I am looking for the phone number of a person. One of my last resorts was the text file I have saved and sent to myself a couple of times some time ago. Searching through my aggregated inbox, you see, not necessarily the best idea this aggregated inbox, I have learned that agenda is probably one of the most tired words in project management jargon: I have it in 453 messages.
But I haven’t told how I got stuck in the elevator, the other day!
How? That was pretty easy, but not that pretty.
Once upon a time there was the most depressing Monday of the year. People were committing suicides, help lines went red with cries for help, the shrinks’ couches were colapsing under the weight of patients. I was blisfully carrying on with my full day, totally unware, bless my ignorance. I was even laughing and talking too much to me, myself and you, over a cup of tea and a mug of beer. I suspect it was the mug that did it. A subway train or two later and following a brief crisp walk in the dark, I was pit-stopping at the famous corner, the one where you can only pay cash for your essentials and basic crap that one needs to wrestle with the power of the night. You know the likes of milk, bread, or beer, when you ran out of, you absent minded silly boy! Only I needed sour cream and yellow cheese to garnish my potatoes. I am telling you, I was drooling. Cash was exchanged for the goodies, and there I was carrying my heavy bag and soul back to my eight floor dwelling.
Now, my Monday was about to live to its full dementia and distress potential so well captured by the researchers across the world… Let me recap, I was acking to take a piss, hungry, tired, maybe a bit cold, but lookin forward to satisfying these basic Maslow needs. Let me rephrase that: I was looking forward to IMMEDIATELY satisfy these needs. And that was followed by my big eyes growing bigger when I noticed the elevator was being stuck at the ground floor. You must’ve noted above, I live at the eight. Long story short, blinded by urgency, I decide that I need at least try the elevator before climbing up the stairs, laptop on my shoulders, sour cream in one hand, and yellow cheese in the other. And so I did. I slammed the elevator door but it wouldn’t close. A little knob was sticking out in the frame, preventing the door to close. Ha! there was the clue to why the elevator was not working, I thought! Before thinking any better, I pressed that little fucker in, closing the door and now I was in.
A step by step process followed: closing the elevator inner doors, pressing the floor button, not moving at all. Repeat. Not moving at all. Yeap, at this point in time it actually occured to me there was a reason for the little fucker sticking out. Of course, in a civilized country, an explanatory note “Elevator out of business” would’ve rendered void the probability of those being able to read to actually be stuck inside the broken damn thing! without further mental processes.
Except for those occasions when I get terribly upset or plainly raving mad, I am a calm, rational and reasonable individual. Or at least I like to think so. The situation called for calm. I freed my hands, sticking the sour cream in one pocket of my overcoat, and the yellow cheese in the other, because fashion police was probably busy elsewhere. In reaching for my cellular I did not encountered any problem, but in dialing I did. My good friend and neighbour had both his phones off. My best friend did not pick up, he was later confirmed in a meeting. Another good friend who is living relatively close by was out partying, and she suggested I call a repair guy. Now, bless her soul, there was a mobile number plastered across the elevator, even engraved on the button dial. Not having anything else better to do I called, in little hope. After a long while, probably the longest possible before the connection would’ve automatically cut off my call, a heavily bored deep voice answered.
“Hello, you have reached the elevators’ repair shop”. Well, hurray, but wait, isn’t this too formal to be a human being? Was I possibly about to leave a message with a machine? The perspective of spending my night in the elevator, meters aways from my cozy place blitzzed and scared me pissless. But no, gods were watching over me. Their watch was more like a partial eclipse, but let’s get back on track with the story. “Hello, you have reached the elevators’ repair shop, oh, you got stuck, we’re sorry, it’s gonna take a while” were his words, although not word for word. Then, as I was pushing towards my minute-credit limit, he kindly explained what I should do to get out. OK, remove explain, insert repeat obsessively, with the exact same words. And that and the technical terms and the fact I was getting nowhere increased the level of my frustration, so I decided to hang up, free my hands and try my best. Which I did quite successfully.
And now, here’s the best part. As I was breathing heavily up the stairs I though let’s call guy, let him know I am out and thank him. “Hi, it’s me again, thanks for helping me, ’cause I wasn’t planning to spend the night in the elevator”, I said jokingly. To which he replied, seriously “Oh, that wouldn’t been the case at all. I live very closely, but I was just having dinner”.
The noise of my jaws hitting the floor was probably comparable only to the size of my eyes getting bigger, being totally baffled. And why you couldn’t say so? It was not like I was able to come chase your fat ass out of that chair to the fucking elevator that was broken holding me inside.
And there’s Romania for you! We’re nice and helpful when it doesn’t bother us at all.
And we don’t like explaining, because smart people don’t need explaining, they just get it.
So after not sleeping , then sleeping for 3 hours, I had to wake up at six thirty to get to the railway station. It was cold.
Another conclusion is people in this city are mad at any hour.
Did I mention it was cold?
Or I went to sleep too early?
While the world is in rehearsals for the end of the world, actually they have just started about a half an hour ago, or fussing about the higher political-agenda-and-the-future-of-mankind, I have a tendency to write about totally irrelevant things.
I intend to carry on.
I get satisfaction walking past the car stuck in the traffic jam.
I am increasingly disenchanted with the city, if I ever were.
Riding the subway stimulates my thinking process.
I can be an acute observer. Only sometimes I also have to participate.
I hate it when the road police who never do their job decide to start doing it and start with the poor guy whose car broke 5 meters away from the traffic light, it’s not in the way, and the driver is busily sweating under the car hood to fix it. Guys! if you have suddenly discovered your balls, try them with the “BMW drivers” in this city!
I am leaving again.
I am not sure about having a job in the very close future. I also don’t know exactly what I’d like.
Who would like to post pictures? But can’t because he’s forgot the USB cable at home.
Who complains about the solitude atmosphere of the non-customized four star hotel?
Who absolutely hates the coffee at the breakfast?
Many BMW drivers don’t own the car yet, but they are out there. Watch out! Since I have decided to change my life, not to loose it, I beg to apply a different driving style. However that’s just my personal decision and the reality I know in the park way has just recently been confirmed by two most stupid and horrifying pieces of news. Here we learn that a doctor can run away from the accident’s place; quite shocking for me since the actual location can be observed from my parents’ windows . And here that a BMW can run over pretty much anything anywhere. Which reactivated my two days old idea for this post I had while driving on a busy national detour route.
What is worse than getting a “Thank you very much”-but-”We regret to inform you that, although we were impressed by your experience and skills, we have decided not to proceed further with your application this time.” email? Getting one that says “We have received your CV, would like to meet with you, but there is no telephone number to contact you”.
And getting it two months after it was sent.
Oh well, I have just read mine and it felt like the desk just parted and the void wanted to suck me in.
This ads a new dimension to self-loathing and that lately almost omni-present feeling of incompetence.
I am swamped.
Let me tell you. I am really considering changing the name of the blog. To “The Complainer”.
Like somebody close told me. “These things happen to everybody. It’s just that you have a way of complaining about them.”
Yes. It has happened again. I am going to complain. The car is scratched! I went to the movie, and when I returned there was this piece of paper in the windshield. Somebody, somebody who carries an agenda, has sacrificed his or hers 25, 26 and 27 October 2008 to update on the happenings of today, 13 July of the same year! While I was probably blissfully unaware and spending in the Levi’s store, or better yet, missing on a few action scenes of the movie, unsuccessfully looking for my keys under my seat of the movie theater, a car scratched mine in the parking lot.
“[license plate number]
The car with this license number has scratched the front of your car.
An anonymous witness”
Yes. It is really signed “an anonymous witness”! I don’t know if I should be thrilled there are still people who benevolently let you know about misfortunes that otherwise would pass us unnoticed, and thus uncelebrated, or worried that if ever I scratch’n'run there’s somebody to tell on me. For all I know the number can be wrong or totally made up. It’s just the care that is really scratched.
So here I go again. Hello police, hello insurance company. Author unknown. Higher bill next year. And the like. Joy to the world. The only vindication is the author unknown himself or herself will have to do pretty much the same.
Further philosophical considerations I won’t bother you with lead me to the conclusion. Savagery is more expensive. But civilization is more complicated. If you don’t have time or if you don’t want to take the time, you pay. Hence time is money.
This time I have accidentally place the mug on the edge of the tray, which subsequently led to my mobile being drowned in a pool of coffee, milk, and honey.
I won’t possibly be able to change my phone, for financial and mood reasons. Better won’t be sticky. And better all my contacts still work.
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