Those who know me best describe me as a mild mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.
It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.
When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possible be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smart phone.
With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.
"Good morning," I said.
At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.
"Excuse me," I said and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.
"Excuse me," I said and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.
I quickly calmed him with a few well chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it?
"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.
Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and it's rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on his door.
So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises.
So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises.
Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms and, presumably, were able to knit up those ravelled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?