A Question Of Protocol

July 31, 2008

Dear Miss Manners,

Let me start by saying what a fan I am of your column. I've read it for many years and I believe you provide a great service to society. The stitching, as it were, to the fabric of our civilization is in conducting ourselves with a sense of common decency, civility. The problem I bring to you today is an ordinary one, banal certainly, but I believe, as I'm sure you do, that it is the way we treat each other in the everyday, the ordinary, that defines who we are as people. The manner in which we conduct ourselves in the face of the daily challenge, the 99 cent things, as it were, is what separates us from the, well, people we would like to be separated from I guess is the most judicious way of putting it.

But I'm babbling. Forgive me. My question is this: I'm sorry. Forgive me again. I need to give you a bit of background. I live in a small house that's part of a 6 unit complex of houses. Mine is in the very back, I am obliged to walk between the units to get to my garage, on a narrow sidewalk, its narrowness exacerbated by bushes that have been allowed to grow excessively. This afternoon I was walking the sidewalk towards my garage, and my next door neighbor was walking towards me in the opposite direction. Now, while I am a man of average size, my neighbor is of a size that would make simultaneously sharing a narrow walkway an unwieldy proposition.

My question is: what is the proper course of action in this situation? Courtesy would seem to indicate that I step aside and allow the neighbor to pass unimpeded. However, the overgrown nature of the walkway-lining bushes make this option inconvenient. It could be done, but with not inconsiderable discomfort on my part. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not averse to accepting temporary discomfort in the interests of successfully navigating this kind of social whirlpool, however, would the obviousness of my efforts, particularly if they involved stepping into a thorny bush, be construed as calling attention to the excessive width of my neighbor? How does the civilized man navigate such a situation without causing body image insecurities in my neighbor or risking torn skin or clothing on my own person? And how can this situation be tactfully brought up to my landlord in a manner that causes him to trim the encroaching bushes without, again, shining excessive light on the rotundity of my neighbor? Thank you for your thoughtful response.

Sincerely,

He stopped here. He knew, to get published, he really needed a witty name that somehow referenced his problem. That was how these things worked. But he could not think of anything. There was no humor in this situation.

Francis 1, 1985

My dad went inside the store and I waited, sitting in the car, looking around. I knew he wouldn’t be gone long. I got out of the car, crouching down, walking quietly, hunched over alongside the row of cars. I got to the last one and looked back to the store. He was still inside. I ran to the sidewalk in front of a bank in the corner of the parking lot, peeking around the corner to make sure I hadn’t been seen. Looking down the busy street for an opening in traffic, I ran out across Warner and down the street a couple of hundred yards, making a left turn into a residential area. I slowed down to a jog, trying to stay on the grass close to the houses, looking back to see if I could see his car. I cut across a school, over a fence, into the heart of the neighborhood. I wasn’t worried he’d find me here. I was less than a mile from my friend’s house and I walked through the neighborhood, down the street and across Springdale.

I knocked on the door. Are you supposed to be here, he asked. No, I said. We went into the living room and I sat at the bar, my friend poured us glasses of scotch from his father’s liquor cabinet. We drank. What are you going to do now, he asked. I don’t know, I said. We went into the backyard and sat in chairs in the sun. It was 75 degrees outside and the sky was clear and blue. The ocean was 2 miles away. We sat back, holding our glasses of scotch, talking about 2 girls we had crushes on. They were friends. We called them to see if they were home.

Let Us Now Praise Word Processing Software

As I type this
my computer watches what I'm doing,
leads me not into temptation
but delivers me from spelling and grammatical errors
and it, automatically, through no effort of mine,
makes my i an I,
and I continue to type, but with this thought:
I am thirty nine years old
and my computer has a higher opinion of me
than i do,

this does not reassure me
because i know something that it does not know:
my computer might be able to save the things
that i write,
but it can't save me.

Coenties Alley, July 2008

The clouds were moving
quickly overhead
across the Hudson
and onto Long Island,
the sun was on my face
and I looked across Pearl
at men with cell phones
and women with blackberries
everyone with their heads down
headphones in their ears
covering up the noise of cars, subway trains, helicopters,
beautiful women crossed the street
waiting for taxis to pass,
stepping out into the patched asphalt,
heels clicking on the blacktop,
hands low clutching their skirts,

I peeled and ate a banana I bought from a
street vendor 2 blocks away
I had taken it off a pile of them and given him a dollar
but he didn't have change and he told me I could take
three
and I said to keep the other two and give them to the most beautiful girls
he saw pass by,
the banana was perfect,
the skin yellow in the sunlight
a sticker on it said it was from Colombia,
up the Atlantic and through the busiest
waterways in the world it had traveled,
through stevedores and customs officials
and truckers and wholesalers and warehouses
to a dirty street corner to sit in a box watched by a dirty man.
Thirty five cents: Imagine that!

Lorazepam 2

We had just finished playing go fish, I got up and looked around the room. Laundry, still warm, was piled on the couch, and dishes lay, dirty, in the sink. I took the tshirts out of the laundry and, flicking the larger wrinkles out, laid them in a pile over the armrest of the couch. My son asked me to play with him. A minute, I said. A fan blew in the room, I watched it pivoting, back and forth. My son asked me something, the TV was on, I listened to the sound of the fan, watching it swivel. I checked email on my computer. The boy was talking, looking at me. There was a stack of papers on the counter I needed to go through. All I could hear was the fan whirring, whirring around around around around. This is not right. People don't live like this.

Courtship

It was a Sunday and I met her over at the hotel. We went down the street to Denny’s for a quick bite. We walked in, the manager was behind the counter settling a customer’s check. “I’ll be with you in just a second,” he said. We waited. The manager took the signed credit card receipt back from the customer, knocking over a small silver toothpick dispenser as he slid the receipt under the cash tray. The toothpicks spilled out of the dispenser, rolling onto the counter. The customer left and we walked up to the counter. “Thanks for waiting,” he said. “Two for lunch?” He collected the toothpicks and started loading them back into the dispenser. Just going to put those back in there, aren’t you?, I thought to myself. I looked over and saw her eyes look at the toothpicks strewn on the counter, then at the manager, loading them back in the dispenser, then at me. I smiled. This is the girl for me, I thought.

The Night John Belushi Died

The house I grew up in
was small, old,
there was a living room in the front
with doors that slid,
recessed back into the drywall,
we rarely used it,
the curtains were never open and it was dark outside
and I went in and slid the doors shut behind me,
it was late winter and we shut the vents
to the room to save heat,
I sat in the recliner in the cold,
I was still small and
I rocked back,
then sliding my body back
into the chair,
my feet hitting the floor
only when it rocked forwards,
I was listening to the radio,
an old Westinghouse AM radio,
big as my hand,
there was a small mono headphone that went in one ear
and I listened to music in my left ear
out of my right I could hear my father
moving around the house loudly
me pushing the chair backward in the dark,
head against the backrest,
my small hands holding the big armrests tightly,
very tightly.

Lorazepam 1

I woke up and I knew there was something I hadn't done, something I needed to be doing. I walked into the boy's room and his bed was empty. I looked back and he was laying on the couch, facing me. "What are you doing up, sneaky? Why didn't you wake me?" He just smiled. I opened the pet door and poured out some food for the kitty, then laid down next to the boy. "Can we have five more minutes, Daddy?" he asked. "Sure," I said. He curled up next to me, left hand reaching for my ear, right hand in his mouth. I held onto his foot. He closed his eyes and put his hand up on my chest. I could feel my heart, racing, pounding against his palm.

Thursday Afternoon

I was on my tiptoes, looking down into the ice cream freezer. I couldn't decide whether to get a drumstick, a pushup, a big stick, or a sundae. I pick the sundae and put it on the counter next to my dad's can. I realize I forgot the spoon and run back to the freezer. My dad asks the counterman "Can I get a traveling bag for this?" holding the can up. My arm is sore from two allergy shots I've just gotten. We get in the car and my dad pulls out into traffic. He pushes the paper bag down around the can until the top is exposed, then pulls the tab, pulling it off the can, throwing it out the open window. I watch him drive, sitting up straight, can in his right hand, steering the car with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. The hairs on his arm are blowing in the wind. His face is red against the fading sun.

If Binge Drinking Is Wrong, Then I Don’t Want To Be Right

I walk up to the bar, stumbling into her.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have a number? Can I borrow yours? “

“What?” the girl says.

“No, wait,” I say. “I got that wrong. Lemme try that again.”

Her friends laugh at me. My beer is empty.

And These: Thy Gifts

I’ve got my foot in the front door and she’s squeezing it, trying to get the door shut. This is painful. My shoes are not rigid.

Just talk to me a second, I say.

We’ve got nothing to talk about, she says. She leans on the door. My foot hurts.

All right, you don’t have to talk. Just listen.

I don’t wanna hear anything you have to say, she says.

Okay. Then let’s start with something small, I say. How about not crushing my foot?

She lets go of the door. My foot’s throbbing and I feel like I should have a clod of dirt and a demo vacuum cleaner.

Look. All I’m saying is that once I leave, there’s no turning back, I say. I have 2 days worth of clothes in a backpack over my shoulder.

Okay, she says.

No turning back, I repeat.

She looks at me. Next door a Toyota Camry pulls into the driveway. An elderly lady gets out of the car, sees me. Happy Thanksgiving, she says. I wave.

There’s a point where this becomes a runaway train, I say.

That’s fine, she says. She looks over my shoulder. Curtains are moving in the window of the house across the street.

Once I leave, I begin.

I got it, she says. There’s a stain on the door from a yogurt she threw at me earlier. Inside I can hear my son watching Dora The Explorer.

Are you sure this is what you really want to do? I ask.

Look, I gotta go now. My mom’s coming over in a few minutes.

Okay, I say. But look.

She closes the door. I stand there, looking at it. My neighbor is mowing the same spot on his lawn over and over again. The sun is out. It’s 75 degrees outside.

The door looks at me.

No turning back, I say.

While I Was Waiting For My Turn To Talk

You’re doing it again, she said.

I’m sorry, I say. I don’t mean to.

What are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Don’t confuse a vacant stare with an intense one, I say, reaching for my glass of wine. You’d be surprised at how little is going on in this hat rack.

No, I don’t think I’d be surprised at all by that. But really, what are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Nothing at all. I’m just listening. People tell me I’m a good listener.

They’re lying, she says. You’re not that great a listener. You’re just a good starer. She takes a drink.

I’m sitting in a hotel bar with a friend of mine. We used to go to high school together. We were very close friends sometimes. I haven’t seen her in 18 years.

Everyone needs a talent, I say.

You might want to think about one that’s a little less, you know.

Annoying?

Yes, she says, smiling. Annoying.

Thanks. Remind me to stick you with the bar bill, will you?

That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of you. Where’s your sense of chivalry?

Babe, I say, I’ve got chivalry out the ying yang. Who do you want me to joust for you?

That guy, she says. She points to a man at the bar twice my size.

That guy’s too large. I could joust that lady over there, I say, pointing, leaning back.

What kind of hero are you? she asks.

A selective one, I say. This is why I can’t keep a woman.

That’s the only reason?

No, not really. You’re actually one of a long line of women who’ve complained about the stare, I say.

Women complain about you a lot, don’t they? She relaxes in her high wooden chair.

When I ran my operations unit a few years ago most of the women that worked for me were a little scared of me. I think it was the stare.

You just don’t know what do with the stare, she says. It’s like you’re looking inside me for something.

Is there anything inside of you that I lost?

I’m not sure where to go with that question, she says.

Yeah, I say. Probably best to leave it alone. I retract it.

Thank you.

It was great when I was staffing that office and was interviewing people all the time. If you stare at a person long enough they’ll eventually just start talking because they’re so uncomfortable. I lean forward, elbow on the bar.

Is that what you’re doing to me?

Not at all.

Really?

You’re not looking for me to hire you, are you?

All I’m looking for you to do is quit staring at me, she says, leaning forward.

You have low ambitions, I say. Okay. I’ll look away.

We’re in the town where we grew up. I’m divorced. She’s not. We both have young children. She’s aged gracefully. I have not.

So what happened when these people you’re interviewing started talking?

It was actually really interesting, I say. I learned how to do this out of a Tony Robbins book, of all places. I’d always start my interviews with 15 to 20 minutes of just completely idle chit chat. Talking about anything. Sports. Celebrity gossip. The most empty stuff you can think of. But while I’m doing it, I’m watching the person, their posture, their expression. The way they talk. The words they use. Their cadence. And over 20 minutes or so I’m talking the same way they do. It’s supposed to build rapport, subliminally.

And why do you want to build rapport with them? It’s just a job interview.

Because once you have it then you can turn it to evil uses, I say, as I have another sip of wine.

I can imagine. You’re giving me the look again.

I’m doing no such thing. Now quit interrupting.

I’m sorry, she says. Please, continue. She finishes her glass.

What you do after you follow a person for awhile, building rapport, is then you start trying to lead. You change the way you sit, you speed up, you slow down, and you see if they change along with you.

Do people do that?

Most do. They don’t even notice. And so I spend another 20-30 minutes talking with them, getting them used to following me. But while they’re following me, they’re thinking that this interview has been a huge bunch of nonsense.

Yeah, I’m starting to get that feeling myself, she says.

And this was awhile ago. I was probably 28 when I was doing this. So people naturally looked at me and thought I was too young for my job, and 45 minutes of interviewing with me didn’t help matters any.

Nor does two glasses of wine. But, again, what’s the point in all this?

The point is that a job interview is a battle. You’re trying to present your best face to me, and I’m trying to figure out everything that’s wrong with you. Everyone asks the same questions, and if you’re interviewed enough times you know them and you’ve rehearsed your answers. I want the unrehearsed answers. The bartender brings us each new glasses of wine. We both reach for them.

Weren’t we talking about your staring problem?

I would respectfully disagree with your characterization of it as a problem, but all good things to those who something or other.

Something or other?

I was never any good at remembering details. I’m a big picture guy.

So are you planning on finishing this big picture? she asks.

Barring future interruption, I say.

My lips are sealed, she says.

Anyhoo, the point of all this is that over forty five minutes to an hour I’ve completely lulled you to sleep. You’ve forgotten that what we’re having is fundamentally adversarial conversation, you’ve stopped taking me seriously, but you think that I’m a nice enough guy, and I’ve got you talking like I do, sitting like I do, in many ways behaving like I do. Which is when I can take you anywhere I want you to go.

And where is that?

Then? To my favorite part of the interview. We’re just comfortably rapping, having a nice chat, and when I think you’re ready I sit up, the more abruptly the better, grab your resume and start firing off questions at you. My voice is a little louder, I talk much quicker, I ask short questions and frequently interrupt your answers.

And what does the other person do?

When I did it correctly the person pops up as quickly as I did. It’s like you just threw a bucket of cold water on them. It’s awesome. And a series of short, rapid questions gets them used to chasing you, until you start asking the tougher, open ended questions. And when people answer them, you just stare at them. And by now they’re so uncomfortable that they’ll just start talking. And tell you anything you want to know.

And that really works?

Sometimes, when you do it right, I say. But I’m out of practice. That was a long time ago.

I lean forward suddenly, sitting up in my chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, eyes alert. It was 11:17 at night. A pretty girl was wiping off the top of the walnut bar behind us. Two tables over four men were watching a basketball game. In the Middle East, we were at war. In New York banks were failing. Across the street grunion were washing ashore. Somewhere my child was sleeping. She jumps, leaning forward, looking at me, breathing, waiting.

Laundry

It’s a Saturday,
The sun is up but the doors and windows
Are still closed
And my boy is playing video games in his pajamas

Can you come play with me, Daddy?
He asks
In a few minutes
I say
I’ve got a few more things to do
And I go back to washing dishes

Are you ready to play with me yet?
He asks me again later
As I’m walking out to the dryer
To get some laundry

I can’t just yet, love
I say
But as soon as I get this laundry done
I’ll play with you

And I bring a hamper
Full of laundry
Into the living room
And dump it on the couch
For folding

And I say
I’ll fold it right here
And I can watch you play

Okay, he says
And goes back to his game
Me folding his laundry

But he gets bored playing
Without me
And gets up on the couch
And lays down
While I pick up a tshirt
Shaking out the wrinkles,
And fold it,
And put it in a pile
At the end of the couch

Suddenly I grab his feet
And hold him upside down
Shaking him
Then drop him on the couch
Folding his feet and legs
Up on his chest
Then I pick him up and
Put him on the pile,
Face down and folded
And get another tshirt

He giggles
And says Do that again!

I act surprised
And say Hey!
How’d you get over there on the laundry?
Don’t mess up my pile!
I’m trying to get some chores done here

And he giggles and crawls back
Over to where he was lying
And I go back to folding
Until I pick him up again,
Folding him and putting him back on the shirt pile

He giggles more
And says Again, daddy!

I need to take him back to his mother’s in an hour.