• If all the stalls are empty, it’s your lucky day. Choose whichever you like. However, if you want to be extra considerate and forward-thinking, try to pick one that eliminates forcing someone else to sit next to you. A rush can happen at any time (say, like at 1:45 p.m.). For example, if there are three stalls, pick either the one on the far left or far right. If there are more, choose a stall that allows others to be at least one stall away from you on either side. This may involve utilizing basic math skills. Note: picking the stall next to the wall is almost always a smart move.

• When you enter the bathroom and one of the stalls is occupied, under no circumstances do you take the stall next to it. This is highly rude and inconsiderate behavior – bordering on criminal violation. This may mean you don’t get your preferred or favorite stall. Deal with it.

• If you enter the bathroom and multiple stalls are occupied, that’s when it gets tricky.  The objective is to choose a stall that has no one on either side of it. If one is available, you’ve dodged a bullet and your choice is made for you. If more than one is available, try to be smart and still employ the rules above as much as possible.

When everyone follows these simple guidelines, the law of averages says you should rarely be put into a situation where you’re the Noxious Neighbor, or one is forced upon you. But unfortunately, even though these rules seem like common sense, many people fail to follow them. Equally unfortunate, even when everyone does, sometimes crowding situations are unavoidable (chili day at the cafeteria, for example). Here are additional rules to help you when there’s no way to avoid sitting next to someone.

• If you enter the restroom and the stalls are occupied in such a way that you have no choice but to sit directly next to another person, weigh your options and see if you can come back later — once the crowd has cleared out. Remember: if you can continue to bear it, no need to share it.

• Sometimes situations arise when there is no way to avoid having a neighbor (sometimes two), and you can’t wait. Everyone has been there, and we understand. But remember, your new neighbor will only be sympathetic if you had no choice but to take the stall next to him or her. When this happens, please try to be quick, quiet and considerate. Frequent throat clearing and courtesy flushes are encouraged.

The overall goal of these rules is to make sure everyone enjoys his or her restroom time to the fullest — as well as avoid awkward encounters at the sink. Please feel free to disseminate this information, as well as do your best to comply. Thank you.

Anyway, one of the tips was this:

34) If you get into a business deal with someone who goes to unusual lengths to convince you of how honest or Christian they are, watch your wallet and make sure you have an iron clad contract. They “doth protest too much.”

This one jumped out at me, and not just because of its awkward wording. It actually reminded me of a story that happened to me about 15-16 years ago. Let’s look back in time a bit, shall we? Doodle-ooo… doodle-ooo… doodle-ooo… doodle-ooo…

I was living in Tuscaloosa, AL (Roll Tide!), and had been working at a radio station for about two years. I’d just been offered a job at an advertising agency in Birmingham, which was about an hour away. It was a very exciting move that —unbeknownst to me at the time — would begin my long and illustrious career in the ad business. There was a hitch in the plan though. My new job in Birmingham was due to start in two weeks, but my apartment lease in Tuscaloosa still had a couple months remaining on it. After much internal debate, I decided the grand plan was to wait out my lease in Tuscaloosa and commute to work in Birmingham, until which time I could find an apartment there. Unfortunately, solving the housing problem brought up another one: my car. It was in no condition to make an hour commute (each way) every day. It was a 14-year old Chevy Cavalier with well over 150,000 miles and a whole host of problems. The only thing “cavalier” about it was its attitude toward running. What I needed was new transportation.

Since I was finally making the big advertising bucks ($18,000 a year!), I figured I could afford a sweet new ride. My mind was swimming with possibilities: Porsche? Lexus? Land Rover? After doing a little research, I quickly learned that Nissan, Honda or Toyota might be more my speed. Maybe even Hyundai or Kia. I started hitting the car dealerships.

The first one I approached was a Nissan dealership in Tuscaloosa. Let me paint the scene: I rolled up to the building in my ancient, faded Cavalier. It was the mid-90s, so the Grunge look was in, and I was totally rockin’ it: long hair, ratty flannel shirt, ripped up jeans, the whole deal.

I was probably around 23-24 years old, but looked about 17. Yep, when they saw me pull in, they thought to themselves, “big spender.” They sent out their top guy.

He walked up to me while I was checking out window stickers, and asked if he could help me. I can’t remember the conversation verbatim, but it went a little something like this:

How can I help you today? My name is Randall.* I’m a CHRISTIAN. As a CHRISTIAN, I’ll make sure to treat you fairly. Because for a CHRISTIAN like me, it’s important to do right by the people in the community. I don’t want people from my CHRISTIAN congregation hearing that I treated someone unfairly or dishonestly. Did I mention I’m a CHRISTIAN?”

He must’ve stated in some form or fashion that he was a Christian fifty times in about three minutes. I thought it was odd, but I was in the south. Anyway, I explained my situation, and he was very quick to agree that a new car was my only solution.

I told him I was looking for something cheap, yet inexpensive. But it still needed to be reliable and befitting a man of my status. He had just the vehicle. A base-model Nissan Sentra. He suggested, nay insisted, that we take it for a test drive.

We got in the car, and proceeded to tool around T-town. Soon into the drive, he suggested I try out the awesome factory-installed AM-FM stereo cassette player. And what do you know? It just so happened he had a cassette with him! He asked if I minded hearing some Christian music. As you know, anyone can say he loves the Lord, but only someone who’s really serious carries around His music. He then proceeded to put in the cassette, and crank up the volume on some sweet, down-home, southern-fried, hand-clappin’ gospel music. At least that’s what I think it was, because it was the most poorly recorded, distortion-heavy cassette I think I’ve ever heard. It was all mid-range and treble, and there was no bass whatsoever. My guess was that he’d bought a handheld tape recorder from Radio Shack^®, went to a church, and stood in the back and recorded the choir as they sang. At least that’s what it sounded like to me as the screechy cacophony painfully assaulted my eardrums.

Over the ear-piercingly loud choruses of “Hallelujah” and “Amen,” he started preaching to me about the features of the car. I don’t remember any of them in particular, but since it was the lowest-end, base model Sentra made, they probably consisted of things like “round wheels,” “left and right turn signals” and “see-through glass.” Whatever the features were, he was putting the hard sell on me.

His sales approach in the car was nothing compared to the high-pressure tactics he employed after we got back to the dealership. He used every stereotypical ploy you’ve ever seen or heard of. He went and “talked to his manager.” He told me he’d throw in lots of valuable extras – like floor mats. Practically in tears he stated he’d lowered the price so much that he’d be losing money. (He just needed to get the car off the lot!) He mentioned a few more times that he was a Christian. I wasn’t planning on buying that day, and certainly not the very first car at which I Iooked, so I remained strong. He did, however, talk me into filling out the paper work, in case I changed my mind. That way I could just call him back, and he could get everything started over the phone. I may have been young, but I wasn’t completely stupid. I filled out the paper work, but didn’t actually sign or date anything. I also received multiple assurances he would most definitely not run my credit until I told him it was okay to do so.

I practically had to feign a medical emergency to get out the door, but I finally did and went home.

Later on that evening, I was sitting at home, watching Barney Miller or Airwolf or whatever I watched in the 90s. Then the phone rang. You kids remember before Caller ID? Okay, most of you probably don’t. But basically, when the phone rang back then, you didn’t know who it was. You just had to pick it up and hope for the best. I answered, and guess who it was? Randall! I figured he was calling to work a little more magic and try to get me in the car. I’ve always heard that if you walk out of the dealership without buying, they’ll call you back later with a price lower than the rock-bottom price they couldn’t reduce earlier. That was not my reason for walking out, yet I wasn’t surprised to see it happening.

Yet I was mistaken. He was trying to work some magic all right, but not that kind. He didn’t mention anything about the car, but rather asked if I was doing anything that evening. I thought it was kind of a strange question and it caught me off guard, so I answered. I told him I didn’t have any plans and would probably just relax and enjoy a quiet night at home (read: “I’m broke as a joke and can’t afford to leave the apartment”). That’s when I learned the true reason for his call. Randall proceeded to tell me that he’d found me really attractive, and was hoping we could go out later and “see where it leads.” His plan was to meet out and have some drinks, and then wind up at either my place or his at the end of the evening. He was pretty clear about it. When I immediately started replying that I wasn’t interested and that was not really my thing, he then threw in that he’d be meeting up with a girlfriend of his that evening too. She was smokin’ hot and a threesome was not out of the question. I wondered if she was one of his parishioners? I politely but firmly declined any and all offers, but much like he was at the car dealership, he did not readily take no for answer. I finally had to cut him off and tell him “no, I am NOT interested. Good day, Sir” — and then hang up.

Now my problem with Randall was not that he liked to play for both teams. That’s not the point of the story. What confused and confounded me about the whole situation was the way he stressed over and over (and over and over) how honest and moral he was, and yet did nothing but lie and pressure and coerce while at his job. He stressed again and again that he was honest and a good, God-fearing Christian, but it was clearly to lull me into a false sense of trust and security while he did things like pull my personal information from business forms in order to contact me at home and try and pressure me into sex. And my main question is this: did his “Christian” approach actually work on others? Did customers before (and after) me hear his spiel and think, “oh, he’s a Christian. He must be, because he said so. I’m safe as a kitten. Hey Randall — let me just give you all my sensitive financial information since that’ll be easier and I know I can trust you?”

I also found out later that even though he promised he wouldn’t, he ran my credit. An honest Christian, indeed.

*His real name has been changed to protect his anonymity. Plus I don’t remember what it was.

Then an opportunity presented itself: baseball tickets. One of our print production people at work had gotten Rangers tickets through a vendor (print production people always get all the good kickbacks), and she was kind enough to throw them my way.

Okay, I’m not much of a sports fan. That’s actually a bit of understatement. I have no interest in sports whatsoever. I’m completely lacking that inherited male gene that makes men enjoy watching other men run around chasing balls in tight clothes. I just don’t get it. But taking your son or sons to a baseball game? That’s a rite of passage. It’s Americana. They write songs and make movies about it for goodness’ sake. Here was my chance to create a moment my sons would remember for the rest of their lives. They’d talk about it fondly long after I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil. This was going to be special.

When I got the tickets, the game was still a few days away. I didn’t tell the boys what we’d be doing, only that I had “an awesome surprise” for them. I talked it up really big. I mean I really promoted it. I even used it to keep them in line (“if you don’t behave, you won’t get the awesome surprise I have for you!”).

The day before the game, I picked up the boys from their summer day camp, and one of the teachers told me that Zeb had been behaving very poorly for several days — and had even started a fight with one of the other kids. He definitely needed to be punished. My first thought was that he didn’t deserve to go to the game. But I couldn’t really punish him that way. In doing so, I’d also be punishing Stephen and myself, as well as squashing all the lifelong memories we were going to create! Too much was at stake. So Zeb and I had a very serious talk about how disappointed I was in his behavior, and I told him if I got another bad report the next day, the surprise was off.

Finally, game day arrived. I took the boys back to summer day camp, and reminded them (again) about the surprise I had for them that evening. They were super excited, and didn’t even know why. I also spoke to Zeb again about his behavior, and reminded him that I’d yank the surprise if he misbehaved. But the truth was there was no way I was going to back out. I was also way too excited. I just had to trust that my “threat” was enough and I wouldn’t have to follow through (note to future parents: it usually isn’t).

The workday dragged on and on, but finally it was time to go! I hopped in the car and raced to go get the boys. When I got to summer day camp, I asked Zeb’s teacher how he’d been. The response I got was, “better, but still not good.” The proper thing to do would have been to make good on my punishment. But as I’m sure I made clear, that wasn’t really an option. Zeb won that round. An example of my parenting skills at their finest.

But screw that! It was time to go to the game! They got in the car with me and asked me a thousand times where we were going. I stayed mum. As we got closer, the kids were smart enough to start looking for signs — I knew they’d figure it out soon. Okay, here’s where I have to tell you a little about the layout of Dallas. Rangers Ballpark is in a suburb called Arlington. Also in Arlington, right next to the ballpark, just happens to be another major attraction. That’s when they saw the sign. “OH MY GOD! WE’RE GOING TO SIX FLAGS!!!!” Yes, Six Flags over Texas is right across the street. It had never occurred to me that they’d see the signs for the amusement park and assume that was our destination. As we pulled into the ballpark parking lot, I quickly corrected them and told them that we were not going to Six Flags, but were doing something better. Then one of them (I forget which) saw the Rangers sign and asked if we were going to a baseball game, to which I excitedly responded, “yes! Isn’t that awesome?!” Then they both replied, “can we go to Six Flags instead? PLEASE?” I explained that the surprise all along was that we were going to our first baseball game together, and were going to have a great time. They asked again if we could go to Six Flags instead of the ball game. Oh boy. I told them no, and asked them to give the game a chance. I knew once we got inside the spectacle of the event would win them over.

The tickets the print production person gave me were primo. They included valet parking, and the best seats I’ve ever had at any sporting event. We were right behind home plate, just a few rows back. It was a beautiful evening and the temperature was just right. It was actually really fantastic. It wasn’t long until we were seated and experiencing all the sights, sounds and smells of the game. And I was certainly giving the boys the full treatment. We got hot dogs, sodas, big foam fingers, baseball caps, the works. I spent a small fortune on goodies. I was going to make this an occasion to remember if it killed me!

But the boys couldn’t get over the disappointment of not going to Six Flags. It was clear that they weren’t going to enjoy themselves at the game. No amount of enthusiasm on my part was going to help. I kept trying to get them excited, and at one point asked them, “isn’t this fun? Aren’t we having a good time?” That’s when Stephen responded with an answer I will never forget. He turned to me, looked me right in the eye, and with all seriousness replied, “Worst. Surprise. Ever.”

I managed to keep them there through three innings, and we left at the top of the fourth. That’s all they could stand. We got in the car and quietly drove home. And so ended my father-son bonding experience. Well… at least one of us will remember it for a lifetime.

Before I get into it though, I need to give you a little background. I have to jump back to the 4th of July the year prior. That year I got suckered into buying some raffle tickets for some something-or-other. I guess I can’t really say I was “suckered,” because I actually won a big prize. It was a massive cache of fireworks. The package stood about 4 feet tall, 3 feet wide, and included everything you can imagine. Keep in mind I was living in Alabama, so restrictions were fairly nonexistent. I think there were even a couple sticks of dynamite in there. Unfortunately that year, I also got sick as a dog on Independence day, so didn’t do anything but stay in bed. I put the package of explosives in the back of my closet and promptly forgot about it.

So that brings us to the most memorable 4th of July ever. I think it was 1995. I’m bad with dates. I was living in Tuscaloosa and working at a radio station — in addition to my part time job at Blockbuster and playing in a band. I felt stretched pretty thin, so actually welcomed having the day off from everything to chill out and do nothing. Around 9:00 that night I was sitting on the couch, drinking some beer, when I got a call from my friend Adam. He was on his way to a party that was just a few blocks away, and wanted to know if I cared to go. I debated, because at least in those days, if you went out with Adam you had to be in it for the long haul. I think most of the sunrises I’ve seen in my life somehow involved drinking with him. But as always, my fear that I might miss something fun took over, and off we went.

We arrived at the party, and it was apparent it had been going on for a while. Most of the people (mostly college kids) were already pretty drunk. The host was a friend of Adam’s whose name I can’t remember. He had a decent-sized house, and the party was hoppin’ — excuse my obvious whiteness. People were in most every room, and there were even more folks surrounding a huge bonfire in the backyard. To help set the scene, you have to visualize the environment. As I said, this was a house, but it had apartment buildings on either side, as well as an apartment building directly behind it. When you got into the backyard, the 3-story buildings surrounding it made for a natural courtyard, and there was a fence separating the yard from the buildings. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing a crude diagram to illustrate. The black line represents the fence.

I was hanging out in the backyard, talking with Adam’s friend. People had firecrackers and bottle rockets and whatnot, and were occasionally setting them off. But all in all it was a fairly mellow vibe. Most everyone was relaxing around the fire and chilling out. And then suddenly I remembered something: I had that huge stash of fireworks in my closet from the year before. I got really excited and excused myself from the party to go home and get them. Fifteen minutes later I returned, bearing the largest batch of fun you’ve ever seen. Adam’s friend seemed like a nice guy, and he was the host of the party, so I thought the decent thing to do was give him the fireworks and let him hand them out as he saw fit. Kind of like a “thanks for having me over” gift. He seemed genuinely touched by my offer. What I didn’t realize though, is that he was way drunker than I thought. I handed him the fireworks, and then without another word, he immediately walked over and threw the entire stash on top of the fire. Didn’t even take them out of the wrapper first.

I have to admit I was a little surprised. Prior to handing over my magnanimous gift, I’d envisioned it a lot differently. I saw him generously doling out the fireworks, a little at a time, to maximize the fun and make sure everyone got to participate — kind of like a 4th of July Santa. I pictured hours of entertainment and smiles all around. I’d imagined countless high-fives because my little donation had turned it into the best. party. ever. Instead I got PLOP! as the entire thing was unceremoniously thrown onto the fire.

When he did it, a couple people laughed, but for the most part no one really responded. I don’t think any of us could have imagined what would happen next. I’m not sure how to describe it exactly, but within about 30 seconds or so, the immediate space around the fire started to grow very tense. There was a barely audible, subsonic hum as something unknown, something terrible, started to build. You could actually feel the air starting to vibrate. People began backing away, without even knowing why. Perhaps it’s that same sixth-sense mechanism that alerts animals to danger immediately before it happens. I don’t know. And then boom. It was Armageddon.

Okay. I was in the army. I’ve never seen real battle though. I was, however, trained enough to know what to expect. And I know that what happened that night was as close to a real war zone as I ever want to get. It was the real deal. Bombs were exploding. Missiles were flying in all directions. Projectiles full of red-hot napalm and the face of the devil were coming right toward you. I’ve already explained the layout of the yard to you. Suddenly there was a large number of people in a tight, closed-in space with limited exits who all wanted out. People were running and screaming. Clothes were on fire. The smell of burning hair and flesh worked its way into your nostrils. This was not a fun fireworks display for the kids. This was the night you were probably going to die. It was truly a time to try men’s souls. And it was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.

When I’d entered the backyard earlier, I’d noticed there was an old screen door leaning up against the side of the house. Surprising myself with my quick thinking in time of danger, I immediately ran to the screen door and got behind it, using it as a shield. From my secure vantage point I could see everything. All fear of death aside, it was a really interesting (unintentional) experiment in human psychology. If you’d ever wondered how you’d react in time of crisis and you were there that night, you know. Some folks were cool under fire. Like me, they quickly sought cover or found some other avenue of escape. Some people panicked and ran aimlessly, bumping into each other like The Three Stooges. Yet others were heroes. I saw them trying to shield friends and girlfriends and helpless drunk people from the death that was raining down upon us. Some were lifting others over the fence where they could seek safety in the narrow-but-secure space between it and the surrounding buildings. I gestured to several people to join me behind the screen door. We didn’t have room for everyone though, so had to turn some away. Tough decisions were made. Some people tried only to save themselves, pushing others out of the way George Costanza-style. Some just sat there waiting for the end, either too drunk or too paralyzed with fear to do anything. You never truly know what you’re made of until you find yourself in a situation like that.

Eventually, the riot of light and noise started to subside. People started slowly coming out of their hiding places like timid bunnies, eyes wide, only to quickly scurry back when a tardy firecracker decided to detonate. At some point though, we realized that it was finally over. It was safe to come back.

As we started taking stock of the situation, and everyone located the friends and loved ones they’d arrived with, we were surprised to learn that no one was really hurt — at least not physically. I can’t speak to the emotional scars though. I’m willing to bet that some friendships and relationships were strengthened that night due to heroism, and others irrevocably damaged due to cowardice.

Like people tend to do after a tragedy, we tried to return to normalcy as quickly as possible. Within 10-15 minutes, things went back to how they were prior to the catastrophe. People were drinking and socializing like nothing had really happened. But I know I’ll never forget it. And I believe we all gained something really important that 4th of July: the knowledge that you should never throw 30 pounds of fireworks on a bonfire.

Since we were so early and were strangers in a strange land, we had no choice but to sit and kill some time at the bar. Our bartender was a young girl of about 16. I joke. She was at least 17. Seriously, I’m guessing she had to be at least 21 (because of liquor laws and all that), but we all took turns guessing how old she appeared to be, with the oldest guess coming in at 19. At any rate, she was professional and attentive and did a good job. By the time she turns 21 she’s going to be a bartending force to be reckoned with.

After waiting a few hours (and my traditional pre-show nap in the car) it was finally time to load in and play. As I mentioned above, our first set brought down the house. If polite “golf claps” were currency we’d be rich beyond the dreams of Avarice.

After the set was over, tired and sweaty, I saddled up to the bar and asked the bartender to hook me up with a beer. She went to grab it. I, in turn, took out the sweaty, crumpled money that had been in my pocket and started to smooth it out like a used car salesman smooths out his hair when another mark walks on the lot. The bartender came back with the beer, and completely negating my futile efforts to make my money look presentable, said, “this one’s on me. You guys rock.” I thanked her heartily, as tears almost welled up in my eyes. Now you may be thinking, “well of course she paid for your beer. Bands always get free beer. Isn’t that one of the major perks of being in a band?” To which I’d reply, “au contraire! Your belief is outdated.” Once upon a time bands did get free beer (which usually represented the only “profit” you’d make), but for some reason I don’t quite understand, that fine tradition has ceased. Some time during the last decade, stingy bar owners decided to yank away the only thing that bands could assuredly count on — money and groupies typically being a hit-or-miss proposition. Today you might get a “band discount” or maybe a small credit or some drink tickets — enough to cover a beer or two per band member — but that’s about it. It’s really made me question why I continue to play.

I finished my beer during our 15 minute break (during which time we heard Steve Miller, Billy Squier, and Styx on the jukebox, confirming our belief that we were playing for the right audience), and we got back on stage and played our second set. By that time the crowd was even more drunk and enthusiastic. The claps turned to bellows and woots. We even rolled out a couple new songs that we’d barely nailed down during rehearsals, and they weren’t total train wrecks. It was a good night.

After we triumphantly left the stage (or more accurately, “walked away from the corner where they’d moved tables for us to play), we socialized with our fans. We always carry CDs to sell at the shows, and by the time the night was through, we only had one left. Since the bartender said she really liked us, and she’d given me a free beer, I thought it might be a nice idea to let her have it. I also thought it might be a smart business move. Maybe she’d put our CD in the bar juke box (next to Juice Newton), and then possibly it’d come on during some random play feature, and perhaps some bigwig record executive who is passing through the area and decided to stop and grab a bite in Geneva might hear it, and it could turn into really big things for us. You never know. I walked up to the bar, got the bartender’s attention, and the conversation went a little something like this:

Me: “Hey, would you be interested in a free copy of our CD?”

Her: “Sure! You guys are great. My BOYFRIEND was here earlier and he liked you guys.

Me: “Well you said you liked us, and this is the last CD we have with us tonight, so we wanted to give it to someone that would appreciate it.”

Her: “Cool! My BOYFRIEND wanted me to see if I could snag one.”

Me: “Well here you go. Enjoy.”

Her: Thanks! HE’S going to be thrilled.

That wasn’t the exact conversation, but that’s pretty much the gist of it. I stood there for a second, wondering why she kept mentioning her boyfriend. Then it hit me. She thought I was hitting on her! She was trying to deflect me! I couldn’t believe it. I was just trying to give her a CD because she said she liked us. What was it that made her think I was bustin’ a move? The enticing way I’d repeatedly said “can I get a Heineken?” The seductive way I’d scattered crumpled bills on the bar like a special needs kid? I was old enough to be her father! Or at least her extremely good looking, much older brother. I really didn’t know if I was flattered or offended. Flattered, because she took me seriously enough as a “threat” that she needed to play the boyfriend card? Or offended, because I wasn’t even trying to hit on her, and yet I still got rejected?

After that, I tore down my equipment, exhaustedly loaded it into my vehicle, and began the hour-long trek to go home and unload it. I finally arrived home at 3:00 a.m. completely sober and completely exhausted. Rock & Roll!

The jellybean was not offered so my dad could really take it, but so he could refuse. You see sometimes, like Ken, a person will make an offer because he or she really only wants to be recognized for the kindness and generosity of the gesture.  And also sometimes, like my dad, the other person doesn’t catch that it’s a hollow offer, and doesn’t realize he or she wasn’t REALLY supposed to accept it.  This leads to hurt and confusion on both ends.  In short, you should never offer something you’re not truly willing to give.  Ken and I BOTH learned a valuable lesson on that fateful Easter day.  Although his lesson was slightly more painful than mine; I still got all my black jellybeans.

To this day, when I suspect someone of offering something they’re not willing to give, I’ll refer to it as “offering the black jellybean.”  Now you know why.

You know what I’m talking about. The second you walk in the door, they’re yelling at you, demanding you tell them what you want. Did it ever occur to them you might not know yet? You usually can’t even see the menu from that far away! In response, you get to yell back at them over the crowd, trying to be heard. Then they start asking which vegetables you want. So, without even being able to see said veggies, you get to yell that across the store, too. And since there are typically several people making sandwiches, and several customers’ sandwiches being made at the same time, there are at least six people yelling back and forth simultaneously. This makes for a pleasant lunch time experience.

Today when I went to The House of Jared, they got my sandwich switched around with the person’s in front of me. Since we couldn’t actually see what they were doing from our position in the back of the line, we didn’t realize we were dressing each other’s sandwiches. Once we finally got up near the front, we realized the mistake and they had to remake them both. How is this efficient?

So why do they do this? It’s terribly annoying. And it serves no purpose. Sometimes I’ll go in and say I don’t know what I want (I always get the exact same thing) or I’ll pretend like I can’t hear them. But I shouldn’t have to resort to such subterfuge to avoid screaming my order across the store. If you were to ask the sandwich artists, I’m sure they’d tell you they do it “to keep the line moving.” But sandwich construction is not where the slow down occurs. The bottleneck is at the cash register. So what if you already have our sandwiches completely made when we’re still 50 feet from the counter? There are still 2 dozen people in front of us waiting to pay. What have we accomplished, other than a lot of yelling? Today they were so efficient with the yelling of the orders that they finished making the sandwich of everyone in line, even though there were still about 10 people waiting to pay. Again, why? No one got to eat any faster, and they didn’t clear their store out any faster. And let’s not talk about the waste involved with having 3-4 employees standing idle while one guy frantically rings everyone up.

What they need to do is double up on cash register personnel. Now there’s a smart solution! Or better yet, we can all just refuse to yell across the store. Make them wait until we get near the front, where we can place our orders using our inside voices. If we all agree to do this logically, then they’ll have to fall in line. And once they’re in line, we won’t yell at them.

Today’s story actually starts last night, when I was about to go to bed. I noticed both my iPod and cell phone batteries were almost dead. I thought about putting them on charge, but then decided they both had enough juice to get to me to work the next morning. I could put plug ‘em in there. Bad decision.

This morning, the buzzer rings and I wake up in a surprisingly good mood. I’m really starting to believe there’s a higher power that senses my good moods and does things just to mess with me. I get out of bed, shower, get ready for work, and actually get out the door a little early – which is good, because I’m supposed to meet with Rudy, a new art director on our team, to go over a project we’re working on.

I catch the train at my usual stop. Nothing seems amiss. The train is moderately crowded, but not bad by any means. I put on my iPod and open up the RedEye (the free daily newspaper in Chicago). We pull up to the next stop, which is California, and the doors open. I’m listening to music and reading, so it takes me a little while to notice the doors don’t close. We sit there for about 15 minutes, which is annoying, but not uncommon. We get a few canned messages from the overhead saying that “we’re waiting on signal clearance and hope to be moving shortly.” To be courteous, I send Rudy an email from my phone saying I might be a few minutes late. We finally do start moving, pull up to the Western stop, and people load up. We pull out of the stop, and then the train stops.

According to the conductor, up ahead of us a train in the tunnel is suffering equipment malfunctions, but their crack squad of technicians (my words, not his) is already on the scene. As soon as he gets signal clearance he’ll have us on our way. I fire off another email to my boss, because now it looks like I’m going to be more than just a few minutes late. 30 minutes go by, and we’re still sitting there. At this point I’ve already spent about 50 minutes on the train, when my usual commute takes me about 40. And I’m barely two stops away from home.

The conductor continually thanks us for our patience, which I always find amusing of them to say when we have no choice in the matter. We’re on a train track, 50 feet in the air. What am I going to do? Flip ‘em the bird and storm off? First step’s a doozy! It sure would have been nice if they’d stayed at the platform at the Western stop. Then we could’ve just exited the train if we’d gotten tired of waiting. I’d already read the RedEye cover to cover. I even read the sports section because I had nothing else to do. Then my iPod battery dies. So I’m stuck on the train, with nothing to read and nothing to listen to. I can’t call anyone to entertain me because my phone is almost dead and considering how the morning is already going, I figure it might be smart to save what little battery I have, just in case. Silly me, getting on the CTA and not planning for a worst case scenario! Do I ever learn?

Our friendly conductor once again gets on the overhead and says they’re evacuating the train in the tunnel, and escorting the people out on foot. To do so, they have to cut power to the tracks (so no one gets electro-mo-cuted.) Our train is going to pull up to the Damen stop and we’ll have to evacuate too – good luck and Godspeed. He doesn’t really say that last part, but he may as well have. All he tells us is that there will be some shuttle busses waiting for us. At this point, a thousand people spill into the street. This doesn’t include all the people already waiting at Damen- possibly the most crowded stop on the Blue Line. I walk out, not having any idea where to go to catch the shuttle. Once I get out the door a little bit, I see a mob of people standing on the corner. I figure it’s a safe bet that’s where I want to be too.

I dive into the mob just as the first bus arrives. Ever seen 1000+ people try to get onto one bus? It’s not pretty. Needless to say I don’t get on the first one. I just didn’t have the heart to push all the women and elderly people out of my way to make it happen. I don’t get on the second or third busses either. I have to say though, most people are being extremely good natured about the whole thing. There’s a lot of laughing in that “I can’t believe this is happening” kind of way. And I hear comments like, “at least it’s a nice day out!” And, “it could be worse! We’re getting some sun out of the deal!” That’s a Chicagoan for you. Your morning can get completely thrown into a tailspin, but if it means getting to spend a little more time outside on a rare nice day, then it’s all good.

This is actual footage of my location.

The fourth bus pulls up, and I’m determined to get on it. It’s completely full, but I think I see a spot on the middle stair (at the rear bus door) where I can cram in. I make it happen. There’s a girl behind me who is also trying to get on, and we shift a little to allow her a space. That’s it. Can’t possibly fit another person. So as I mentioned, I’m on the middle stair. The girl who gets in behind me is on the lower stair. There’s about a two foot height difference between my stair and hers. So when the door finally closes and we’re smashed bodily together, it puts her face about…. 1/2 an inch from my crotch. Oh boy. This is awkward. There’s no where I can go, either. I do my best to wrench my body a little to one side so she’s not eye-to-eye with Mr. Happy, and I manage to turn just enough that I’m tea bagging her shoulder. I hope she appreciates my efforts.

We start moving and someone asks, “does anyone know where this bus is taking us?” And no one does! People start saying things like, “maybe it’s just going to run all the stops,” and “I hope it just takes us somewhere in The Loop (the main area of downtown),” and “I think we’re going to Dunkin’ Donuts!” The truth is we don’t have a clue. We all just crammed ourselves onto a bus with no earthly idea where it would take us.

As I said earlier, it’s a nice day. The sun is shining and I think it’s about 50 degrees (yes you people in the south, 50 degrees is a nice day). In addition, we’re on a bus that’s at about 150% capacity. So it only makes sense that the CTA has the heat on! And I’m not talking a little bit of warmth to make the already forced closeness a little more unpleasant. I’m talking about blasting gales of heat from the very pits of Hell. The girl above me on the stairs manages to get her coat off, but I’m not sure how. I can’t even move enough to scratch my own nose. She must be Houdini’s granddaughter or something.

So there we are, mercilessly crammed onto a slow moving Hell-bus going no one knows where. And a girl I’ve never met before has her face mere inches from my rig. Only on the CTA!

We start moving toward the big buildings, which puts me at ease. As long as I get downtown I’m sure I can either walk or figure out what bus or train to take to get to work. It seems this House of Horrors ride is almost over. Oh, but what’s this up ahead? The intersection is completely blocked by ambulances and fire trucks! Oh, and we have to take a detour to get around it! What else can go wrong?

Fortunately, the answer is nothing. The bus crawls through traffic and drops us off about four blocks from my office. I head out on foot and get to work about two hours from the time I left my apartment. At least it’s a nice morning for a walk. That’s it then. I’m a Chicagoan.

Editor’s note: read more about the actual story here.