Each day of the campground season, I yearned for a really good conversation with the campers, but except for the rare occasion, it was not to be. I don't know what happens to people when they engage in a dialogue with someone trapped behind a counter, because surely the majority of people are not the bores they seemed to be when talking to me. My diplomatic skills and patience were tried to the maximum, particularly when my little inner voice repeated: shut up, shut up, shut up or berated me for being an enabler of boorishness.
For example, I was subjected to monologues and the use of the word "I" until I was ready to scream. Once, a man who was born in Germany came to the office and spent over an hour telling me about his life. "I came to this country in 1954," he began, and my dread rightfully grew from there. I didn't say a word the entire time--it was neither necessary nor looked for. That's about 90 minutes of my life that I won't get back. Ja Ja.
Another camper stood at the counter and began to tell me of a four-week visit to Scotland. I made the mistake of telling him I'd never been to Scotland, so he returned a little while later with photographs of his trip. Do you have any idea how many pictures a person can take in 28 days? Most of them were of his friends without the top part of their heads, who were standing in front of buildings that looked as if they belonged in Anytown, U.S.A.
A number of campers saw themselves as raconteurs of the highest order. Their stories concerned their mundane, daily routines, such as installing kitchen cabinets that kept falling down. Every pause in the story was accompanied by a giggle, so of course I felt obliged to keep the smile on my face. Each snippet ended with hearty laughter which I felt I must match. Exhausting.
Was it ever all right to listen to "I" stories? Yes, when children were talking to me. I was approached by five-year-old Jenny who lived near the Everglades in Florida. She was carrying a cute little white puff-ball of a puppy in her arms. She first mentioned her new dress with pride, "I have a new dress. I like green. I like wearing dresses." Then she held out the little white puff-ball: "I have a new puppy. I love him. I take him for a walk every day. My daddy says his name is Gatorbait."
It is very difficult to pretend to be interested in stories that have no beginning, middle and interminable ends. The lesson I took away from these years, apart from never going into business again, is that although good manners are important when one is forced to deal with the insensitive, unaware, and unenlightened, it is much easier to make myself scarce. After we sold the campground, I determined that I would never again put myself in a situation where I was forced to listen to drivel. When I see the light of "the opportunity to hold forth" appear in a person's eyes, I politely remove myself from the vicinity.
I would like to say that all has gone well in this regard since I came to Bellingham, but I was caught once more a couple of days ago. Trapped in the chair at my hairdressers, with wet hair and no means of escape, I was forced to listen to the nonstop chatter of a client who had followed me into the salon. Instead of quietly sitting and reading one of a plethora of magazines available, she invaded my space and the airwaves with her stream-of-consciousness drivel. My blood ran cold, and I know my affect was icy, but narcissism, I discovered, is oblivious to social clues.
I don't know what I'll do should this ever happen again. But the older I get, the looser my tongue, and the thinner my patience. I hope I don't ever have to find out.
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