Phrases that ought to be illegal and burned: 

“Dad…I have something to tell you.”

“I forgot to move the money into checking.”

“Sorry, but the hard drive is fried.”

I’d like to toss two more on the pyre, add some wood and flame, give it a nudge onto the water. First we have: “Hi, thank you for calling the XYZ Corporation, please listen carefully, as our menu has recently changed.”

Liar. LIAR!

Stop playing with our minds. It’s the same menu since 1998.  Just say, “For billing press one, for sales press two….”  We press zero anyway, so what’s the difference? 

The second is really a series of phrases. Once you do finally get a real person on the line and solve your problem, try to get off the phone. Under the umbrella of better customer service, you get:

“Thank you for calling XYZ company, Mister Phillips, is there else anything I can do for you?”

“No, no, all set.”

“Alright, then have I taken care of the item you called about today?”

“Yep; all good.  Ready to rock and roll.”

“Have I done it in a pleasant and enjoyable way?”

“Um, yeah, sure.  Absolutely.”

“Well, Mister Phillips, again, I just want to say it’s been a pleasure today serving you.  Are you sure there’s nothing…” (‘Do You Feel Like I Do’ by Peter Frampton begins to play on my radio. The live version.)

(Twenty minutes later) “…And please don’t hesitate to call us here for all your needs; my direct extension is 3451. Are you absolutely, one hundred percent, positive I can’t do a thing for you?”

I repeatedly bash my head with a hammer. (“Do you, you... feel like I do?”)

(Four hours later) “…We hope you’ve been satisfied with your experience with the XYZ Corporation, dedicated to all your customer service needs, both now and…”

Climbing up on my rooftop, I can see all the way to 2499.  Hoping for at least 90 degrees today, I begin to slather tar and feathers over my body. (“ba-dab-ba-dab-waa” that’s the guitar talk box is what that is)

(2025, as I open my first Social Security check) “…Mr. Phillips, I’ve started a ticket thingy-do on your behalf; if you call on this matter again, please refer to contact number…”

Prowling the backyard, leader of my dog pack, I eat lizards, chase bees, and sing, “Oh, the wonderful thing about Tiggers…is I’m the only one.” (“Bob Mayo, keyboards…Bob Mayo.”)

(The year 2458, celebrating the 500th b-day of Oprah’s preserved head) “If you’re sure there’s not a darn thing I can ever do for you and your family…then thank you for calling XYZ Corporation.”

My great-great-great-great grandson lifts the phone off the pile of dust that used to be me. (In the background of the IHouse, the IRadio DJ says, “That was five-hundred and eight year old Peter Frampton, who will tour the SE IUnited States this summer…”)

“Have a pleasant day, sir.”

 http://www.lisajenningsinteriors.com/images/LJI_feature_offices4sm.jpg

Standing in front of the mirror, you survey the damage. Not too bad today. Hair looks good, smile looks genuine, nice piece of parsley in between . . .oh. Good thing you came in here.

"Yessss!" you hiss out loud. Nice echo in here. Awesome bathroom, big bucks.

If you don't need to wear a suit, you try to wear some dark colored slacks; the slimming effect and all, correct? For some reason you decided to wear a nice pair of gray slacks. Light gray slacks. They look pretty good, though. Whirl this way, that way; suck in your stomach, wondering just what a thirty-two waist feels like.

"Bay-buh, bay-buh, bay-BUH." Real nice echo in here.  Do you do the fat Elvis/skinny Elvis thing too?  You turn the water on to wash your hands, and the water dribbles out. You give the cold faucet a good twist, and whoosh!

It seems, for a moment, that the main water line from Lewisville Lake has been tapped. News helicopters are probably hovering around there now, beaming pictures of a stark, barren wasteland to startled Newsbreak Now watchers. It's a big blast of water.

When a laser beam of water such as that hits the bottom of a sink, it makes a forty-five degree turn in only one direction, and that direction is in the area of the pants generally known as The Lap. There you stand, shaking your head affirmatively.

Knew this would happen some day. Thought it might be at a wedding, a funeral, or before a big speech, and if the pants were black it would be easier to hide, but you knew it would happen. It's good to get something like that over in one's life, but it's not over yet.

You grab some paper towel but only succeed in spreading the water across more of your lap. Luckily, there's one of those worthless hot air dryers that, at this moment, is the greatest device ever invented. Positioning the nozzle around the lap area, you belly up to the machine and start the drying process. You move your pelvis up and down, following the line of water on your lap.  Looks like it’s starting to dry; that was quick. Golly, you think, hope no one walks in.

Not only does Mr. CEO walk in, but the Human Resource fella does too.

"Hee-he. Yeah. Ha-ha." Your wit in this situation is scintillating.

"How are you?" Mr. CEO says, clearing his throat.

"Hee-he. Yeah."

"Is there," the HR guy asks," a problem?"

A thousand quick, very witty responses enter your mind, jockey for position, count off by two's, conduct a little contest - the one's win - have a run off to award the gold, silver and bronze responses, give the medals and flowers, and then the champion steps up to your mouth.

"Huh. Hee-he."

It's a wonderful five minutes, isn't it?  What's that? Never happened to you? Uh . . . me neither.

On vacation in Tennessee. . . . .

I am gently nudged awake by coziness to the 6^th, power. Maybe even the 7^th power. Lifting well-rested eyes ever so slightly, a peek out the back window reveals a delicious breakfast of mundane details frosted by the realization my job for the next few days is simply to listen, watch, and feel.

The morning rain – desperately trying to fashion a tough guy scowl - gives up and sheepishly calms to a drizzle, while the sun is doing its best to burn off the wet before it can actually do any good. As humid as it's been this week, it'll take all day if it even does happen.

The back porch thermometer, forty years older than the digital bank thermometer in town that everyone uses for a landmark, is yawning its way past eighty. Probably settle in around eighty-eight or so; worth complaining about, anyway. A cool breeze blows down from the hills, unsullied and able to keep the sweat off your neck as long as you're not foolish enough to stomp around in the garden.

Later in the morning we drive off to town. Off to Piggly Wiggly for some burger buns, some milk, and whatever the youngest nieces and nephews can connive their Grandma into.

As we ease the truck into a choice, front of the store spot, we see "The Club."  Six fellows, sitting on or around the two benches outside the front door.  They watch the coming and going, unfazed and amused by pretty much none of it.  Unfiltered Pall Malls lay about in various stages of ground up defeat or smoldering defiance, marking both the time spent and, unfortunately, the time left.  

Youngest man is this fellow about seventy, maybe seventy-five, and he's running his jaw about nothin’ to no one in particular. The rest of the group are eighty plus, and the old black man. . . eighty something on his last birthday . . .sits high on a pile of feed bags.

I take the whole picture in and it appeals to me. I wonder when I'll be old enough, wise enough, settled enough, resigned enough, to just set awhile?

The sheriff walks up, says hey to everyone, and they all nod back in turn. He buys a raffle ticket from a young boy tugging at his sleeve and hands it to one of the men. Then the lawman ambles over to the soda machine, drips a quarter in, pauses to remember and announce a particular detail that will gel some obscure fact with another, and with a purse of his lips and nod of affirmation, slides the other quarter in. He gets two ten ounce bottles of the cold drink, hands one to the black man, toasts him, and tells everyone he's got to get back to work.

They protest with that fine Southern protest - "What's your hurry, stay awhile?”-   but with a cock of his head and the palms-up surrender, he slowly, purposefully, strolls around the corner and back to the jail.

It's the order of things, I guess. But there is no order to it. It's the etiquette of things maybe, but the black man is revered and most kids weren't raised that way seventy years ago.

It's like a creek, bubbling as it zigzags through a field, patiently getting to where it has to get to, having a good old time along the way. It's not this superhighway I'm on with a speed limit that no one bothers with. It's the slow, scratch on the forehead of the man with the Co-op Feed cap as he listens to his friend lie about the deer he just missed bagging last season. It's not me as I race against the clock to get one more priority thing done.

It looks so wonderful and peaceful to me, but even if I had the time to sit and chew on it one afternoon with the fellows, it would be like interest on a million bucks.  Something I haven’t earned yet.

Well, we go into the store, get our things, plus a few extras. The kid's carefully crafted plan yields much, and they walk out with quite a treasure. We get a few sodas ourselves.

"See that fella over there in the Farm Bureau hat," my father-in-law points out. "He was my high school teacher. Mr. So and So."

"In high school!?" I say, in mock disbelief. "Was there books back then?"

He chuckles and silently watches the man for a moment.

"Lousiest teacher we ever had," he says, and we all laugh.

As we pull away, I hear a great laugh rise up from the Club, and it's a beautiful sound.  Great, deep, well-earned belly laughs that – when used loudly and often – create the character on a man’s face.  Three or four of men lean back and tug on their caps as one of them starts his story to top that one.

The truck engine roars to life and we rumble back on the road.  One right turn, one left and then we inch up to the only traffic light in town. It turns green, we roll into singing silly songs and head back to Cedar Creek. I catch a glimpse of the bank sign and the digital thermometer. The now, for some reason, broken digital thermometer.

How fitting. Who needs to know how hot it is anyway?

I opened the front door this morning, intent on stumbling out to get the paper.  The motion light flickered on, revealing yet another chapter in the book that make up the mysterious side of my life – there on the front porch lay a stack of phone books.

“Why?” I asked the Heavens.  “Why do you keep sending me phone books?  What, Lord, does it mean?”

When is the last time you used a phone book?  Now, I did use one the other day as we hunted out a sprinkler guy to come work on the system at our fix-it-upper, but that’s only because I hadn’t found a neighbor’s wireless signal strong enough to borrow yet.  (Oh, hush. Y’all have borrowed mine before I had the fifteen-year-old make it all secure).  Other than that, why do they exist?

They’re like dentist appointments.  You forget about your scheduled time until one day you get that call from Betsy who says, “Hi Kevin, yes it’s 4:43 AM, but I wanted to confirm your appointment for next Monday.  We’ll see you at two, or I’ll have you and your family killed.  Have a nice day.” 

Like her calls, the phone books show up every so often and though you know they keep coming, they are still unexpected.

I’m sure the neighbors have a pool going as to how long ours sit on the front stoop.  Not sure why, but we just leave them there, looking trashy, probably until just seconds before the HOA SWAT team swoops down and blows up our house.  I am ashamed to admit I’ve tripped over the stack of three and not picked them up.  I think subconsciously I must believe it’s bad ju-ju or something for me to pick them up the week they arrive.  Yeah, that’s what we’ll say.

I’m not an Internet junkie or anything, but there’s really nothing in terms of directions, phone numbers or addresses you can’t look up online.  I know, not everyone has Internet access or computers, but what’s the latest stats?  What percentage of us do?

And what about the advertising in it?  Might a person who sells yellow pages advertising be the greatest sales person on the planet? 

“Yes, kind sir, for only 500 bucks, you can place a 1 x 2 inch ad that at least fourteen people might see when they trip over the phone book and it opens to the page and section listing your bottle washing service.” 

“Gee, Daaav-ey, I’ll take two ads then.”

So if you can tell me what purpose they serve on the 2008 information highway…other than speed bumps for me…I’ll listen but I may have a hard time believing phone books are still useful.  Unless we build an outhouse in the backyard.

(Just kidding, HOA police.)