, and the good clean earth. Well, maybe not so clean, but good all the same.


Now, I know there are those of you out there who are saying that this is no miracle. That a 9 year old boy who smells of dirt is as common as... well, as common as dirt. This, however, is not the miracle; this is but the precursor. The 'herald' of the miracle, if you will. 


Here is the miracle.


When Handsome goes into the bathroom and emerges on the far side of a shower all clean and sparkling, I will walk up to him and I will put the tip of my forefinger beneath his chin, and I will tilt his head back. His chin will rise quite high, the small fold in the skin around his neck will peel open, and there the miracle will be revealed. 
This boy, this son of mine, this son of God's as we are all sons and daughters of His, will swear to me that he got under the water. That it flowed over his body. That he did use soap and did scrub himself all over with the scrubby-thingie (yes, I know it is called a 'loofah', but I have testicles and thus must refer to it as a 'scrubby-thingie). He will swear to it, and I have no reason to doubt him. 
But, if he did all this, if he washed so thoroughly, where did the ring of dirt about his neck come from, that is revealed when I tilt his head back? Did it weather the storm from the shower head? Did it resist the cleansing power of the soap? Did it, perhaps, somehow fight off the abrasiveness of the scrubbie-thingie? Is all this possible?


No.


The only explanation I can come up with is that the soil about the boy's neck is, in essence, oozing forth from his very skin! That it is, in fact, his essence! They say that you are what you eat, but were that true he's be excreting chips and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from his skin. The dirt must be bubbling up from inside the boy somehow, remnants of the soil and clay he was formed from on the day of his birth! 
I mean, it's either that, or my son is being slightly less than truthful...


A miracle!


Tomorrow I'll tell you how this little miracle-maker brushes his teeth, swears he does a thorough job of it, but the toothbrush remains somehow bone dry and free from fresh toothpaste! Water-into-wine nothing! That's a miracle!


Talk to you later!

Happy Birthday Handsome! We Give You... Irene!

I'll try to make this quick, in case the power goes out again. I stayed at Handsome's house last night so I could get it ready for the hurricane. I woke up and watched the second half of "Batman" (The original, with Michael Keaton as Batman. He's good, but there's no keeping Jack Nicholson from stealing the show as the Joker) and started getting the garage ready. I took a break and went to play a game with Handsome, who just got three new games for the Wii for his birthday. I came downstairs to finish the garage while Wife went to the store, and that's when the power went out.
Damn.
I was kind of counting on the power lasting for longer than that; the storm didn't seem to really have gotten going. Although I did watch a tree go down across the street from me. No property damage other than the tree, so it was pretty cool. Anyway, Handsome was counting on the power lasting as well. When his Wii went dead on him I could hear him wailing all the way down in the garage!
We told him that it might be a while before the power came back on, and one way to make the time fly by would be to help his mother and me in the basement!
No dice.
"No thanks. It's my birthday."
He was so casual about not helping us, he rounded it out by rolling away on his scooter. 'No thanks,' roooollllllll ...
We moved on to getting the basement ready for water. You see, the house is set into a hill, and what happens when we get too much rain or snow-melt is water comes in through the back wall of the basement and then follows the paths that 60 years of feet have worn into the concrete floor. It comes through the back room into the family room, then takes a left and flows through the laundry/mechanical room and into the garage, and from there down the slope of the driveway to the street. It's like a little river all our own, and I've been tempted to throw a line in there once or twice during past floods.
Can't do any worse than the last two times I went for stripers.
So all we really have to do is get the stuff up off the floor and let it go. We were in the process of that when we had a visit from a little practical joker I've mentioned before. I like to call him God.
We were in the basement moving stuff, and we could hear the wheels of Handsome's scooter rolling back and forth across the kitchen. I'll admit, I was getting a little steamed that he wasn't helping, but I was trying not to yell at him about it; it is his birthday after all. Suddenly, the power came on. Lights, televisions, etc. From upstairs we heard a "Yay! Now I can play my game!" Footsteps pounded across the kitchen and into Handsome'd bedroom, and seconds later we heard the start-up melody of his Wii come blasting from his television.
The lights went out.
"Awww! Dangit!"
There were slow, angry footsteps back across the kitchen to where the scooter, I just knew, lay forgotten on the floor.
The lights came on.
"Yay!"
Footsteps pounded.
The lights went out.
"Dangit!"
The lights flickered on and off. They came on again for about 3 seconds; long enough for Handsome to take a cautious breath. They went out again before he could 'yay'. Then they flickered again.
I just had to laugh. All I could picture was God, white robed, white bearded, blazing with a blinding light, and laughing like Pete Puma. One Hand on a huge Celestial Light Switch, flipping It up to watch Handsome run, and then down again to watch him stomp.
"Look! Lookit him scoot! Wait, Peter, Gabriel, watch this, you gotta see this! Ready... and.... off! Ha! Lookit him stomp! Wait, wait I'll get him again. Got him! Honest to Me, I slay Myself! Next time help your dad, Kiddo! Watch his face when I flicker it like this... oohoooo, I love this kid!"

So, thank you God. Thank you for giving my son a 9th birthday I'll never forget!

Talk to you later!

(if the power holds out, that it...)

Yup. Street Level.

This morning a friend on FaceBook asked me my thoughts on what people are saying about the Postal Service. She was referring to people on the news and such, but I don't watch TV very much and had no idea what she had just seen on the news. Instead I went off on a rant about the way the Postal Service is trying to micro manage everything, and the Big Guys are trying to run the whole system like it's a Big Buiness, and that they are failing to use the street level workforce as what it is: A street level presence for the customers with a street level knowledge of our business and how to keep our customers happy. I said that if we kill that bond that many of us have with our customers then we'll lose those customers, and they are the root of our business. I finished with a line that I was just all kinds of proud of. "Any gardener can tell you that if you kill the root, you kill the tree."
Sounds good, huh?
So I blasted that message out on FaceBook, finished my other writing for the morning and headed off to work. As I walked in the building to clock in I saw two guys in suits up at the supervisor's desk. I immediately thought what I then heard my co-workers grumbling as they walked by:
Terrific. Another service talk from some suits from the District who are here to tell us how they're going to do something bad to us for 'the good of the Service', and how we're going to have to just do it and deal with it.
I started sorting my mail and only got about 10 minutes into it before the Postmaster called a service talk.
Terrific.
I put down the mail I was working with and turned to park my butt against the edge of my workbench. I folded my arms across my chest and tried to set my face into immobility.
(I've been told that I have a tendency to  make faces and snort derisively during these things, and I'm trying to not be so obvious about it)
The Postmaster and our manager made their Safety talks, and I managed to keep quiet and not make faces.
I was feeling a little proud of that.
Then the two suits introduced themselves and one of them started their pitch.
"We're here today to talk to you, the carriers, about using your street level presence and intimate knowledge of your customers to help us in the Sales department."
My mouth dropped open.
I had to check later, and it turned out that I was okay, but at the time I thought I might have wet my pants a little. I didn't, but honestly, if he had gone on to start a 'tree' analogy things may have wound up being horribly different at my bench and I would have had to go home for fresh clothes!
I listened intently to their talk, and the Q&A afterward. I was so pleased to have someone talking to us who wanted to work with us rather than trying to crack the whip and convince us that we work for them I didn't know what to do!
Thank You, God, I thought. This just about makes up for the sweaty tickly ears, You practical joker You!


Then I went into the bathroom to make sure I didn't have to go home for fresh clothes.
The state of my shorts was good.
Well ... pretty good.
... well, ...good enough.

Sometimes it's almost like I know what I'm talking about.

Talk to you later!

The Thing About Woody Is...

Cooking mostaccioli casserole for Handsome to eat for the rest of the week, and we had the laptop set up on the kitchen table behind me so we could watch "Toy Story 3" on NetFlix while he ate a dinner of old leftovers and I cooked future leftovers. So that we could hear it over the sounds of cooking, the various bubblings, sizzlings, bangings and clangings, I plugged the laptop into my wireless speaker antenna. Two nice stereo speakers in the kitchen and we could hear every word, every syllable, every pregnant pause.

I started out busy, getting the cooking started and feeding the boy, then getting the cooking finished, then cleaning the kitchen... but I had an eye and ear on the movie. I have to say, kid's flicks or not, I like the Toy Story franchise. They're well written, the art and animation is great, and the voice talent is first rate! So... by the end of the movie I was working pretty slowly; cleaning something then watching for a while, then cleaning something, then watching for a while...

I'm trying not to spoil the movie for anyone out there who hasn't seen it yet. If you haven't, I highly recommend it.  But there comes a part towards the end of the film where Andy, the boy who owns the toys, is making a speech about Woody, the main character in the film and Head Toy In Charge. It's a touching scene, and like I said the writers at Pixar are excellent storytellers, and if I had been sitting down to watch the movie I would have been on the edge of my seat at this point. Andy holds up Woody and says "You see... the thing about Woody... the best thing about Woody is - "

And the sound went out.

I lunged across the kitchen to one of the wireless speakers and tried to re-tune it, but no luck. And no sound. From there, though, I could see behind the laptop to the wireless antenna. The transmitting light was out. 

Terrific.

I backed the movie up a little, and got the antenna transmitting again. Sound quality okay? Yes. Good to go. 

So I was standing right in front of the laptop when Andy started making the speech again.

"You see... the thing about Woody... the best thing about Woody is - "

The sound went out again. This time I saw it when the transmitting light went out. 

"Arrgh!" I said, as I fumbled with the wire and yanked it from the socket in the front of the laptop, restoring the original laptop sound.

Too late. 

"Stupid...stinking... stupid sound!" I said, and believe you me, those were not the first words that sprang to my lips. Or the second. I think they were like the ninth. But Handsome was sitting right there, I mean right there, like he was so close he could have spit milk through his nose and gotten it on the keyboard. Which he almost did, laughing at me. 

Eventually, I got to hear the line, but it took two tries while listening to the laptop speakers rather than the wireless speaker system. The first time my wife chose just that moment to cruise through the kitchen and remind Handsome about his bedtime. 

She doesn't know it, but she's lucky to be alive. 

I mentioned once before that I know God has a sense of humor. I'm also now aware that He has a terrific sense of comedic timing. 

The good part is, He seems to enjoy making my son laugh almost as much as I do.
Must be the milk out the nose. 

Keep it up, FunnyMan.

Talk to you later!

Prankster, Comedien, All-Powerful Being...

God has a sense of humor.
I've heard this before. Been hearing it for years, in fact. Now I know.
How do I know?
Simple.
I was under inspection at work today, walking in a little heat. Not too much, just under 80    degrees. The guy who was walking with me had been alerted to my condition and was very accommodating. I was wetting my shirt when I needed to, and he didn't hassle me when I     slowed down from time to time. Which I did. From time to time.
But there I was, walking around feeling the heartburn from the prednisone and wishing I     would just spontaneously burst out in a body-wide splash, when God stopped by. I picture Him stepping up to me, laying His finger upon me in jest, and then backing away quietly,     His hand over His mouth to stifle His giggles.
What did he do, you may ask?


He made my ears sweat.


Yup, my ears.


Does that cool me off at all?
No.
Does that have any productive effect on me at all?
No. 
Does it do anything at all?
Yes.


It tickles.


Ha-ha, FunnyMan.


Talk to you later!