Memphis Downtowner June 2012 : Page 30
SO IT GOES On a Whim by David Tankersley For years, I have felt that society needs a greater sense of whimsy. We have become too serious with an inability to laugh and poke fun. To that end, I take it upon myself to inject whimsy into professional situations. Doctors. Real estate agents. Insurance professionals. County mayors. I look for situations in my non-whimsical sphere that might benefit from a jolt of jocularity, a flickering of snickering, or a small token of jokin’. Case in point: When Janice and I decided we should step into the adult world of home ownership some 20 years ago, we began the process of contacting real estate agents, scouting for homes, and preparing financial matters for the grand inquisition of presenting one’s “papers” to the mortgage professionals. We were told to have all documentation necessary to prove our credit worthiness: financial accounts, stock portfolios, and all other reflectors of solvency. I prepared, even placing bright, shiny dimes in my penny loafers. I was no financial slacker and intended to prove it. As the arbiter (let’s call her Prudence) sorted through the stack, she nodded politely and occasionally smiled up at us, as if to say, “You have performed your duties well, my friends.” As Pru neared the bottom of the stack, I snickered. Janice shot me an “oh-my-Lord-what-have-you-done-now” countenance as Prudence gazed at a single piece of paper printed in fancy script. Her smile gave way to puzzlement. “You have a letter from Publishers Clearing House. Did you win?” “Oh, no,” I said. “But I feel very good about it this time!” Pru regained her composure. “Well, we can’t count that.” I really hadn’t expected a sense of humor, but hope was my guide. Whimsy No. 2: Now that I bore the responsibility of home ownership, I considered the need for a significant increase in life insurance. I contacted my 30 MEMPHIS DOWNTOWNER JUNE 2012 agent (let’s call him Farquard) to let him know I was about to throw some money his way. I signed the necessary papers — on every yellow-highlighted line — pulled out my checkbook, filled in the dollar amount, and then hesitated, my pen hovering over the signature line. I could hear Farquard’s heart hammering. nothing. Do you have any idea what could have caused your gastric distress?” The opportunity presented itself. “Well, Doc, this might have to do with a small metal piece planted inside me during an alien abduction on the outskirts of Millington some 15 years ago.” Silence, and then a snicker. “Sure, alien abduction. Why not?” Ah, whimsy had finally come to life in the form of a young gastro. And then there was the instance of glad-handing the county mayor at a corporate gathering. I was there doing my duty as a communications specialist for the event sponsor. His mayorship stepped into the room, and I stepped into action. “Bilgewater,” I queried, “how the heck have you been?” Flanked by his lackeys, surrounded by his minions, propped by his P.R. flacks — none of whom had ever met me, including the mayor — he looked flummoxed by this dude who was acting like an old drinking buddy. He quickly regained his composure, flashed a smile, took a quick gander at my nametag, and boomed, “Dave, man, it’s been a long time!” He pumped my hand and sped away. Yeah, it had been a long time — as in never. Sometimes you have to make whimsy happen, even at the expense of a politician. My guilt continues to this day. I remember standing in a grocery store checkout line. A sign read, “Trouble with computers. Please bare with us.” I stepped up to the counter, smiled at the checker, pointed to the sign, and said, “I’m sorry, but I do not get naked with just anyone.” She eyed me warily while scanning my groceries. As I accepted my change, I tried to enlighten her. “You might tell your manager that the proper spelling for your sign is b-e-a-r.” Evidently the lesson was lost. I’m lucky she didn’t call the cops. So here’s the point: Potential for whimsy is with us always. Embrace it. Look for whimsical opportunities. Besides, if it’s fun and no one gets hurt, isn’t that reason enough for a bit of whimsy? MEMPHISDOWNTOWNER.COM I pushed the checkbook aside and looked him square in the eye. “Farquard, if my wife calls and asks for payoff specifics in the case of ‘accidental death’” — my fingers made a dramatic air-quote gesture here — “please call me immediately. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He stared. I felt certain he had gone into a fugue state back when I stopped writing the check. Finally, he nodded. I signed the check and went on my way, realizing he might simply be immune to whimsy. Some people are, you know. Next whimsy: Home ownership and the travails of age sent me packing to the emergency room in search of a doctor — or at least someone with pain medication. After the CT scan of my innards, Doc called. “I have examined the scan, and we see
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