I keep finding him... or maybe he keeps finding me.
Perhaps you have encountered him, too.
You are in your car, waiting to enter a parking lot for a concert or a baseball game or some other large event that draws
thousands of commuters to a parking facility provided by the venue to store your vehicle for a few hours. You've done this dozens of times. You drive up, pay the attendant who tosses some sort of official voucher on your dashboard and you pull away, off to seek a suitable spot to safely leave your car while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. Your interaction with the parking lot attendant — usually a young man or woman working their way through college or responsibly earning a few bucks to get their parents off their backs — is
minimal, sometimes even
wordless, unless you are the friendly type who greets
everyone with a rhetorical "Hey, how
you doin' today?" (Unsurprisingly, I am
not one of those.) But, invariably, I usually get in the entrance line behind
that guy who is experiencing the "public parking lot adventure" for the very first time.
It never fails! The queue line comes to a screeching and unnecessary halt while
that guy in front of me begins a long and involved dialogue with the hapless (and usually disinterested) attendant. From my car-length vantage point, I can see
this guy's hands expressively gesturing through his open driver's side window, I can't see a face, just the hand. And that hand is waving around as though performing an interpretive dance. Just when you think that this conversation will end, it continues. Way too long. "What," I think to myself (sometimes out loud), "could this guy
possibly be
asking or
saying or
explaining or
complaining about? Pay your overpriced parking fee, you get your little ticket and you go!" But, no! It is obviously
that guy's first time at a parking lot.
I know some people use them every day (sometimes
several times a day), but I have not had the need to access an ATM in some time. As a matter of fact, it is so infrequent that I
use an ATM, I have to seriously think about my password on each occasion. However, every time I have had the need to have some banking transactions via the convenience of an ATM,
that guy is once again in front of me in line. He was issued his card and left, by the bank, to his own devices. No explanation was offered. No instructional pamphlet to read or video to watch. To be honest, how much teaching is really needed? ATMs are pretty intuitive. There is only one slot that could accommodate your card. The numerical buttons are nice and big. Hopefully, you have selected a fairly easy-to-remember four-digit access code and hopefully you have not forgotten what it is. The entire transaction should take just a few minutes (unless the machine keeps your card, which it has been known to do). Even then, after a few open-palm "bangs" on the ATM faceplate, your real beef is with the malevolent forces within the bank itself. But, that guy is having his first rendezvous with an ATM... and it is not going well. From a comfortable and socially-acceptable, privacy-aware distance, you can see that
that guy has pressed
waaay too many buttons after inserting his card. He appears to have canceled his transaction, only to start again, by inserting his card and, again, pressing
double the amount of buttons this time around. He looks as though he is typ
ing a report on a typewriter as opposed to merely entering a four digit number. As your patience wanes, that guy has begun the process of accessing the ATM no less that ten times. In between the fifth and sixth attempts, he turns around and, with mournful puppy-dog eyes, silently requests your help - only to shrug and return to the procedure. It is obviously
that guy's first time at an ATM and here I am.... once again.
Recently, my wife and I accompanied her young cousin to his very first Major League Baseball game. As the game made its way to the late innings, Mrs. P thought it would be a nice idea to get him one of those "My First Baseball Game" certificates that all MLB stadiums offer. It's a cool memento and it's totally free, which is very nice in these days of six-dollar hot dogs and eighteen-dollar beers. A little research on the stadium's website revealed that the certificates are readily available at the Fan Services window which is located a short walk from our seats. We hopped up at the bottom of the seventh inning, excused ourselves and made our way through the concourse to our destination. Navigating through the wandering crowd, we spotted the "Fan Services" sign jutting out from a wall just ahead. There was a woman at the window when we arrived. She must have been
that guy's spouse. Keeping a respectful distance from her, we could see that she was waving her arms and gesturing to the poor young lady on the receiving side of the window.
Mrs. That Guy went on and on and on, flailing her arms, stomping her feet and tapping the window to make her point. "What," I thought to myself, "could have possibly happened to
this woman to warrant such an animated display? I don't believe she was pitching for the home team when back-to-back home runs were given up. I'm sure the manager didn't bench her for not running out an an infield hit. Eventually, she concluded her rant. The young lady behind the counter made a phone call and soon handed
that woman something that made everything all better. Perhaps this was her first baseball game and her expectations were not satisfactorily met. And we were there to witness it.
Everything from self check-out at the supermarket to the simple operation of an automatic door to a traffic signal turning from red to green... I have been lucky enough to get a first-hand, eyewitness view of that guy's first time for everything. We always find each other. Most of the time, though, he's first.
Interestingly, when he is not first and I manage to get a seat in front of him, say at the movies or a concert or sporting event), he lets me know he is there.
How?
He kicks my seat through the whole event.
No comments:
Post a Comment