it's too late

I have been working at my current job at a South Jersey commercial printer for three and a half years. Every morning, I leave my house at the same time. I drive the same route... mostly... unless there is a scheduled opening at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, in which case, I take the far less traveled Betsy Ross Bridge that eventually takes me to the same place on Route 130 in Pennsauken, New Jersey. I drive into the nearly-empty parking lot at work around 7 AM, just in time to see the small night shift climbing into their cars. I punch my entrance code into the keypad at the door and enter. I walk through the cavernous printing plant, a building roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The printing presses are whirring madly and spitting out stacks and stacks of full-color advertisements for supermarkets up and down the East coast. Some of the presses are a little smaller than a football field, allowing the operator to actually enter the press to fix a paper jam or check the flow of ink. I follow a designated walkway, cordoned off from the bustling "print floor" by a series of guard rails. I am kept safe from a potential run-in with one of the many forklifts arranging and rearranging wrapped pallets stacked with printed circulars. Just before I punch another code into another keypad allowing me access to the pre-press area where my computer sits on my desk, I wave "hello" to a guy in the Shipping Department.

Since Day One, this guy — a pleasant looking fellow always sporting a backwards baseball cap with the company logo emblazoned across the front... er... back — is hunched over his computer screen, diligently striking the keyboard and checking his entry against an LED readout on a nearby scale, piled high with taped cardboard boxes. But, he always raises his glance and pauses his work to offer a "good morning" to me, usually accompanied by a single, friendly wave of his open hand. I, of course, return the greeting with a "how you doin'?," consciously changing my words, so as not to sound like an unimaginative parrot. I open the door to my department and that's the last he'll see of me until I have determined that all my work for the day has been completed and I decide to head home.

I shut down the internet and all open programs on my computer, grab my cellphone from its charging pad and start towards to door. When I open the door, there's the guy. Right where I left him, Still hunched over his computer screen and still check the corresponding weight of a different stack of boxes on the scale. As I pass, I wave and say, "See ya! Have a good night!" He replies, "Have a good night. See you tomorrow." Except on Fridays, when his parting message includes a direct request for me to have a good weekend.

And that's it. This has gone on every single working day since May 4, 2021. Over the course of time, our conversation has briefly — briefly — included short discussions about the various t-shirt designs I have worn to work and a couple of times we talked about the previous night's Phillies game. Aside from that, it's been just "Good morning" and "good evening." and that is all.

Oh... did I mention that I don't know this guy's name?

Hey!

In the late 90s, there was a sitcom on ABC called Spin City. It was a fictional and comedic portrayal of everyday activities in the office of the Mayor of New York City. The show first starred Michael J. Fox, until the ravages of Parkinson's Disease affected his physical and vocal abilities. He was replaced in the show's final seasons by Charlie Sheen. The show featured an ensemble cast, filling the various roles of the Mayor's staff. Among the characters was the Mayor's timid and gullible speech writer James, played by actor Alexander Chaplin. In one episode, James was strolling down the hall while conversing with press secretary Paul Lassiter (Our first exposure to ubiquitous character actor Richard Kind). As they talked, they passed a guy carrying a stack of papers. James says, "Hey!" to the guy and the guy says "Hey!" back. Paul interrupts himself to ask James "Who was that?" to which James replied, "Oh! That's my 'Hey!' guy." Paul is confused, even after James offers a lengthy explanation about how he sees this guy everyday. He doesn't know his name or where in City Hall he works or what he does or who he works for. But, when they see each other in the hall, they heartily exchange "'Hey's." The explanation doesn't really satisfy Paul's inquiry, but he lets it go because James is decidedly on the quirky side. At the episode's conclusion, I believe that James becomes upset because his "Hey!" guy got another job.

I believe that the guy in the shipping department has been working for my employer for many years. I never asked his name, though. Nor will I. I will just continue to say "good morning" in the morning and "good evening" in the evening.

I think 42 months is too much time passed for me ask his name now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another expert

This past Tuesday, my son E. and I went to see singer-songwriter Stan Ridgway in concert at the Tin Angel, a small venue on the second floor of a restaurant in center city Philadelphia. Stan, for those (read: most) unfamiliar, was the leader of the quirky 80s band Wall of Voodoo, most famous for their MTV-heyday era hit "Mexican Radio". Stan has had a 27-year solo career since severing ties with Wall of Voodoo, releasing eleven albums and acquiring a passionate cult following. Stan rarely tours outside of California, but E. and I have been lucky enough to see him live several times. (Yeah, we number ourselves among that cult.)

After dinner and twelve dollars worth of ice cream from the quaint and old-timey Franklin Fountain, E. and I hiked over to the Tin Angel. The street entrance to the Tin Angel opens to a long and steep staircase that leads to the narrow and intimate second-story performance room. Having arrived an hour or so before the official showtime, we took our place in the small queue line that had begun forming.

Ahead of us on the stairs, we soon found out, was the world's foremost expert and authority on all things Stan Ridgway. He was with a younger woman and another man sporting a souvenir t-shirt from a previous Stan Ridgway tour. (I sarcastically lamented to my son that I had forgotten to wear my Stan Ridgway shirt. Now, how would he know I was there to see him if I wasn't properly labeled.) As we stood and waited, the expert expounded on Stan's career, highlighting various other musicians he had played with and carefully name-checking albums from early in Stan's discography. He related stories he had read about the inspirations for songs and appearances Stan had made on foreign music programs in the 80s and 90s. He dropped the names of Stan's influences and collaborators and haughtily announced what he predicted to be the set-list for this evening's show. His two companions seemed about as impressed by his vast knowledge and insider information as E. and I were from our eavesdropping. Not content with spewing little-known tidbits about the evening's headliner, he began a lengthy dissertation chronicling the multitude of performers whose autographed photos graced the wall of the stairwell. His comrades were not nearly as dazzled by his insight as he was, as the expressions on their faces betrayed their indifference. After a lull in his monologue, he returned to the subject of Stan Ridgway by asking his male sidekick, "What's your favorite Stan Ridgway song?"  I was hoping he'd direct the question to me, as my answer would have been, "Hmmmm, that's a difficult one, but I'd have to say I'm kind of partial to... Fuck you, asshole."

It's interesting that I seem to encounter one of these guys at every concert I attend. Every concert seems to have a pre-show band expert placed in the crowd within earshot of me. The expert is there to inform his entourage of live music greenhorns about the show they are about to see. He will tell of the past shows he has seen and rank them in ascending order of entertainment "wow factor". He will prepare his pals for disappointment, as this show can't possibly match the performance he saw the band give in July 19-whatever. He knows every note and every word to every song and will sing along with each one — straining his voice to heard above the crowd as though he was asked to duet. If this guy's behavior doesn't seem familiar, well then, you are probably that guy.

that guy

Do you know that guy? Of course you do. You've seen him before. I see him everywhere, and I know you do too. I've seen him in the mornings when I'm waiting for the train that takes me to work. Then, he's on the train. There's several of him on the train as a matter of fact. He's got his bag on the seat next to him, not allowing anyone to share his seat. He also eating something big and sloppy and totally inappropriate for the morning commute.

I've seen him on vacation, unhappily accompanying the family that he hates through a theme park or other tourist destination. He is sad. Sad about being there. Sad about being there with his family. Sad about the hand life has dealt him.

I've seen him at the supermarket, wanting to purchase that giant bag of barbecue potato chips, only to be told by his wife that he cannot get them. "They are not good for you," she berates him, as she drops a half-gallon of gourmet specialty ice cream into their shopping cart.

I've seen him in a restaurant, sitting at a table while his kids scream and yell and climb under the table and wander off to stand and stare next to someone else's table. Then they announce the need to visit the bathroom. His wife won't move her ass, insisting "I took them to the bathroom last time. Now it's your turn." He just wants to order three hot fudge sundaes and eat them at another table. In another restaurant.

I've seen him at my job, hunched over a desk, fighting back sleep, keying wrong information into a spreadsheet. He is neither qualified for nor pleased to be doing his job. And he lies to his family about what sort of job he has and his level of importance within the company.

I know you've seen that guy. Just look around. He's there.