Monthly Archives: March 2007

It’s Saturday morning at a local coffee shop. The busy room with its mismatched tables and chairs feels rather like the dining room at Grandma’s house when the whole family is visiting—friendly enough to seem cozy rather than crowded.

I’m alone at a table for four, waiting for some friends, supposedly writing but really eavesdropping in both directions. The seven or eight people crowded around the table to my right are talking and laughing with animation. The volume is, not unpleasantly, somewhere between “background noise” and “impossible to ignore.” Their caffeine-fueled chorus tends to drown out the conversation of the smaller group on my left.

Until the inevitable happens. A cell phone rings. The sound, and the ensuing conversation from my left, is at first merely a new voice in the chorale. As it progresses, though, I find out more. The caller is apparently the daughter of the owner of the cell phone. She is out of town at some sort of competition. She has done well in the first round of debate or basketball or dog-grooming or whatever it was. She will call back that evening after the next round.

I know this—and so does everyone else in the coffee shop—because we are lucky enough to be privy to both sides of the conversation. The woman at the table, after answering her phone, says, “It’s noisy in here. Let me put you on speaker.” We get to hear, not only the mother’s side of the conversation as she shouts into the phone, but her daughter’s as well. The young woman’s voice screeches out of the speaker, enhanced by background noise and distortion into a credible imitation of the featured soprano in a wannabe punk rock band.

I try to close my ears and concentrate on my notebook and my scone. The conversation at the merry table to my right falters as people glance over their shoulders and frown. The patrons at the other tables look up. The staff members behind the counter pause in their coffee-brewing and tea-pouring. We’re all suspended for a few moments until the cellular invasion, mercifully brief, is over. Then we breathe a united sigh of relief and go on about our business.

The culprit, apparently oblivious, drops her phone back into her purse. Let’s hope that this evening, when her daughter calls back, she isn’t out in public.

We’ve come a long way since Samuel Morse opened the door to instant communication with his invention of the telegraph. The first message he sent was, “What hath God wrought.” Had he had the gift of prophecy as well as technology, he might have said, “What? Hath God wrought wrath? Or is it just noisy in here?”

It started with an invitation from a friend. She had a gift certificate for a restaurant, one of the popular chains. Would we care to join her and her husband for dinner that Saturday evening? We would. We did.

The place was busy, not surprising on a weekend evening, so there was a short wait before we were seated. We ordered. We waited. My friend had asked for hot tea. The waitress came by twice to say it was “on its way.” All the way from China, apparently. On the slow boat.

When eventually the boat docked—er, the tea came, it was green. My friend, who hadn’t been asked for a preference, requested black tea instead. “I’m sorry,” the waitress told her, “This is the only kind we have.”

It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that mentioning this at the time the tea was ordered could have saved time and hassle for everyone. Okay, we would get along without the tea.

Eventually, our meals came. One chicken and pasta, two shrimp dinners, and one salmon salad, which the waitress put in front of me. I am not a fan of salmon; I had ordered the steak salad. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll get that right out for you.”

Everyone else began eating. Declining offers to share, I sat wistfully watching servers trot by with plates of food. Our waitress stopped by twice to assure me, “They’re working on it.”

By her second visit, I began to assume that “working on it” was shorthand for “they’ve headed out to round up the steers, and they should be finished butchering some time tomorrow morning.”

Finally, about the time my friends were finishing their meals, my salad came. It had oil and vinegar dressing. I don’t like oil and vinegar dressing. Nor do I like the vast quantities of salad dressing most restaurants consider a serving. For those reasons, I had ordered ranch, on the side.

I told the waitress this, then realized I may have made a mistake. Having actual food in front of me at last, it didn’t seem wise to let it disappear again. “Oh, not a problem,” she said. “There’s another one ready. Really, it will only take a minute to change it.”

On that basis, I sent it back a second time. Not a good strategy. “Only a minute” turned into ten or fifteen. We occupied the time by chatting with the manager, who did her best to make soothing noises and agreed that there were problems in the kitchen. Since half the items on the menu were made with “(insert famous whiskey brand name here) sauce,” we wondered whether said problems might have been related to over-zealous sauce tasting on the part of the kitchen staff.

Eventually the third version of my meal appeared. It had ranch dressing on the side, just as I had requested. It also, I realized after my first bite, was covered with the original oil and vinegar dressing.

There was nothing left to do at this point except laugh. Then I shut up and ate. There was no way I was letting this plate of food escape. While I ate my oily lettuce and steak, my companions had another visit with the manager. She made more soothing noises, apologized, and cancelled our entire bill.

My friend didn’t receive this news with the satisfaction one might have expected. After the manager left, she hissed across the table, “Do you know what this means? I still have the gift certificate. Now we’ll have to come back!”

British author Dame Rebecca West has suggested, "If the whole human race lay in one grave, the epitaph on its headstone might well be: ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’"

It’s easy to come up with examples, both personal and global, that support her statement. You can even do it without mentioning wars, laws, or politics. There’s a simple formula: problem + creative solution = unforeseen consequences.

Problem? No familiar small animals to hunt in Australia. Creative solution? Let’s turn loose some rabbits. Unforeseen consequences? A bunny population explosion with resulting destruction of habitat, extinction of native animals, and huge long-term costs even 150 years later.

Problem? Erosion in the southeastern United States during the dry years of the 1930’s. Creative solution? Kudzu imported from the Far East. Unforeseen consequences? The nickname says it all: “the vine that ate the South.”

There are plenty of smaller examples, as well. Such as this one from my years as a legal secretary: Problem? You’re on your way home from a long night at the bar, and your car won’t start. Creative solution? Just shoot the danged thing and put it out of its misery. Unforeseen consequences? What’s the big deal? There was already a crack in the windshield. But I guess I can get my mail here at the jail for a while.

Or even closer to home: Problem? Losing control of one’s skateboard while going down a long, steep hill. Creative solution? Bolt a pair of old shoes to said skateboard and tie shoes firmly to feet. (Did I mention this problem-solver was a 10-year-old boy?) Unforeseen consequences? Not really that bad—in a few years the scars will hardly show.

All in all, Dame Rebecca certainly has a point. Unfortunately, I operate at a literary level somewhat lower than hers. I must confess her quote reminds me irresistibly of another one. The vocabulary might be different, but the essential point is the same.

It’s the joke about the redneck’s last words: “Here, hold my beer and watch this!”