...and life goes on.
Mah.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Somebody Please Explain This To Me
I'm walking out of the arena in Uptown Charlotte tonight when this guy approaches me. He's middle aged. White. Dressed in a blue button down shirt, a blazer, slacks and nice shoes. Right off the bat, he says he's an attorney and asks if I can help him.
At first, I thought he just wanted directions. Maybe had a question about the arena.
It turns out that his wife had just left him. I mean, just left him. Maybe a half-hour before. Maybe sooner. He was staying at the Holiday Inn and she'd kept his credit cards, so all he had was some cash and a desire to get the hell out of Charlotte.
He was whimpering to himself. His eyes looked sad and he kept mumbling something "Oh God," over and over. He was saying that he needed to get to the airport, but he wasn't making much sense. He wanted help, but wasn't quite sure what that entailed.
This man kept on trying to prove that he was legit. "See this coat?" he'd say. "It's Brooks Brothers. For real." Another time, he told me to look at his shoes. They cost $250, he said. Later, he told me how expensive his belt was, and emphasized the point by grabbing it with both hands.
I still didn't know what he was asking for. I told him that I didn't have a car Uptown and I couldn't take him to the airport anyway. He said he couldn't afford to take a cab. I told him that he had enough cash on him to go across the street and catch a bus to the terminal. He didn't seem to want to do that.
He was pleading with me now. You have to help me, he said, before stopping and shaking his head and whimpering the words "that bitch" in an almost apologetic way. I told him I had a couple bucks, but couldn't afford to pay for a cab to the airport. He shook his head. "That won't help," he said.
My train was pulling up and I needed to get on, so I repeated what I'd said earlier. Go across the street. Catch a bus to the airport. Take these two dollars. They'll get you there. I put the cash in his shaking hand and ran up to the platform without looking to see his reaction.
I really have no idea what that was all about.
It is strange to see a grown man break down emotionally, right in front of your eyes. I'm not sure if I helped. I'm not sure how I would have helped. All I know is, my wallet is two dollars lighter and I'm not sure if the guy who has my money had the wherewithal to use it in the right way. I hope so.
At first, I thought he just wanted directions. Maybe had a question about the arena.
It turns out that his wife had just left him. I mean, just left him. Maybe a half-hour before. Maybe sooner. He was staying at the Holiday Inn and she'd kept his credit cards, so all he had was some cash and a desire to get the hell out of Charlotte.
He was whimpering to himself. His eyes looked sad and he kept mumbling something "Oh God," over and over. He was saying that he needed to get to the airport, but he wasn't making much sense. He wanted help, but wasn't quite sure what that entailed.
This man kept on trying to prove that he was legit. "See this coat?" he'd say. "It's Brooks Brothers. For real." Another time, he told me to look at his shoes. They cost $250, he said. Later, he told me how expensive his belt was, and emphasized the point by grabbing it with both hands.
I still didn't know what he was asking for. I told him that I didn't have a car Uptown and I couldn't take him to the airport anyway. He said he couldn't afford to take a cab. I told him that he had enough cash on him to go across the street and catch a bus to the terminal. He didn't seem to want to do that.
He was pleading with me now. You have to help me, he said, before stopping and shaking his head and whimpering the words "that bitch" in an almost apologetic way. I told him I had a couple bucks, but couldn't afford to pay for a cab to the airport. He shook his head. "That won't help," he said.
My train was pulling up and I needed to get on, so I repeated what I'd said earlier. Go across the street. Catch a bus to the airport. Take these two dollars. They'll get you there. I put the cash in his shaking hand and ran up to the platform without looking to see his reaction.
I really have no idea what that was all about.
It is strange to see a grown man break down emotionally, right in front of your eyes. I'm not sure if I helped. I'm not sure how I would have helped. All I know is, my wallet is two dollars lighter and I'm not sure if the guy who has my money had the wherewithal to use it in the right way. I hope so.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Old Man And His Dial-Up Internet
This weekend, I bought a new high definition television, thereby replacing my 11 year old Zenith that is out of focus and has a discolored spot that moves to a different corner each time I turn it on. I also bought a laptop computer a few months back, which was just the start of my newfound technological bonanza. Here's something I wrote back in 2005, and before you ask, it didn't work out with the girl I was trying to impress in this story:
-----
Behind the counter at the Starbucks on Providence Road here in Charlotte, there is a trivia question. It's usually something moderately tough, like "Who was the first black female member of the House of Representatives?" or "How many years did the Hundred Years War last?" Each day it changes. The winner (whom always emerges sometime before 9 a.m., according to the "barista") gets a free drink.
I have never won. That's partly because I'm in Starbucks after 9 p.m. on most days, and I don't have a laptop that would allow me to look up the answer on Google, or in one of the chain letters of fun facts regularly sent to me by my mom.
The point is, I'm way too low-tech, which never used to be the case. I ran a BBS out of my bedroom at age 16, knew how to create computer programs with C++ in high school, and was able to skip some lame computer class in college because I convinced my adviser that I knew HTML.
Since then, it's all gone downhill. My BBS, C++ and HTML didn't morph into a high speed wireless internet connection. Instead, I use an old version of AOL dial-up to make it to the internet. I watch everybody else zipping by me on the information superhighway, as I shake my fist at them from my moped.
It's not that I'm backwards, I just don't see a need to have an internet connection that's overtly fast. I also don't have cable television for that matter, and I still use my land line to make phone calls.
At this pace, some people think I should be writing on a typewriter, which doesn't sound like a bad idea, actually. At least with a typewriter, I can write in places that aren't my bedroom.
Still, I just have to marvel at people who say things like, "I couldn't live without my iPod." Yes, I know it's hyperbole. But if you put the guys who says he can't survive without his iPod against the guy who says he can't survive without water, I'll put my money on the guy who won't be dehydrated after a week.
I don't loathe technology. I just don't see the point. I didn't run out and buy a Tamagotchi or a Palm Pilot, although someone did buy me the latter, and I only used it to hold phone numbers. I am just not organized enough to need an organizer.
I know what it is. I am an old man. I am antebellum enough to know what antebellum means.
Sunday afternoon, I went to go see Wordplay at The Manor Theater. It's a documentary about the culture of crossword puzzlers-- the kind of people who, once a year at a crossword puzzle championship, bask in their nerddom and find their competitive appetite whetted by solving puzzles in five minutes or less. The movie's pariah is the editor of The New York Times Crossword, Will Shortz, who majored in enigmology in college. He created his own major and coursework.
Anyway, I really wanted to see the movie. That sort of film appeals to me.
I was the only person in the theater who was less than 55 years old.
My original plan was to go see Wordplay with a girl who I’m trying to impress, in spite of my antiquity. I called her on a Saturday night to ask her to go, and she agreed to it, only to call me back five minutes later and say that maybe we should rent a movie and eat ice cream instead.
The part, though, that cemented in both of our minds that I've become elderly was when the woman at Blockbuster Video asked me for my phone number to put into the system. I gave it to her and told her it was my land line.
"You actually have a home phone?" my girl asked.
Yes, I do, I replied. But I use it for calling my parents and for my dial-up internet. My explanation, however, caught her square in the jaw. She turned away from me after I said yes. The woman behind the counter let out a little chuckle.
Someday, I'll be more high tech. But for now, please bear with me, and don't e-mail me anything that's too interesting. It just takes too long to download.
-----
Behind the counter at the Starbucks on Providence Road here in Charlotte, there is a trivia question. It's usually something moderately tough, like "Who was the first black female member of the House of Representatives?" or "How many years did the Hundred Years War last?" Each day it changes. The winner (whom always emerges sometime before 9 a.m., according to the "barista") gets a free drink.
I have never won. That's partly because I'm in Starbucks after 9 p.m. on most days, and I don't have a laptop that would allow me to look up the answer on Google, or in one of the chain letters of fun facts regularly sent to me by my mom.
The point is, I'm way too low-tech, which never used to be the case. I ran a BBS out of my bedroom at age 16, knew how to create computer programs with C++ in high school, and was able to skip some lame computer class in college because I convinced my adviser that I knew HTML.
Since then, it's all gone downhill. My BBS, C++ and HTML didn't morph into a high speed wireless internet connection. Instead, I use an old version of AOL dial-up to make it to the internet. I watch everybody else zipping by me on the information superhighway, as I shake my fist at them from my moped.
It's not that I'm backwards, I just don't see a need to have an internet connection that's overtly fast. I also don't have cable television for that matter, and I still use my land line to make phone calls.
At this pace, some people think I should be writing on a typewriter, which doesn't sound like a bad idea, actually. At least with a typewriter, I can write in places that aren't my bedroom.
Still, I just have to marvel at people who say things like, "I couldn't live without my iPod." Yes, I know it's hyperbole. But if you put the guys who says he can't survive without his iPod against the guy who says he can't survive without water, I'll put my money on the guy who won't be dehydrated after a week.
I don't loathe technology. I just don't see the point. I didn't run out and buy a Tamagotchi or a Palm Pilot, although someone did buy me the latter, and I only used it to hold phone numbers. I am just not organized enough to need an organizer.
I know what it is. I am an old man. I am antebellum enough to know what antebellum means.
Sunday afternoon, I went to go see Wordplay at The Manor Theater. It's a documentary about the culture of crossword puzzlers-- the kind of people who, once a year at a crossword puzzle championship, bask in their nerddom and find their competitive appetite whetted by solving puzzles in five minutes or less. The movie's pariah is the editor of The New York Times Crossword, Will Shortz, who majored in enigmology in college. He created his own major and coursework.
Anyway, I really wanted to see the movie. That sort of film appeals to me.
I was the only person in the theater who was less than 55 years old.
My original plan was to go see Wordplay with a girl who I’m trying to impress, in spite of my antiquity. I called her on a Saturday night to ask her to go, and she agreed to it, only to call me back five minutes later and say that maybe we should rent a movie and eat ice cream instead.
The part, though, that cemented in both of our minds that I've become elderly was when the woman at Blockbuster Video asked me for my phone number to put into the system. I gave it to her and told her it was my land line.
"You actually have a home phone?" my girl asked.
Yes, I do, I replied. But I use it for calling my parents and for my dial-up internet. My explanation, however, caught her square in the jaw. She turned away from me after I said yes. The woman behind the counter let out a little chuckle.
Someday, I'll be more high tech. But for now, please bear with me, and don't e-mail me anything that's too interesting. It just takes too long to download.
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