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| Humorist Robert Benchley |
I’m fine. And you?
On this blog — and off it, for that matter — I often come off as an irritable old curmudgeon with nothing but complaints about my travelers on this planet. Verily I say unto you that there is just cause for my misanthropic musings. I present as evidence the many people across the country who have been protesting the social distancing guidelines and closures of stores and parks et al that have been put in place by state governments at the urging of the scientific community to help stop the spread of the deadly coronavirus. These idiots are not only protesting against regulations that are very much for their own good, but they are increasing the risk of the virus spreading and thus closures being in place for longer. Simply put, they are fucking idiots. They are as stupid as the anti vaxxers who are also imperiling public health (they are often one and the same moron) by their unfounded beliefs in the supposed dangers of vaccinations.
Of course it is safe to assume that many of the protestors — or whiny babies, if you prefer — are Trump supporters. While it is true that democratic nominee Joe Biden is ahead in polls, his lead is not insurmountable and we all still remember the horror of 2016. The fact that anyone supports the current Nitwit-in-Chief is utterly mind-boggling. How much incompetence must he display? How many lies has he got to tell? How many insults has he got to hurl? How much more does he have to debase the office of the president? How much callousness and disregard for human life does he have to evidence? We are literally talking about tens of millions of adults — most of whom have not been diagnosed with serious mental illness — who admire and support the poorest excuse for a human being that has ever gotten with 100 yards of the White House, let alone occupied it. I rest my case.
So that needed to be said and it is all true and causes one to weep for humanity. I don’t dare wonder what is going to happen to this country, pandemic or no. It is not hard to find reasons for hope, for optimism, for a conviction that surely things will get better. But how did this most — supposedly — advanced of nations reach a point at which so many of its citizens so stupidly disregard the best advice from experts and continually put themselves and others at risk? I thought it was bad enough that so many Americans don’t “believe in” climate change (as if it were a philosophy and not an empirically verified fact) now we add to that people who believe the constitution guarantees them the right to spread contagious diseases. Madness.
Anyway….
I have recently ordered some books online (as one must do when bookstores are shuttered) as I have a talent for forever finding new novels, biographies, histories, poetry collections, essay collections, collected correspondences etc. etc. etc. that I “simply have to have.”
One I received was a used copy of The Benchley Roundup, a collection of essays by the late great humorist, Robert Benchley (he was also an actor with 92 screen credits and a member of the Algonquin Round Table). The copy I received was not quite in pristine condition but suitable for reading and a bargain at the modest price I paid. However the book was slightly marred by writing on the back inside cover leaf. It seems the book had originally been purchased as a going away gift by co-workers for some chap named Ben. Evidently Ben was not enamored of the book and palmed it off on a used book store or he said the long goodbye and his effects were sold off by his family. In any event I got a fair idea of how old Ben was regarded by the people he worked with, whoever they were, whenever it was and wherever it was (perhaps the Waltham, Massachusetts area from whence the book was sent to me). Before I proceed I should qualify my remarks by saying that I have worked at numerous jobs over several decades and have both signed and received dozens of cards to or from co-workers for everything from birthdays, anniversaries, departures, retirements, weddings, maternity leaves to joining the French Foreign Legion. It is a simple matter to get a sense of how you are regarded by what is or is not said in such cards (or in this case, a book leaf). The more anonymous you were or are at work or the less esteem you were held in, the more generic the missives. If people just write messages such as : “Happy Birthday Elmo,” “Congratulations,” “Best of luck” or “Enjoy” or worse yet merely sign their name, you know you were something of a dud if not a pariah (not that there's any shame attached to being a pariah). You were perhaps a genial enough person but not someone whose departure will send co-workers into paroxysms of grief. If, on the other hand, there are personalized messages recalling a happy incident, a reminisce or a mutual fondness for say a movie, sports team or celebrity, or heartfelt praise for stellar work or lamentations about your departure, you were someone special to colleagues. Of course, many cards are mixed. Colleagues you were closer to are more likely to write more and be more effusive than Sheila in accounting who you barely ever talked to. Also some people have far less imagination when it comes to signing cards or are "just too busy" to put two seconds thought into it.
(I exclude from this discussion any mention of sympathy cards. One keeps it simple in these cases, besides which, there’s not a helluva lot to say beyond thoughts, prayers and condolences.)
As for the aforementioned Ben, I’m afraid to report that he was evidently no great shakes at work. Indeed I can’t recall seeing such a bland collection of messages. A few people just signed the book. If someone can’t even bother with a “good luck” or “congratulations” you really don’t rate. There were a few “best wishes” and one person -- that’s one as in the lowest amount above zero -- offered an “it has been a pleasure working with you.” Not exactly a resounding endorsement of our friend Ben as a co-worker. One person, whose single name signature was indecipherable, wrote “stay in touch” and I suspect she didn’t mean it. Several people also wrote, “good luck.” Charming. But full marks go to Margot, who I’m guessing is the Pollyanna of the group, because she wrote: “You rock!” Ya know, I kind of doubt Ben “rocked” at all. If he had, more people would have said so, although perhaps not in those exact words. The queerest message, however, was from Tom, who wrote, “Be Good.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Was it a short hand version of “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do?” Was it mean to be a jibe because Ben was such a goody two-shoes? Was it a veiled reference to the time Ben was seen making out with Clarice at the office Christmas party? Was it some sort of code between two old friends? Weird.
But let’s get back to the people who merely sign their name. That’s pathetic. I’ve had occasion to sign cards for people who I barely knew and in a couple of cases, people I didn’t like, yet I have always managed more than a signature. Every time.
I also have experience — from my days as a middle school teacher — signing yearbooks and having mine signed. There were a few of my colleagues who for virtually every student would merely offer their autograph. If a student was in your charge for so much as a month, not to mention an entire school year, it should be easy enough to personalize a message. I know it was a simple matter for me. Students themselves were very good about personalizing messages although a few just signed and I shudder to imagine their futures. My last year a student, much to my chagrin — for the first, last and only time — a student actually wrote something negative in my yearbook. Well, she was outnumbered by positive messages by a tally of one helluva lot to one.
Getting back to poor Ben, I can’t help but wonder if he got rid of the book because he was so depressed about what people wrote — or more to the point — all the things that they didn’t write. One can imagine the poor bloke looking at all the bland messages and realizing that he'd been something of a stiff.
It’s also an odd choice to give someone a book as a parting gift. Over the years I've received a lot of gift cards to bookstores which I always treasured and appreciated, but to pick a book for someone is at worst presumptuous and at best risky. That is unless you’ve heard the person express a desire for that particular book or anything by that author or you have seen their Amazon wishlist. So maybe someone heard Bennie extolling the writings of Robert Benchley, maybe someone even heard him mention that book by name. Then again, if they correctly knew him to be a Benchley fan, perhaps he already had the book, which is why he unloaded the one they gifted him.
The book shows no signs of having been read so I’ll hold onto it and in fact I read the first two essays in it before nodding off last night. I will peck away at it for the months to come usually an essay at a time while also reading narratives either fiction or non — as is my want with such books. Once I’ve completed the Benchley Roundup it will either assume a place on my bookshelves (if deemed worthy) or stowed away in an anticipation of a time when I’ll have more bookshelves or it may — if I’m not pleased with Benchley’s work (hard to imagine) be brought along with some other books to be traded in at a local used book shop for store credit. If the latter happens then eventually someone else will purchase the book and they too can speculate about Ben and why his co-workers were not particularly enamored of him — excepting Margot, who thought he rocked.
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