Character – Page 6 – Snail Trek Blog

The Power of a One Dollar Bill

I came across a one dollar bill lying directly in front of me on the sidewalk during my daily walk. It fluttered provocatively, like a butterfly during mating season, seducing me to stuff it into my pocket before the former owner noticed its absence.

As I weighed my decision whether to pick it up, I pondered just how much this single dollar bill was really worth. Was the dollar’s loser laying a trap for me, tempting me to steal his greenback? Was I being secretly filmed for the inaugural television episode of “True Mysteries: Who Would Steal a One Dollar Bill”?

So what is the significance of a mere one dollar bill?

Some months ago (my blog dated September 17, 2010), I reported that I had testified on behalf of a two-strike offender, on trial for committing his “third strike” offense, which carried with it a possible life sentence. At 40 years old, some would argue that he should have known better than to steal a backpack from a 99 Cent store, and when confronted, assault the security guard with a substance from a spray can in his pocket. That $1 backpack theft earned him a 30-year sentence, without the possibility of parole. A single one dollar bill could have bought him 30 years of his life.

If I were still a child growing up in Germany, the country where gummy bears originated, the German equivalent of a $1 bill would buy me precisely 400 of these miraculously scrumptious gastronomical delights. The mere thought of these treats would start my salivary glands a-tingling, prompting me to jump onto my three-speed bicycle and sprint to the next village, where the matron tending the store (she knew me well) would dutifully count out: “Eins, zwei, drei, vier…” all the way to 400, while I watched, to be sure she didn’t cheat me out of even one tiny fructose delicacy.

If I had invested a single $1 bill each day for four decades at 7% compound interest, I would have created wealth of more than $80,000 for myself, a gain of $65,500 in interest alone. Too bad I didn’t manage to do that. Alas! My retirement plans are still in tatters.

I recall the $20 bill I came across nearly two years ago, within a few blocks of here. Now that was a find—a miracle!

But what to do with this solitary $1 bill? How could I best honor this unexpected $1 windfall from an unknown donor?

Over the years, inflation alone has rendered it nearly worthless. Or has it? I considered my remaining choices. I could—

–search for the owner, but that would be in vain, I surmised; don’t be ridiculous.

–give it to a needy person, but it likely would be spent on booze. Nah, not on my watch!

–give it to charity. Get real! Their administrative costs would eat up all but a few pennies.

Only one option remained that might revive the value of my anemic dollar bill. With bill in hand, I quickly covered the several blocks to my destination, strode into the establishment, plopped down my $1 bill on the counter, and confidently ordered, “One Mega-Millions lottery ticket, please!”

Death from Drowning

What a relief! Apparently, death from holding the wrong end of a flame thrower, being ejected by a wildly-gyrating Ferris wheel gone berzerk, dehydrating due to blood-sucking zombies, or suffering fatal trampling by frenzied steroid-ingesting giant armadillos could all happen multiple times.

But drowning can only happen once in a lifetime. Whew! One less thing to worry about.

The Worst Seat on the Train

(Not to be confused with the previous blog, “The Best Seat in the House”.)

I eased myself into the train seat, which I carefully selected to reduce the likelihood that other passenger legs might intersect mine. Personal space is everything on the train.

Next to me sat a woman. The seat across from us held a number of her bags and traveling cases. I figured no one would be sitting there unless she moved all of her stuff. The woman suggested I put my backpack next to hers on the seats.

I considered her suggestion briefly, but I declined. Instead, I slid my backpack beneath my own seat. I avoid putting baggage on a seat intended for passengers, even though the woman’s baggage occupying the seat made it unlikely that another passenger would alight there.

In this instance, it may have been the wrong decision. My seat partner woman opened her cell phone and poked its numbers. She leaned into it, speaking just loudly enough for me to hear her conversation as she uncoiled her wrath.

“What’s wrong with people? This guy next to me put his stuff under his seat! Under his seat! Can you believe that? And I told him to put it next to my things on the seat! What’s wrong with people like that? Are they stubborn, just plain stupid, or what?

“I think he’s stupid! Who would do something like that, when I told him to put his backpack on the seat across from us! Maybe he can’t hear! No, he can hear me! I think he’s stubborn! Really stupid and stubborn! Yeah, that’s it! Stupid! Stubborn!”

The rant with her invisible partner continued for several minutes as I considered how to put myself out of my misery. I couldn’t possibly sit next to this creature for the next half hour.

She continued her rave. “Some people sleep! I don’t sleep! I hibernate a bit, but I don’t sleep! I’m always ‘on’! Not like this guy next to me! He must be asleep all the time! Can’t even put his bags on the seat! What in the world is wrong with people like that?”

I would have to somehow move—and soon—without incurring her wrath, so I hatched a scheme. As the train approached the next station, I pretended it was my stop, un-trundling my backpack from beneath my seat. I lazily stood up from my seat, as though it were a burden to have to get off, and ambled down the stairway. As the train disgorged its passengers, I beat a quick retreat down the length of the car, then another car, and another, never stopping or looking back until I had put several hundred passengers between my ranting former seatmate and me.

Rant on, she may, but I didn’t have to hear it.

Lesson learned—sharing cramped leg space with others is accomplished by adjusting the knees. There is no adjustment possible for vitriol and venom; they require surgery from deep within.

I’ll take the knees, please.

The Ten Percent Solution

I’m within ten percent of getting my budget to work. I confirmed this after two frustrating weeks of trying to upgrade to the next generation of personal financial software, which I’m discovering is not so different from the previous generation of my personal financial software. My budget was ten percent bloated on that one, too. I’ve resolved to somehow change my budgetary wandering ways.

I recently patronized the restaurant pictured above, and the revelation I received there could hold the answer to my dilemma. A small table sits in an awkward location connecting two parts of the dining room. The kitchen is adjacent to it. The persistent clinking of glasses and dishware, the murmurs of cooks and waiters, the constant hustle to serve an endless stream of customers, and the discomforting flushes emanating from the neighboring bathrooms conspire to make this a less-than-idyllic setting for a dining experience. To appease customers relegated to this forlorn table, a sign posted above it humanely announces a “Worst Table 10% Off” discount. The waiter affirmed the veracity of this incredible value, and it set my budget-busting wheels a-spinning.

By not snagging this table, I had narrowly missed a way to fractionally reduce my spending. I could have recovered a portion of my ten percent deficit by momentarily putting up with swearing cooks, harried waiters and the flushing of nearby commodes! So…why not redeem this lost opportunity by applying the ten percent reduction principle to all my future expenses, thereby achieving the so-far evasive goal of slashing my budget?

I’ve devised a plan:

Henceforth, I will reduce my job-related transportation expenses by disembarking from my train one stop earlier, thereby reducing my ticket expense by at least ten percent (and, incidentally, increasing my daily walking exercise routine by 15.8 miles).

Henceforth, when giving gifts, I will curtail spending wasted resources on fancy gift-wrap, choosing to use free plastic grocery bags instead. (Oops, I do this already….)

Henceforth, on the same theme, I will reduce by ten percent the actual number of presents I choose to give throughout the year—which will also effectively reduce my circle of friends by ten percent.

Henceforth, I will follow the trailblazing practices of UPS, making only right hand turns in order to reduce fuel costs. Calculating my fuel cost to the grocery store suggests I will save 4.5 cents. (My return trip home, however, will cost $6.32; making all right hand turns will result in traveling an additional 57 miles since I will be led down streets to a neighboring town before I arrive home.)

Henceforth, I will purchase only long-sleeved shirts and long-legged trousers. Over time, as my clothing develops holes in the knees and elbows, the sleeves and pant legs will be unceremoniously lopped off, providing me a breezy-cool summer wardrobe—and save myself the expense of buying summer clothes!

Henceforth, I will rent out ten percent of my house to the ever-increasing populous of neighborhood kids (for which, I will charge them ten percent of my mortgage payment). Their resultant 150 square feet of rental space may be used as they desire: a clubhouse and fort, or perhaps a small, kid-staffed veterinary facility to resuscitate highway-mangled rodents, frogs, and night-traveling marsupials.

I’m so confident in the success of my anticipated budgetary surplus that I’ve hired an investment consultant to handle the increased savings, which, unfortunately, sets my budget back–by about ten percent.

Bicycle Hoops, Bicycle Heaps

It was dusk, and in the landscape of cold concrete, a bright yellow bike, and four cheerfully-painted hoops intended for chaining bicycles jumped out of the dull gray surroundings. The bright oval hoops resembled the iconic rings of the Olympic competitions. Someone rested their bicycle on a trip to the store, or perhaps on an appointment to meet a friend. What story could this bicycle tell?

As a kid growing up in Germany, I rode a green three-speed bicycle with a whirring generator pressed against the wheel to power its lights at night. It was a 9-mile bike trip from my house along the Rhine River to my elementary school, and it was my brother’s and my favorite weekend expedition to spend time with our friends.

My green bicycle also served me well when my mother sent me to the next village to purchase small amounts of groceries. I would inevitably treat myself with gummi bears at the store, so I particularly savored these expeditions. On one occasion, coming home with a loaf of bread strapped to the rack on the back wheel’s fender, suddenly my bicycle squealed to an abrupt halt; the back wheel suddenly froze in place, leaving a long skid mark, and me very nearly dismounting into thin air over the handlebars. As I barely controlled my near-disastrous dismount, I was pelted with bits of who-knows-what, flying in every direction. It was bread. A bump in the road had dislodged my cargo – the loaf of bread – and flipped it into the air and launched it into my spokes, where it was effectively shredded, pieces propelled in all 360 degrees. My pride bruised, but spokes unbent, I hastened to the bakery to replace the load—and refresh my stash of gummi bears for my second ride home to my waiting mother.

A few years ago, I saw a tangle of bicycles on a street in Amsterdam, heaped together and temporarily discarded by their owners, who were rendezvousing with friends or completing essential errands. A strange scene, I thought, bikes piled up like that. I stepped closer, quietly, cautiously sneaking up on their cold frames, worn seats and spindly tires.

Until my ears adjusted, I mistook the sound for birds twittering. Gradually I could make it out—the sound of joking, of laughter, of stories coming from the bicycles themselves, about their usual mounted riders: the owner whose backside had so overgrown its throne that the embarrassed bicycle seat shuddered to feel his royal rear descend upon it. The gears gushed in howls of laughter over retelling their own story of the chain pulling loose from the sprockets just at the moment its rider pulled up to an attractive maiden’s bicycle, upending him and launching him upon his bottom, effectively removing the seat of his pants. And then the most tender story–a woman’s battered purple bike, at the top of the heap of partying bikes, who admitted her fear on being hastily discarded at the hospital door by her owner – the rider – a woman about to give birth. Her owner possessed no other means of transport to medical care. The protracted hours had ground by with no news of the pregnant woman. Finally, worried over her well-being, the old purple bike heard the triumphant howls from the husband who had arrived late. His wife had delivered a baby girl. Carefully, the new father had then loaded the purple bike into the car, tenderly touching spokes and handlebars while affirming, “Good bike. Faithful bike….”

Like a tear on a child’s cheek, a drop of rain fell on the purple bicycle’s worn frame and slowly worked its way down, until it fell on the other bicycles below.

“You are the only one he wanted to testify on his behalf.”

What if each of us had only one person we could call to the witness stand, and the strength of that one person’s testimony could free us from being behind bars for the rest of our lives?

And yet, under the legal system, we are guilty. But that one person – the right person – might speak on our behalf, altering the conviction that, by law, we deserve.

Last week I received a subpoena from the Court of Los Angeles Attorney for the Defendant’s office. I am to appear at the sentencing hearing of one of my former parole office Literacy Classroom students. The defendant is a 45-year-old “two-striker” who, before coming into my classroom, had been imprisoned for twenty-five years. He was now on parole. One more felony would make him a “three-striker,” eligible for a mandatory life sentence.

While in my classroom, where I teach people who are on parole, the defendant never caused me any problems. He was polite. He had previously never even touched a computer, such as we taught him to use in the classroom. He had left my class suddenly; he just stopped showing up. I later learned that he had been arrested and convicted for the burglary of a 99 Cent store. That made him a three-striker, fully eligible to spend the rest of his life in prison.

Small theft. Huge consequences. He had just earned himself a life sentence.

His lawyer, the public defendant lawyer who had sent me the subpoena, asked if I would testify in court on his behalf as part of a plea bargain. I explained there was not much I could talk about except his classroom attendance record and his classroom demeanor. I couldn’t speak to anything else. She indicated that she was eager to have me in court, regardless.

I was, she explained, the only person he wanted to appear in his defense, to testify in his behalf. I was speechless. My appearance could determine whether he will spend the rest of his life in prison. My decision is made; I have no choice but to appear.

Since then, I continue wondering, and perhaps it is good to ask ourselves two questions:

Whose lives do we affect to the degree that we would be asked to show up in their defense?

And: Do we have friends in whose lives we have invested well enough, that we could ask them to show up at our own defense?

The Inclusive “We,” Part 3

When “We” Becomes “You”

– “I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks.”

He is a well-know motivational speaker with insights that chip away at my preconceptions in just the right places. Most of us recognize a high-quality speech when we hear it:

– Excellent, stimulating content.

– Well-selected illustrations.

– Appropriate tone and delivery style.

– Well-paced presentation.

– Ahh, not too longwinded! (Research says that most of us can pay good attention for only about twenty minutes. I think I max out at fifteen.)

But just why was I having such a hard time listening to his discourse? Why was this battle of resistance within me? Well…he seemed aloof, above it all, having conquered his own shortcomings and now obtrusively barreling in on mine.

What could be the matter with me?

As he spoke, I started identifying categories of words, and that’s when I realized what was going on.

He shoveled out barrels of certain pronouns in his homily. I tripped over the quantity of them and quickly lost count. By the end, I drowned in the pronouns “I” and “You,” which separated him from me. He seemed to have “arrived” by constantly referring to his audience as “you.” He seemed above the fray.

Other pronouns received nary a mention. Scarce as gold veins in a mine, I was at a loss to find any of them. Not once did he mention the inclusive pronoun “we,” which would have indicated we were on this life journey together.

Noticing the imbalance was unavoidable.

I never heard him once utter the inclusive pronoun “We,” which would have linked our successes and struggles together as people with common challenges. Instead, my life (“You”) was juxtaposed against his (“I”).

It appeared that he had successfully run the rapids, dodging life’s obstacles, now a river’s length between us; it seemed that he, successful in all aspects of his life, had crossed the currents without me, while I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks (“We”), still weighted down by our shortcomings. His success and his advice was unapproachable.

Unlike those in my previous two posts, he was not “We”-centered. He did not appear to join with us to help meet our common needs. The well-known motivational speaker did not include us as part of his family. He was exclusively “Me”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 2

Morro Bay can be a tough spot to find reasonably-priced, comfortable, cozy, breakfast restaurants. Geared to tourists, many eateries feel like a cold gastronomical production line. Then we found The Coffee Pot. It faces opposite an ocean view; diners require the capacity to enjoy a good view of the parking lot.

Upon our second visit, the place was packed, and we understood why. Our first visit was punctuated with overhearing pleasant conversations and the enjoyable care of an industrious, agreeable staff. This time, we joined others who waited on sunny benches outside until tables became available.

Within moments, the owner himself came out with a steaming pot of coffee, sweetener and creamer, and cups enough for all of us. He shared a magical smile as he stooped to offer us refreshments and to apologize for the delay. After we were seated within the restaurant, he flitted from table to table, touching regular customers on the shoulder as he greeted them, sitting and chatting with an elderly couple near us for a long while. Then he stooped to gather spilled items beneath a table, near the waitress’s feet—never reproaching the server.

I observed his winning ways during our entire meal, and as we departed, I thanked him for being an unusually hospitable host and an outstanding example to us all.

“I don’t do this for the money,” he explained. “I do this because I love what I do.”

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. The owner of the Coffee Pot Restaurant included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 1

Tootling along a country road near Paso Robles last week, my wife alerted me to a sign for the Kenneth Volk winery. Now we know that winery, one of our favorites, and the tasting room, are in Santa Maria, not Paso Robles. We stopped to investigate and discovered that this weekend was the grand opening of this brand new location’s tasting room. Once inside, we began a tasting, and shortly thereafter, the dirty worker near us went to the back room. We asked about this new venue, and our server replied, “Why don’t you ask Kenneth Volk himself? I’ll get him.” Out from the back room came the same dirty, disheveled “worker” who had just been with us, his hands soiled from planting tomatoes. He apologized. “Hi, I’m Kenneth Volk,” he announced. We were astonished. THE Kenneth Volk, the owner of the winery, then spent the next half hour with us, pouring wines and explaining the subtleties of the Art of the Grape. When we asked for a picture with him, he insisted we take two—one in the shade and one in the sunlight.

So why did Kenneth Volk make such a deep impression on us? In his humility, he did not question our credentials. He didn’t ask if we were Kenneth Volk club members. He didn’t rush away to other chores, though his new establishment’s grand opening would be the next day. He didn’t apologize for his working-class appearance.

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. Kenneth Volk included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.

Civility Goes Subjunctive

Just one railcar missing from the morning train commute can easily demonstrate how far civility has plummeted. The five-car train reduced to four cars meant standing room only. The train was packed. Still, packages clustered on seats from earlier-boarding passenger remained unmoved so that other passengers could not be seated. The passengers who stood in the aisles numbered more women than men. Not one seated male passenger offered his seat to a standing woman.

Just as an English grammarian notes the gradual demise of the subjunctive case in English grammar, something feels missing. Mostly vanishing from English usage is the classic subjunctive phrasing, “If I were you,” replaced by the colloquial but grammatically incorrect, “If I was you.”

So, likewise, courteous behavior is apparently vanishing from our societal deportment. For a seated man not to give up his seat for a standing woman was once unthinkable. Now—not so much.

What I missed on this morning’s train ride was anything resembling the notion, “If I were more civil, I would give up my seat for a woman.”

Beautiful! Civil and subjunctive!