At My Attire

You work at home and no, you’re not wearing a tie.  Your hair isn’t always combed out properly or indeed, at all.  These shorts that are fine for making a salad in the kitchen aren’t really presentable to the public.  But the five calls this morning were all audio calls.  I probably should have made that shower happen after the calisthenics.  But who’s the wiser, during the work at home work day?

Huh?  You need me to drive you over to your studio?  I can do that.  It was just a simple jaunt around the block for my wife.  But mid way out the driveway she got a text reminding us that we had a conference with the counselor at my daughter’s school.  I’d known about it yesterday.  But I have too many damn calendars that aren’t all coordinated.  That means we’re late, right?

“I have people coming” my wife insisted.  “Drop me off and you take this one.”  We both looked at my attire.  I gotta change.  A button down shirt, a pair of slacks, wet back the hair . . . it’s an improvement. I’m going to be really late.  I found the teacher’s number while I was driving I mea cupla-d my way through a short conversation and told him I’d be there in five minutes. 

This is when accidents happen, so I tried not to succumb to the ‘anything goes’ opportunities of Beijing driving.  I got the Mrs. dropped off, navigated a beastly school entrance queue and quickly found that some event must be on, because there were absolutely no parking spaces.  None.  OK.  I left the exit in the rear of the school and parked my car in the road and ran back to the rear gate.  A portly lady ran out yelling “No” in compromised English.  I moved things to Chinese. “I just pulled through,” I said, gesturing to my car.   She stayed in English “No!”  “Come on, here’s my I.D.”  She switched to Chinese “You can’t.  Read the sign.”  “Are you kidding?  You’re going to make me walk all the way around the front gate?”  “You have to.  Read the sign.”  I waved my ID card and overtly read hers aloud.  I very strongly considered blowing her off and just walking through.  I saw the movie then of her on her walkie-talkie and seven stern guards surrounding me and the faint voice of reason beneath the din of my anger suggested calmly that this was for the kid’s protection. 

I went back to my car and drove it up one hundred yards.  I approximated a parking job at an odd angle that would have invited a towing truck in any city in America.  No one would bother with it, I knew.  And, as calmly as I could, so as not to sweat any more than I already was, I headed over to the main gate.