Writing, Acting: I Had Fun

or Pay Attention To Life's Little Gems

This happened to me a few years ago. At the time I was totally blown away by the Monty Pythonishness of a real life event. In these cases, it's a great opportunity for a scene - whether that scene be in a novel, film project or sketch. If you log these moments, you can also go back to them and pull out character traits for use in a role, or in writing. You'll be amazed at the vast library you'll collect in just a short time.

So, I'm working on, like, the fifth or sixth second mortgage on my house. Really serious stuff. So I get to the point where I have to drop off the paperwork. This mortgage company is on the 16th floor of the most secure building in town.

Good thing I'm not a terrorist.

First off, they're remodeling. So instead of all six elevators working, only two are. Sort of. I get in one and it takes me near the 16th floor. Yes. Near. After 20 seconds of doing its best ('almost there... little more.. little more.. oops too much, go back down a hair.. back.. back.. uh.. wait.. up.. up.. no down... up') I stumble out - okay, jump out and vow to walk down the stairs when I leave.

So now I'm at the right suite, in front of the glass door with chicken wire embedded in it, a large card reader for authorized personnel ONLY with the little push button I'm supposed to push for admittance; thick glass panels to the right and on top. Very imposing looking, except for the part where the door is slightly ajar because the latch is resting on the outside of the door frame instead of being snugly ensconced.

So, I pull the door open half expecting a siren, ringing bells and Storm Troopers to rush me. Instead, it is silent except for the multitude of salesmen in 400 3 foot square cubicles pitching mortgages to other poor bastards like me.

Jennifer, who should be the Receptionist, is currently not receiving anyone, let alone me, because she apparently had something better to do than wait for me to use my superior skills to gain entrance. After a moment's pause, during which several ideas bounce around in my otherwise empty head, I decide to use the 'smooth approach'. Not that I thought they'd pull my mortgage if I just yelled out "Anybody here?". I figured why not do a slightly classier act.

Now, if you've ever worked a phone room, you know about 'rollover'. If you haven't, it works like this: the main phone number rings at the Receptionist's desk 2 or 3 times. After that, the phone system is programmed to route the call through a series of 'rollovers' - a succession of poor jerks who have to answer the phone when Jennifer has to pee.

I decided to take advantage of this.

Pulling out my cell phone, I call the main number. Sure enough, Jenn's phone rings 3 times and then quits. Two cubes over a phone starts ringing and someone picks up.

"Blah, blah Mortgage, Mr. R. speaking"

"Hi, Mr. R. I've let myself into your office, but Jennifer seems to not be receiving guests. Would someone be able to come to her desk and deliver these papers to Mr. D for me?"

"What? You're in HERE?"

"Uh, yes. The door wasn't latch.."

"I'll be right up!".

At this point I noticed an envelope with my name on Jenn's desk, so I pick it up, as Mr. R. huffs and puffs his way up to me. Poor guy had to run all of twenty feet, too. The oxygen evidently wasn't making its way to his brain though:

"Are you the guy that just called?"

I could not have looked more stunned if he had been wearing, say, a French Maid costume.

"Uh, yes. I brought these. They are for Mr. D"

"Mr. D? Mr. D? Do you mean Mr. Q?"

"Uh, no. Mr. D. The fifth guy down on the in/out whiteboard over there. With his marker set to 'in'."

"I don't know a Mr. D. I'll give these to Mr. Q"

"Well, okay. And I'm picking these up," I offered as I pointed to my name on the other envelope."

"Oh. Is that you?"

"Yes," I said, attempting to show him my name on he envelope he had taken from me. I guess he really wanted it, because he glared at me and would not let me touch it. "My name's on that envelope, too, if you want to compare them".

"No. I'll get these to Mr. Q. Have a good day."

If he were a snotty butler, he would have pointed his nose to the door at that point and issued a withering look. Since he was a mortgage salesman, though, he sort of waved in the general direction of the door and grunted. Or farted. I'm still not sure which.

So I leave. As soon as I get to my car, I call Mr. D and leave him a voicemail something to the effect:

"I was just in your office and the Receptionist wasn't there. The gentleman who took the paperwork you asked me to bring is going to give it to Mr. Q, since he doesn't know who you are. I hope you know Mr. Q. If not, just look for the puffy, red-faced guy about 20 feet behind Jennifer's desk. He'll have it."

I hope that gave Mr. D a laugh, because almost everyone I saw in that place seemed stressed, puffy and red-faced.