End of an Error

Justkidding texted me out of the blue. Her text was mind-jarring:

Um, did Karen die?

I felt fairly certain Karen was still with us, though it made me wonder. I texted back that there was a "Disqualification/Retirement" party for Karen in a few weeks (blog post forthcoming). Justkidding replied:

I saw the posting for her job, I almost applied

This was followed by four berserker(?) emoticons.

I reported this exchange to Todd, who therewith released a shout that ripped a hole in space and/or time.

"Is she crazy? No way would we ever have that crazy barf as our boss here."

Once the dimensional quantum collapse cleared, I regained my chair and answered calmly, "She said she misses me."

"WHAT"

"They should use you for the Hadron Collider--they might learn some things about vocal chord propulsion."

Jonah came over. "Are inelegant physics references being made here?"

"No!" I said. Then I slumped. "Yes."

"I can't believe she texted you," Todd raged.

"Yeah. I guess she was concerned for Karen, and stuff."

"Like the time she wanted you to draw a coffin with Karen in it as a Get Well card?"

"Justkidding was just... kidding?"

A customer came over and asked Jonah for a pen. Being a hero, he handed over his own personal pen.

"Anyway, Justkidding asked me to wish Karen 'good luck' at the Disqualification party."

"Sounds like something an East German judge would do," Jonah said. Then he stroked his beard that he longed, but feared, to shave. "Does that joke work?"

"Really stupid," Todd said, his every beard hair erect with rage. "'Good luck.' Don't even bother saying anything!"

"Looks like some regulars here were invited also. Jeff is coming, for instance..."

"Jeff?"

"You know, Jeff the customer. He's finishing up location scouting in Portugal...?"

"WHAT"

"I guess I asked for that."

Jonah was ignoring us. He was focused on the woman who had gone off with his pen to the front entrance. She pressed a piece of paper on a column and scribbled.

"What is she doing? She better give my pen back."

Justron had come over. "What's going on? Did the boiler explode?"

"Just Todd."

Justron laughed softly. "Heh. Maybe we can call him Justtodd now?"

Silence.

The woman came back with Jonah's pen and thanked him. He nodded, and immediately wiped the pen on the hem of his shirt.

Todd looked on with approval. "I know, right?"

"I have something disturbing to report," Justron said, gently.

"We already know about Mary Oliver," we said. "Give it a rest."

"No, someone took down the picture of Stalin on our toilet."

"WHAT"

"Wow, that was some Todd-level shouting by Jonah."

Jonah ran back and confirmed that the sign--one that had been taped to the staff restroom door for the last millennia--had disappeared. It was then explained that our new boss had taken down the sign because a customer in need might be offended.

"The elevator short-circuited because of the snowmelt on the roof," I said, possibly the dullest thing I've ever said or typed. "So ADA-compliance states we need to keep access open for the disabled with our staff restroom." Wow--even duller.

"I'm not offended as a librarian," Todd said. "I'm offended as a Stalinist!"

"Without puns, the library doesn't work."

But Justron wasn't getting it. "Why is Stalin a pun?"

"Our old boss, before Karen, put a picture of Stalin on the bathroom door and the caption said, BATHROOM STALIN. Get it?"

"No."

"Now the Stalin picture has fallen just like Saddam Hussein's statue in Baghdad," Jonah wailed.

"Uh, sure."

"All right. Fine, then. I'm going to put back up my Tommy Lasorter sign on the automatic sorter that doesn't exist."

"You show 'em, Jonah!"

"It's too bad we don't have that automatic sorter anymore. We could put Justron on the conveyor belt and see if it'll drop him in the X bin or the check-mark."

"Right. We need more Willy Wonka around here."

Just then a long-time customer came stamping his cane as his elephant bulk came forward. Gary Wilsson, panama hat, long fat face, droopy lips, gray Bork-like chin-beard. He looked like the comic-book store guy at seventy.

"Good day to you, sir."

With a sigh I returned his space monster shows and checked out his Lee Child audiobooks (only the best for this fella). After he left, I explained that he probably had a lot of diarrhea.

"Can you imagine that guy's diarrhea?" I liked saying diarrhea.

"WHAT" Justron softly screamed.

Jonah made a face. "Can you imagine Farley's?"

I pursed my lips. "I actually don't get a diarrhea vibe from her. Something weightier. Flushier."

"Excuse me, can I get some help?" said a silly customer.

"In a minute..." I said, and we went back to our impassioned, pointless dialogue on Stalin, diarrhea, pen cleanliness, and a whole lot of love.

"How come I never get the last word in this blog?" Todd said.

I shrugged. "Dunno."