Do you hear what I hear?

Now, you may not believe this, but I really do try very hard to be nice, to be kind, to be a friend, to be polite, etc. It’s just that I have a great deal of trouble sometimes in doing anything even remotely nice, or kind, or friendly, or polite, etc.

And sometimes, it’s not even really my fault. It isn’t.

It’s just that I’m, every now and again, a tiny beat behind the music.  I’m not even sure I hear any music, so God bless my poor little drummer. Of course, I don’t hear very well, either, and I know that doesn’t help. And if I don’t have my glasses on, I can’t hear anything, period.

That’s not always the bother of it, though.

Most people don’t really say anything worth hearing, anyway, right. You pass by someone on the street, you ask them how they’re doing, but you do not expect them to actually answer you.

But, sometimes, they do. That’s how I missed lunch today. Me and My Big Mouth, asking how people are doing, feigning interest about your wife’s Mexican cornbread recipe. (Ok, ok, that actually did interest me, but just not at that moment). Invariably, talking about recipes always leads to politics. At that point, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. And then I realized that the bathroom was two halls away from the lounge, and so why go to the bathroom, I thought. Just leave the whole building.

So, I did.

We really don’t expect to engage in conversation when you’re just passing by. I mean, the Holy Covenant of Passer-By Conversation is that there isn’t one. It’s a nod of the head; it’s a Fine, How are you?, the typical blatant lie, and then you keep walking.  And that’s a little odd, isn’t it?  (What a sad commentary on our culture – though I’m guilty of it, myself. I just don’t always like to talk to people, I can’t help it). Now, though, I’m thinking I might spend a day next week, being That Guy.

However, my belief is unchanging: A rote thing shouldn’t be a spoken thing. (That, my friends, is an example of half rhyme. Look for it, look for it).

I much prefer (and greatly enjoy more) the Eavesdrop, or the ED. I love hearing bits and snippets of other conversations. They’re a small bit of amusement in my otherwise routine world: the world of Academia. Though, my ivory tower is more like mortar with a chaser of stucco.

But, it’s worth it, if I keep having ED weeks like this one.

I’ve heard the most wonderful and random things this past week on campus. So, let me share, re-share, or overshare, them again, with you. Oh, and forgive the skewed timeline. Once you set foot in Scooba, well — I don’t have an appropriate analogy to put here. Sorry.

I think one of my favorite, favorite ED’s was Monday afternoon.

Two girls were walking down the hall, and the one in the red shirt turned to the one in the redder shirt and asked, “What do you do with your hair, at night?” This is a classic example of what I’m terming the Downtown Dekalb Barbie Syndrome: same shades of red, same purses, same flip-flops (don’t get me started on flip-flops), same use of a Bump-It, and lots and lots of bracelets.

I'd rather not ask, to be honest.

It’s a shame I’ll never know what her response was. But, I was running a little late. (I like to think she washed it and then ironed it before going to bed. Maybe, also, she let her mother brush it for her…with a Bible).

Day before yesterday, I had to drive to my Comp. class; it’s on the other side of the campus, a.k.a. two buildings down. In the parking lot, a young man (in boots and bona fide Wranglers) was telling his buddy (in camo, John Deere cap included) that this weekend they were “going to the river, so don’t be late and this time bring an extra roll of toilet paper and the good skillet.”

I choose not to imagine the correlation between the two, though I feel pretty sure it’s Downtown Dekalb Barbie Syndrome-free.

This morning, I passed by two adults rehashing some apparent budget meeting in which this comment was made (though I’m not sure to what reference): “And I said, Well, excuse me, I didn’t know you had a copyright on the bow tie.”

I’ve decided that probably the only thing left for me to do is to continue to record these delicious bits of dialogue and turn them into a full-fledged play. It won’t make sense, and that’ll be the point. I think I’ll call it Learning How To Scooba Dive.

See what I did there? I used a pun. (Don’t worry the numbness goes away after a few minutes).

Kidding, aside (like, just put it on the desk, by the scissors), I came back from my Comp. I class, with a different pep in my step, and an untied shoelace which almost created an awkward run-in, literally, with the College Algebra professor who was coming in the door, not looking where she was going. Fortunately, the Coke machine caught my stumble and saved the day. Go Coke.

An A+ paper is just a text away.

I’d, at the last minute, decided to embrace this changing culture, and the evolving language issues specifically (because, I have to be honest, I can’t understand what half of my Comp. I students are saying to me. I do try, though, but what can I say? I have van Gogh’s ear for hearing), and so, I assigned my students’ first writing assignment: a brief mini-narrative “Essay, Yousay, We All Say, Essay.”

The catch is that the entire paper must be written in SMS-Texting code. Straight off the cell phone’s keypad.

I’m intrigued to see what they come up with. They certainly got interested, though. Which kinda scares me a little.

Am I giving in? Giving up? Or, am I cutting edge?

I’ll let you know.

I’m sure blood is to be had, either way. If not for the assignment, in and of itself, or from the random tidbits of ED-ing I do…I’m sure my luck has been pressed…and so…

…first thing on Tuesday, I’m bound to get a papercut.

Just you watch.

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I was walking, taking a short cut to my very dull office, via the library; it’s close to my office on campus.  And also, I have several several friends who work in the library, so I was anticipating speaking to one or two of them, namely Amanda, who is my best friend.

And so that’s what I did, and I spoke to her for a few minutes, begged her to bring me some lunch (on Mondays and Fridays I get no lunch hour), and after I’d said my piece, which I can’t even remember at the moment because I’d had no breakfast and thus wasn’t able to concentrate entirely on conversations, I took off for the downstairs door on the first floor, and coming straight at me, in a John Deere cap, a tad askew, and somewhat weathered camouflage coveralls, was a clean shaven young man, about 6’2″, bone thin, with a large bookbag (both shoulder straps on)…snapping.

He was snapping.

This is what he was doing.

Not to earphoned music, nor to a whistle of his own, just snapping, and not even a “hand jive” kinda snap, where both hands work together to create the “beat,” he was randomly snapping, each hand, each set of fingers, completely independent of the other…and he was smiling.

 I’m not so sure he didn’t have pep in his step.

And my first thought, of course, because I’m mean most of the time, was “What is this guy’s problemo?” (and, as you might expect, this would be accompanied by a look of derision, followed by a lagniappe of smirk)…but just as I was about to serve him some social scorn, I stopped.

Our eyes caught for a second, and then, before I could help myself, I smiled at him. I smiled at him and gave him a tiny, ever-so-slight nod of the head, that ever-so-slight nod that quite frankly is the same as saying, “Yes, young man, you’ve done well and deserve to snap and this nod is my way of saying I approve.  And you can’t stop snapping now because I’ve seen you and I know that you are snapping for all of us.” 

And then, I thought, “What am I doing?” but then, you know what… maybe that was the right thing to do because maybe he doesn’t have a problemo, not anymore…maybe he’s already found a solution, or an answer, or that most prized of all places for those weighed down by problemos: sweet, sweet apathy…

I mean, who really cares what you look like, or how you are, or what you do; that you look, or are, or do, at all, is the miracle…besides, who else has a more vested interest in you than You (& your Mama, sometimes, like on Easter Sunday mostly). Heck, if he’s found even one small place in this world where he’s given himself permission to just snap and smile and exist…then, who am I to complain or slander.  

The truth is he’s got some hold on happiness that the rest of us are too timid to take, I’d bet. (Or maybe he’s just “not all there” – if so, then god, would that I could be so lucky).

Thing is, he wasn’t seeking approval; he was being geuine…and though he didn’t need anything from me, by sharing that one genuine moment with me, with everyone he comes across today, with his snapping, he’s getting exactly what he’s putting out there…I mean, I smiled at him, for crying out loud…and it wasn’t really jealousy at his having the wherewithal to snap at will, it was appreciation for his humor, his laissez-faire, his “take on things”…

…and that, if I wanted to, I could be just like him; I’ve got two hands and a whole wide world of things to be grateful for. So why not snap my fingers instead of my attitude? I make too many wrong choices everyday, as it is…so on my way out the downstairs door of the library, I kept my smile front-and-center because I’d seen one of the good guys, you know…a bona fide, down-to-earth, honest-to-goodness good guy. 

And it made me happy.

I guess they haven’t died out, yet, this endangered species. But their numbers are dangerously low.

…though, they might add one more by the end of the day…I’m already grinning just thinking about it. 

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