Not only did Tim's trip get off to a comical start, but a rocky one as well.
About an hour after he had gotten on the train, I realized that he had forgotten to pack his medicine. A few calls later, we found out that if we called our doctor with the number of a pharmacy, she could order a temporary prescription for him.
Getting online, I quickly found a list of pharmacies that were open twenty-four hours, but since I am unfamiliar with the area (he was actually staying in Jersey), I couldn't tell which ones were close to his hotel.
Quickest way: Call the hotel and ask them. Not.
First call: -Hi. I'm looking for someone there who can help me find a drug store near the hotel.
-Hold Please.
John Denver song. Julio Iglesies song. I hung up before Willie Nelson warbled out a tune.
Second call: -Hi. I need to speak to the concierge.
-Oh, you're the one who needs a drug store, right?
-Uh, Yeah. (Did I call the hotel or the psychic hotline?)
-We don't have a concierge at the moment. Hold on and I'll connect you to someone though.
Oh good. Someone. Someone helpful, or someone who will aggravate me? She went with option number two, but only after subjecting me to a lovely little ditty by KC and the Sunshine Band.
-Hello, you need a drug store near the hotel?
-Yes. One that has a twenty-four hour pharmacy.
-We have an Eckerd down the street.
-I know, but it doesn't have a 24-hour pharmacy. I pulled up a list online, but I'm not sure which ones are close to the hotel.
-Eckerd is closest. You'd need a ride to get anywhere else. I can pull up a list online though.
-(in my mind) Grrr. (out loud) Actually, we are coming from the train station, so I already have a car. And a list. I just need--
-We also have a shuttle bus that will take you to Eckerd.
-(in my mind) Okay, whatever Eckerd is paying you, I'll double it if you don't say Eckerd again. (out loud) Look, I'm going to read off the addresses of several CVS pharmacies, and you tell me which is closest to the hotel, okay?
-There aren't any CVS in the neighborhood, but...(if he said the E-word again, I was googling Tony Soprano and asking for a favor)...I can give you directions or get a cab for you.
--(in my mind) I don't want a cab, or a shuttle, or directions. I just want a yes or no as I read you the list. Think you can do that? (out loud--well, actually, that was out loud.)
Quickly, I started running down the list.
#1: he knew the road, but not exactly where on the road it was. Maybe ten minutes away. He could...Before he could repeat a previous suggestion which would get him killed, I moved on.
#2: closer to the train station than the hotel. Next?
-Wait. This one is close to the station? Do we pass it on the way?
-Yes. But we can take you there from the hotel, or you might want to go the the first one on the list because it is only ten minutes away.
-(out loud. And this was nowhere near a bad as what I was really thinking) Sure, we'll pass the one on the way from the station, come to the hotel, get rid of our car, and then you can get us a cab and give us directions to the other one. Thanks. That would be a huge help.
-Well, uh, (perhaps he sensed the sarcasm? Finally?) Don't you want to check in first, then go to the drug store?
For his safety, and to preserve what little was left of my sanity, I hung up and called the doctor.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Information, Please
On Sunday, Tim was scheduled to go to New York on the 6:00 Acela Express Train. Around 2:00, on our way home from running our errands, he decided to call Amtrak and see if he could catch an earlier train.
Using his car's speaker phone, he called information and asked for Amtrak's number.
"Uh, is that a business?" the operator asked after a rather long pause.
Rolling his eyes while Rose and I grinned, Tim expanded on his initial request. "Yes. The Amtrak train station in DC."
"Oh. Trains. Okay," the guy somehow managed to sound both relieved and confused at the same time. He then named several businesses with the word train in the title.
"No, not trains. Amtrak," Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Rose and I stifled our giggles.
"Amtrak train," the guy repeated, back to sounding plain old confused. "Do you have an address for that?"
Of course, and we have the number too. Hellooooo. Aren't you supposed to be information?
Gritting his teeth as Rose and I clapped our hands over our mouths to check our guffaws of laughter, Tim replied, "It's at Union Station."
"Union Station?" the guy parroted back, like he was trying to learn a difficult technical term.
"Amtrak train at Union Station in DC." Tim had apparently decided that repeating all the information in one breath at top volume while waving his arms about like a windmill (thankfully, we were stopped at a light at the time) was the key to better understanding here.
"I have an Amtrak office on Mass Ave.," the guy tentatively offered after another painstaking pause.
"Fine," Tim roared with frustration while Rose and I roared with laughter.
A minute later, we were connected to a voice activated system. "If you want to check on train times, say "schedule"," it crooned smoothly.
"Schedule," Tim dutifully repeated, the brilliant red color slowly retreating from his face. The computer seemed a lot smarter than the guy he had just dealt with.
"What is your starting point?" Emerac (the computer from the Hepburn/Tracy movie Desk Set) asked.
"Union Station."
"I heard Durham," Emmy replied.
Uh oh. This was not good. The red tide began to rise again.
"Union Station," the volume rose as well.
Fourteen questions later, with no sign of any actual information forthcoming, Tim tried to cut to the chase. Foolish man.
"Acela Express train," he threw at Emmy. Rose and I exchanged head shakes as we wiped tears from our eyes.
"Please repeat," she sounded as confused as the information guy.
"Acela Express train." It was kind of sweet and a little pathetic the way he was clinging to the hope of actually getting the information he wanted.
Pause.
"Did you say you want to talk to an agent?" Like the information guy, Emmy too was now trying to make Tim somebody else's problem.
And once again, Tim fell for it. "Yes!" he choked out, finally seeing the humor here and joining in our uncontrollable laughter as the sounds of Muzak filled the car.
Next time, we decided, it would probably be easier to just keep the reservation, even if it wasn't nearly so entertaining.
Using his car's speaker phone, he called information and asked for Amtrak's number.
"Uh, is that a business?" the operator asked after a rather long pause.
Rolling his eyes while Rose and I grinned, Tim expanded on his initial request. "Yes. The Amtrak train station in DC."
"Oh. Trains. Okay," the guy somehow managed to sound both relieved and confused at the same time. He then named several businesses with the word train in the title.
"No, not trains. Amtrak," Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Rose and I stifled our giggles.
"Amtrak train," the guy repeated, back to sounding plain old confused. "Do you have an address for that?"
Of course, and we have the number too. Hellooooo. Aren't you supposed to be information?
Gritting his teeth as Rose and I clapped our hands over our mouths to check our guffaws of laughter, Tim replied, "It's at Union Station."
"Union Station?" the guy parroted back, like he was trying to learn a difficult technical term.
"Amtrak train at Union Station in DC." Tim had apparently decided that repeating all the information in one breath at top volume while waving his arms about like a windmill (thankfully, we were stopped at a light at the time) was the key to better understanding here.
"I have an Amtrak office on Mass Ave.," the guy tentatively offered after another painstaking pause.
"Fine," Tim roared with frustration while Rose and I roared with laughter.
A minute later, we were connected to a voice activated system. "If you want to check on train times, say "schedule"," it crooned smoothly.
"Schedule," Tim dutifully repeated, the brilliant red color slowly retreating from his face. The computer seemed a lot smarter than the guy he had just dealt with.
"What is your starting point?" Emerac (the computer from the Hepburn/Tracy movie Desk Set) asked.
"Union Station."
"I heard Durham," Emmy replied.
Uh oh. This was not good. The red tide began to rise again.
"Union Station," the volume rose as well.
Fourteen questions later, with no sign of any actual information forthcoming, Tim tried to cut to the chase. Foolish man.
"Acela Express train," he threw at Emmy. Rose and I exchanged head shakes as we wiped tears from our eyes.
"Please repeat," she sounded as confused as the information guy.
"Acela Express train." It was kind of sweet and a little pathetic the way he was clinging to the hope of actually getting the information he wanted.
Pause.
"Did you say you want to talk to an agent?" Like the information guy, Emmy too was now trying to make Tim somebody else's problem.
And once again, Tim fell for it. "Yes!" he choked out, finally seeing the humor here and joining in our uncontrollable laughter as the sounds of Muzak filled the car.
Next time, we decided, it would probably be easier to just keep the reservation, even if it wasn't nearly so entertaining.
Friday, April 11, 2008
How to Get Out of Volunteering in One Easy Lesson
Tim is not the only one in the family who has found themselves "volunteering" at mass. It happened once before to his brother. As far as I can tell, it's a "twin thing".
Several years ago, the three of us were innocently strolling into church when Tom was waylaid by an usher and pressed into service. They wanted him to help pass the basket for the weekly collection.
First, he tried playing dumb. How did one do that? he enquired. Was there a certain procedure he had to follow? When, exactly, was the collection taken up? (I'm pretty sure he would have asked what a basket was if he thought he could get away with it.)
With a nice-try-but-you're-not-getting- out-of-it smile and a reassuring pat, the usher gave detailed instructions and sent us on our way.
Tom's next tactic was to try and talk Tim into taking his place.
They'll never know it's you and not me, he pleaded desperately. You're better at this kind of thing than I am. Besides, he concluded, playing what he obviously believed to be his trump card, I'm wearing shorts and you have long pants on. That means you should do it.
Hmm. You can't take up the collection while wearing shorts. Was that rule in the King James version of the bible, or the New Catholic edition?
Giving him a nice-try-but-there-is-no-way-on-God's-green-earth-that-I-am-doing-this look, Tim settled down smugly into his seat.
And so, Tom eventually subsided into a grumpy silence where he continued to brood over the whole collection issue. You could almost hear the wheels in his brain churning.
Actually, we did hear something. About half-way through the mass, during one of the quieter moments, Tom grumbled, "I have to get up, walk to the front of the church, pick up a (not so nice word) basket, bow, and start at the first pew."
Heads swiveled, mouths gaped open, eyes grew wide, breaths were sharply indrawn with audible gasps. A full heartbeat passed before Tom realized he was the center of much unwanted attention. Coloring a lovely shade of pre-dawn pink, he leaned over to us and, keeping his eyes firmly fixed forward, asked out of the side of his mouth, "Was that out loud?"
Um, yeah, kind of.
I don't believe he was ever asked to take up the collection again.
Several years ago, the three of us were innocently strolling into church when Tom was waylaid by an usher and pressed into service. They wanted him to help pass the basket for the weekly collection.
First, he tried playing dumb. How did one do that? he enquired. Was there a certain procedure he had to follow? When, exactly, was the collection taken up? (I'm pretty sure he would have asked what a basket was if he thought he could get away with it.)
With a nice-try-but-you're-not-getting- out-of-it smile and a reassuring pat, the usher gave detailed instructions and sent us on our way.
Tom's next tactic was to try and talk Tim into taking his place.
They'll never know it's you and not me, he pleaded desperately. You're better at this kind of thing than I am. Besides, he concluded, playing what he obviously believed to be his trump card, I'm wearing shorts and you have long pants on. That means you should do it.
Hmm. You can't take up the collection while wearing shorts. Was that rule in the King James version of the bible, or the New Catholic edition?
Giving him a nice-try-but-there-is-no-way-on-God's-green-earth-that-I-am-doing-this look, Tim settled down smugly into his seat.
And so, Tom eventually subsided into a grumpy silence where he continued to brood over the whole collection issue. You could almost hear the wheels in his brain churning.
Actually, we did hear something. About half-way through the mass, during one of the quieter moments, Tom grumbled, "I have to get up, walk to the front of the church, pick up a (not so nice word) basket, bow, and start at the first pew."
Heads swiveled, mouths gaped open, eyes grew wide, breaths were sharply indrawn with audible gasps. A full heartbeat passed before Tom realized he was the center of much unwanted attention. Coloring a lovely shade of pre-dawn pink, he leaned over to us and, keeping his eyes firmly fixed forward, asked out of the side of his mouth, "Was that out loud?"
Um, yeah, kind of.
I don't believe he was ever asked to take up the collection again.
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