Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

All my life I've been plagued by literalists. A literalist, in case you don't know is someone who takes whatever you say, no matter how outlandish, as Gospel. Here's an example: For years I had a top notch executive assistant, except for the times when I would say something patently ridiculous, such as when he asked me on a bright, sunny Monday morning, how I made out in a tennis tournament over the weekend.

"Jack, my boy," I said, grinning from ear to ear, "I killed him!" (It was the time in my life that I played only singles.)

"Wow Gerry," he said, his face aghast. "What did he do, fall down and break his neck or something?"

"No, Jack," I explained. "I meant that I beat him badly, not that I murdered him."

"Phew," he said, earnestly. "I was really worried there for a minute."

But my boy Jack was only the tip of the iceberg, my dry cleaners, which I frequented two or three times a week (I wore a vested suit, shirt and tie every day!) had a counter man, that was, well - really too hard to describe in a word or two - so here, and I kid you not, are a few examples:

Checking a stain on my shirtsleeve, he asked, pencil in hand: "What is this blood?"

·       "What's this?" (Stain on pant leg.)
·       "Coffee. Brewed decaf."(Duly noted.)
·       "Wow, what the heck is all this?" he asked, checking my splattered jacket.
·       "Oh, that was … give me a minute …. yes, I remember now - linguine in red clam sauce." (Duly noted.)

This went on for months, and the pressure to come up with a bon mot or two every week was starting to get to me. Fortunately, just as I reached the point where I thought of changing dry cleaners, the guy announced he was retiring the following week. As we shook hands I couldn't resist a final shot, though this last bit of repartee shows how desperate I had become:

"And what's this?" he asked, checking a splotch on my tie.

"Ketchup," I answered. "Heinz." (Duly noted.)