Everyone knows public transportation can be a harrowing experience at times. We’ve all sat next to that person who snored on the plane, smelled bad on the bus, or perhaps just sat too close for comfort on the train. I’ve certainly had my fair run-ins with public transportation characters: the schizophrenic preacher (I wish I was kidding) who simultaneously hit on me and tried to convert me while on a Greyhound bus; the woman who was sobbing on the El, engrossed in a Self Help book; the two German men on the sleeper between Venice and Köln who told jokes all through the night; and who could forget the physical brawl between a man and woman that I found myself caught between as I desperately tried to board an over-packed Tube. Public transportation can be scary and you never know what Dateline special you may inadvertently find yourself a part of.
Last week I had an interview for a job that I was in no way qualified for. I applied to the position out of sheer boredom at work one day and my only thoughts were, “They don’t require a cover letter? Sweet. Don’t need to exert any effort then!” Half an hour later I got an email asking if I could come down for an interview. The position I had applied for was Social Media Manager. Sure, I am on facebook nearly every hour throughout the day, I know about Twitter and I keep a blog, but a Social Media Manager I certainly am not. Nevertheless, they showed some interest so I turned up.
As it turns out, this company knew as much as I did that I was unqualified for the position. They had asked me in for an interview because my resume “fascinated” them. The manager was thrilled I had worked for the National Park Service and adored Mackinac Island. He was also a native of Alabama and stated, “My heart goes out the fellow Southerners.” After explaining to me as nicely as possible that I wasn’t actually qualified for the job and therefore would most likely not be getting it, the manager asked if I might consider a part-time internship. I asked what the internship would be and he replied, “I’m not really sure yet. We would sort of have to create one for you. I would just really really like to fit you in here.” I left not knowing if I should feel flattered or slighted (the internship would be, of course, unpaid).
Per habit, I immediately called a close friend on my walk back to the El (the company was located in Uptown). I told her of the trippy experience and related another Twilight Zone-esque interview I had experienced the week prior when I had been told (by the interviewer) that I must have forgotten to wear my lipstick that day. We scoffed over the nerve of Miss Lipstick as I boarded the Red Line. The car was packed so I had to stand. Just a few feet away from me stood an unstable (both physically and mentally) homeless man I had seen once before on the El. Normally he traveled from car-to-car, panhandling. Tonight, he swayed dramatically from side to side, distressing the commuters around him. As my friend told me about her day, Unstable unbuttoned his pants. He slid them to his knees, looked down, and pulled them back up. He then went and sat beside a college student, who was trying very hard to seem immersed in his Physics textbook.
The train pulled up at the first stop. Seats near me were vacated and I took one of the window chairs. An Indian woman and her boyfriend sat in surrounding seats. My friend continued to talk about recent happenings in her job, but I suddenly noticed the entire car had gone completely silent. The doors remained open and everyone seemed uncomfortable in their seats. Suddenly, the train conductor along with a CTA security guard boarded the car. They approached Unstable and asked him to leave the premises.
I continued to give hushed one-word responses to my friend and felt bad that it was becoming obvious that I was distracted. I wanted to narrate all that was happening, but felt it inappropriate as the security guard escorted Unstable from the platform. The train conductor strode to the front of the El.
I again tried to shift my attention to my friend, but was then distracted by the immediate passenger gossip:
“Did you hear what they said? The code the police said into their radio?”
“Gang bang.”
“Yes! I heard it, too. They said ‘gang bang,’ didn’t they?”
“What do you think that means?”
The woman beside me seemed more offended by Unstable’s smell and pulled out a bottle of perfume. She sprayed the air, hitting the side of my face in her aromatic circle. My coughing perplexed her and she asked if I thought the fragrance smelled bad.
By this point my friend’s call had graciously dropped and I was able to text her a quick synopsis of what had been taking place since I boarded the Red Line. Just as I hit Send, Unstable jumped triumphantly into the car. He puffed out his chest and stared valiantly at those brave enough to make eye contact. Movement on the platform startled him and he dove behind my seat. The CTA security guard walked swiftly past the open doors and a young girl sitting across the aisle from me sprang after him. Unstable looked around for a less obvious hiding place when a man across the car called him over saying there were plenty of empty seats where he sat. Unstable took his rooster stance once again and strutted across the car. The young girl returned followed by the security guard, train conductor, and a cop. They once again approached Unstable and asked him to leave the train.
The excitement finally over, the conductor made an announcement that, due to the delay, the train would be running express and would skip the next seven stops. Three quarters of the car departed leaving only myself and five other people: the Physics student, a small Hispanic woman, a young girl with a mutilated face, the man who had offered Unstable a seat, and a guy with amazing dreadlocks. The doors closed and we finally left the platform after our nearly fifteen minute delay.
The car bounced along hurriedly, the conductor trying to make up for his lost time. I continued to text with my friend and update her on Unstable’s reappearance. Suddenly, the Hispanic woman who had been behind me took the seat right next to me. I tried not to look taken aback, but wondered why, when there was currently a ratio of about 10:1 seats to passengers, she had decided to sit right next to me. It was then that I noticed the girl with the scarred face looking towards the other end of the car. Unstable was back and shuffling towards our seats. He passed us and opened the emergency door. He left the car and stood on the jack that connected our car to the one behind us.
The girl looked at the Hispanic woman and me. “Is he going to jump?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” the Hispanic woman responded.
“Should we do something?” I asked.
We watched him as he wavered back and forth on the jack. We didn’t want him to jump, nor did we want to open the door and possibly cause him to fall. And let’s be honest, interacting with him wasn’t exactly at the top of anyone’s list either. El cars are not the same as Metra trains. The doors leading from car-to-car are for emergency only because when you leave a car you are outside. There is no platform, no railing, nothing to keep you from being jerked to the ground. Unstable wavered a moment more and then opened the door again. As he re-entered the car the three of us looked around the floor and ceiling as if something else had interested us.
Unstable wandered up and down the car once before taking the seat next to his good buddy Physics Student once more. He then proceeded to bark. Now, I’m not talking “Woof! Woof!” I am talking about legit barking like a dog that really wants to bite the postman. Poor Physics Student. He sat there, textbook book pressed close to his face, but his eyes were glued to Unstable.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable train ride, we arrived at the second to last stop. Unstable departed of his own free will this time. The next stop was Howard, the end of the Red Line, and those of us traveling to Evanston got off the train and waited for the Purple Line to show. Unfortunately, since this is the L, the majority of the trains are elevated. Meaning: it was bloody cold. Thankfully, Chicago is smart and has placed heaters in many of the awnings. I joined a group of fellow Purple Liners under one of these awnings and updated my friend even further on The Adventures of Unstable.
I was listening to my iPod at this point and it took me a few moments to realize someone, somewhere was yelling. I looked around and saw a large man in a Letterman jacket yelling in my direction. I turned down the volume on my iPod in time to hear him yell, “Ah shoot, man! Y’all stuck up bitches not gonna tell me what train is coming? I’m just askin’ what train is COMIN’!” I immediately deduced that he had asked a general ‘which train is this’ to the crowd I happened to be standing in and no one had answered him. Letterman slowly made his way closer to the crowd, ranting and raving the whole way. Even without smelling his breath, it was very apparent that he was wasted.
“What time it is?” Letterman demanded, stumbling down the platform. “Why ain’t no one tell me what TIME. IT. IS.” He walked right in front of me.
“The time?” I said, hoping to quiet him. My question stopped him suddenly.
“Yeah. What time it is?”
“9:20.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Miss. That’s really nice.”
“Oh you’re welcome,” I said, starting to put my earphone back in my ear.
“What’s your name?” Letterman asked.
“Elizabeth,” I fibbed.
“Elizabeth?” he shook my hand and took a step closer. “That’s a real pretty name, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you.”
“You traveling alone tonight, Elizabeth?”
“Yep. Looks like it.”
“You gotta boyfriend?”
“Yep. He’s meeting me at the next stop.” I looked down at my phone and wondered which of my friends would answer a mayday text the fastest.
Letterman pressed himself, obscuring my phone’s screen with his stomach. “Well he shouldn’t let a pretty little thing like you travel alone.”
“Haha no he shouldn’t,” I responded, shaking my fist in the air. I looked around. My crowd of Purple Liners was noticeably inching away from Letterman and myself. Bastards, I thought.
“I gotta girlfriend,” Letterman announced.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looked across the platform. “BABY GIRL!” he yelled, “BABY GIRL! Commere. Commere!”
Baby Girl came over. Baby Girl did not look happy. She slammed a ring of keys into Letterman’s hand. “Take these,” she said harshly and stomped off. Letterman’s confusion over Baby Girl’s attitude gave me enough time to send my “CALL ME NOW THIS IS NOT A JOKE!” text. He then turned back to me and began talking about the Bears. Apparently they had lost that night. Or maybe they won. I honestly wasn’t paying attention.
Like a godsend, my phone suddenly blared a song from ‘Across the Universe’. “Opps,” I said, “I’ve got to get this.” I answered and immediately began telling my friend (who lives in Boston) about how I was just waiting for the train and that I would meet her at the next stop. Letterman continued to talk to me about the Bears and was absolutely oblivious to the phone at my ear. Luckily, a young man walked by reading Dan Brown’s Digital Fortress (one of his earlier ones that came out before The Da Vinci Code made him famous). Letterman snatched the book from the bewildered man’s hands. “I read this book,” he said. “This the sequel? Damn what was that book called? Damn that was a good book, whatn’it?” This momentary distraction gave me enough room to slip between Letterman and the wall he had me trapped against. I thanked my friend for the phone call and waited for the Purple Line to finally bloody arrive.
“Excuse me? Miss?”
I turned around. A woman very similar in appearance and dress to Professor Trelawney from ‘Harry Potter’ (wild curly gray hair, giant round glasses and patch-worked clothing) beamed at me. “What?” I said, having had enough Creatures of the El experiences for one night.
“Is that a dress you’re wearing or a skirt?”
I looked down. Beneath my yellow pea coat was the bottom of my purple and black zigzagged sweater dress. “It’s a dress,” I said, still wondering why on earth this woman needed to know.
“It’s very lovely,” she said. “Very unique. People should wear more stuff that is pretty and unique.” And with that, Professor Trelawney turned and walked away.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Twilight Zone
Skokie Theater's upcoming show is a dark comedy Christmas play set in England. Rehearsals have been going for two weeks and for about three weeks my supervisor has talked about getting the cast "traditional English treats" as a surprise. When I informed her that I make a damn good scone, she was ecstatic. She warned me that in the near future she would be asking me to bake scones for around forty people. (There are only nine people in the cast plus the director, stage manager and assistant stage manager. I am not sure where these other twenty-eight people came from.)
Sadly, my scone baking extravaganza never happened. Instead, I arrived at the theatre last week and found Nikki on the phone with a "traditional English bakery" she had discovered. She placed an order for two banana cream pies, one mincemeat pie, and a steak and ale pie (the Brits do love their pies). As she recited the theater's Visa Card number into the phone she said, "And I'll be sending my assistant down to pick all that up. Thank you!" She then turned to me, the assistant. She handed me a Post-It note with the bakery's address.
"This is in Skokie?" I asked, already dreading the gas I was going to use for my unpaid position.
"It's in Bridgeport," Nikki answered.
"Where's that?"
"Right near Andersonville."
I breathed a sigh of relief. I still had to drive without being paid, but at least Andersonville (where my Uptown writing group is located) was only six miles below Skokie. I went back to my cubicle, plugged the address into Google Maps and came up with a location on the south side of Chicago. I zoomed in -- the address was located in a neighborhood called Bridgeport.
"Um, Nikki," I said, walking to her desk, "are you sure this is the right place?" I showed her where the address was located. Bridgeport was a little over twenty miles south of Skokie.
"Do you not feel safe going there?" Nikki asked. The south side of Chicago is notorious for crime. "I don't want to send you anywhere that you won't feel comfortable."
('I will feel comfortable if someone gives me gas money,' I wanted to say.)
"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to check," I said hesitantly.
"Great! You should head there around noon. I told them you would pick up the food at one o'clock and the actors will go on break at two."
I left the theatre right at noon. I merged onto I-94 and within three miles encountered bumper-to-bumper traffic. As downtown Chicago inched its way past my car Nikki texted me: "Georgia, I think you already left? Let's talk gas mileage when you get back!" So happy was I that I was actually going to get gas money out of the forty mile trip that it took a moment before I realized it was nearly 12:30 and Nikki had just realized I was gone.
Almost exactly an hour after I left Skokie Theatre and with the city of Chicago filling my rear-view mirror, I finally pulled off the interstate. The distance-tracker on my GPS displayed there was still another mile and a half to go. Strangely, I noticed that further I drove from the interstate, the more dilapidated the buildings became. By the time the congratulatory 'You Made It!' checkered flag appeared on my GPS screen, I was beginning to think a joke had been played on Nikki. Run down homes lined the street, thick steel bars covered windows and doors, a strange man with coke-bottle glasses, a severe limp and metallic wig shuffled along the sidewalk and clusters of boys about my age with saggy pants and dark bandanas stared as I drove by. The most well maintained building was what looked like a Hindu temple. It sat directly across the street from what my GPS told me was Pleasant Bakery: the traditional English bakery. Unfortunately, Pleasant Bakery looked more like Piss-Poor Bakery with its cracked and falling down faded yellow letters and holes in its facade.
I parked in the projects behind the bakery and walked the half block to the front of the building. Like the surrounding tenements, Pleasant Bakery, too, had thick steel bars lining its windows and doors and a padlock chain for extra security. The windows were so clouded that I couldn't discern any sign of life inside. I stood outside the front door for a moment and looked around. I wondered seriously whether I would even find the door unlocked or not.
There is only one word to describe the inside of Pleasant Bakery: "charming." Upon entering the building, I did a double take. Where was the shack I had entered? Where was the dirt and the grime and the crumbling inside to match the rundown-warehouse-full-of-scatters exterior? Pleasant Bakery was nothing shy of a pleasant diner.
Let's start with the smell -- that place smelled AMAZING. The moment I walked through the door I was hit with a wave of savory meats, roasting vegetables, and all other fumes associated with a meat pie or beef stew. A group of college students sat in a corner, each marveling over what the other had ordered. I assume they were writing some sort of review on the bakery because they had each selected a very different entree from one another and were setting up mock studio shots for each dish.
The room itself was simple and classic. The walls were made of dark wood paneling and the floor a beige tile. All the seating was made of half-booth-half-chair and the whole interior had a very homey feel. A counter cordoned off a third of the room. Two women in business suits stood in front of the counter, intently discussing with the cashier what they should order. Behind the cashier was a flurry of activity: men unloaded sheets of pies from large furnace-like ovens; they sprinkled powder over baked goods; some beat dough, sliced meat and chopped vegetables; others carefully squeezed swirls of cream onto desserts.
After fifteen minutes of debate, the two business women finally decided on something to eat. I stepped up to the counter, gave the theater's name and was handed three medium-sized boxes. A cook in the back asked me where the theatre was located (it's not actually called Skokie Theatre). When I replied Skokie, three of the men hooted and exclaimed that that was a long way to drive. "You have no idea," I replied.
Exiting the bakery twilight zone, I looked around the street once more. I was not mistaken -- it was a rundown ghetto. Perhaps the owners of the bakery purposefully destroyed the outside of their building as a means to prevent theft (their food wasn't cheap after all so I'm sure there is some money in there). I envisioned the cashier and some of the cooks taking hammers to the exterior of the bakery. As I rounded the corner with my boxes I stopped short. Two guys in the baggy jeans and bandanas were circling my car, staring into my back and front seats. As I neared, one of them seemed to study my license plate. The sound of the car unlocking itself, however, jolted them both out of their trance. They looked at me, almost as if surprised the car actually belonged to someone. "Um...hi," I said. Opening the door and jumping inside.
The two guys watched as I pulled away. On my mile and a half journey back to the interstate I passed Shuffling Metallic Man, another eccentric looking man-woman with a teacup sized Chihuahua, and two Asian girls who may have been dressed up as Anime characters for Halloween or that was just how they looked. In Bridgeport it's hard to tell.
Sadly, my scone baking extravaganza never happened. Instead, I arrived at the theatre last week and found Nikki on the phone with a "traditional English bakery" she had discovered. She placed an order for two banana cream pies, one mincemeat pie, and a steak and ale pie (the Brits do love their pies). As she recited the theater's Visa Card number into the phone she said, "And I'll be sending my assistant down to pick all that up. Thank you!" She then turned to me, the assistant. She handed me a Post-It note with the bakery's address.
"This is in Skokie?" I asked, already dreading the gas I was going to use for my unpaid position.
"It's in Bridgeport," Nikki answered.
"Where's that?"
"Right near Andersonville."
I breathed a sigh of relief. I still had to drive without being paid, but at least Andersonville (where my Uptown writing group is located) was only six miles below Skokie. I went back to my cubicle, plugged the address into Google Maps and came up with a location on the south side of Chicago. I zoomed in -- the address was located in a neighborhood called Bridgeport.
"Um, Nikki," I said, walking to her desk, "are you sure this is the right place?" I showed her where the address was located. Bridgeport was a little over twenty miles south of Skokie.
"Do you not feel safe going there?" Nikki asked. The south side of Chicago is notorious for crime. "I don't want to send you anywhere that you won't feel comfortable."
('I will feel comfortable if someone gives me gas money,' I wanted to say.)
"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to check," I said hesitantly.
"Great! You should head there around noon. I told them you would pick up the food at one o'clock and the actors will go on break at two."
I left the theatre right at noon. I merged onto I-94 and within three miles encountered bumper-to-bumper traffic. As downtown Chicago inched its way past my car Nikki texted me: "Georgia, I think you already left? Let's talk gas mileage when you get back!" So happy was I that I was actually going to get gas money out of the forty mile trip that it took a moment before I realized it was nearly 12:30 and Nikki had just realized I was gone.
Almost exactly an hour after I left Skokie Theatre and with the city of Chicago filling my rear-view mirror, I finally pulled off the interstate. The distance-tracker on my GPS displayed there was still another mile and a half to go. Strangely, I noticed that further I drove from the interstate, the more dilapidated the buildings became. By the time the congratulatory 'You Made It!' checkered flag appeared on my GPS screen, I was beginning to think a joke had been played on Nikki. Run down homes lined the street, thick steel bars covered windows and doors, a strange man with coke-bottle glasses, a severe limp and metallic wig shuffled along the sidewalk and clusters of boys about my age with saggy pants and dark bandanas stared as I drove by. The most well maintained building was what looked like a Hindu temple. It sat directly across the street from what my GPS told me was Pleasant Bakery: the traditional English bakery. Unfortunately, Pleasant Bakery looked more like Piss-Poor Bakery with its cracked and falling down faded yellow letters and holes in its facade.
I parked in the projects behind the bakery and walked the half block to the front of the building. Like the surrounding tenements, Pleasant Bakery, too, had thick steel bars lining its windows and doors and a padlock chain for extra security. The windows were so clouded that I couldn't discern any sign of life inside. I stood outside the front door for a moment and looked around. I wondered seriously whether I would even find the door unlocked or not.
There is only one word to describe the inside of Pleasant Bakery: "charming." Upon entering the building, I did a double take. Where was the shack I had entered? Where was the dirt and the grime and the crumbling inside to match the rundown-warehouse-full-of-scatters exterior? Pleasant Bakery was nothing shy of a pleasant diner.
Let's start with the smell -- that place smelled AMAZING. The moment I walked through the door I was hit with a wave of savory meats, roasting vegetables, and all other fumes associated with a meat pie or beef stew. A group of college students sat in a corner, each marveling over what the other had ordered. I assume they were writing some sort of review on the bakery because they had each selected a very different entree from one another and were setting up mock studio shots for each dish.
The room itself was simple and classic. The walls were made of dark wood paneling and the floor a beige tile. All the seating was made of half-booth-half-chair and the whole interior had a very homey feel. A counter cordoned off a third of the room. Two women in business suits stood in front of the counter, intently discussing with the cashier what they should order. Behind the cashier was a flurry of activity: men unloaded sheets of pies from large furnace-like ovens; they sprinkled powder over baked goods; some beat dough, sliced meat and chopped vegetables; others carefully squeezed swirls of cream onto desserts.
After fifteen minutes of debate, the two business women finally decided on something to eat. I stepped up to the counter, gave the theater's name and was handed three medium-sized boxes. A cook in the back asked me where the theatre was located (it's not actually called Skokie Theatre). When I replied Skokie, three of the men hooted and exclaimed that that was a long way to drive. "You have no idea," I replied.
Exiting the bakery twilight zone, I looked around the street once more. I was not mistaken -- it was a rundown ghetto. Perhaps the owners of the bakery purposefully destroyed the outside of their building as a means to prevent theft (their food wasn't cheap after all so I'm sure there is some money in there). I envisioned the cashier and some of the cooks taking hammers to the exterior of the bakery. As I rounded the corner with my boxes I stopped short. Two guys in the baggy jeans and bandanas were circling my car, staring into my back and front seats. As I neared, one of them seemed to study my license plate. The sound of the car unlocking itself, however, jolted them both out of their trance. They looked at me, almost as if surprised the car actually belonged to someone. "Um...hi," I said. Opening the door and jumping inside.
The two guys watched as I pulled away. On my mile and a half journey back to the interstate I passed Shuffling Metallic Man, another eccentric looking man-woman with a teacup sized Chihuahua, and two Asian girls who may have been dressed up as Anime characters for Halloween or that was just how they looked. In Bridgeport it's hard to tell.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Much Ado About Writing
In my search to fill ghastly amounts of free time, I joined two writing groups in Chicagoland within my first week of residency: one just north of the city, right on the edge of Boystown (exactly what it sounds like), and the other in downtown Evanston. I joined the Boystown group (Writers Anonymous) through Meetup.org, but panicked when they couldn't seem to get their act together enough to schedule a meeting for that week. I swiftly RSVP'd to the last space open in the Evanston group (Scribes) only to learn the next morning that Writers Anonymous had finally settled on an official date. Scrambling for a social life, I decided to try out both groups.
Before I went to either group I knew I had an interesting case study on my hands. Writers Anon was meeting in an area of Chicago known for being eclectic, accepting, young, and hip. Evanston, on the other hand, could go one of two ways: rich retirees or Northwestern students. As my sister put it: one group will have a member who's working on a sci-fi screenplay, while writers from the other group probably publish nothing but academic articles and anthologies.
Writers Anon met in a fairly large coffee shop that was most likely once a studio apartment. The walls were made of cracked beige brick and the wooden floor had small holes like driftwood. A post on the Meetup page had said someone would try to secure tables in the back room. I ordered a chai tea and made my way to the bricked archway where I could see people sitting at a random assortment of tables and arm chairs. A petite woman with black hair and cat-like glasses turned in her chair as I cautiously made my way down the three steps. "Are you here for the Meetup group?" she asked. I answered 'yes' and the other three people at her table cleared a space for me to sit.
For the next hour and a half we simply sat there and wrote. There was some chatting every now and then and about ten more writers showed up. Ages ranged from early 20s all the way to late 50s. There were recent college graduates, a professor from Columbia (the country -- I made the mistake and asked about the Chicago college), and just regular people who were working random jobs just so they could support themselves and their writing. A guy next to me, Rick*, told me about a three day trip he and two of his friends were about to take to Charleston, SC. They were going to leave the next day and drive through the night, stay three days and then head back to Chicago. After learning where I was from Rick asked if I would recommend taking a side trip to Savannah during their excursion. Never have I had someone be so enthralled while I recommended things to do and see in Savannah's historic district.
At the end of the hour and a half we all went around and introduced ourselves and what we were writing/like to write. As I had suspected, the majority of the writers there were screenwriters. There were a handful of poets and one woman had just had a piece published in a collection of short stories. Her story was under the genre "steam punk romance", but was apparently lacking in "porny sex." Another guy was writing a screenplay about Apple computers going rogue and taking over the world. Needless to say, I liked this group.
The following night I ventured a lot closer to my home: the Barnes and Noble in downtown Evanston. The Scribes weren't as easy to find as Writers Anonymous. I stalked the coffee shop, eavesdropping on any laptop-bearing groups made of three or more people. Finally I pulled out my own laptop and looked at the profile pictures of the Scribes members. Having found a few distinguishable faces I set off to scour the store. Luckily I didn't have to search long before one of the faces came down the escalator. I asked if he was part of Scribes and he sent me to a corner upstairs where a sign had been posted, reserving three tables for the writing group. There were about fifteen people already situated around the table and right away I could tell that this would be very different from Writers Anonymous. The crowd was definitely a few generations ahead of mine and the men and women were very "put together" and I was even able to spot a few recognizable Talbots pieces. My "wealthy retiree" stereotype of Evanston was proving true, but there was an unexpected sprinkling of nerds who carried the aura of World of Warcraft about them.
I spied an empty corner seat near the window. The chair was flanked by two older women with short gray bobs. The woman on the left wore a light purple sweater set and I couldn't help thinking 'public school librarian' as I looked at her. The lady to my right had a muted neon green (oxymoron, I know, but it's the only way to describe the colour)shirt tucked into high waisted jeans and eyeglass holders strewn with colourful beads: the Artist.
As I unpacked my laptop The Librarian looked at me quizzically. I smiled back and she asked, "Are you at the right group?" The question kind of took me aback, but I finally responded, "This is the writing group, right? Scribes?"
"Yes."
"Yep. This is the right group." I sat down.
Librarian was still staring at me strangely. "So," she said, "did you just decide to take up writing? For fun or for a hobby?"
"Nope. It was my college major." I realized I was clearly the youngest person in the group, but I was confused as to why my presence seemed to be so offending to this woman.
"What do you like to write?" The Artist asked, much more warmly.
I told her I preferred plays and creative nonfiction. I began to ask what she liked to write, but then the face from the escalator called the meeting into session.
Scribes was simultaneously very much what I had expected and not at all what I had expected. Unlike Writers Anonymous, the members of Scribes read submissions from three group members each week and the group meetings were focused on feedback of the pieces. Having been in mourning for all my college writing workshops for nearly two years now, I was very excited at the prospect at having other writers read and critique my pieces once again. Scribes critiquing, however, was much more militaristic than what I had experience at my liberal arts college. Everyone had to format their piece a particular way (prose and poetry) with line numbers and specific margins. Although everyone had read each piece and written comments, only four people could speak about each work and they were restricted to only a few minutes before the iPod timer would blare an embarrassingly loud siren (embarrassing because there were still regular Barnes and Noble patrons around us trying to get work done and the tone sounded like a fire alarm).
One of the pieces being critiqued did take me by surprise. It was a fantasy-horror piece by one of the World of Warcraft-esque men entitled "The Toad Who Killed Frogs". There was a bit of confusion as he had posted Part I as a prelude to the Part II everyone was supposed to be critiquing, but that confused half of the group so some people had only read Part I and others only Part II. Obviously I did not read this piece, but some of the lines I caught were:
"Sauerkraut balls"
"Poked the woodle"
"Probing an orifice, one of his captive frogs..."
I was stunned that everyone kept a straight face. I began scribbling notes in my journal, hoping to somehow capture the absurdity of all these retired professionals having to critique a piece about what I assume is a sadistic serial killing toad.
The meeting ended with a critique on a poem that was submitted by The Librarian. I was amazed because no one seemed to know how to critique poetry. I don't mean this in a "you're not using the right technical term" sort of way. The group members were absolutely daunted by the poem and the notion that they now had to discuss it. One man even said, "Well...it was good? I mean, I didn't see anything to talk about because...well it's POETRY." I wanted to snatch the sheet of paper from someone's hand and say, "Give me a minute. I'LL critique it!" Really, Scribes? You can talk until the alarm sounds about frog orifices, but a simple poem is treated like a disease? Perhaps I should continue to join the group just so the few non-horror-fantasy have a chance of someone taking their craft seriously.
Before I went to either group I knew I had an interesting case study on my hands. Writers Anon was meeting in an area of Chicago known for being eclectic, accepting, young, and hip. Evanston, on the other hand, could go one of two ways: rich retirees or Northwestern students. As my sister put it: one group will have a member who's working on a sci-fi screenplay, while writers from the other group probably publish nothing but academic articles and anthologies.
Writers Anon met in a fairly large coffee shop that was most likely once a studio apartment. The walls were made of cracked beige brick and the wooden floor had small holes like driftwood. A post on the Meetup page had said someone would try to secure tables in the back room. I ordered a chai tea and made my way to the bricked archway where I could see people sitting at a random assortment of tables and arm chairs. A petite woman with black hair and cat-like glasses turned in her chair as I cautiously made my way down the three steps. "Are you here for the Meetup group?" she asked. I answered 'yes' and the other three people at her table cleared a space for me to sit.
For the next hour and a half we simply sat there and wrote. There was some chatting every now and then and about ten more writers showed up. Ages ranged from early 20s all the way to late 50s. There were recent college graduates, a professor from Columbia (the country -- I made the mistake and asked about the Chicago college), and just regular people who were working random jobs just so they could support themselves and their writing. A guy next to me, Rick*, told me about a three day trip he and two of his friends were about to take to Charleston, SC. They were going to leave the next day and drive through the night, stay three days and then head back to Chicago. After learning where I was from Rick asked if I would recommend taking a side trip to Savannah during their excursion. Never have I had someone be so enthralled while I recommended things to do and see in Savannah's historic district.
At the end of the hour and a half we all went around and introduced ourselves and what we were writing/like to write. As I had suspected, the majority of the writers there were screenwriters. There were a handful of poets and one woman had just had a piece published in a collection of short stories. Her story was under the genre "steam punk romance", but was apparently lacking in "porny sex." Another guy was writing a screenplay about Apple computers going rogue and taking over the world. Needless to say, I liked this group.
The following night I ventured a lot closer to my home: the Barnes and Noble in downtown Evanston. The Scribes weren't as easy to find as Writers Anonymous. I stalked the coffee shop, eavesdropping on any laptop-bearing groups made of three or more people. Finally I pulled out my own laptop and looked at the profile pictures of the Scribes members. Having found a few distinguishable faces I set off to scour the store. Luckily I didn't have to search long before one of the faces came down the escalator. I asked if he was part of Scribes and he sent me to a corner upstairs where a sign had been posted, reserving three tables for the writing group. There were about fifteen people already situated around the table and right away I could tell that this would be very different from Writers Anonymous. The crowd was definitely a few generations ahead of mine and the men and women were very "put together" and I was even able to spot a few recognizable Talbots pieces. My "wealthy retiree" stereotype of Evanston was proving true, but there was an unexpected sprinkling of nerds who carried the aura of World of Warcraft about them.
I spied an empty corner seat near the window. The chair was flanked by two older women with short gray bobs. The woman on the left wore a light purple sweater set and I couldn't help thinking 'public school librarian' as I looked at her. The lady to my right had a muted neon green (oxymoron, I know, but it's the only way to describe the colour)shirt tucked into high waisted jeans and eyeglass holders strewn with colourful beads: the Artist.
As I unpacked my laptop The Librarian looked at me quizzically. I smiled back and she asked, "Are you at the right group?" The question kind of took me aback, but I finally responded, "This is the writing group, right? Scribes?"
"Yes."
"Yep. This is the right group." I sat down.
Librarian was still staring at me strangely. "So," she said, "did you just decide to take up writing? For fun or for a hobby?"
"Nope. It was my college major." I realized I was clearly the youngest person in the group, but I was confused as to why my presence seemed to be so offending to this woman.
"What do you like to write?" The Artist asked, much more warmly.
I told her I preferred plays and creative nonfiction. I began to ask what she liked to write, but then the face from the escalator called the meeting into session.
Scribes was simultaneously very much what I had expected and not at all what I had expected. Unlike Writers Anonymous, the members of Scribes read submissions from three group members each week and the group meetings were focused on feedback of the pieces. Having been in mourning for all my college writing workshops for nearly two years now, I was very excited at the prospect at having other writers read and critique my pieces once again. Scribes critiquing, however, was much more militaristic than what I had experience at my liberal arts college. Everyone had to format their piece a particular way (prose and poetry) with line numbers and specific margins. Although everyone had read each piece and written comments, only four people could speak about each work and they were restricted to only a few minutes before the iPod timer would blare an embarrassingly loud siren (embarrassing because there were still regular Barnes and Noble patrons around us trying to get work done and the tone sounded like a fire alarm).
One of the pieces being critiqued did take me by surprise. It was a fantasy-horror piece by one of the World of Warcraft-esque men entitled "The Toad Who Killed Frogs". There was a bit of confusion as he had posted Part I as a prelude to the Part II everyone was supposed to be critiquing, but that confused half of the group so some people had only read Part I and others only Part II. Obviously I did not read this piece, but some of the lines I caught were:
"Sauerkraut balls"
"Poked the woodle"
"Probing an orifice, one of his captive frogs..."
I was stunned that everyone kept a straight face. I began scribbling notes in my journal, hoping to somehow capture the absurdity of all these retired professionals having to critique a piece about what I assume is a sadistic serial killing toad.
The meeting ended with a critique on a poem that was submitted by The Librarian. I was amazed because no one seemed to know how to critique poetry. I don't mean this in a "you're not using the right technical term" sort of way. The group members were absolutely daunted by the poem and the notion that they now had to discuss it. One man even said, "Well...it was good? I mean, I didn't see anything to talk about because...well it's POETRY." I wanted to snatch the sheet of paper from someone's hand and say, "Give me a minute. I'LL critique it!" Really, Scribes? You can talk until the alarm sounds about frog orifices, but a simple poem is treated like a disease? Perhaps I should continue to join the group just so the few non-horror-fantasy have a chance of someone taking their craft seriously.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Chicago Revue
Today marks my tenth day in Chicago/Evanston. Not gonna lie -- it has been an emotional roller-coaster. My apartment is huge, but consistently empty and in my first full week at Skokie Theatre I worked a whopping nine hours (and I mean "worked" in the loosest of terms). As someone who finds downtime to be a personal version of Hell I kept myself as busy as humanly possible: I got a temporary library card, passed out thirteen resumes, filled out seven applications, had one job interview, saw a play, volunteered at the Chicago Cultural Center, inquired about ushering at several downtown theaters, ventured into the city five times, went to a drag bingo charity event, joined three meet-up groups, and attempted to audit a class at Northwestern University. Despite how full that list seems to be, when I find myself alone in my apartment all I can worry over is, "Now what?"
Over the past week I struggled to find a purpose in my internship. I wasn't given any assignments and my most productive tasks were making one-hundred copies of a photo and Windex-ing a plastic box. I sat in on the production meeting of a show I'm supposed to be working on (premiering in mid-January), which coincidentally involves Gullah culture in its storyline. For those who don't know, the Barrier Islands of Georgia and South Carolina are STEEPED in Gullah-Geechee history. Islands very near my home still keep the traditions, culture, and language alive. Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the notion of researching such a field of interest and familiarity for me. For Skokie Theatre, however, Gullah culture could not be more foreign.
I first learned about this aspect of the upcoming show, "Black Pearl Sings", when my supervisor began listing things she would like me to research in the near future. "You can look at what it was like to be a woman in the 1930s, a woman in prison in the 1930s, and maybe gender differences of the time." I wrote all of this down. "I'll be looking up more on the songs of the era, Texas in the 1930s, and information on the Ghoul-la culture." I had never heard this word before so I leaned over to see how it was spelled.
"Oh! Gullah?" I asked excitedly.
"Gullah?" Nikki repeated. "Is that how you pronounce it?"
"Are you talking about the slave culture from the South?"
"Yes." She sounded completely baffled that I would know such a random piece of knowledge.
"Yeah. That's all over the islands where I'm from. The Gullah-Geechee culture? There's an island near mine where they even still speak the language."
"You've heard about this?"
"Of course. Gone to festivals, been to the island. It's a big thing down there."
Nikki was dumbfounded. "Wow. So do you think you could do some research on this, too??"
"Definitely," I said, already scribbling down the titles of some books I knew would be helpful. "Maybe I could even call some people who I --"
"Yeah, that's great, Georgia." Nikki was already turning towards her computer, tuning me out. "We can discuss that later."
The next few days at the theatre followed this pattern and I was typically dismissed after only three hours of "work." I began to worry that my decision to leave a paying job on Mackinac had been a mistake. However, I looked forward to the weekend when I would see one of the opening performances of Skokie Theater's new show and was to hear a talk-back after the show as well.
When I arrived at the theatre Sunday afternoon, I did my usual fifteen minute game of "Where's my supervisor?" Upon finding her, Nikki asked if I could record the talk-back after the show. Of course I could. It was the first meaningful task I had been given all week! A man named Stephen approached and began asking Nikki the logistics of the talk-back.(And just to bring everyone up to speed -- the show Skokie Theatre is producing at the moment is a brand new musical comedy revue of songs by Stephen Schwartz. For those of you who do not know Stephen Schwartz, he is the composer and lyricist of the musicals 'Wicked', 'Pippin', and 'Godspell' (among a plethora of others), the movie 'Enchanted', and has even contributed a few songs to 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' and 'The Prince of Egypt'. Basically, a musical god who is on par with Stephen Sondheim ('West Side Story', 'Sweeney Todd', etc.))
I stood next to Nikki awkwardly as she continued to talk with this man. The more they talked about how long the talk-back would last the more I wondered absurdly, "Is this Stephen Schwartz?" I laughed because Number One: I would assume Nikki would introduce me to someone as influential to musical theatre as Stephen Schwartz; and Number Two: wouldn't I feel the tingling of some sort of holy presence if I were one foot away from such a musical god? I certainly felt something around him, but I chalked it up to the awkwardness of not being introduced to somebody when they come up to talk to your friend/acquaintance.
While in my seat waiting for the overture to begin I flipped through the program. My heart dropped as I found the "About the Writer" page. There was Stephen Schwartz. There was the man who was less than two feet away from me a mere five minutes ago. I quickly scanned the auditorium. My musical theatre-senses had been correct: I was in the same room as a walking legend.
My irritation at the missed introduction with Stephen Schwartz dissipated momentarily as the musical began. The songs were catchy and heartfelt and I found myself suppressing tears quite often (this could have also been because the musical was about leaving your friends and family behind...fuck you, Schwartz.).
Right before the last song, Nikki came to where I was sitting and asked if I could go into the lobby and make sure I knew how to work her tape recorder. The song was nearly over when I returned to the back of the house. I surveyed the faces of the audience to see if anyone had become as emotional as I felt during the performance. Thankfully there were a few tear-streaked faces. I jumped when my scanning suddenly landed on the man standing just to the side of Nikki. Stephen Schwartz. In the triangle the three of us formed I was now just inches from the man whose song I had been listening to on my way to the theatre that afternoon. I weighed the pros and cons of "losing my balance" just to nudge his arm; just to say, "I touched Stephen Schwartz!" Luckily, the show ended during this debate and Stephen and Nikki quickly moved forward as the audience began to stand in ovation.
The Musical Mastermind gave a short talk about the beginnings and transformation of the show, which had apparently been twenty-two years in the making (with a fifteen year gap, mind you). A few audience members asked questions and then Nikki announced that Stephen had spoken to the Chicago Dramatist Guild the previous night.
The Chicago Dramatist Guild is a group of playwrights (amateur and professional) currently based in Chicago. This was the event Nikki had originally invited me to and then inexplicably UNinvited me to. Me -- someone who Nikki is very aware is interested in playwriting. I drove five hours north to Atlanta one week just to sit in on a session the Atlanta Dramatist Guild meeting was having with the playwright Gary Garrison. At the end of the talk-back Nikki told me to transcribe everything I had recorded and come back to the theatre on Tuesday. She then walked off, chatting excitedly with a theatre student who had been emailing her recently. I think I'm going to see if the Goodman is looking for volunteers.
Over the past week I struggled to find a purpose in my internship. I wasn't given any assignments and my most productive tasks were making one-hundred copies of a photo and Windex-ing a plastic box. I sat in on the production meeting of a show I'm supposed to be working on (premiering in mid-January), which coincidentally involves Gullah culture in its storyline. For those who don't know, the Barrier Islands of Georgia and South Carolina are STEEPED in Gullah-Geechee history. Islands very near my home still keep the traditions, culture, and language alive. Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the notion of researching such a field of interest and familiarity for me. For Skokie Theatre, however, Gullah culture could not be more foreign.
I first learned about this aspect of the upcoming show, "Black Pearl Sings", when my supervisor began listing things she would like me to research in the near future. "You can look at what it was like to be a woman in the 1930s, a woman in prison in the 1930s, and maybe gender differences of the time." I wrote all of this down. "I'll be looking up more on the songs of the era, Texas in the 1930s, and information on the Ghoul-la culture." I had never heard this word before so I leaned over to see how it was spelled.
"Oh! Gullah?" I asked excitedly.
"Gullah?" Nikki repeated. "Is that how you pronounce it?"
"Are you talking about the slave culture from the South?"
"Yes." She sounded completely baffled that I would know such a random piece of knowledge.
"Yeah. That's all over the islands where I'm from. The Gullah-Geechee culture? There's an island near mine where they even still speak the language."
"You've heard about this?"
"Of course. Gone to festivals, been to the island. It's a big thing down there."
Nikki was dumbfounded. "Wow. So do you think you could do some research on this, too??"
"Definitely," I said, already scribbling down the titles of some books I knew would be helpful. "Maybe I could even call some people who I --"
"Yeah, that's great, Georgia." Nikki was already turning towards her computer, tuning me out. "We can discuss that later."
The next few days at the theatre followed this pattern and I was typically dismissed after only three hours of "work." I began to worry that my decision to leave a paying job on Mackinac had been a mistake. However, I looked forward to the weekend when I would see one of the opening performances of Skokie Theater's new show and was to hear a talk-back after the show as well.
When I arrived at the theatre Sunday afternoon, I did my usual fifteen minute game of "Where's my supervisor?" Upon finding her, Nikki asked if I could record the talk-back after the show. Of course I could. It was the first meaningful task I had been given all week! A man named Stephen approached and began asking Nikki the logistics of the talk-back.(And just to bring everyone up to speed -- the show Skokie Theatre is producing at the moment is a brand new musical comedy revue of songs by Stephen Schwartz. For those of you who do not know Stephen Schwartz, he is the composer and lyricist of the musicals 'Wicked', 'Pippin', and 'Godspell' (among a plethora of others), the movie 'Enchanted', and has even contributed a few songs to 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' and 'The Prince of Egypt'. Basically, a musical god who is on par with Stephen Sondheim ('West Side Story', 'Sweeney Todd', etc.))
I stood next to Nikki awkwardly as she continued to talk with this man. The more they talked about how long the talk-back would last the more I wondered absurdly, "Is this Stephen Schwartz?" I laughed because Number One: I would assume Nikki would introduce me to someone as influential to musical theatre as Stephen Schwartz; and Number Two: wouldn't I feel the tingling of some sort of holy presence if I were one foot away from such a musical god? I certainly felt something around him, but I chalked it up to the awkwardness of not being introduced to somebody when they come up to talk to your friend/acquaintance.
While in my seat waiting for the overture to begin I flipped through the program. My heart dropped as I found the "About the Writer" page. There was Stephen Schwartz. There was the man who was less than two feet away from me a mere five minutes ago. I quickly scanned the auditorium. My musical theatre-senses had been correct: I was in the same room as a walking legend.
My irritation at the missed introduction with Stephen Schwartz dissipated momentarily as the musical began. The songs were catchy and heartfelt and I found myself suppressing tears quite often (this could have also been because the musical was about leaving your friends and family behind...fuck you, Schwartz.).
Right before the last song, Nikki came to where I was sitting and asked if I could go into the lobby and make sure I knew how to work her tape recorder. The song was nearly over when I returned to the back of the house. I surveyed the faces of the audience to see if anyone had become as emotional as I felt during the performance. Thankfully there were a few tear-streaked faces. I jumped when my scanning suddenly landed on the man standing just to the side of Nikki. Stephen Schwartz. In the triangle the three of us formed I was now just inches from the man whose song I had been listening to on my way to the theatre that afternoon. I weighed the pros and cons of "losing my balance" just to nudge his arm; just to say, "I touched Stephen Schwartz!" Luckily, the show ended during this debate and Stephen and Nikki quickly moved forward as the audience began to stand in ovation.
The Musical Mastermind gave a short talk about the beginnings and transformation of the show, which had apparently been twenty-two years in the making (with a fifteen year gap, mind you). A few audience members asked questions and then Nikki announced that Stephen had spoken to the Chicago Dramatist Guild the previous night.
The Chicago Dramatist Guild is a group of playwrights (amateur and professional) currently based in Chicago. This was the event Nikki had originally invited me to and then inexplicably UNinvited me to. Me -- someone who Nikki is very aware is interested in playwriting. I drove five hours north to Atlanta one week just to sit in on a session the Atlanta Dramatist Guild meeting was having with the playwright Gary Garrison. At the end of the talk-back Nikki told me to transcribe everything I had recorded and come back to the theatre on Tuesday. She then walked off, chatting excitedly with a theatre student who had been emailing her recently. I think I'm going to see if the Goodman is looking for volunteers.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Another Suitcase in Another Hall
Well here we go again, folks. 'Lost in the Woods' has once again changed its theme and will now just focus on what is apparently a constantly changing life in my twenties. This seems to be a theme with everyone around my age now. Friends are moving to Seattle, Ann Arbor, Boston, New Mexico, Texas, Kansas, going to grad school, working for bakeries, trying to find any entry-level job possible -- all transient and all just trying to figure out what to do post-undergrad. The general consensus over the past year has just been a resounding, "Where do we land?"
I moved to Chicago four days ago. I came here for a theatre internship that will hopefully be my "foot in the door" for whatever it is I want to do with my life. I found a nice duplex apartment in Evanston about three miles from the theatre where I will be working and am living with two other post-grad twentysomething girls. I'll admit that I am very much the type of person who takes transitions very rough, but after having adjusted to Mackinac so easily, I was ill prepared for the onslaught of emotions that took over the moment I boarded my last mainland bound ferry and have really yet to stop.
Already sad and nervous about having picked up my entire life again to move to a new place alone, I sought solace in my internship. It was going to be great. I was going to meet the other interns (hopefully people similar to myself in age and demeanor), learn about all the exciting stuff I was going to do, and hopefully make some friends. I arrived at Skokie Theatre* just before noon. The monotone secretary buzzed me inside and I entered an enormous, grand lobby. My spirits lifted a little as I thought, "This is a REAL theatre." I don't know what I was expecting, but I was already feeling pleasantly surprised.
The theatre office left a little to be desired for when compared to the lobby. Everyone was inside unstable looking cubicles and there wasn't the normal chatter I've been accustomed to in office rooms. The woman who was to be my supervisor, Nikki*, took me around the office, introducing me to everyone. After fifteen minutes of this she took me into the lobby and loosely went over the season line-up of shows before handing me two plays.
"You can take these home and read them if you'd like. Or a coffee shop maybe?"
I looked at her a moment, confused as to what exactly she was saying. "And come back?" I asked.
"You can just bring them back Wednesday." (It was only Monday and my first day off was already Tuesday.)
"Can I read them here?" I felt a slight anger rise in me. Here I was: sad, scared, and lonely. I had once again uprooted everything to move to a place where I knew almost no one and all for a half hour of introduction?
"Sure! If you'd like. We can discuss the plays when you're done. Come find me when you finish this one and we'll discuss it."
I read the play until about 2:15 p.m. I went and found Nikki. She took the script from me, asked if I liked it and then said I could go home...Let's hope my second day is more encouraging.
I moved to Chicago four days ago. I came here for a theatre internship that will hopefully be my "foot in the door" for whatever it is I want to do with my life. I found a nice duplex apartment in Evanston about three miles from the theatre where I will be working and am living with two other post-grad twentysomething girls. I'll admit that I am very much the type of person who takes transitions very rough, but after having adjusted to Mackinac so easily, I was ill prepared for the onslaught of emotions that took over the moment I boarded my last mainland bound ferry and have really yet to stop.
Already sad and nervous about having picked up my entire life again to move to a new place alone, I sought solace in my internship. It was going to be great. I was going to meet the other interns (hopefully people similar to myself in age and demeanor), learn about all the exciting stuff I was going to do, and hopefully make some friends. I arrived at Skokie Theatre* just before noon. The monotone secretary buzzed me inside and I entered an enormous, grand lobby. My spirits lifted a little as I thought, "This is a REAL theatre." I don't know what I was expecting, but I was already feeling pleasantly surprised.
The theatre office left a little to be desired for when compared to the lobby. Everyone was inside unstable looking cubicles and there wasn't the normal chatter I've been accustomed to in office rooms. The woman who was to be my supervisor, Nikki*, took me around the office, introducing me to everyone. After fifteen minutes of this she took me into the lobby and loosely went over the season line-up of shows before handing me two plays.
"You can take these home and read them if you'd like. Or a coffee shop maybe?"
I looked at her a moment, confused as to what exactly she was saying. "And come back?" I asked.
"You can just bring them back Wednesday." (It was only Monday and my first day off was already Tuesday.)
"Can I read them here?" I felt a slight anger rise in me. Here I was: sad, scared, and lonely. I had once again uprooted everything to move to a place where I knew almost no one and all for a half hour of introduction?
"Sure! If you'd like. We can discuss the plays when you're done. Come find me when you finish this one and we'll discuss it."
I read the play until about 2:15 p.m. I went and found Nikki. She took the script from me, asked if I liked it and then said I could go home...Let's hope my second day is more encouraging.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Angry August
At the beginning of the season I was told that August was the worst month for tourists on the island. Apparently they are angrier than tourists visiting within any of the other summer months. August being my birthday month I refused to believe this as true.
Well, folks, I am here to say that that statement was completely factual. I do not know what it is, but August tourists are angry, entitled, snippy, and just plain rude at times. I have reached the point where the bad guests have set me on such edge that even the nice ones who are just a teaspoon of annoying make me grind my teeth.
One example of the "August Tourist" would be Mr. 101. Mr. and Mrs. 101 stayed at The Orchid for about three nights. They were both very pleasant and amicable and Mr. 101 said he was sad to leave our hotel. I checked him out, made up a baggage tag for his luggage and handed him the claim stub telling him that our porter, John*, would meet them at the dock ten minutes prior to their ferry's departure. Mr. 101 thanked me and he and his wife left the hotel shortly thereafter.
John was our only porter that day, which was fine since we didn't have an exorbitant amount of check-ins and check-outs. Unfortunately for John, five of our check-outs had decided to take 11 a.m. boats, all from different boat lines and one party had ten pieces of luggage. John already had the majority of the luggage at each boatline by the time we were told about the ten-pieces room (from the third floor). John made the ten-piece his top priority and raced them down to the boatline, leaving another room's luggage strapped to his bike basket out front. I was standing at the front desk when Mr. 101 stormed in. He was no longer smiling.
"I would appreciate it if I didn't have to wait until the last SECOND for my bags to get on the boat."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I believe John is on his way down with your bags right now."
"No he's not. They are right THERE," he snapped, jabbing his finger in the direction of John's bike. How was I supposed to know which luggage was his?
"Okay, I'm very sorry, sir. I'll let John know to meet you down there now."
"I want him there NOW. I do not appreciate waiting until the last minute."
I radioed John and, not knowing where Mr. 101 was in relation to John's radio, tried to warn him as professionally as possible that he was about to have a very livid visitor. John later described his interaction with Mr. 101:
Mr. 101 stormed at John the moment he arrived on the dock with the bags. "Next time I would appreciate not waiting until the last minute for my bags to arrive."
"I'm very sorry, sir. We always tell people to expect us about ten minutes before the boat departs."
"Well I wasn't told that and next time we'll just have to request that our bags be brought here TWENTY minutes before the boat departs."
"Sir, your bags are here within the ten minute time frame and, as you can see, your boat hasn't even arrived yet."
"Next time we'll just ask that our bags be brought down here twenty minutes before the boat departs."
"Okay, sir. Whatever you might want to work out the next time with the front desk."
The next irate guest came a mere week after Mr. 101. John radioed that the Dinga party had just arrived at the Star Line dock. I went to the front desk and pulled out the Dingas' registration card and waited for them to arrive. (Our manager likes for us to greet guests by saying, "Hi!?" because it shows we're "on top of things.") A middle-aged couple walked in holding a few small bags. "Hi," I said, "how are you two?" They made no verbal reply, but the husband nodded his head. "Dinga?" I asked. No reply. The woman bent down to get something out of her bag. "Dinga?" I said again. The woman bolted upright and gave me a look as though I had just uttered a racial slur. "Are you the Dingas?" I asked more hesitantly.
"I didn't say anything to you," the woman snapped. "I didn't say a single word toyou since we walked through that door."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, a bit taken aback at how angry the woman with the fake blond hair sounded. "Are you not the Dingas?"
"No. We're not. We're the Kolariks." (That's right, no asterisk with time. This is their REAL name. Karma, Pat and Greg Kolarik of Denmark, Wisconsin. Karma.)
"Oh, okay." I scrambled to pull their registration card out, hoping to defuse the situation. A man came around the corner and asked when the restaurant opened for dinner. I told him 5pm. He asked if I could make him a dinner reservation for five people at 6pm. I said 'yes' thinking he would then wait for me to finish with the Kolariks, but instead he started to walk out the door. I called for him to stop and poked my head into the office to ask Sandy to help him. I then focused all of my attention back on the Kolariks.
Pat seemed very offended by everything I asked, which consisted of, "We have you staying for two nights, is that correct? And there are two of you in the room? Can you just verify this contact information and sign here, please?" As they looked over their contact info another party arrived wanting to check in (the real Dingas!). I asked the Kolariks for a credit card to open a house account and as I went into the office to swipe the card I asked Mickey to check in the real Dingas.
Now, I will admit, this was very hectic. Sandy was at the right side of the front desk still talking to the party of five about dinner; Mickey was in the middle checking in the Dingas; I was at the left giving the rest of the spiel to the Kolariks. It was controlled choas. We were each completely focused on the specific people we were talking to, making direct eye-contact and everything so that the guests were sure to understand everything we were saying.
I started to tell Pat and Greg about the complimentary breakfast we had available in the morning when Pat, in the middle of my sentence, snipped to her husband, "It would be nice if they took people just one at a time." Despite the fact that Pat the Pissed looked so angry that tears seemed to be welling in her eyes (or maybe that was a side effect from all the bleach she must use to create her neon coloured hair), I was pretty fed up with her blatantly rude attitude. It was childish, but I rushed through the rest of my spiel at a rate I knew they couldn't understand. I then asked if our porters had met them at the dock.
"No one met us," Mrs. Kolarik nearly shouted, her hair remaining rigid as her head snapped back like an angry chicken.
"Did you not check any luggage?" I asked. The bags they were carrying were equivalent to the size of plastic grocery bags.
"We. WANTED. To. Carry. OUR. OWN. BAGS." Pat the Pissed was very close to hysterics now.
"Okay," I said, swiftly losing my patience. "This is going to be fun." I grabbed their key from under the desk. "Let me show to you your room!" (Had my manager heard my overtly sarcastic tone she probably would have given the wretchedly bleached woman a free room.) As I led the Kolariks up the stairs I asked where they were visiting from. No answer. As we reached the second floor I toyed with the idea of "accidentally" leading them to the thirdfloor (we don't have an elevator and they were not exactly at the peak of physical fitness) if they continued with the silent treatment. The husband finally responded, "Greenbay, Wisconsin." No other words were spoken between us because my professional filter system had completely disappeared and I'm sure Pat the Pissed would have had a conniption had I asked her the only other question I could think of: "Did you let someone to that to your hair or did you do it yourself?" I opened their room, gave the husband the key, and left. As I raced away from the tension filled room I secretly wished a sudden heat wave would hit the island. The Kolariks' room did not have air conditioning.
Thankfully, Pat the Pissed and I never crossed such intimate paths during the rest of her stay. My office manager and I hypothesized what might have set her in such a foul mood the moment she arrived on the island. The top five reasons were:
1. She just found out her husband is cheating on her.
2. Mr. Kolarik had forgotten they had come to Mackinac Island for their anniversary.
3. She just learned that Mr. Kolarik fathered an illegitimate child.
4. Her scalp burned from the bleach.
5. She was jealous that my blond hair is 100% natural.
I was off the day Pat and Greg checked out. My coworkers recounted the wonderful process of saying goodbye to the Kolariks:
At The Orchid, we require all of our rooms to be prepaid. However, if someone wants to change their method of payment (for example, put it on a different card or pay with cash) then we simply refund to the original card during checkout and use whatever they want instead. Pat wanted to use a $500 American Express giftcard. She explained this to Gretel and stated, "I want to speak to the person who will be running this card. I do not want them to run this card BEFORE I speak to them." Jenny, our manager, was standing behind the glass pane separating the front desk from the back office, waiting to swipe this card. Gretel took a step back to repeat these instructions to Jenny.
"Do not charge that card!" Pat yelped. "Do you hear me, young lady? Are you LISTENING to me? I want to talk to her before you swipe that card!"
Gretel stood there for a moment, shell shocked by the abrasiveness of this woman who she had never even met until now. "Yes, ma'am. I understood you." She took another step back to talk to Jenny.
"Do NOT swipe that CARD. Are. You. LISTENING. To. Me?"
Jenny poked her head around the corner. "Ma'am, I heard you. I am not going to swipe your card. If you will just give me one moment, please."
John was standing next to the front desk. "Is there something the matter, ma'am?" he asked.
"It's nothing to do with you," Pat replied, "it's THEM." She made a grand gesture with her hands, indicating the front desk. "THEY just don't listen. They are like robots. Robots! YOU have been great. It's all of THEM I have a problem with." (Let me remind you that the only interaction she had had with the front desk during her entire two-night stay was at check-in with me and now check-out with Gretel. I also later learned that she had already inquired from our other porter, "Who can I speak to about the front desk?" to which he replied, "Uhh...the front desk?")
Jenny emerged from the office and asked the badly-bleached woman what she needed. Pat said that she would like to talk to Jenny about some "complaints." Jenny took her into the owner's office where Pat ranted and raved about us "robots." I am not sure why she had a personal vandetta against us from the moment I said, "Dinga?" but apparently the straw that broke the flourescent coloured camel's back was when Pat witnessed Summer standing on the steps of The Orchid, looking for a taxi. As Summer stood there, completely immersed in her taxi-searching world, an older woman was coming up the stairs. Summer did not register the woman and remained fixed in her place, forcing the older woman to move around her. I am sure that had Summer seen the woman she would have moved, but this instance (as well as whatever else was eating at Pat the Pissed) is what finally sent Mrs. Kolarik over the edge.
Amazingly, Pat did not demand a free room or any type of compensation. She simply wanted to let Jenny know how horrible we all had been. I am also surprised she has yet to write about this experience on Trip Advisor. Since her departure I sporadically look at our page of reviews and scan for the word "robots."
Well, folks, I am here to say that that statement was completely factual. I do not know what it is, but August tourists are angry, entitled, snippy, and just plain rude at times. I have reached the point where the bad guests have set me on such edge that even the nice ones who are just a teaspoon of annoying make me grind my teeth.
One example of the "August Tourist" would be Mr. 101. Mr. and Mrs. 101 stayed at The Orchid for about three nights. They were both very pleasant and amicable and Mr. 101 said he was sad to leave our hotel. I checked him out, made up a baggage tag for his luggage and handed him the claim stub telling him that our porter, John*, would meet them at the dock ten minutes prior to their ferry's departure. Mr. 101 thanked me and he and his wife left the hotel shortly thereafter.
John was our only porter that day, which was fine since we didn't have an exorbitant amount of check-ins and check-outs. Unfortunately for John, five of our check-outs had decided to take 11 a.m. boats, all from different boat lines and one party had ten pieces of luggage. John already had the majority of the luggage at each boatline by the time we were told about the ten-pieces room (from the third floor). John made the ten-piece his top priority and raced them down to the boatline, leaving another room's luggage strapped to his bike basket out front. I was standing at the front desk when Mr. 101 stormed in. He was no longer smiling.
"I would appreciate it if I didn't have to wait until the last SECOND for my bags to get on the boat."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I believe John is on his way down with your bags right now."
"No he's not. They are right THERE," he snapped, jabbing his finger in the direction of John's bike. How was I supposed to know which luggage was his?
"Okay, I'm very sorry, sir. I'll let John know to meet you down there now."
"I want him there NOW. I do not appreciate waiting until the last minute."
I radioed John and, not knowing where Mr. 101 was in relation to John's radio, tried to warn him as professionally as possible that he was about to have a very livid visitor. John later described his interaction with Mr. 101:
Mr. 101 stormed at John the moment he arrived on the dock with the bags. "Next time I would appreciate not waiting until the last minute for my bags to arrive."
"I'm very sorry, sir. We always tell people to expect us about ten minutes before the boat departs."
"Well I wasn't told that and next time we'll just have to request that our bags be brought here TWENTY minutes before the boat departs."
"Sir, your bags are here within the ten minute time frame and, as you can see, your boat hasn't even arrived yet."
"Next time we'll just ask that our bags be brought down here twenty minutes before the boat departs."
"Okay, sir. Whatever you might want to work out the next time with the front desk."
The next irate guest came a mere week after Mr. 101. John radioed that the Dinga party had just arrived at the Star Line dock. I went to the front desk and pulled out the Dingas' registration card and waited for them to arrive. (Our manager likes for us to greet guests by saying, "Hi!
"I didn't say anything to you," the woman snapped. "I didn't say a single word toyou since we walked through that door."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, a bit taken aback at how angry the woman with the fake blond hair sounded. "Are you not the Dingas?"
"No. We're not. We're the Kolariks." (That's right, no asterisk with time. This is their REAL name. Karma, Pat and Greg Kolarik of Denmark, Wisconsin. Karma.)
"Oh, okay." I scrambled to pull their registration card out, hoping to defuse the situation. A man came around the corner and asked when the restaurant opened for dinner. I told him 5pm. He asked if I could make him a dinner reservation for five people at 6pm. I said 'yes' thinking he would then wait for me to finish with the Kolariks, but instead he started to walk out the door. I called for him to stop and poked my head into the office to ask Sandy to help him. I then focused all of my attention back on the Kolariks.
Pat seemed very offended by everything I asked, which consisted of, "We have you staying for two nights, is that correct? And there are two of you in the room? Can you just verify this contact information and sign here, please?" As they looked over their contact info another party arrived wanting to check in (the real Dingas!). I asked the Kolariks for a credit card to open a house account and as I went into the office to swipe the card I asked Mickey to check in the real Dingas.
Now, I will admit, this was very hectic. Sandy was at the right side of the front desk still talking to the party of five about dinner; Mickey was in the middle checking in the Dingas; I was at the left giving the rest of the spiel to the Kolariks. It was controlled choas. We were each completely focused on the specific people we were talking to, making direct eye-contact and everything so that the guests were sure to understand everything we were saying.
I started to tell Pat and Greg about the complimentary breakfast we had available in the morning when Pat, in the middle of my sentence, snipped to her husband, "It would be nice if they took people just one at a time." Despite the fact that Pat the Pissed looked so angry that tears seemed to be welling in her eyes (or maybe that was a side effect from all the bleach she must use to create her neon coloured hair), I was pretty fed up with her blatantly rude attitude. It was childish, but I rushed through the rest of my spiel at a rate I knew they couldn't understand. I then asked if our porters had met them at the dock.
"No one met us," Mrs. Kolarik nearly shouted, her hair remaining rigid as her head snapped back like an angry chicken.
"Did you not check any luggage?" I asked. The bags they were carrying were equivalent to the size of plastic grocery bags.
"We. WANTED. To. Carry. OUR. OWN. BAGS." Pat the Pissed was very close to hysterics now.
"Okay," I said, swiftly losing my patience. "This is going to be fun." I grabbed their key from under the desk. "Let me show to you your room!" (Had my manager heard my overtly sarcastic tone she probably would have given the wretchedly bleached woman a free room.) As I led the Kolariks up the stairs I asked where they were visiting from. No answer. As we reached the second floor I toyed with the idea of "accidentally" leading them to the thirdfloor (we don't have an elevator and they were not exactly at the peak of physical fitness) if they continued with the silent treatment. The husband finally responded, "Greenbay, Wisconsin." No other words were spoken between us because my professional filter system had completely disappeared and I'm sure Pat the Pissed would have had a conniption had I asked her the only other question I could think of: "Did you let someone to that to your hair or did you do it yourself?" I opened their room, gave the husband the key, and left. As I raced away from the tension filled room I secretly wished a sudden heat wave would hit the island. The Kolariks' room did not have air conditioning.
Thankfully, Pat the Pissed and I never crossed such intimate paths during the rest of her stay. My office manager and I hypothesized what might have set her in such a foul mood the moment she arrived on the island. The top five reasons were:
1. She just found out her husband is cheating on her.
2. Mr. Kolarik had forgotten they had come to Mackinac Island for their anniversary.
3. She just learned that Mr. Kolarik fathered an illegitimate child.
4. Her scalp burned from the bleach.
5. She was jealous that my blond hair is 100% natural.
I was off the day Pat and Greg checked out. My coworkers recounted the wonderful process of saying goodbye to the Kolariks:
At The Orchid, we require all of our rooms to be prepaid. However, if someone wants to change their method of payment (for example, put it on a different card or pay with cash) then we simply refund to the original card during checkout and use whatever they want instead. Pat wanted to use a $500 American Express giftcard. She explained this to Gretel and stated, "I want to speak to the person who will be running this card. I do not want them to run this card BEFORE I speak to them." Jenny, our manager, was standing behind the glass pane separating the front desk from the back office, waiting to swipe this card. Gretel took a step back to repeat these instructions to Jenny.
"Do not charge that card!" Pat yelped. "Do you hear me, young lady? Are you LISTENING to me? I want to talk to her before you swipe that card!"
Gretel stood there for a moment, shell shocked by the abrasiveness of this woman who she had never even met until now. "Yes, ma'am. I understood you." She took another step back to talk to Jenny.
"Do NOT swipe that CARD. Are. You. LISTENING. To. Me?"
Jenny poked her head around the corner. "Ma'am, I heard you. I am not going to swipe your card. If you will just give me one moment, please."
John was standing next to the front desk. "Is there something the matter, ma'am?" he asked.
"It's nothing to do with you," Pat replied, "it's THEM." She made a grand gesture with her hands, indicating the front desk. "THEY just don't listen. They are like robots. Robots! YOU have been great. It's all of THEM I have a problem with." (Let me remind you that the only interaction she had had with the front desk during her entire two-night stay was at check-in with me and now check-out with Gretel. I also later learned that she had already inquired from our other porter, "Who can I speak to about the front desk?" to which he replied, "Uhh...the front desk?")
Jenny emerged from the office and asked the badly-bleached woman what she needed. Pat said that she would like to talk to Jenny about some "complaints." Jenny took her into the owner's office where Pat ranted and raved about us "robots." I am not sure why she had a personal vandetta against us from the moment I said, "Dinga?" but apparently the straw that broke the flourescent coloured camel's back was when Pat witnessed Summer standing on the steps of The Orchid, looking for a taxi. As Summer stood there, completely immersed in her taxi-searching world, an older woman was coming up the stairs. Summer did not register the woman and remained fixed in her place, forcing the older woman to move around her. I am sure that had Summer seen the woman she would have moved, but this instance (as well as whatever else was eating at Pat the Pissed) is what finally sent Mrs. Kolarik over the edge.
Amazingly, Pat did not demand a free room or any type of compensation. She simply wanted to let Jenny know how horrible we all had been. I am also surprised she has yet to write about this experience on Trip Advisor. Since her departure I sporadically look at our page of reviews and scan for the word "robots."
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
"911, What's Your Location?"
Yesterday my office manager received a call from a frantic guest saying that her nephew had been hurt in a biking accident. She asked to be connected to her mother's room and for Jenny to contact the medical center. My office manager immediately jumped into action, calling the center and getting the name and number of the doctor on-call. Of course, this being Mackinac Island, she had to leave a voicemail. Soon afterwards the grandmother of the boy came rushing up to the front desk, also asking where the medical center was located. We explained that there wasn't actually a doctor at the medical center and asked that she wait until we heard back. By this point, the aunt and nephew were on their way back to the hotel. We had a wheel chair waiting and had already alerted our night manager, who is also the assistant fire chief on the island.
The emergency? A deep cut on the knee. Not exactly a cause to be all up in arms and radioing 911, but I think emergency officials see so little action here that a hangnail could bring the entire police force. There was indeed a lot of blood, however, and the poor kid was crying like his leg would never be the same. The owner of the hotel, Mrs. Kate*, grabbed some washcloths from the maid closet and pressed it to the sobbing boy's knee. As the aunt and grandmother wiped away the blood, Mrs. Kate came into the office and grabbed a roll of scotch-tape. My coworker, Gretel*, and I questioned whether it was her plan to tape the hand towels to the boy's leg. Low and behold it was.
As far as emergencies go, this wasn't exactly one where time was of the essence. I think the best parts were watching Mrs. Kate scotch-tape the cloths to the boy's leg and later hearing that some of the servers had told my roommate, the infamous Summer, that the boy had lost his pinky. And better yet -- she believed them.
This incident brings me to another emergency that befell The Orchid nearly a month and a half ago. Summer and I were working the night shift together when we received a phone call from the dining room. Not wanting Summer to strain herself, I answered the phone for perhaps the twentieth time that night. It was the hostess, Krissy*, telling me to call 911 because a woman had fallen outside of the restaurant.
"911?" I repeated, a bit shocked at the request.
"That's what her daughter said."
"Did she break something?"
"I don't know. Her daughter said she just fell outside the door and told us to call 911."
"Um okay."
Summer looked at me as I hung-up. "What's up?" she asked.
"Krissy said someone fell outside the dining room and her daughter wants us to call 911."
"She fell?"
"I guess so. Do I really call 911 for that? That feels a bit extreme if she just tripped."
"If that's what the daughter wants, though."
I stared at the phone for a moment. I had never called 911 before and still had the childhood notion that 911 was only for life and death situations and calling for anything else was akiillegal. Someone tripping didn't feel like an actual emergency.
"911, what's your location?"
"Oh, I'm at The Orchid Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan and apparently someone fell outside our restaurant?"
"Yes, ma'am. We have already been altered to the situation and have an emergency vehicle on the way."
"Oh." I should have known that our night manager would have radioed the incident in already.
"Do you know what happened, ma'am?"
"I just know that she fell."
"Do you know how old the woman is?"
"I actually can't see her. The dining room called me and just said that a woman fell and that I needed to call 911. I can't see where any of this is happening. The woman has a daughter so I'm guessing she's middle aged maybe? 30 to 60?"
"Okay, ma'am, thank you. The ambulance should be there shortly."
"Okay...thanks."
The phone barely touched the receiver before Krissy came tearing down the hallway. She threw herself onto the front desk. "She's not breathing!" she exclaimed.
"What?!"
"She's not breathing!"
"I thought she just fell!"
"She collapsed outside the door and now she's not breathing. Tom's performing CPR."
"Holy shit. The ambulance is on its way. Tom had already radioed it in."
"Okay."
"How old is the woman?"
"I don't know. Forties maybe?"
"Okay."
Krissy ran back down the hall. I called 911 again.
"911, what's your location?"
"Hi, it's The Orchid again on Mackinac Island."
"Yes, ma'am."
"The woman's not breathing."
"Okay, ma'am, the emergency vehicle is on the way." The medical center is less than a mile away from The Orchid. I wanted to ask how it could possibly be taking this long even at a normal driving speed.
"And apparently the woman looks about in her forties."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I didn't know if you still needed that."
"I will let the respondents know, thank you."
"Okay. Um...bye."
Summer and I sat in stunned silence. "I thought she just tripped," I said, feeling slightly guilty for not having taken the situation more seriously to begin with. "They didn't make it sound that bad," Summer confirmed. We went into the lobby that looked onto the pathway to the dining room. From the panoramic windows we could see Tom furiously performing chest pumps, calling out instructions to Krissy. We couldn't see the woman. To the side of the porch I noticed a girl about my age standing off to the side, sobbing hysterically into a cellphone. It took me a few moments, but I finally recognized her as the daughter of a mother-daughter couple I had given a hotel tour to the previous afternoon. She and her mother were taking a girls-only vacation.
Summer and I watched the scene unfold until the ambulance arrived. Tom met the paramedics and rushed the gurney down the pathway. One of the responders took the daughter up the road that led to the medical center. The office phone rang and I dashed to answer it. It was a man inquiring about room rates. I felt oddly disrespectful talking so casually about our accomodations after having watched such a tragic scene.
A half hour later our dining room manager, who is also Tom's mother, walked into the office. She asked if we had heard about all the excitement. Summer and I said that we had and asked if she knew the status of the woman. She replied, "I don't know, but the fact that Tom went over in the boat to St. Ignace with them tells us she's probably going to be okay."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because as morbid as it sounds, Tom wouldn't ride over to St. Ignace with a dead body."
Three hours later, Tom returned to the office. "She's not deadsies anymore," he said. "She was deader-than-dead for a while, but not anymore. It's good when they're not deadsies." Good to know we're in such sympathetic hands.
The emergency? A deep cut on the knee. Not exactly a cause to be all up in arms and radioing 911, but I think emergency officials see so little action here that a hangnail could bring the entire police force. There was indeed a lot of blood, however, and the poor kid was crying like his leg would never be the same. The owner of the hotel, Mrs. Kate*, grabbed some washcloths from the maid closet and pressed it to the sobbing boy's knee. As the aunt and grandmother wiped away the blood, Mrs. Kate came into the office and grabbed a roll of scotch-tape. My coworker, Gretel*, and I questioned whether it was her plan to tape the hand towels to the boy's leg. Low and behold it was.
As far as emergencies go, this wasn't exactly one where time was of the essence. I think the best parts were watching Mrs. Kate scotch-tape the cloths to the boy's leg and later hearing that some of the servers had told my roommate, the infamous Summer, that the boy had lost his pinky. And better yet -- she believed them.
This incident brings me to another emergency that befell The Orchid nearly a month and a half ago. Summer and I were working the night shift together when we received a phone call from the dining room. Not wanting Summer to strain herself, I answered the phone for perhaps the twentieth time that night. It was the hostess, Krissy*, telling me to call 911 because a woman had fallen outside of the restaurant.
"911?" I repeated, a bit shocked at the request.
"That's what her daughter said."
"Did she break something?"
"I don't know. Her daughter said she just fell outside the door and told us to call 911."
"Um okay."
Summer looked at me as I hung-up. "What's up?" she asked.
"Krissy said someone fell outside the dining room and her daughter wants us to call 911."
"She fell?"
"I guess so. Do I really call 911 for that? That feels a bit extreme if she just tripped."
"If that's what the daughter wants, though."
I stared at the phone for a moment. I had never called 911 before and still had the childhood notion that 911 was only for life and death situations and calling for anything else was akiillegal. Someone tripping didn't feel like an actual emergency.
"911, what's your location?"
"Oh, I'm at The Orchid Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan and apparently someone fell outside our restaurant?"
"Yes, ma'am. We have already been altered to the situation and have an emergency vehicle on the way."
"Oh." I should have known that our night manager would have radioed the incident in already.
"Do you know what happened, ma'am?"
"I just know that she fell."
"Do you know how old the woman is?"
"I actually can't see her. The dining room called me and just said that a woman fell and that I needed to call 911. I can't see where any of this is happening. The woman has a daughter so I'm guessing she's middle aged maybe? 30 to 60?"
"Okay, ma'am, thank you. The ambulance should be there shortly."
"Okay...thanks."
The phone barely touched the receiver before Krissy came tearing down the hallway. She threw herself onto the front desk. "She's not breathing!" she exclaimed.
"What?!"
"She's not breathing!"
"I thought she just fell!"
"She collapsed outside the door and now she's not breathing. Tom's performing CPR."
"Holy shit. The ambulance is on its way. Tom had already radioed it in."
"Okay."
"How old is the woman?"
"I don't know. Forties maybe?"
"Okay."
Krissy ran back down the hall. I called 911 again.
"911, what's your location?"
"Hi, it's The Orchid again on Mackinac Island."
"Yes, ma'am."
"The woman's not breathing."
"Okay, ma'am, the emergency vehicle is on the way." The medical center is less than a mile away from The Orchid. I wanted to ask how it could possibly be taking this long even at a normal driving speed.
"And apparently the woman looks about in her forties."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I didn't know if you still needed that."
"I will let the respondents know, thank you."
"Okay. Um...bye."
Summer and I sat in stunned silence. "I thought she just tripped," I said, feeling slightly guilty for not having taken the situation more seriously to begin with. "They didn't make it sound that bad," Summer confirmed. We went into the lobby that looked onto the pathway to the dining room. From the panoramic windows we could see Tom furiously performing chest pumps, calling out instructions to Krissy. We couldn't see the woman. To the side of the porch I noticed a girl about my age standing off to the side, sobbing hysterically into a cellphone. It took me a few moments, but I finally recognized her as the daughter of a mother-daughter couple I had given a hotel tour to the previous afternoon. She and her mother were taking a girls-only vacation.
Summer and I watched the scene unfold until the ambulance arrived. Tom met the paramedics and rushed the gurney down the pathway. One of the responders took the daughter up the road that led to the medical center. The office phone rang and I dashed to answer it. It was a man inquiring about room rates. I felt oddly disrespectful talking so casually about our accomodations after having watched such a tragic scene.
A half hour later our dining room manager, who is also Tom's mother, walked into the office. She asked if we had heard about all the excitement. Summer and I said that we had and asked if she knew the status of the woman. She replied, "I don't know, but the fact that Tom went over in the boat to St. Ignace with them tells us she's probably going to be okay."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because as morbid as it sounds, Tom wouldn't ride over to St. Ignace with a dead body."
Three hours later, Tom returned to the office. "She's not deadsies anymore," he said. "She was deader-than-dead for a while, but not anymore. It's good when they're not deadsies." Good to know we're in such sympathetic hands.
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