How Long?

There are certain inevitabilities in life. Wash your car, rains. Win the lottery, find out your relatives are genealogy savants. Ask how long things will take, you’ll cause them to take longer.

Starting three days ago this woman began calling to ask, each and every time, if we could accommodate her and, now this is the important part, how long it would take to complete the transaction.

Knowing me as you do, understanding my desire to limit the amount of time, quality or non, with other humans, I tend to make transactions quick, complete, and flawless. Quick so they don’t linger; complete so all questions are answered, flawlessly so they never have reason to speak with me again.

Oh, I know that last one is highly flawed for something considered flawless, but, the best laid schemes of mice and men go fuck themselves because of stupid fucking fucks who have to fucking keep babbling long after their fucking usefulness has fucking expired. At least I think that’s the Burns quote. I may have to look it up. I think he swore a little more.

I explain to the woman that it’s neither a long nor painful process although it has been both. I, having the yeoman’s duty during it, will do my best to assure a speedy completion. Have I mentioned I had to say that to her every day one to three times a day. Why, you may ask, did she keep calling? Daily her light grew long as the last remnant of summer struggled to hold a’light.

Translation: bitch can’t get her shit together in a timely fashion.

She finally arrives. Of course, she enters through the wrong door, so must waste valuable time rushing about to find the correct location. Once that task is complete she does with each and every ‘how longer’ does, to man or woman, they do not shut the fuck up.

Holy Mother of Mute! Please strike this woman down!

While her palavering I gather my tools to expedite this obviously pressing situation. While I’m doing this she is flipping out like a bat stuck in a beehive hair-do. The reason for her frenzied behavior was not my faineant manner. It was due to the fact that the incorrect door, one of two methods of egress mere yards from one another, she entered has locked behind her. Security, you see.

“How can I get out of here? This door is locked. How long is this going to take? How can I get out of here? This door is locked. How can I get out of here? Is this going to take long?” She states while rattling the door.

“The longer you freak out, the longer this will take.”

Although this does not expedite matters it gives her a moment to think of something else. That something is, inevitably,

“Did he just say that? Is he the rudest person in the world or what?”

I go through the process with her speaking, albeit with less freaking, the entire time. I ignore her because she’s mainly repeating herself. I complete my side of the agreement, in less than thirty seconds, and give it to her. Which she looks at as if I’d just proffered her an alien aorta for her to gleam afflatus from. I explain, rudely speaking over her, I know, her part of the procedure and continue along with my tasks.

Near completion, and fully sure I’ve not entrapped her in some kidnapper lair, I hand her her items and begin to complete, in hopeful silence, the remainder of my task.

“Do you know where Garfield Street is?”

“I am not sure but I can look it up.”

“Garfield Street. It’s supposed to be around here. To the right or left.”

I know most of the streets around here and that one does not sound remotely familiar. I know I’m only going to open up a new bag of ranch scented bile but I need to clarify something with this woman. You see, this establishment resides at the limits of two cities. As pained as I was by this, I had to ask what city the street in question was supposed to be a member of.

“This city.”

Do you even know what city you’re in you fucking troll? Entered my head while I calmly, and with not a hint of expression, looked over a map. There was a Garfield Terrace.

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe when I looked it up I got it wrong. The map on line could have been wrong. It could have been an old. Map. Maybe it was one that Columbus used once he arrived here. So, yeah, maybe the map an online was old.”

I’m sorry about the last paragraph because I mostly made that up. I was busy, not paying much attention, but knew, emphatically, she was blaming someone else for this tiny mistake. Well, maybe it’s a larger mistake.

“The problem is, that terrace is on the other side of the city.”

“Then that map is really wrong.”

Yes, I agree. That is the case. Just get the fuck out!

Oh, sorry. I think I got a little of my inner head hate on you.

I begin to flip the map to the neighboring city when she asks me if I know a specific bus line. I tell her that I’ve never actually seen that bus pass these streets she tells me I’m as miscalculating as Columbus*. That may be true, but, I can get to where I need to be once I’m allowed out of this hellhole.

“Where are you going?” I attempt to find a spot in the universe we can find to use as common ground. She mentions an exact spot in Boston where, hallefuckinglujah, I know a bus that will get her to the portal. On time or not is not my issue.

“Well,” she says putting on her friendly voice writing my directions down. “This didn’t take long at all.

It’s all perception, lady, it’s all perception.

* I looked it up, the bus she wanted didn’t come within six miles of this location.