Things that went wrong

Door Number 2?

I remember my first trip to Germany. I was in a restaurant in Kaiserslautern when I had to use the bathroom facilities. I had two doors to choose from, one marked "Damen," which I took to mean "The Men," and another marked "Herren," which I interpreted as "Her." Language barrier? What language barrier? Even a foreign language as unusual as German can be understood if you use common sense eh? Imagine my surprise when I walked in and found myself surrounded by ladies! I made a hasty retreat and entered the other door, only to find a matronly woman seated on a stool whose job it was to collect pfennigs for the use of the facilities. There were no stalls, and business had to be transacted in full view of this matron!

Call Waiting?

These new telephone features are handy but…! My office was a shared cubicle with me and my partner sitting back to back, him facing one blank wall and me staring at another. It’s a little cramped but it does have its advantages in that I am able to answer my phone or, with a simple thrust of my feet, propel my wheeled, swiveling, cushion backed desk chair to within arms reach of the phone on my partner’s desk.

One warm afternoon while I was fighting off a post lunch coma, like the times as a kid in school when you were nodding off at your desk and drooling all over your homework, I needed to make a phone call. I unwittingly dialed my partner’s desk and was surprised when, before my party could answer, the phone on his desk started to ring.

What to do, what to do. Finish my call? Answer his? Flustered, I hung up my phone and answered his. Hello? Hello? Shucks, I wasn’t quick enough and his caller had already hung up. I turned back to my desk, picked up my phone again, and hit the “redial” button. Imagine my frustration when his phone began ringing again and I had to interrupt my call for the second time, to answer his. To add to my frustration, his caller hung up again just as I was picking up his phone.

Once more, I picked up my phone and hit the redial button. Again, my partner’s phone started ringing and interrupted me, but this time I let it ring so I could complete my call. My party never answered and I finally gave up. His caller gave up at about the same time.


How High Can You Go?

There was the time in my early twenties when I was walking through a gymnasium and spotted a basketball someone had left behind. Glancing around to assure myself that I was alone, I decided to test my talent at dribbling and before long I was gliding around the floor like an NBA pro. After a few minutes I found myself leaping into the air with a half twist and, with both hands, slamming the ball behind my head and through the hoop. Lay-ups, slam-dunks, and three pointers were also part of my repertoire that day and I completed many of them with equal ease. Having satisfied myself that I was a natural and that the NBA had committed a monumental blunder by not recognizing that fact, I picked up my jacket to leave. I headed for the door but before I was half-way across the floor I became curious about a question that had intrigued me since High School; how high could I bounce a basketball? I was alone in the Gym and it was a perfect opportunity to answer that question once and for all.

The roof of the gymnasium was at least thirty feet above the floor and I was sure I could, with an all-out attempt, cause a basketball to reach the ceiling. Grabbing the ball in both hands, standing on tip-toes as tall as I could and stretching my arms to their full length, I was poised to slam the ball as hard as I could into the wooden gymnasium floor. In one fell swoop I released my pent up energy like a coiled spring. I folded my arms, legs, and body in one fluid motion, driving the basketball downward toward the waiting floor.

Mere milliseconds before the ball hit the floor I realized that my face was now squarely over the return path of the ball, but it was too late. Everything from that point on seemed to take place in slow motion. I watched the ball compress to about one-half its normal diameter as it encountered the floor, and then recoil with lightning speed. I could almost count the dimples on the ball during its upward travel toward my waiting face. When the ball finally reached me, it contorted my facial features in a manner much like what happens to astronauts during centrifuge training. The force of the impact lifted me a foot and a half off the floor and left me dazed and staring blankly at the aforementioned target thirty feet above. Luckily the ball missed a full frontal assault on my nose or I would have spent the next few weeks explaining to the world, the cause for the bandages and black eyes. Satisfied that no one had witnessed the debacle I humbly retreated, leaving the question unanswered.