JJ

I've written a lot about why booksellers drink--crazed or clueless customers, local authors, odd requests for information, strange phone calls, etc., etc. Earlier this week we had an interaction of a different sort.

One of our good customers, JJ, is a crusty old fart with a brusque manner, but for months I've been greeting her warmly, giving her lots of personal attention and the occasional hug (which always seems to catch her off-guard), taking her special orders. And now when she comes into the store, she smiles and seems at ease.

Monday I returned from an errand to find her at the counter with Alan. I asked how she was, and she said, "I have a big problem here." I thought, "Uh-oh. What did we do?" Practically in tears, she told us that an old friend of hers had moved to Trinidad, Colorado, several years ago, and JJ hadn't heard from her in a long time. She had tried calling her friend, but the voicemail on her cell phone was full and the friend didn't have a landline. Letters to her had gone unanswered. JJ was afraid that the friend had died, and had no way of finding out.

Alan had been using Google to find the name but without success. I asked JJ whether she knew the friend's address, so that perhaps we could use an address finder to locate a neighbor, who might be able to tell her about her friend. She had the address, and I found the names and phone numbers of some neighbors. JJ said she'd call them.

The touching thing for me is that when JJ was at a loss about how to proceed, she came to us.

Carpe carpum

I'm now working at home on Tuesdays to do marketing and customer development.

So there I was on Tuesday, making a spreadsheet of information on all the engineering firms and physicians in town. I was cutting and pasting. I was sorting. I was working like a factory. I was getting a ton of work done. And then, in the midafternoon, my left wrist seized up. 

It felt as if something needed to "pop." I couldn't move it without exquisite pain. Five years working in ergonomics at Los Alamos National Laboratory was not lost on me: I figured it was a sign to stop.

When Michele came home, we took Ike for walkies. My wrist was still killing me, and if Ike tugged on the leash, I almost levitated. Michele said that I should go to urgent care. I said bravely that the pain would go away, but my wrist was telling me, "You can always bite down on a rubber spatula when I spasm! BWA-hahahahahaha!" By the time we got home, I told Michele that going to the Doc in the Box would be a really, really, REALLY good idea. 

The whippersnapper of a physician on call, Doogie Howser, MD, poked, prodded, and percussed and said that I had tendinitis, an inflammation in the wrist. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory medicine, a muscle relaxant, a wrist brace, and some pain pills slightly stronger than aspirin. I got everything at the pharmacy, took it or wore it according to direction, and yesterday felt quite fine.

Here is my paw with the brace.

Oh, the pain! The pain!

“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale / Her infinite variety.” Oh, shut up.

Today marks a first for me. I got the senior discount at Subway. I was glad for the discount but unnerved by the reason.

P-doobie [sniffling]: "And . . . and then the little whippersnapper asked me if I were over 55, and I told the young scallawag I was, and . . . and then I got the discount."

Otowi Station staff: "Dash it! You are younger than springtime, you crusty old fart!"