don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

will you still need me, will you still feed me

Tomorrow is my 64th birthday. 

In May 1956, 14-year old Paul McCartney started writing a little ditty about being 64. Despite the onslaught of rock and roll on young Paul's radio, he decided to compose the song in a cabaret style. Eleven years later and riding high on worldwide popularity, Paul dug out his composition and convinced his bandmates in the Beatles to record the tune for inclusion on their groundbreaking Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I'm sure John balked, as he often derided a lot of Paul's songs as "Granny music," but the bespectacled Beatle contributed some additional lyrics to the song and it proved to be both endearing and enduring. It went on to be covered by dozens of other artists from Cheap Trick and John Denver to Claudine Longet, The Flaming Lips and Keith Moon. Well, Paul, I find myself asking the same questions that your chorus poses.

When I reached my 60s, I started to think about my own mortality. I know I'm not going to live forever. No one lives forever. For the past few years, around this time of year, I have written about folks that have achieved great notoriety, but that I have outlived. Here are some people you may have heard of that didn't live to see their 64th birthday.

John Banner was an actor who fled his native Austria in 1938 when Hitler's regime annexed his homeland as part of Nazi Germany. He ultimately got his own little revenge by playing buffoonish German soldier "Sgt. Schultz" in the 60s sitcom Hogan's Heroes. Portraying the character as a dimwitted goof gave John a lot of satisfaction. He played other roles — both humorous and dramatic — on television and in movies. He died on his 63rd birthday.

Robin Williams was a multi-faceted, multi-talented actor and comedian. His breakout role as TV's loveable alien "Mork from Ork" was the springboard for a celebrated career that included stand-up comedy, numerous dramatic and comedic films, voice-over work and even an Academy Award. Robin secretly dealt with a lifetime of depression and, after a diagnosis of Parkinson's disease and Lewy Body dementia, he took his own life on August 11, 2014 — my 53rd birthday. Robin was 63.

Audrey Hepburn was the perfect combination of poise, beauty and talent. She starred in a number of popular films from light comedy to musicals to harrowing suspense — turning in stellar performances in each and every role. She was awarded an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy and a Tony (the rare and coveted EGOT) and earned herself the moniker of "legend," a term often applied to non-deserving celebrities. But in Audrey's case, she embodied "legend." A life-long humanitarian and advocate for UNICEF, Audrey passed away at the age of 63.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt served as President of the United States longer that anyone else. He was elected for four consecutive terms and is considered by political experts as one of the greatest presidents in US history. Just prior to a scheduled appearance at the UN, he posed for a portrait by artist Elizabeth Shoumatoff. The president said, "I have a terrific headache" and slumped forward in his chair, having suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage. He was 63 years old.

Ulysses S. Grant led the Union Army to victory in the Civil War. In 1869, he was elected the 18th President of the United States. He advocated the Fifteenth Amendment to the Construction and is generally considered to have served an effective presidency. After leaving office, he wrote a memoir which he completed on July 18, 1885. He died five days later at the age of 63.

Wilt Chamberlain was arguably one of the greatest basketball players of all time. Standing at a little over seven feet tall, Wilt held 72 NBA records, including the only player to score 100 points in a game. After his retirement, Wilt was the commercial spokesman for several companies including TWA, American Express, Lite Beer and Volkswagen. He owned a nightclub in Harlem and invested in thoroughbred horse breeding. He claimed to have had sex with 20,000 women. He died of congestive heart failure at 63 — with a smile on his face.

Donna Summer enjoyed a successful career as a singer in the disco era. Her string of hit songs earned her the well-deserved nickname "Queen of Disco." She released 18 albums (ten of them certified gold) and almost 90 singles. She even dabbled in acting, playing the aunt of "Steve Urkel" in an episode of the 90s sitcom Family Matters. A non-smoker, Donna passed away from lung cancer at 63.

James Baldwin was a writer, poet and outspoken activist for civil rights. His 1955 collection of essays "Notes of a Native Son," elevated James as a influential voice for human equality. His works raised awareness of sexuality, race, gender roles and class designation. He died at 63 in 1987, while working on a memoir. His publisher, McGraw-Hill, sued his estate for the $20,000 advance they paid for the proposed book. The suit was dropped in 1990.

Mickey Mantle was considered one of the greatest ever to play the game of baseball. With 563 career homeruns, he is the only player in baseball history to hit 150 homeruns from each side of the plate. "The Mick" appeared in 12 World Series and holds eight World Series records. Off the field, his life was filled with tragedy, including a failed marriage, infidelity, poor business decisions and alcohol abuse. He died from liver cancer at 63.

Alfred Nobel was an inventor, holding 355 patents. He is most famous for inventing dynamite. When he died, at 63, he donated his fortune to fund the Nobel Prize which annually recognizes those who "conferred the greatest benefit to humankind."

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn is widely regarded as one of the greatest visual artists in the history of Western art. He produced work in a wide range of subjects including portraits, landscapes. biblical scenes, animal studies and allegorical depictions. He was a master of light and dark and composition. However, his personal life was fraught with turmoil and legal and financial shortcomings. He died nearly destitute at 63.

William Holden was a celebrated actor, with starring roles in Sunset Boulevard, Sabrina and his Oscar-winning turn in Stalag 17. He held is own alongside Humphrey Bogart, Glenn Ford and George Raft in Westerns and gangster films. He remained popular into the 60s and 70s, as part of an all-star cast in The Towering Inferno, Network and an Emmy-winning performance in TV's The Blue Knight. In 1981, a drunken William Holden tripped and fell in his Santa Monica apartment. He hit his head on a table and bled to death. He was discovered four days later, just inches from a working telephone. He was 63.

Guglielmo Marconi invented the radio. He founded the Wireless Telegraph & Signal Company and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1909. Sure, he was a fascist anti-Semite, but — c'mon! — the goddamn radio! He died in 1937 at the age of 63.

Patrick Henry was a noted figure in the American Revolution. A patriot of the first order, he famously declared "Give me liberty or give me death!" Liberty did eventually come, but so did death — 24 years later — at the age of 63.

Tommy Cooper was a popular British comedian known for his manic delivery, silly magic tricks and signature red fez. He died on live television in the middle of his act. He was 63.

Dock Ellis holds the Major League Baseball record for pitching a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD. A famously colorful character, Dock purposely tried to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds line-up until he was pulled from the game by his frustrated manager. A heavy drinker, Dock died at 63 while waiting for a liver transplant.

Tomorrow, I turn 64. I never invented anything of worldwide significance. I never set any sports records. I never won an entertainment award. I never inspired a nation to seek independence. My artwork has never been revered for its technical achievements. But... I will — most likely — make it to 64.

I'll let you know tomorrow.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

can you see the real me

The Real ID Act of 2005 is a United States federal law that standardized requirements for driver's licenses and identification cards issued by US states and territories in order to be accepted for accessing US government facilities, nuclear power plants, and for boarding airline flights in the United States. State certification for Real IDs began in 2012 (seven years after the acts implication. Thanks government!) and sort of slowed down immediately (Thanks, government!). My home state — Pennsylvania — received its Real ID certification in 2019. Earlier this year, the US government issued this very stern warning: "Starting May 7, 2025, a federally accepted form of identification — such as a REAL ID, U.S. passport, or military ID — will be required to board domestic flights and enter certain federal facilities" — delivered with a "we ain't shittin' around this time" immediacy. 

My driver's license comes up for renewal in August 2025. I just renewed my United States passport last year, replacing the one that I was issued in 2013 and served me well through many cruises. In order to obtain a passport, I had to supply a federal government agency proof of my United States citizenship, a photo identification, a 2 inch x 2 inch photograph of myself offering the blankest of blank expressions, a completed DS-11 form (including such information as my height, eye color, occupation, other names I may have used in my life and my Social Security number) and a check for $130. Because I currently possess a valid United States government-issued passport, guess what I really don't need? That's right. A Real ID. 

Be that as it may, I decided to gather all of the required documentation and get myself one of them there Real IDs. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (just like our friends Kentucky, Massachusetts and Virginia, Pennsylvania is technically not a state) requires the following physical, original hard copies to be presented and examined by one of their crack authentication experts before they feel comfortable in handing over a Real ID. A typical "expert" employed by PennDOT (Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, our DVM, if you will) is usually identified by pants that are too short, revealing droopy, grayish socks inserted into well-worn sandals, a threadbare shirt that sports a plastic pocket protector overstuffed with pens, markers and highlighters of all sorts, a head of unkempt hair and pair of glasses whose lenses are held together by surgical tape. The female counterparts display housecoats similar to the ones my grandmother wore in the late 1970s. Both male and female employees wear an official-looking lanyard, resplendent with keys, magnetic swipe cards and various other clear plastic-sheathed identification — along with some sort of "milestone of employment" pin or a funny little plush clip-on animal. These folks are tasked with scrutinizing the various forms of identification presented by hopeful Real ID applicants. They are the final word on who passes muster and who gets booted on a technicality. They wield a lot of power considering they look as though they all got dressed in the dark, and remained there for the rest of their career. I read and re-read the requirements and assembled (what I surmised) was a valid selection of pertinent identifying papers from the list on the PennDOT website. I grabbed my passport, my Social Security card, a W-2 form from my most recent tax return and a physical paystub from my last paycheck. The last two are to prove my legal residence in Pennsylvania. I could have presented a utility bill or a vehicle registration, but those items are (and have always been) in my wife's name. Aside from a W-2 and a paystub, I can't really prove that I live where I claim to. Of course, I have my nearly-expired driver's license, too.

Real IDs are not offered for immediate receipt in every outlet that PennDOT maintains throughout the Greater Philadelphia area. The only one close to me is about 22 miles away. They offer unusual office hours to accommodate people who work for a living. The only day I could clear without interrupting my work schedule is Saturday. That is also the only day that everyone else in the Delaware Valley finds convenient. Hoping to outsmart to average person, I decided to get to the PennDOT facility a few hours before their 8:30 AM scheduled opening. So, early (re: 6 AM) on Saturday morning, I drove out to the King of Prussia PennDOT office. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the parking lot to find a line of at least 30 people already queued up at the entrance and snaking into the parking lot. Some had come prepared with collapsible camp chairs. Others brought a book or Kindle. Some sipped coffee from take-out cups and others poked around in a crumpled bag for a doughnut or breakfast sandwich. I hadn't seen lines like this since Beanie Babies were sending avid collectors and harried parents into a frenzy. Folks were chatting as though they were stuck in a slow-moving line waiting to purchase concert tickets or experience a particularly popular theme park ride.

I took my place behind a teenage girl and a woman I assumed was her mother. They sat in separate chairs and occupied their time by scrolling their cellphones and munching on something they kept pulling from their own Dunkin Donuts bag and shoving into their mouths. I overheard a man a little ahead of me tell another that he had gone to the previous night's Phillies-Yankees game in New York. He explained that he got home so late that he just stayed up all night because he knew he'd be coming here early. He also added — without any prompting of inquiry — that the new Yankee Stadium is like a domed stadium without the dome. (I'm still not sure what that means.)

No sooner did I take my place in line, people began pouring out of cars and queueing up behind me. Within minutes, there were fifty, sixty, seventy people behind me. Every so often, I turned to check the progress of the line. There must have been nearly two hundred more anxious Real ID hopefuls ...maybe more that that. 

Several employees scooted between the folks in line to punch in a code and get into the building to start their workday. About thirty minutes before the posted opening time, in a very un-government office fashion, a few employees appeared alongside the line to inquire each individuals plans and to distribute clipboards equipped with the proper forms to be filled in while we waited. It was a surprisingly efficient course of action.

After a while, a sad-looking agent approached me. She was holding a plastic bin filled with clipboards and she had just finished telling a woman in front of me that the papers she brought to prove that her married name was indeed her name were, in fact, invalid in the unwavering, unforgiving eyes of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and her, as its sworn representative. The woman, expressing her anger and disappointment, asked plaintively: "So, I'm done here?" The sad-looking Commonwealth agent coldly replied: "Unless you have the proper, required form." The woman angrily folded up her chair and stormed off to her car. The agent asked for the purpose of my visit today. I replied that I'd like to get a Real ID, as I fished around in my wallet for my Social Security card. She asked for my passport or birth certificate. I handed over my passport, even taking care to open it to the page with my photo and printed information. As she examined my passport, she asked for my Social Security card, which I happily presented.

She scrunched up her nose as she looked at my Social Security card through squinted eyes. "What's this?," she questioned, pointing an accusing finger as the prominent letter "M" on the card, comfortably wedged between "Josh" and "Pincus." I applied for and received my Social Security card in 1972 when I was 11 years old. My brother, four years my senior, had just been hired for his first job which required a Social Security number. My forward-thinking, always pragmatic mother, filled out a form for me at the same time. For reasons only known to my mother (dead 34 years now), she entered my name as "Josh M. Pincus." I have never ever ever used my middle name or even my middle initial. Ever. My middle initial does not appear on any other piece of recognized and accepted piece of identification in my possession. But there it was, on my Social Security Card, just above my stupid little boy's signature. "It's not on your passport," she announced with a slight tone of disdain in her early-morning voice. "I realize that.," I said, "It is not on anything! I never use it." "Well," she began to get indignant, "it has to match exactly." I stared at her. I wasn't about to get into an argument with a government worker who only knows the script she memorized on Day One of her employment. Much like a Terminator, government workers can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will not give in to your feeble excuses. It became pretty clear that I was not getting a Real ID today. At this point, the sad-looking agent moved on to the next potential applicant and I was told to — in no uncertain terms — "Hit the showers, rookie. You're throwing beachballs." Although I offered my US government-issued passport — a document that will guaranteed me admission to any country on this planet — it was about as useful as a used Kleenex to this certified agent of the Commonwealth. Dejected, I walked over to my car.

On my drive home, I silently argued the pros and cons of a Real ID to myself. I really don't need one. But now, it's me against the state... er.... Commonwealth. I was determined to get one just because that sad little woman told me I couldn't. I called my wife and related the events of the events of my morning. By the time I got home, she had already located my birth certificate, compete with my full middle name, not just that troublesome "M." I'm going to try again next Saturday to get a Real ID.

Even though I really don't need one.

Footnote: Oh, by the way, what does that pesky "M." stand for? It stands for "none of your goddamn business."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com