So a funny thing happened to me on the way to this livejournal post
OH GOD YESSSSS I am going to see KYLIE when she comes to America in September. For those of you who don't know, I love Kylie Minogue more than a flaming homosexual man loves, uh, Kylie Minogue. Her music always makes me want to cry and masturbate at the same time.
Unrelated, as some of you know, I'm working a temp job doing address canvassing for the US census. Allow me to explain, if, like the leathery soccermom in the SUV that harassed me today, you have never heard of the census. Every ten years, the US government has a census, wherein they count people. Why do they do this? Oh, I'm sure they have some valid, non-sinister reason or it, so don't worry about it.* The actual census is happening next year, I'm in involved in the initial address canvassing operation wherein they check that the addresses they used back in the 200 census are still accurate. Anyway, because this is a big operation, the government needs temp workers and they only hire the best and the brightest, by which I mean people who have valid drivers' licenses and also can spell their own names. Also, you have to pass a rigorous one week training program, complete with a realllly hard test at the end which they tell you answers to ahead of time. No, really, they do.
ANYWAY, I was out on the town doing some censoring the other day. I was walking down the street, tapping numbers into my handy dandy governt-issued handheld computer, when I pass by this old man sitting in the middle of the street. He's sitting in one of those walker things -- you know the sort, it's walker with a little seat built into it, so that you can sit down when you're tired of hobbling along. Since I pass right by him, I give him a nod and say "Hey."
We then have this conversation:
Me: Hey.
Old Man: How are you?
Me: Fine, you?
Old Man: What?
Me: I'm fine, you?
Old Man: (blank stare)
Me: I was saying I'm doing good...
Old Man: (stares)
you know..it's nice out...good weather...um...
Old Man: I said how are you?
Me: Yeah, fine and - bye.
So I walk on quickly because I didn't want to give him another opportunity to be confused by a standard greeting. Besides, I had a job to do. But I walk about two blocks down the street (these were pretty short blocks since this was a small residential street) and I suddenly hear this plaintive voice crying out, "Help me! Please! Please help! Oh God! Please help me!"
I turn around and I see the old man hobbling toward me. I rush back, thinking he might have some sort of medical emergency. We then have another confusing conversation.
Me: What's wrong? What's going on?
Old Man: My knees.... my knees hurt! They hurt so bad!
Me: Oh...I'm sorry?
Old Man: They really hurt!
Me: Do you.. do you need me to call someone?
Old Man: I need to get Longs Drugs! (I wasn't local to this area, but I had seen the Longs Drugs as I was passing through. It was a couple blocks away, across a busy highway.) I need to get to Longs! My knees...they cut them open...they did surgery...I need to get to the bus stop. Please, help me!
Me: You need me to get you to the bus?
Old Man: Yes, I need to get to the bus stop by the Jack in the Box! Please...put your arm around me. Just...I need support.
Me: Okay.
So I put my arm around him to try and support him as he stumbles toward the Jack in the Box (again, about a block away). He was very sweaty. He also had an overpowering smell that I can only compare to rancid yogurt. After a few feet, he starts wheezing and insists that he needs to sit down.
Old Man: I need to sit. I need to sit. Oh God. My knees. They hurt so bad. I just need to get to Longs.
Me: You need to get to Longs?
Old Man: Yes, I need to get to Longs.
Me: So you need to get to the bus stop at the Jack in the box to take the bus to Longs?
Old Man: No! I need to get to Longs!
Me: So not the bus stop?
Old Man: I live around teh corner. My son took the car. No, the Bronco. he took the Bronco.
Me: Are you sure you want to go to Longs? If your knees hurt, maybe you should go home and wait for your son to come back with the car.
Old Man: No, I need to get to Longs.
(A van pulls into the Jack in the Boz drive-through across the street)
Old Man: That's my wife.
Me: In the van?
Old Man: Yes....she's mad at me now.
Me: Do you want me to go get her?
Old Man: No..no, she's mad at me. She won't pick me up.
(The van pulls out and srives past us. The old man waves but it doens't stop)
Old Man: I knew she wouldn't pick me up. She's so mad at me now!
At this point, he starts crying. This was a tad awkward. I was reasonably sure by now that there was more wrong with him than just his knees and I was skeptical as to whether the person in the van really was his wife. Anyway, I again tried to dissuade him from going to Longs, partly because I didn't think he'd be able to make it across a busy highway if he couldn't hobble along for more than a few feet without collapsing in pain and partly because I didn't want to make that trip with a sweaty, rotten milk-smelling guy leaning on my shoulder the whole way. But he starts up again, so I have to keep supporting him so he doesn't fall over. A few minutes later he needs to sit again and as I help him down, he notices my wedding ring.
"You're married?" he says.
"Oh, yeah," I say.
"How long?"
"About three years."
"I've been married for....for...." He gets that same blank stare again, so I prompt him, saying "A long time, huh?" He starts crying again.
Luckily, at that point, some other guy walks up and asks what's going on. The old man recognizes this new guy and tells me that it's fine and that I can go. So I do. Hmm, this story is kind of anticlimactic now that I think about it. That's the problem with real life. Maybe I should have made up a more satisfying ending.
* It's so they know where you keep your guns.
Unrelated, as some of you know, I'm working a temp job doing address canvassing for the US census. Allow me to explain, if, like the leathery soccermom in the SUV that harassed me today, you have never heard of the census. Every ten years, the US government has a census, wherein they count people. Why do they do this? Oh, I'm sure they have some valid, non-sinister reason or it, so don't worry about it.* The actual census is happening next year, I'm in involved in the initial address canvassing operation wherein they check that the addresses they used back in the 200 census are still accurate. Anyway, because this is a big operation, the government needs temp workers and they only hire the best and the brightest, by which I mean people who have valid drivers' licenses and also can spell their own names. Also, you have to pass a rigorous one week training program, complete with a realllly hard test at the end which they tell you answers to ahead of time. No, really, they do.
ANYWAY, I was out on the town doing some censoring the other day. I was walking down the street, tapping numbers into my handy dandy governt-issued handheld computer, when I pass by this old man sitting in the middle of the street. He's sitting in one of those walker things -- you know the sort, it's walker with a little seat built into it, so that you can sit down when you're tired of hobbling along. Since I pass right by him, I give him a nod and say "Hey."
We then have this conversation:
Me: Hey.
Old Man: How are you?
Me: Fine, you?
Old Man: What?
Me: I'm fine, you?
Old Man: (blank stare)
Me: I was saying I'm doing good...
Old Man: (stares)
you know..it's nice out...good weather...um...
Old Man: I said how are you?
Me: Yeah, fine and - bye.
So I walk on quickly because I didn't want to give him another opportunity to be confused by a standard greeting. Besides, I had a job to do. But I walk about two blocks down the street (these were pretty short blocks since this was a small residential street) and I suddenly hear this plaintive voice crying out, "Help me! Please! Please help! Oh God! Please help me!"
I turn around and I see the old man hobbling toward me. I rush back, thinking he might have some sort of medical emergency. We then have another confusing conversation.
Me: What's wrong? What's going on?
Old Man: My knees.... my knees hurt! They hurt so bad!
Me: Oh...I'm sorry?
Old Man: They really hurt!
Me: Do you.. do you need me to call someone?
Old Man: I need to get Longs Drugs! (I wasn't local to this area, but I had seen the Longs Drugs as I was passing through. It was a couple blocks away, across a busy highway.) I need to get to Longs! My knees...they cut them open...they did surgery...I need to get to the bus stop. Please, help me!
Me: You need me to get you to the bus?
Old Man: Yes, I need to get to the bus stop by the Jack in the Box! Please...put your arm around me. Just...I need support.
Me: Okay.
So I put my arm around him to try and support him as he stumbles toward the Jack in the Box (again, about a block away). He was very sweaty. He also had an overpowering smell that I can only compare to rancid yogurt. After a few feet, he starts wheezing and insists that he needs to sit down.
Old Man: I need to sit. I need to sit. Oh God. My knees. They hurt so bad. I just need to get to Longs.
Me: You need to get to Longs?
Old Man: Yes, I need to get to Longs.
Me: So you need to get to the bus stop at the Jack in the box to take the bus to Longs?
Old Man: No! I need to get to Longs!
Me: So not the bus stop?
Old Man: I live around teh corner. My son took the car. No, the Bronco. he took the Bronco.
Me: Are you sure you want to go to Longs? If your knees hurt, maybe you should go home and wait for your son to come back with the car.
Old Man: No, I need to get to Longs.
(A van pulls into the Jack in the Boz drive-through across the street)
Old Man: That's my wife.
Me: In the van?
Old Man: Yes....she's mad at me now.
Me: Do you want me to go get her?
Old Man: No..no, she's mad at me. She won't pick me up.
(The van pulls out and srives past us. The old man waves but it doens't stop)
Old Man: I knew she wouldn't pick me up. She's so mad at me now!
At this point, he starts crying. This was a tad awkward. I was reasonably sure by now that there was more wrong with him than just his knees and I was skeptical as to whether the person in the van really was his wife. Anyway, I again tried to dissuade him from going to Longs, partly because I didn't think he'd be able to make it across a busy highway if he couldn't hobble along for more than a few feet without collapsing in pain and partly because I didn't want to make that trip with a sweaty, rotten milk-smelling guy leaning on my shoulder the whole way. But he starts up again, so I have to keep supporting him so he doesn't fall over. A few minutes later he needs to sit again and as I help him down, he notices my wedding ring.
"You're married?" he says.
"Oh, yeah," I say.
"How long?"
"About three years."
"I've been married for....for...." He gets that same blank stare again, so I prompt him, saying "A long time, huh?" He starts crying again.
Luckily, at that point, some other guy walks up and asks what's going on. The old man recognizes this new guy and tells me that it's fine and that I can go. So I do. Hmm, this story is kind of anticlimactic now that I think about it. That's the problem with real life. Maybe I should have made up a more satisfying ending.
* It's so they know where you keep your guns.