This Mouth was Made for Talkin'

only moments after my boss vomited colorful insults at my face, thoroughly lectured me for failing to notice an error in a large client's project, and managed to yell "do you follow me?!" seven times in it all, the phone rang.

"peter?" it asked.

peter is the name i've chosen for my assistant manager who was, at the time, on his way to tahoe.

"this is steven," i said back.

"where is peter?"

"peter, i believe, is somewhere between here and tahoe," i explained, "how can i help you?"

"well, he was working on my business cards," she explained, "and i wanted to check the status on them."

"ah yes, perfect!" i said, knowing we'd just sent them out, "your business cards are somewhere between here and your offices."

i saw my boss laugh-- which is a rare sight, and usually a bit awkward-- and when i was off the phone he was beaming like a child meeting an astronaut.

"somewhere between here," he laughed, "you can talk. i'll tell you that. the way you talk saves you. you have no idea."

he laughed again, this time snorting a little. a snort is how you know a laugh is genuine.

i had an idea that my style of speech was what got me almost all the jobs i'd ever had-- considering i've never been qualified for any of them-- but it didn't really hit me how important it had become at the print-shop. the job is very mathematical at times, and there is so little room for Mistakes that even if Mistakes were a japanese midget, it would still be uncomfortable in the office.

i don't learn by following rules, generally. i learn by winging things and figuring out why they did or did not work. and my kind of learning is not made for this job.

needless to say, i get yelled at frequently. in that sense, charming clients is the only thing that will keep me employed.

"do you mind if i go to fedex," i asked, "we need this out by 5:30pm."

"go ahead," my boss said.

i really only wanted to go to have a smoke and kill part of the end of my shift. but we really did need to deliver that package, and things were slow.

at fedex i saw a redheaded man struggling with a pull-down easel. i was more than familiar with the mechanism-- speakers at conventions always need them and we sell them for $600. we had just sold four to a company out in the soma.

"ah," i said to him, "nice choice."

he looked at me angrily.

"the pull-down easel," i explained, "portable, reusable, professional. nice choice."

"yeah," he said, "except there's a typo on it. i have to present tomorrow, and there's a freaking typo on it."

i briefly thought about the error i had nearly missed earlier in the day. quality control is important so that business men don't find themselves frustrated in a fedex, the night before their presentation. this particular man was at that particular fedex because he was hoping they could sell him a sticker that might cover up the typo.

unfortunately, fedex does not sell "R" stickers. they only sell stamps.

"eh," i shrugged, "we could fix that for you."

"what?"

"sure," i said, "what is that? outdoor vinyl? we could fix that tonight. it's $12 per square foot, and if you have the file, we can print you a new one in about an hour and reinstall it in your drop-down."

the man's ginger eyebrows scurried across his forehead like anxious orange caterpillars.

"and," i continued, "no offense, but our printers would annihilate whoever printed your easel. we could make that dew drop image so crisp and so real that you'll legitimately get thirsty when you see it. no joke. you'll get thirsty and you'll feel like you just got a really nice hug from your grandma."

his orange caterpillars were intrigued and his mouth was a smile.

"where do you work?"

"right around the corner," i said, "come with me. my name's steven: i'll show you what we can do."

arriving back to work with my new friend and his misprinted drop-down easel felt like the time i convinced a construction worker to let me drive his 15 ft cherry-picker while smoking a cigarette-- it was one of those unexplainable entrances that single-handedly proved to anyone nearby that i am not fucking around when it comes to convincing people.

"steven tells me this is where i need to be!" the man said upon entering.

my boss just stared.

"you're in good hands," i told the man, "he'll fix you right up. i'm going to step out for a smoke, if you don't mind."

i live for moments when i see my boss dumbstruck.

when i came back, he told me i'd managed to line up a major sale while inadvertently convincing the man to take his company away from his old [horrible] print-shop and join our magical force forever.

"see?" i said, "this is why everyone should talk to strangers."

"i don't know what you do," he said, "but you can talk. you know something we don't know, and i don't care what it is-- just keep doing it. you should be a lobbyist."

"i'm okay with being a print-shop boy," i laughed, "at least for now."