The Writings Of Mitchell Pencil Boy

Why pencil boy? Because Heather finds my last name unpronouncable, and HB is also the name of a pencil company. She called me pencil boy at New Year's, and I kinda liked it.

A haiku:

Leaves on the pavement:

Red, golden, orange, beautiful.

But too wet to crunch.

11/14/01

Yesterday, as I was doing some errands, these poems popped into my head,one after the other.

Franchise Feud

It's happening.

No use trying to deny it or ignore it anymore.

There's a vicious competition between two of the largest businesses in my city.

Call it what you will:

A Coffeehouse Conflict,

A Barrista Battle,

A Franchise Feud between Starbucks and Seattle's Best.

Walking past the one, I immediately look around for the other, knowing that most of the time there's no more than a block's distance between them.

Sometimes I even find them on opposite street corners.

Yesterday I heard that one of them outbid the other for the lease on a valuable location.

Whoopee.

What's the point?

The other company will find another piece of prime real estate.

They always match each other blow for blow.

The each have a codependent relationship with a big bookstore business.

They have the same comfortable, non-descript environment;

They same lulling, bland music;

Similar cushy furniture;

And similar uniforms on the employees.

The same kind of person is always behind the counter.

I think they even use the same font on their menus.

And to be honest, I've never been able to taste a difference between their two brands of coffee.

Only the color scheme and the logo on my cup are there to remind me that I'm in one place or the other.

But they'll never acknowledge it.

They'll never stop duking it out for the hearts and minds of Seattle's coffee commuters.

Theirs is a conflict as unwinnable and inevitable as the disagreement between fire and water.

Every scream of an Espresso machine is another battle cry, a warning that yet another skirmish between these two factions of the double-mocha Mafia is about to begin.

I can't help chuckling as I walk past one after the other on my way to the next independent cafe down the streeet.

Patent Pending

This time of year, I can think of few jobs more unpleasant.

They're out there all day,

Every day, it seems,

Right in front of the futon warehouse

A few meters away from the bus stop I stand next to

After each of my visits to the credit union.

I'm sure it's not the same person out there all day,

But just how long do they have to stay out there?

Bill comes into the store after an hour or two (three? Maybe even four hours?),

Soaking, shaking out the company umbrella,

And he says:

"All right, Bob, your turn to be the billboard."

And Bob bundles up, hoists the sandwich board over his shoulders, takes the umbrella out of Bill's numb, pale hand,

And pads outside to do his shift in the drizzle.

I imagine the official title is something like this:

"External sales facilitator."

Something with dignity, anyway.

But why bother with doublespeak?

Those are human billboards walking up and down the street,

Trying to look prominent and stay warm at the same time.

When I saw them last summer, it didn't seem so bad.

They got out of the undoubtedly air-conditioned place,

Into the fresh air,

Into the sun.

Maybe they chatted with passersby.

But now it looks miserable for them.

Maybe it's a good way to meet people:

"Excuse me, sir. Have you heard about our new 30% discount? There are items inside that are now going for less than $200!"

"I love the way you describe all these special prices. Can I take you out to dinner?"

But I doubt it.

Maybe they get paid extra.

Somehow I doubt that, too.

Might they actually enjoy it?

I hope so, but it seems unlikely.

Sandwich boards are heavy, damn it!

Then it occurs to me that there's a way.

A way to make even a job like that interesting, productive, maybe even fun.

What if the employees wore that sandwich board

And nothing else?

But there are all kinds of problems with that.

What if they only appeared to be wearing nothing else?

Long underwear could be tailored to fit different skin tones.

More heads would turn.

More conversations would start.

It might even sell more futons.

Sure, it's exploitative,

But so is sending your employees out in the wet and cold

On the off-chance of pulling in a few more customers.

Why not go the extra distance?

It's available for every skin color and body type!

If you're looking to start a business, start a smart business!

Order skin-tone underwear for you human billboards today!!!

Patent pending.

Note to Charlie: Yes, I used multiple exclamation marks. It seems to me that any business that would actually sell such a product would feel a need for exaggerated punctuation. M

3/2001, probably

Hands

Piano-plinking hands

Keyboard-tapping hands

Cat-stroking hands

Dough-kneading hands

Waist-wrapping hands

Face-caressing hands

Door-slamming hands

Wall-pounding hands

Guitar-callused hands

Drum-beating hands

Picture-snapping hands

Hemp-knotting hands

Pen-scribbling hands

Page-turning hands

Envied hands

Tightly hugging hands

Could these really be

My Hands?

Wow Mitchell. I really love "Hands"! It has a great rhythm to it, and I love how you describe things in it; it's really beautiful. I also really like the ending too. ~Becky~