ManicDDaily

This was a stupid incident, but it’s stuck with me.  It happened when I went to the office of an accountant on a recent trip to Florida to visit to my elderly parents.

A part of me really does believe that you shouldn’t just a book by its cover.  But there’s another part of me that makes judgments based on “covers” all the time, that makes judgments before I even see covers.

Here the judgment started with a phone conversation with the accountant’s receptionist/secretary.  The timbre of her phone voice was crisp, nice enough but edged–the kind of “niceness” that said I darn well better be nice back.   I hate to politicize everything, but I sometimes associate this kind of crisp, slightly demanding, nice voice with a certain worldview–one that  favors Nixonian law and order, the Rockefeller drug sentencing mandates, three strikes you’re out, black and white (no grey), and multiple tours of duty for reservists (‘they signed up,after all’).  In my mind, the voice goes with very neat, slightly curly hair and a certain kind of Republicanism.  (Yes, I know this is unfair.)

I should confess that I was also being nice but edged back (though my hair is stick straight.)

I had initiated the call to check on a missing tax return that I found out (from the receptionist) was being done on  extension.  I quickly explained that if the return could be completed while I was in the area, I could save the accountant a lot of trouble by picking it up (it is usually delivered by the accountant personally), filing it, and making arrangements for the payment of the accountant’s fee.

The receptionist mumbled something grumpy about the accountant just finishing corporate returns, the due date not being until October, and the end of the week coming fast.  I asked her to please relay my message.

The next day, sure enough, I got a call that the return would be finished that afternoon and that I could pick it up the following day.

And here’s where the interesting part began.  (Sorry for all the prologue.)

I got to the accountant’s office mid-afternoon.  It was empty, but I was also tousled, and the receptionist had me wait while she licked some envelopes, finished some notes.

I gave her the check for the accountant’s fee.   She reviewed it, then asked me to sign a receipt for the return, handing me a pen.

The pen didn’t work;  I apologetically (but probably slightly triumphantly) handed it back. 

“That’s funny.  It worked this morning,” she said with some irritation.

I apologized that it might be me, something about the way I held it.  But she, with a quick flick of her wrist, and not a single experimental scribble, tossed the pen into the garbage.

Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I never throw away a pen lightly.  Not even after multiple tries.  And shaking.  And very vigorous scratching about.

“It really might be me,” I repeated.

But she nodded dismissively–”better safe than sorry.”

(There would be no more trouble from that pen.)

I have thought about her words for some time.  What could be unsafe about a possibly malfunctioning pen?  What, the source of sorrow?  That someone in the accountant’s office (chockfull of other pens) might have to retrace their signature?

I wanted to actually slither through her receptionist’s window and retrieve the poor pen, but she was so definite; her lips pressed together, her hair immoveable, her safety protected, that I did not dare make an appeal.  Thankful that she worked for an accountant, and not the IRS, I grabbed the return and ran.