Fear the Change

I live in a town where nothing ever changes. Seriously… Edison is where change goes on vacation, because he knows he won’t be asked to do a damn thing.

Years ago (and I mean back when there were World wars), we had a passenger train that would roll through town at various times throughout the day, hauling rural dwellers into the city for business and carrying transients from town to town. For whatever reason, the train didn’t run on Thursdays, but it DID run on Saturdays. Our local bank, The Bank of Edison (where I now work), closed down on Thursdays but stayed open on Saturdays, hoping to be as accommodating as possible to the patrons of the rail. There hasn’t been a passenger train in these parts for at least 40 years. Yet, the bank is still closed on Thursdays. It is my firm belief that most folks at the bank, including the president himself, have no idea why the bank had a no-Thursday schedule. Just a few days ago, I suggested we consider closing on Saturdays and opening on Thursdays. The idea was overwhelmingly shot down. Change scares people around here… even when it makes sense.

I left this town back in the early 90’s. I did so because I was young and craved the very change that had been denied me for so long. I moved back in 2007 having had my fill of change. From 1998 to 2007, I moved a total of 14 times. Yes… I said 14. That’s change on speed, and that’s no good either. Upon my return, I discovered that (surprise, surprise) everything was just the way I had left it. Same folks , same businesses (with the exception of the Bill’s Dollar Store closure and the opening of the Dollar General), same mayor, same general disdain of anything new and different. We do have the internet now, which is good, ‘cause it helps us see all the things that we refuse to experience due to our fear of change.

Yesterday, at the bank (on a Saturday, mind you), I had a customer who was upset because someone else’s check posted to her account. The problem occurred because her account was a 4 digit account #. The other customer’s account (the rightful owner of the check in question) had a 5 digit account #. However, if you dropped the last digit of the 5 digit account, you get the account # of the complainer. I told the customer that when the check was processed, the scanner must have dropped the last digit of the account #, which caused the problem. I told her that the only way to guarantee that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again is to give her a new account… a 5 digit account.

As gracefully as possible, I explained that we would pay for the checks. We would reassociate her debit card with the new account. We would make things as painless as possible. Instantly, her guard went up. “Well, this has never happened before, so I don’t think it’ll happen again,” she suggested. To which, I replied, “yes, but we’ve only had the scanners for about a year now, and it’s happened to other customers as well. Plus there’s an issue of privacy for the other customer, so it’s not just a convenience issue.” Then it happened. Sparks flew. Her face became flushed, which she desperately tried to hide with an unconvincing smile. In an angrily, shaky voice she decreed, “I don’t want a new account. I’ve had this account for years and it’s been good to me. I like my account.”

And there you have it. The sort of logic that sinks ships. In one obscenely ridiculous statement, she had captured the heart of the problem of my little home town. This woman was married to a number. That’s all an account is… a number. Perhaps she feels that we actually have drawers for each customer in which we place their cash, where it sits in comfort awaiting the day when it will be used in exchange for goods or services. Maybe she feels that her particular drawer is a drawer of prosperity and a new account might mean a drawer of poverty. I’m reaching, I know, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to figure out what the big deal is.

It is both illegal and unethical for an officer of the bank to slap a customer, so I didn’t. I just smiled and said, “well… it’s your choice.” As I walked away, I embraced the fact that with some people, nothing ever changes.

Seriously...

I go through seasons where I have nothing funny to say. In fact, I am in one now. For weeks, I’ve attempted to hide my state of seriosity by refusing to blog. I was afraid that my condition would be discovered, and I would be chastised by the blogging community. And no one needs to be bullied around by people who have nothing better to do than to sit around on their computers and read what others have to say.

Hoping that I would soon emerge from my humor funk, I began the waiting out process. But the hours passed slowly… much too slowly for a man who was reared in the era of microwave ovens and instant coffee. Hours passed into days, and the days soon turned to weeks. Ironically, not a single funny thought passed through my brain during this nightmarish micro-eternity. At first, I thought I was just a bit ‘backed up’ – suffering from a bout of comical constipation (not that there’s anything funny about constipation – it can be quite serious). But as time went on, I finally came to grips with the haunting reality that I’m just not that funny anymore.

Step 7 in the stages of grief process is “Acceptance and Hope”, and since I’ve always been the kind of person to want quick resolution to things, I decided to skip the first 6 stages. And given my newfound acceptance of this incurable disease, I am now committing my blog to all things serious. And what can be more serious than a pandemic?

Today, I’d like to blog about pandemics. I remember when they used to call them epidemics, but apparently, we’ve overused the word ‘epidemic’ to the point that we needed to create a new word to convey what the old one was supposed to mean before we watered it down so much. Pandemics are all the rage today. Everybody’s talking about the next big one, as if life just isn’t possible without the pending threat of global infection, and I guess that stuff has a way of rubbing off on you if you let it.

My son got sick a few nights ago. For some reason, every time he has to throw up, he goes into the hall to ‘do his business’. I’m not sure what that’s all about. I usually go to the bathroom and would prefer it if he did the same. After puking repeatedly on our beautiful hardwood floors, he spent a miserable day curled up on the couch in our den. As I watched him lying there in a state of total lethargy, I had a thought… one that I consider to be a typical fatherly thought, “I hope to heck that kid hasn’t brought the swine flu into my house.”

That's right, nothing says "the father's love" more than a guy lamenting the possibility that his 9 year old son might infect him with a potentially fatal disease. I'm afraid I fell victim to the mass hysteria. Then I realized that all the doomsday crowd has been secretly hoping for a pandemic since the '90's, only to become disappointed at the lack of cooperation from the latest, greatest strain of virus. Ebola, SARS, Mad Cow, Bird Flu, Swine Flu. They've all come and gone and have been major disappointments to the folks who prematurely annointed them as 'global killers'. Think I'm being too harsh? When's the last time you saw a media outlet rejoicing over a disease going away? Instead, it's quickly on to the newest fad in sickness, as if they're desperately hoping that this will be the one. Is it just me, or are we living in an era where just can't seem to find anything good wherever we look?

By the way… for those of you who have made promises to do things “when pigs fly”… you do realize that as of about a month ago… swine flu. BA DOMP CHHHHHH! And just like that, the humor is back.