Titles, Inc.

A Machine Gone Mad

Well, that was a horrible moment that extended itself to about an hour. 

A man bought two nice books totaling $86.40 including our 8% tax.  I swiped his credit card (there's an ambiguous word - did I steal it or charge it (both, it turned out.)  The charge rang up as 10003.50.  I looked at it aghast.  Ten thousand dollars?

I had never had to reverse a charge and I frantically read all the names of the tiny buttons.  I fed the big number in and hit Cancel.  It canceled this new entry.  I was afraid to try another button.  Here's where they wring their hands in novels and I would too, except I don't know how. 

I called the customer into the office, and said, "Help me find the key that will reverse this $10,000 I just charged to your account by mistake.  I didn't charge it actually, the machine just went crazy."  He looked down and calmly said, "I don't know.  Maybe make a phone call?"  "That's what I was thinking," I agreed.

I know making a phone call means trying to by-pass the mechanical voice.  I know how long it takes.  His wife had stopped by to pick him up, carrying their dachshund, and we had all been playful about the dachshund (when the man patted its stomach it sounded like he was beating a drum.  No fur to muffle the tom-tom.) His wife went outside with the dog for the moment it would take to charge him and bag the books.

He went out to let his wife know he was delayed and he came back as I was hitting, 4, 5, 3, all the time hollering, "Agent", "Assistance", "Help", "Operator".  They kept droning with the numbers.

Luckily, Art came in - it was the end of the day and he was picking me up for dinner and movie - so I introduced the two men and they moved into the book room and sat down in coversation.  My customer was cheery, and calm, and patient.

Finally, the automatic voice gave up in despair and connected me with a breathing person.  I told her that something terrible happened, and she asked for endless information from his card and my card, and then transferred me to another person.  This one recognized my anguish, but went through the whole process again.  She told me to wait, and after a few minutes said she canceled the charge.  She told me to charge the proper amount.  "I can't. I'm scared.  It may run away again."  She told me to 'Go ahead, and swipe the card."  I did, and it worked.

I told this gentle, kind man that it was all taken care of, and we bantered a few minutes and he left. 

The next day I pulled up the balance and there was that glorious 10,000 dollars.  Today, three days later, my account still owns his money.  No refund.

Tomorrow I have to get on the phone again.  Sigh.

---Florence

The Doctor's House Visit

Are you astonished by the heading?  It's true.  A House Visit for medical treatment.  Actually, this house visit was skewed so that I, the patient, went to the doctor's home for medical service.  What a sweetheart!

It started last week when I tripped on the leg of a junior chair at McDonald's.  Earlier, in the parking lot, Natalie said, "You don't have to come out, I'll be right back."  I said, "I'll keep you company."  Always listen to your granddaughter.  Three steps into McDonald's I went flying, landing hard on my knee.  The order counter set-up is in their foyer, the restaurant is through the large arch.  So in front of the counter I lay flopped, the wind knocked out of me.  Natalie said all the right things: 911?  How are you?  Call Dad?  Hurt?

The McDonald employees were nowhere.  I thought, "They are not trained properly."  I said I would wait until the knee stopped hurting and then I would try to get up.  An employee came by and looked.  Another one.  Finally two concerned older employees (manager?) approached.  I told them, too, that I was not ready to stand up.  In a few moments, I indicated to Natalie that she could haul me to my feet.  Not bad.  I asked the men for ice, and one hurried away returning with a sealed plastic bag with cubes that I held against the knee.  Natalie pulled a chair from the dining room for me, running back for another chair to elevate the leg with the icepack. 

"I'm fine.  Get your order."  While waiting, a little girl came up and said in a tiny voice, "If you need help to get to your car, we will help you."  "What's your name?" I asked.  "Mariella." she said.  I said, "Thank you so much, Mariella, that is so, so kind of you, my granddaughter will help, you are very kind.  Thank you so much."

Food in one hand, Natalie maneuvered me to the car, and for the first time I let this competent driver with only a driver's permit put me in the passenger seat while she sat behind the wheel. 

Late the next day, Sunday, I figured the knee was not broken or I would be in pain, but as a precaution I went to the ER.  The doctor hurried in, "Which knee is it?"  I said indignantly, "I have beautiful knees, it's the swollen one."  Xrays showed no break, but the doctor advised I wear this long stiff velcro strapped, rigidly boned wrap around, and said there was tissue involvement, see an orthopedic man in a few days if the swelling doesn't go down.

After a week of walking like a peg-legged pirate, and noting that I still did not have matching knees, I reluctantly emailed my orthopod, who had been the official bone man for the Chicago Bulls, and has two huge trophy rings to prove it.

Darling, I wrote, I have a small problem.

Goddess, he answered, if you can get here right after you close, I will look at it.

So at 5 PM I shot out to his house in the neighborhood, where Art and I had joined them for drinks several times. He prodded, had me walk this way and that, and declared it a severe sprain which would not need surgery.  He held my arm as I walked stiff-kneed back to the car.

I will pay him as peasants did when they brought their doctor a sack of potatoes.  I will present him with a book I know he will love, an early edition of aphorisms. 

Why does he call me Goddess?  Because he is a discerning man.

---Florence

Opera in a Small Shop

How did the subject turn to singing?  He demonstrated how you can Sing, or how you can Sing from your Heart.  This operatic voice filled the shop to overflowing.  He did ask permission to sing before it poured out.  It was from the heart, all right.  Facing me and using the large theatric gestures, he had me completely enveloped in the music and his heart.  If the Italian translated to Run Away With Me, I would have been gone. Two customers holding books stood still watching raptly.

Another typical Saturday at the bookstore.  No, I jest.  Opera is not our usual fare.  Let me introduce you to our tenor, a lyric spinto scuro tenor.  He is one of  “The Three Other Tenors.”  Franco Martorana, age 45, with the barrel shape of an opera singer – but he has lost weight and is working on bringing it down another 15 lbs.  He was wearing shorts, and I remarked on his muscular calves (a little too personal considering I had just met him?), and he told me what I guessed – he is a body builder besides, and those thighs, too, are muscle, only the belly alas is, well, not muscle.  Longish brown wavy hair, a beautiful smile with a lurking dimple.  I digress.

He demonstrated the lyric voice, high and light.  He said he could not sustain that voice through an entire opera, his is the darker tenor, a huge voice.  He is singing to us, arias from different operas to explain the music.  He is wonderfully articulate with a passion for the subject.  He says attendance at the opera world-wide is diminishing.  He thinks the new young management, directors, producers are trying to popularize the performances.  The love scenes are more graphic with nudity, and he described an opening vignette (oh, OK, l’ll tell it – a long row of farmers seated on toilets reading newspapers, and singing.)  He said “they” are vulgarizing opera hoping to make it more attractive to a new audience.

Franco has been trained by coaches whose names he whispers in reverence.  They tell him he has a magnificent voice. 

He auditions (and has performed) all over the map.  Did you know the singer has to pay for an audition?  They not only incur the expense of the trip, but they have to pay for the audition.  It might be from $150 - $500.  He has two agents, the new one, he tells me, is Bob Swan, as if I should recognize the name because of his success as an actor.  “I don’t care if he was a good actor,” I complain, “his job is to sell You, and how is he doing with that?”  Franco is happy with him. 

Our singers, The Three Other Tenors, can be bought.  They sing at events, at parties.  And not opera music if the occasion calls for lighter melodies.  They sing Folk Tunes, and now Franco sings several delightful melodies that I recognize.

The mother in me comes out, “From this you can make a living?”

He says yes, and I’m guessing that having a wife who works as a music teacher (what else?) in the Chicago school system helps a little.  He also tells me, proudly, that he has a patron who underwrites him.  Very appropriate.  Yes, I am impressed. 

The name of their company is Bellissima Opera Productions.  “Italian,” I murmur. “Of course.”  Well, not exactly.  He tells me one of The Three Tenors is Korean. 

The room is still ringing long after he’s gone.

---Florence