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

okhel tatzipornaim (אוכל ת'ציפורניים)

My dad had some traits that I have made a conscious effort not to carry on. He was a bigot. He was a liar. He was minimally educated. I like to think that I have risen above these shortcomings, as I don't label or compartmentalize people based on outdated and unfounded stereotypes. I don't lie. I am a voracious consumer of knowledge. Not necessarily useful knowledge, but knowledge just the same.

My dad had other traits that, because of genes and DNA and other physiological make-up of which I am no expert, I inherited. First of all, I look like my dad. It was not so apparent when I was younger, but now that I am approaching the age at which my father passed away, I am startled every time I look in the mirror. When I am innocently combing my thinning hair (just like my dad's), I see his all-too familiar face starting back at me and it is very unnerving.

My father had a very distinct way of walking. My mom regularly pointed out the comical display of watching my dad and me walk together. She said it was like watching two intoxicated ducks, alluding to the peculiar way we both shuffled along, knees bent, throwing our feet askew — toes pointed out and to the side.

My father was a nail biter. A chronic nail biter. Either consciously or unconsciously, he would gnaw on his fingertips for hours. This was quite an accomplishment for him, because my father was a four-pack-a-day smoker, as well. But, somehow, between cigarettes, he managed to self-trim his fingernails down to grubby, jagged nubs. Unfortunately, I inherited this disgusting habit from my father. It was something I had no control over. Sometimes, I didn't even realize I was doing it. My mother would slap my hands away from my mouth and scold me. "Stop it!," she'd warn, "Take your fingers out of your mouth." I'd stop... only to find myself chewing on my fingernails within minutes of a recent reprimand.

Mine were worse.

To be honest, I was aware of how truly disgusting this habit was. Sometimes, I would chew my nails so badly, so deeply, that my fingertips would bleed around my cuticles. Sometimes, they would get infected. My mom would squeeze some kind of ointment on the affected area and cover it with a Band-Aid, thus preventing further chewing... at least until it healed. But, as soon as the bandage was off, that neglected nail was back in my mouth for an orally-administered manicure. In school, with no one to bother me, I would chew and chew on my nails all day... from the bus ride in to school, at my desk, at recess and on the ride back home. No one said anything to me about my nasty habit and my fingernails reflected it. When I got home, my mom would, once again, try in vain to stop — or at least curb — my ungual appetite.

As I got older, my mom just gave up. She tried for years to get me to stop biting my fingernails, until she finally gave in. She stopped cautioning me, hoping that soon a girlfriend or wife would take up the mantle.

Well, her wish came true. My girlfriend — who later became my wife, the celebrated Mrs. Pincus — was just as disgusted by my propensity to chomp on my digits. She was also just as determined as my mom (maybe even more so) to get me to stop. She thought nothing of physically pulling my hands away from my mouth. She routinely admonished my finger-in-mouth obsession, to little avail. My fingernails still exhibited the result of long periods of oblivious nibbling. Luckily, my son did not pick up my and my father's legacy. He did, however, join in the crusade to put a halt to my manual appendage munching.

Nice try, Madge.

One late evening, my wife and I were watching David Letterman's talk show. His guest that night was the one and only Madonna at the very pinnacle of her popularity. It was Madonna's first appearance on Letterman's show after a much-publicized pursuit. She took to a seat on the sofa alongside Dave, amid thunderous applause. I remember that she was very stand-offish and leery of Dave's infamous sarcasm. I also remember that she bit her nails profusely, often answering Dave's queries from behind a mouthful of hand. It was disgusting. I thought "Is that how I look?" After that show, I became very aware of when I was biting my nails... and I stopped.

Until I started again.

I found it very difficult to stop my nail-biting. I likened it to someone trying to quit smoking. Although I didn't smoke, I knew plenty of people who did. Some of whom successfully quit (like my mom) and some who half-heartedly quit, only to start up again (like my dad). I had been biting my nails for as long as I could remember, so stopping just like that was not going to be easy. Even Madonna was powerless to help.

I began to experience some dental issues, stemming from the hundreds of Snickers bars I consumed as a child. I was visiting the dentist on a regular basis to correct the damaged I caused. Some of my teeth were drilled and filled, others were filed and capped. All in all, my teeth were not as strong as they once were. While my dentist was doing her best to help my teeth maintain what little strength they had, it was obvious that a constant workout of chewing the alpha-keratin plates at the tips of my fingers had to stop. And — just like that, after decades — I stopped biting my nails.

But it doesn't end there.

Evidently, I don't trim my fingernails as often as my wife and my son would like. Yes, it's true, I no longer bite my nails, but the length at which I keep my nails is still an issue. While the nails remain — currently unscathed — at the tips of my fingers, my idea of a reasonable length and my family's idea of a reasonable length at which they should be kept differ greatly.

But, at least I don't bite 'em anymore. One battle at a time.

For illustration purposes only.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com