Dearest Rachel –
There are people who have made their careers making fun of the stupid things that others do, say and, particularly in this case, ask. MAD Magazine’s late Al Jaffee (would you know if he’s up there with you? Would you recognize him if he was?) had his collections of “Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions”; Bill Engvall proposed distributing signs reading “I’m Stupid” to such folks “so you wouldn’t rely on them,” even as he admitted to asking the occasional dumb question himself. Certain motivational speakers claim that “there are no stupid questions,” but the examples these guys come up with make you doubt that claim.
Of course, the reason these guys could make it big is not because stupid questions – or people that ask them – are particularly unusual. As the saying goes, if you despair about how foolish the average person is, just bear in mind that this still means half the population is dumber than that. No, what they based their careers on was how challenging it is to come up with a proper response to such idiotic inquiries; the real punchline is in responding to the question in a way that mocks its existence even as it hangs in the air.
You could probably tell from that introduction that I found myself encountering such a question in the wild. And from the experience, I will say that coming up with such a response on the fly is a lot more difficult than it seems. The thing is, there are certain questions that seem so out of place that you’re just not prepared for them when they’re asked.
So what happened to me was that, having set both the dishes and the laundry to wash (and having shown Daniel how to start both machines up, so I hope he can manage them both while I’m gone. Either that, or he’s going to be eating off of paper plates and wearing the same clothes for weeks on end), I decided to take the time to head on out to Marshall Fields (yes, I know it’s called Macy’s, but considering what I was going there to buy, it’s still Fields as far as I’m concerned) to pick up several boxes of Frango mints to use as additional gratuities for the waiters and cabin staff that I’ll be dealing with over the next couple of months. I did rather worry as to whether I would find any on sale; there had been a large volume set out for Christmas, but with the holidays over, I feared that there might be a dearth of such wares.
However, I needn’t have worried, because what is one of the prime gifts for the Valentine’s Day season? Chocolates, of course. I barely had to walk through the door before encountering a fairly large display. Granted, I had to sift through a quantity that had been wrapped up for the season – I’m giving a gift, yes, but not a valentine – but I did find a number of boxes in their standard dark green boxes. Only a few steps away was a cashiers’ terminal, with red ropes set up for patrons to queue for service. I collected my boxes, and walked through the path defined by the ropes. Both cashiers were occupied with customers, but it didn’t take long for either one to be finished with their transaction, at which point it was my turn, and I presented the boxes of candy.
The cashier gave me a quizzical look. “Are you… buying these?”
I ask you, sweetheart, how would you react to such a question in such a situation? I want to say I blinked at her a couple of times in sheer surprise – I know I paused before answering, but I can’t remember if I did anything else – before replying, “Er… no, ma’am; I’m renting them.”
You can probably already imagine Bill Engvall punctuating the exchange at this point with his signature line: “Heeeere’s your sign.”
And as lines go, it’s not that off-base; you don’t get to keep foodstuffs, after all. You either consume them, or they go bad – and once consumed, they don’t stay a part of you forever (well, they aren’t supposed to, anyway). I’ve heard it said in particular about beer that you don’t so much buy it as rent it (since it looks the same on the way out as it does going in), so, as rejoinders go, this one wasn’t too outlandish, especially given the question.
To her credit, the cashier actually chuckled before explaining herself. It seems that this particular station was used mostly for returns, credits and exchanges. So there was a reason she was puzzled to see me approach her with a collection of items for purchase. At this point, it was my turn to look embarrassed, although I still couldn’t see anything by the station indicating this specific purpose. Additionally, she had a cash register in front of her, just like you’d expect from any cashier station, and after giving me her explanation, proceeded to acknowledge that yes, of course she could ring the items up for me – cash or charge? – and the whole process was over and done with in less than ten minutes from the moment I walked in the door to the moment I walked out.
It all struck me as weird to the point of absurdity, and it’s why, despite the brevity of the encounter, I had to tell you about it; thought you might be as amused by it all as I was.
Anyway, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 