The Jew Card

Recently, my friend Junebug's purse was stolen. While this stinks in many, many ways, the worst part is the irreplaceable object: her Jew card.

A Jew card, you ask? What on earth is that? I didn't know either, so I asked.

When Junebug was in middle school, she was working on a project in a group with two other students. She and the other girl were both mostly-secular Jews, and the third was a devout Catholic boy. The girls were fascinated by the concept of a devout anything, and asked him many questions. At one point, it came up that he was, in fact, a "card-carrying" Catholic, and had a card in his wallet identifying him as Catholic in case he died and no one knew that he wanted Catholic rites. This became a subject of much hilarity. Thus, it comes as little surprise to me that on Junebug and her friend's next Hannukah they both received photo identifications, made by the little Catholic boy, declaring their religion and personal information. This treasured card never left Junebug's side.

In fact, it even came in handy once or twice; when Junebug went to visit our friend Chelonia (on whom more later) out in the vastness of the western US, Chelonia's friends decided to take them to a sex shop kind of in the middle of nowhere. Everyone out there has driver's licenses; it only makes sense, what with the lack of public transportation. But Junebug grew up in a place with the subway and a half-decent bus network, and never had learned to drive. Nor, in fact, did she have any form of official photo ID except her passport, and who carries around their passport when they don't have to? So when the sex shop workers asked the group of young college kids for their IDs to make sure they were over 18, Junebug didn't know what to do. Chelonia said, give me your wallet; I will find something. A few moments of searching later, she looked up with a huge grin on her face and said, I found it, but you're not going to like it, and handed the Jew card over to the sex shop employees.

Now, Junebug had already been mortified at holding the group up by not having a regular photo ID, and seeing the sex shop workers marvel at her Jew card (for all they knew, this was a thing carried by all Jews) made her want to just run away, but after a brief time the sex store employees handed it back to her and, being satisfied that her date of birth and picture matched reality, sent the whole group on its way in.

Hell of a thing to lose. I only hope she can get a replacement someday.

Taking the Meter

Normally, I'm rather fond of my current gas/electricity company. They are much less of a hassle than any I've dealt with before, in general, not least because they make online payment exceedingly simple. But occasionally they pull out all the idiot-stops.

Several months ago, I received a letter saying that our gas meter was overdue to be inspected or changed or whatever it is they actually do. So I called to make an appointment, figuring that they don't really need me to be around because gas meters go on the outside of the house anyway, but I may as well schedule it for when I'm here in case something is wrong. I work out a time with them, and they say they'll be here within a four hour window. Fine.

About two days before they are supposed to come, they call to reschedule. Something has come up and the earliest they can reschedule the meter checking to is nearly a month later. That's silly, but fine; I can handle the day they want to come, although I may have to get my housemate to be in charge of idiot control.

About a week later, though, they call back AGAIN. They have to reschedule again, for some unspecified reason, and their date is yet another month later (a few days ago now). Fine, fine, as long as it's after I'm back from vacation, you silly whatsis.

Finally, the date they are supposed to show up arrives. I am faced with a mild conundrum; I have a four hour window in which to expect them, and I haven't yet showered. So I figure, okay, I'll just take a quick shower and by the time I get out, either they will have called and I can call them back, or they won't be here yet. Besides, they're supposed to call fifteen minutes before they get here, so unless they call the second I get in, I won't miss them.

Predictably, however, the second I step out of the shower, the doorbell rings. Hello, Mr. Gas Meterman. I step out to say hello and ask if there is anything he needs from me, which as far as I know there shouldn't be. Instead, I am cut off by a rant about how important it is that I answer the phone, and what if he had rung the wrong doorbell and gotten someone who hadn't taken their meds today and came out shooting, because that happened once you know.

After a few seconds of staring at him in annoyance and mild disbelief, I interrupt the flow of vaguely accented words to apologize briefly and ask if there is anything he needs from me.

Yes, he says, he needs to get into the basement. Wait, what? No one said anything about that. So I ask, isn't the meter outside? Well, apparently he needs to get to some 'appliances', mainly the furnace, to make sure that everything is relit after he messes with it. Well, I say, I didn't know that, and I can't get into the basement because that's my landlord's apartment. If you'll just wait a moment, I'll go get my phone so I can call him.

Only I don't get to say all of that, because as soon as I say I can't let him in, he goes on another tirade about how I should have made arrangements for this and where is my landlord can he talk to him and... At this point, I cut him off midsentence, because I couldn't figure out what else to do. If you will excuse me for just a moment, I said, I will go call my landlord and find out about this. Please wait here. He didn't shut up long enough for me to leave, so I left him standing there talking to the door while I called my landlord.

Here comes the interesting part, because as soon as I told my landlord what was going on, he says: What's the guy's name? Unsure how it matters, I find out and tell him. He goes, let me talk to him.

Turns out, my landlord knows the guy, and well enough to be able to shut him up and get something useful out of him. When I get the phone back, the meter guy goes and works on the outside of the house, like I thought he would, and I am assured that everything else is normal and needs no interference.

What a lot of bother over nothing!

Taking the Plunger

Sweetums has a work-study job, and, like so many of them, it includes a moronic overseer type. Today he came back with a story from one of his fellow underlings about the severity of the boss' moronic tendencies.

This poor schmuck is the janitor for the offices of a technical school. He goes in to a bathroom one day only to find that some asshat has made a complete mess of one of the stalls. He looks about for a plunger to start repairing the damage, and can't find one. So he goes to the bossperson and says, "Do you know where I can find a plunger?"

The bossperson looks at the janitor and says, "What the hell do you need a plunger for?"

Okay, so this is the janitor's boss, and the janitor kindly refrains from pointing out that HE'S A JANITOR. Why else would he need a plunger? "Well, sir, one of the bathrooms is a mess, and I'd like to start cleaning it up."

"You don't know where the plunger is?" comes the incredulous reply.

"No, sir, I looked everywhere, and I didn't see one, so I came to ask."

This scintillating repartee went on for some five minutes before the boss finally exclaimed, "This is not my problem! Why did you bring this to me? Go deal with it!"

...

Later, it was determined that the janitor was docked pay for the duration of this interview.

Story the First: Taking the Bucket

Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am Walrus, and Walrus is me. Along with my below-posted co-conspiritor in blog-authorship, I attended a well known liberal arts university. The story I am about to relate concerns one of my associates during Sophomore year. In accord with our stated policy of thinly disguised names for the protection of the innocent, the guilty, the insane, and likely-to-threaten-with-legal-action, this bastion of learning shall be known as PCU, and he shall be known as Gabriel.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.