Chart Foresight
“Can I have a copy of that chart?” he asked, pointing at the laminated chart in the right hand corner of the corkboard. The guy was young, maybe 22, with a moon face, closely cropped hairdo, and a gold cross hanging over his white apron. I thought he looked Puerto Rican, the smooth brown skin too light to be Dominican and not rusty enough in color to be Cuban.
“Which chart?” I asked back. He pointed more emphatically, not wanting to explicitly say which chart he was asking for. I glanced up and noticed he was pointing at the chart defining what constitutes sexual harassment. This is a standard piece of 11 x 14” literature that all companies must have displayed and that most guys in my office would probably read as they wait for a bagel to be fully toasted. Perhaps some of the guys smile to themselves and make a joke to offset the severity that all men feel about the potential harm that can come if they ever even thought of doing something sexually inappropriate at the workplace, which most do not.
But he wanted a copy, I could only surmise for pending litigation or something equally rigorous. The guy was there with two other workers delivering glasses, a portable oven and table linens for the party that my company was throwing later that day. Surely his friends at work knew of his situation, one of them nodded approvingly at the question askers foresight into having a document which concretely explains what is and is not an offense under the harassment policy.
I pulled the chart slowly off the wall, the double-sided tape putting up some resistance. I thought about how the chart was probably 8 years old, as that is when we first moved into this office space. It must have been early on because no one had thumbtacks and had to use shipping tape instead to make this, as well as the stated minimum wage and the what-to-do-if-someone-is-choking chart, remain affixed to the wall. At the photocopier, I realized that his defense was probably futile. There is not much that a guy can do once sexual harassment charges are brought against him, I surmised.
Handing the photocopy back to him, he glanced at the paper and then sheepishly back at me. Not knowing what else to say, I said “good luck” and he returned my awkward proffering with a “thanks”. They got in the service elevator, the doors closed and he descended down to whatever fate awaited him. And I went back to work.
This Is Not Detention
What is up with all these teachers having sex with students? It is pretty disgusting and warps educational boundaries as well as professional guidelines. Mary Kay LeTourneau was in jail and married this schmuck former pupil of hers as soon as she was released from prison.
I must speak frankly, even the most disgusting looking woman can find a guy to mate with, whereas the most repulsive looking man will be in for a long abstinate spell and hopefully will have some money to offer in exchange for loving.
There was a story on the DrudgeReport that said that one teacher had sex with a 13 year old pupil 28 times in one week! Now I know 13 year old guys have an enormous drive, but where did this woman find time to teach a class? Not to mention the fact that this woman was, lets say, far from pretty. But when you are 13…well a woman is a woman. But I do wonder why all of a sudden it is happening so prevalently today, when I went to school there was nothing of the sort. Van Halen sang Hot For Teacher not Teacher’s Hot for Me.
Better Than Pluto Nash at 30,000 Feet
Back in December of 05, right before New Years, I remember finding this story about another air rage incident, another 'that guy' who had too much to drink before flying and grew belligerent when airborn. Most often, a roll of duct tape and the ire of a full section of Coach will be enough to settle disturbances of that nature. As 'that guy' happened to be flying one-way from Manchester, England to Tenerife, a small island off of the North African coastline, the pilot decided to simply dump him off in Porto Santo, a smaller island off of the North African coastline. To finally reach his intended destination will require a two and a half-hour ferry ride back to England and a connecting flight on a different airline.
Two articles were posted on the drudgereport.com (sludgereport) from two different daily British newspapers. The first excerpt is from the Daily Telegraph, the second from The Guardian:
"Eventually the pilot decided that he posed a risk to safety and had to be removed.Rather than continue for a further 45 minutes to Tenerife he diverted his Airbus A321 to Porto Santo. Within moments of the plane touching down the passenger was escorted to the terminal. Last night he remained a castaway on the Portuguese-controlled island. His New Year home is a mere 10 miles long by three miles wide with a population of 4,000. There is little entertainment apart from walking on the sand dunes."
Ok and: "According to police, the new addition to the island's population of just 5,000 people was not detained in a cell and was released to enjoy the island's famed tranquillity for 36 hours. While there is little vegetation on Porto Santo, home to Christopher Columbus before he set off to discover the Americas, the island boasts several luxury hotels and a golf course."
So in one instance, he is a lonely guy, receiving his penance due. A New Year's Eve alone on a beach, a scene of ennui, hopefully stewing in his self-hatred over his in-flight faux pas. Yes, the world condemns your actions and we are holding you responsible. Do you know what the world is doing as you retrace your footprints through the sand; we are celebrating the new year. We have fireworks. And when you go to sleep tonight, on your rough sheeted cot, your last thought will be life changing. You will realize the error of your ways, and emerge a more proactive and sober citizen. There could be an awakening. But, according to The Guardian, it could be from a pool side snooze. This jerk could be swilling back some locally brewed rum as he takes to the links. If sore, he can get a massage at one of the luxury hotels. More than likely, however, our hero will be at any number of hotel bars imbibing with the thought that here he is, a single guy with an island at his disposal. He got the best of that pilot, with his clip on wings and smug look, and that one stewardess who just had to cut him off when he was about to make time with the pair of legs sitting in 19A- the one reading Seventeen! magazine.
We all hope for a reasonable compromise, perhaps a Days Inn and the realization that perhaps he shouldn’t drink while flying again…on terra firma no problem, but not at the airport. And maybe we hope that at the Days Inn, over his Continental breakfast before his return trip on the ferry, that the muffin he bites into is stale, and crumbles all over his shorts.
NYCity Soundtrack
Before I fall asleep, in the stillness of my apartment, I always take a few moments to listen to the city. My eyes are closed, but I can hear the busses making their routes, the wailing siren of an emergency vehicle answering someone’s prayers, the chatter of people five floors below on the street and the distant sound of an overhead jet from LaGuardia Airport ascending to the skies. Sometimes I like to think about the people who are producing the din that becomes the soundtrack of the city. Is the bus driver on the last run of his shift and looking forward to going home to his family, or is he just beginning his night and wondering who he might pick up in the darkness of New York.
Noise in New York is a constant, something that is unavoidable when you share a small space with more than 8 million other people. Noise comes at New Yorkers from all directions- from above, in the form of helicopters buzzing and planes making their approach to land or climbing in altitude after take off; directly as car horns and alarms, the conversations of passers by (and now that everyone has a cell phone, conversations to people that aren’t physically there) and fire trucks screaming off with heroes in tow, and from below in the loud screech and general clamor of the subway system. While some may consider this an assault on the ears, New Yorkers learn to block out only choice snippets of sound. It is as if we are always hearing but never listening, but not in the sense that we are not consistently processing these sonic stimuli.
Someone screaming merits a glance and a siren entails merely shifting our gaze to ensure the cars swerving out of the way of a speeding ambulance do not hit us. Often times, we learn that there are certain sounds unique to certain events. In the rare instance I am standing away from the platform edge at my subway station, I can tell by the rumble if the approaching train is an express, meaning I should step closer to anticipate getting a prime entry position, or a localwhich means I continue reading AM New York. Street-side, I can establish if a siren belongs to the Police, in which case I always look to see where the cops are going, or an ambulance in which case I always make a thankful prayer that it is not me who needs saving. In the chance that I am on a flight which flies directly over the city, I wonder if people can hear the sounds of the jet engines or if anyone looks up to see where the plane might be in relation to them. Occasionally, I will wonder where the plane is going and I wonder if anyone’s dreams will be fulfilled upon arriving wherever it is the plane is supposed to go.
Though the city is a noisy place, it breeds this necessary noise. It is the sound of commerce, of culture, of sadness and exuberance, of us. There is a certain tranquility within the cacophony, and it is amazing what you can learn and consider when you take the time to close your eyes and listen to the heartbeat of life, your ears a stethoscope to the pulse of New York.
