I can be entreated, hard-hearted wench that I am, to consider the plight of wayfarers that arrive at the door of my office. It goes without saying that when certain help is offered, certain people will always be first in line, regardless of any sign clearly stating, "Mon-Wed-Fri" as the correct days to show up. Most Tuesdays I'm inclined to say, "please come back tomorrow," not as a delaying tactic, but as a responsible steward of resources and a process that assures that fakers are kept at bay.
But yesterday, I was masterfully played and enjoyed it so well that I succumbed, if for no other reason than to make sure I didn't have to see them again. The couple fit no mold of predictable clientele, certainly weren't from around here, and their straightforward story of being uprooted and on the road was refreshingly free of the usual lore.
As I take a few minutes to hastily throw together a couple of days' worth of supplies for them, the guy starts saying too much:
"Yeah, we had to drop everything because the State of California's witness protection program couldn't come through for us. We had to ditch and run."
Seriously, Slackers? I stood there, put my hands over my ears, and went, "lalalalalala - don't wanna know -- lalalala!" Which made him exclaim, "No, WE are the witnesses, not YOU!"
I handed them their supplies, smiled sweetly and wished them well. I've had many years' experience in this kind of ministration, and I don't think I've heard that one particular story before. I wonder how long before I'll hear it again...
True or not, it was most entertaining and that scores big with me.
May 14, 2008