Boxed Out
Dear His Royal Rexness,
A lady at work was selling Girl Scout cookies for her granddaughter. I ordered two boxes of Thin Mints and two boxes of Lemon-Ups.
My co-worker came in today and gave me one box of Thin Mints and one box of Lemon-Ups.
I said, “But I bought two boxes of each.” She said, “No you didn’t, the order is right here.”
I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. Is this lady scamming me?
I don’t know what to do! It’s like the perfect crime.
Signed,
Cookies Have Obliterated My Psyche
Dear CHOMP,
Surely you imply no chicanery on the part of the Girl Scouts as an organization. For that would be tantamount to slander or libel! Of which we certainly want no involvement.
However, it seems your accusation is aimed solely at your co-worker, and under that premise is how we shall now proceed.
Is it possible that you erred at the time of ordering? Indicated one box each, instead of two? That seems like the most likely case.
Otherwise, an ugly truth remains.
You were swindled.
If that is the truth, I fear your options are limited.
You have no proof. No evidence that a crime has taken place.
And you are at work. Escalating this simple matter to a full-blown conflict might not be the best career choice.
Is it worth the trouble?
Of course not. Outside the principle of fairness, there is no reason to pursue the matter.
Whether through accident or malice, you did not get your cookies.
The crumbs of this encounter, however, will be of small concern in the overall meal of your life.
Counterpoint commentary by …
Frieda Looke, the Tattooed Lady
As a girl in my early teens, I would often go fishing at a creek near my house.
I’d go to the creek a lot; my options of places were few. Anything to get out.
There was this old guy who was always there, rain or shine. I mean he was always there. Knit cap, flannel shirt. White beard, kinda big but not Santa big.
Hardly said a word.
But he’d share his nightcrawlers with me. They were from a bait shop, by the looks, and as we stood on the shore, he’d let me take as many as needed.
I started calling him Mr. Fish. I’d say, “Hello, Mister Fish,” and he’d nod and smile without making eye contact.
Never acted weird or pervy toward me. I always felt comfortable around him.
We wouldn’t say much, but I spent many hours with Mr. Fish.
Then one day he wasn’t there. The next day, gone as well. Never saw him again.
Years later, I got contacted by an attorney. Mr. Fish had passed away. He had come from a rich family. His real name was Charles Morton Dellengault. He had left me one hundred thousand dollars.
I was eeking out a studio apartment by that time, living on small-town diner-waitress tips.
His money changed my life.
I invested most of it, kept waitressing, and started getting tattoos.
Today, my salary in the circus (no complaints) is near the bottom end. I get it. I don’t really have a circus talent, except looking visually interesting.
But Mr. Fish — Charles Dellengault — made it possible for me to live this life. Money is not my first concern. Happiness is.
The point to that story?
In life, you will meet people whose decisions seem difficult to fathom. Whose actions are impossible to predict.
People who can (and might) do things that catch you completely off guard.
I take comfort in trusting to the rhythms of the natural world. The sun will rise, the sun will set.
The creek keeps rushing ahead, simply flowing.
Rolling along without ever once concerned about who stands watching from beside its banks.
