I usually try to respect the privacy of the people I pick up. It means a lot to me to preface personal questions regarding medical problems with, "It's none of my business at all, but..." or "Don't feel the need to answer this, I'm just curious..." I don't ask the young ladies coming from the women's clinic anything about where I picked them up at. I don't ask people in wheelchairs how they ended up in thier chair.
The reason for all of this? Because an uncomfortable ride with someone who doesn't like you is a lot longer than a quiet, yet amiable ride; and I'm all about keeping my rides short.
On the other hand, given that I know how to phrase a medical question just so as to not give people any problems, I also know how to make someone feel fairly uncomfortable by pretending to act dumb and asking simple questions. I imagine everyone has this ability, I just happen to be put in the situation where I can use this power for good. (If you can't tell, I've been reading the comic books again. What can I say, Captain America is dead. Somebodies got to take his place.)
He came out of his apartment building. Mid twenties, roughly 260lbs, Oakley sunglasses, camouflage shorts, tight black T-shirt (accentuating the spare tire around his waist), shiny (really shiny) infantry boots, and a high and tight haircut (a good one too.) I was assuming him to be former military. Army or Marines. Definitely not Navy. (I didn't shine my boots when I was in the service, and there would be no way that I would do it now that I'm out.)
He lugged a huge bag and some laundry detergent, and threw all of it in the back as he said gruffly, "gotta do the woman's work today."
huh?
"I already think you dress and present yourself like a jerk-off, but now you're going to try and come off like you're too good to do your own laundry because you've got a penis?" Was my thought.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed that he was a veteran from Iraq and that he was a little dinged the head because of it when, before I could even get used to not disliking him he started talking about how he's going into the army as soon as his medical waiver comes in.
He wasn't even in yet and was already acting like a prick. That's unacceptable. If you're active duty or deployed guard, by all means, say whatever it is you want to say...but I don't like wannabes acting and dressing tough, saying dumb sexist things cause it makes them feel more manly, and carrying on like they know a damn thing; and this is when I started using my powers on him by asking simple questions. (Out of respect or his privacy, I won't write his responses, trust me, it's embarrassing...)
"Medical waiver, huh? What for?"
"When you think you'll ship out? Oh that long?"
"Better keep your nose clean man...I remember when I got to basic, all kinds of guys got kicked out for having drugs in their system."
"Do you really think it works like that, cause I just got out of the Navy after five years and have never heard of anything like that."
"Do you really think the doctor was lying to you?"
It was a long and painful trip, but by the time we got to the laundromat, I could see by the look on his face that his ego had been taken down a peg or two, and from only a few simple questions.
Hubris is a word, and it can only be cut down by other words. Generally women are pretty good at doing that sort of thing, as they have to be sometimes when it comes to men; but when it comes to a moron like that guy, I was glad to be doing some woman's work.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Greatest Hits
Being that I'm coming off of spring break week, it's a pretty lame excuse to say that I've got too much studying to get to to write, so I'm not going to phone this one in. (Besides, I was beginning to hear complaints.)
Today, work was like a greatest hits package featuring several people whom I have written about. I guess with the nicer weather people are finally thinking it's safe to come outdoors - or something. Whatever the reason is, it's been busier than I would like, which can be a pain, but I guess that it's all just part of Spring.
Speaking of Spring, Vernal Equinox is tomorrow...time to take down the damn Christmas decorations if you haven't already. For Christ's sake, please take down the Christmas decorations.
Anyway...as with everyday, Drunk W went home from the bar at four in the afternoon, and as always, after he plopped down in the passenger seat and started fiddling with the seat belt, (just to eventually grumble, "aww, hell with it," and give up on safety) I asked him how his day was going,
"Depends on what I get in the mail."
I told him that I understood and I thought out loud about how interesting it is that other people can affect one's day at the drop of the hat. (I mean, really, how often is that we really are in control of how nice a day we are having? Almost never.)
"Yep, there's still plenty of daylight left for someone to piss me off," was his response.
A half hour after I got Drunk W home, it was Mrs. G. It had been over a month since me and Mrs. G had seen each other, and the last time I drove her it was a very eye-opening and uncomfortable experience for both us, and I have been thinking of her and that Sunday morning often since it happened.
Every time that I work, I serve a disabled person of one sort or another. I see a lot of people in wheelchairs. I see the kind of people who use wheelchairs. Now, I tread on dangerous ground here, especially considering that I have no medical training whatsoever, but it seems to me that there are three different types of people who need wheelchairs: The first kind is the obvious kind, those who have lost their legs or had spinal damage. Basically, those who will never get better. The second kind are those who have degenerated to the point that they need one, the massively elderly and those with debilitating ailments that you just don't get rid of, like advanced Multiple Sclerosis. The second kind don't get better either.
The third kind is a little more tricky. Those who have had medical ailments at one point or another and ended up in a wheelchair, but gave up. They could've rehabilitated, some still can, but the effort involved is too great and they settle into that chair...and stay there. I am by no means criticizing these people, for many have been matched up against an adversity that I can never (and hopefully will never have to) understand or conceive, but it was preventable at some point, and that's a drag.
I see the third kind probably once a week (usually on Sundays for some reason)
and it always makes me think of Mrs. G. She belongs to the second group, but still tries to work that walker of hers. I know she has a wheelchair (a motorized one.)
I've seen her in it, but she hasn't given up on her walking yet, and even though it's a pain in the butt every time I have to pick her up, I hope she never does.
I usually bite my tongue about things like this, but this time I'm not going to: There is something so utterly american about people who didn't need to be in wheelchairs settling into them while others who do need them go without because they think that they can persevere.
but anyways...
Right after I dropped off Mrs. G, I found out that I was picking up The Grocery Shopper whom I've actually written about twice. I drive into his yard and start eyeing the mammoth dog that I may have to get around to knock on this guy's door so I can tell him that his cab is here, which happens roughly every time this guy needs to be picked up. I wait the arbitrary five minutes and was contemplating just saying to hell with it and driving off when the front door swung open abruptly. All of the sudden The Grocery Shopper is standing there waving his hands.
Call me crazy, but when somebody is waving their hands I generally think something is wrong. I quickly got out and started running towards the house thinking the worse (like I was going to find the guys care-giver lying there in a pool of blood or something.) Turns out he was waving for me to drive off,
"I can't find my billfold. I guess you can go."
Before I can even think about what I'm saying I say, "do you need help finding it?"
"You can't come into my house, and if you try I'm going to beat you up."
I left.
The rest of the shift was pretty much uneventful, so I guess that's it. Didn't phone it in this time, did I?
Incidentally, it is March 19th. The four year anniversary of the Iraq War. Four years ago today I was in the Red Sea taking part in the launching of tomahawk missiles at Iraq. Amazing where life takes you, huh?
Today, work was like a greatest hits package featuring several people whom I have written about. I guess with the nicer weather people are finally thinking it's safe to come outdoors - or something. Whatever the reason is, it's been busier than I would like, which can be a pain, but I guess that it's all just part of Spring.
Speaking of Spring, Vernal Equinox is tomorrow...time to take down the damn Christmas decorations if you haven't already. For Christ's sake, please take down the Christmas decorations.
Anyway...as with everyday, Drunk W went home from the bar at four in the afternoon, and as always, after he plopped down in the passenger seat and started fiddling with the seat belt, (just to eventually grumble, "aww, hell with it," and give up on safety) I asked him how his day was going,
"Depends on what I get in the mail."
I told him that I understood and I thought out loud about how interesting it is that other people can affect one's day at the drop of the hat. (I mean, really, how often is that we really are in control of how nice a day we are having? Almost never.)
"Yep, there's still plenty of daylight left for someone to piss me off," was his response.
A half hour after I got Drunk W home, it was Mrs. G. It had been over a month since me and Mrs. G had seen each other, and the last time I drove her it was a very eye-opening and uncomfortable experience for both us, and I have been thinking of her and that Sunday morning often since it happened.
Every time that I work, I serve a disabled person of one sort or another. I see a lot of people in wheelchairs. I see the kind of people who use wheelchairs. Now, I tread on dangerous ground here, especially considering that I have no medical training whatsoever, but it seems to me that there are three different types of people who need wheelchairs: The first kind is the obvious kind, those who have lost their legs or had spinal damage. Basically, those who will never get better. The second kind are those who have degenerated to the point that they need one, the massively elderly and those with debilitating ailments that you just don't get rid of, like advanced Multiple Sclerosis. The second kind don't get better either.
The third kind is a little more tricky. Those who have had medical ailments at one point or another and ended up in a wheelchair, but gave up. They could've rehabilitated, some still can, but the effort involved is too great and they settle into that chair...and stay there. I am by no means criticizing these people, for many have been matched up against an adversity that I can never (and hopefully will never have to) understand or conceive, but it was preventable at some point, and that's a drag.
I see the third kind probably once a week (usually on Sundays for some reason)
and it always makes me think of Mrs. G. She belongs to the second group, but still tries to work that walker of hers. I know she has a wheelchair (a motorized one.)
I've seen her in it, but she hasn't given up on her walking yet, and even though it's a pain in the butt every time I have to pick her up, I hope she never does.
I usually bite my tongue about things like this, but this time I'm not going to: There is something so utterly american about people who didn't need to be in wheelchairs settling into them while others who do need them go without because they think that they can persevere.
but anyways...
Right after I dropped off Mrs. G, I found out that I was picking up The Grocery Shopper whom I've actually written about twice. I drive into his yard and start eyeing the mammoth dog that I may have to get around to knock on this guy's door so I can tell him that his cab is here, which happens roughly every time this guy needs to be picked up. I wait the arbitrary five minutes and was contemplating just saying to hell with it and driving off when the front door swung open abruptly. All of the sudden The Grocery Shopper is standing there waving his hands.
Call me crazy, but when somebody is waving their hands I generally think something is wrong. I quickly got out and started running towards the house thinking the worse (like I was going to find the guys care-giver lying there in a pool of blood or something.) Turns out he was waving for me to drive off,
"I can't find my billfold. I guess you can go."
Before I can even think about what I'm saying I say, "do you need help finding it?"
"You can't come into my house, and if you try I'm going to beat you up."
I left.
The rest of the shift was pretty much uneventful, so I guess that's it. Didn't phone it in this time, did I?
Incidentally, it is March 19th. The four year anniversary of the Iraq War. Four years ago today I was in the Red Sea taking part in the launching of tomahawk missiles at Iraq. Amazing where life takes you, huh?
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Now, why don't he write?
I know it's been awhile...and in effect, I kind of phoned in my last blog. To be honest I'm phoning this one in too.
In reality, I'm working a lot less then I was before, not to mention, it's a constant thing to stay ahead with school. (Amazing how much more seriously you take it after you have some perspective of the alternatives.)
So with that, I gotta run...I'll write when there's something to write about.
In reality, I'm working a lot less then I was before, not to mention, it's a constant thing to stay ahead with school. (Amazing how much more seriously you take it after you have some perspective of the alternatives.)
So with that, I gotta run...I'll write when there's something to write about.
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