Stealthy exits keep social intercourses friendly. This is a good one.
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On the whole most of us follow the ‘do unto others’ theme in matters of social decorum. We use well-meaning but dismissive comments to conclude social interaction; comments like ‘See you later,’ or, ‘Stay in touch.’ Light touch escape idioms.
Such comments, while weak with substance, accomplish the conclusions of conversations or meetings without offence to the listener. Look, we all know people who tend to drone incessantly without ever taking a breath. Their mantra is: ‘Whoever breathes loses their spot.’
So long are their discourses you almost lose consciousness. Your ears strain for the sound of a ‘comma,’ and you pray—no, you beg—to hear a ‘period’ in their interminable soliloquies. Opportunity is fleeting, so you latch on as soon as you hear one, ‘Been good to see you,’ and you fling over your shoulder a ‘Catch you later’ brushoff as you fade the scene.
The other day I’m sitting at my desk, trying to figure out how to rob Peter to pay Paul with Bitcoins. Because Paul is sure to be calling me, looking to collect the $20 alcohol-infused bet I made on the Super Bowl game. Hint: always take the point spread. I didn’t. Brady let me down.
For practice I rub two nickels together hoping to get a dime, or at least an idea. Sometimes the alchemy works. But not today. I’m hung up on square one. I’d like to keep the $20 bucks in my jeans for another day. Sometimes bets are forgotten. But to welsh on a friendly wager among gentlemen, why, it’s worse than accusing God of keeping a double set of books on your tithes.
Of course, where money is involved, nothing is really a friendly bet, you know. Like playing poker, the bet’s with money. Irrespective of the amount, honor can disappear quickly. Beyond a certain point you cross a threshold where there’s nothing friendly about money.
Downstairs the door opens. Footsteps shamble ponderously up the stairs into my second story office. It’s not Paul. It’s Bob, my political pundit. He’s a man who dines daily on a menu of doom and gloom. He even brushes his teeth with ‘did-you-hear’ salacious street gossip and wears a ‘Tweet Me’ pin on his lapel.
He swaggers in like a popinjay who’s picking through the merchandise in a New Orleans cathouse. He plops down, frowns and holds his head in his hands. I know what’s coming. Even before ‘Hello,’ his torrent of words begins.
“I’m here to tell you, we’re done for now, the republic is finished, over, nobody’s in charge in DC, Congress has packed up, headed home, the government has officially shut down, the Dow has collapsed, the banks are closing their doors, the computer systems have all failed, our money has been confiscated, riots everywhere, North Korea has invaded, aliens swarm over the borders, get your guns loaded, it’s coming here, I just heard the causeway is being barricaded, a tsunami is predicted, the moon is not full yet…”
Finally, he takes a breath. I seize my opportunity. “Bob, Bob, breathe, get control of yourself. You’ve been listening to Orson Welles, you dummy, a replay of ‘War of the Worlds.’”
“Huh?” He hands me a question mark. I take it.
“That’s right. It was advertised on PBS. Things are fine.”
“Whew for a minute I thought…” He slumps in the chair, rubs his chin. “Well, did you hear about...”. Before his verbal effluent begins, I slap the desk. The noise startles him. I stand up.
“Bob, I have a great idea. Let’s have lunch soon, and you can tell me all about it. I’m dying to know. Now, let me walk out with you. And stay in touch, you hear?” And so goes this wonderful but meaningless dismissal of Bob. We’ll both rest easier.
Later, back at my desk, I flip a quarter; heads I call Paul, tails I delay. It’s heads. I call him. “Paul, you lucky devil. Bookies were heavy on Brady. You sneaked by.”
“Yeah, lucky me. Now about squaring up on our little bet. I believe you lost, brother.”
“I was thinking about that. Let’s have lunch soon. I love you, brother.”
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Sometimes a delay is victory in disguise. Perhaps ‘I love you’ is the ultimate send-off that everyone likes to hear but no one really believes.
Gotta run. Nature’s calling. See ya later.
Bud Hearn
February 9, 2018