And now, we wait

One common misinterpretation of Waiting for Godot is that the play is a meditation on existentialism. Another lesser known, but equally wrong, take is that Samuel Beckett wrote a political allegory about the Cold War, or maybe World War II. And of course, there’s the mass delusion that Vladimir and Estragon are waiting for God. The truth? Beckett wrote a very personal story about waiting for the cable guy. In the end (spoiler alert) the cable guy was a no-show, but Beckett — and the rest of us — got revenge during the streaming wars.

I mention the cable guy because I think you should know that I earned my waiting bona fides in the analog era.

I waited hours for friends who did not call to say they would be late because we didn’t have cellphones. Actually, we had cellphones, but they were fucking huge, and expensive, and remarkably lame.

I waited in line for hours to see movies. To pass the time, I chatted with strangers, or read a book. Again, no fucking cellphones. Which meant that if the movie sucked, I had to go home (or find a pay phone) to tell my friends not to bother waiting in line.

I waited a week between episodes of my favorite shows, and then I waited some more for my program to resume after the commercial break.

I know how to wait. Which brings me to the toilet situation. For reasons I’m still struggling to understand, the mid-range toilets we purchased could not be installed in our home without paying an arm and a leg. Since I value my arms and legs more than the aesthetics of our shitters, I phoned the people who sold us our toilets. They graciously agreed to take them back and issue a full refund. That is where the trouble began.

Two shitters sitting on a shipping pallet in our garage, awaiting return.

A week ago, I received return instructions via email. I was to print out two copies of the shipping label — one for the driver and one for my records. The driver was supposed to pickup the toilets the following Tuesday. Like, Beckett’s cable guy, Godot, the driver was a no-show. The next day, I phoned the shipping company.

The first woman I spoke with asked me for my tracking number. I gave it to her.

“You’re not in the system,” she said.

I gave her the number again.

“You’re not in the system.”

I wanted to ask if there was another way to look up our order, but she hung up on me before I got the chance.

The second woman I spoke with asked for my tracking number. For reasons that cannot be explained, she located our order in the system without any trouble.

“It says here we picked it up yesterday.”

“That’s not correct,” I said. “You were supposed to pick it up yesterday, but you didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ma’am, there are two toilets currently sitting on a pallet in my garage. I am sure they have not been picked up.”

“Well, I need to transfer you.”

I spent the next thirty minutes waiting on hold. The music was decent, but every thirty seconds an automated voice broke in to tell me my call was “very important.”

Eventually, a woman named Patrice rescued me from the purgatory of waiting on hold. Patrice was a revelation. Not only was she able to locate my order in the system on her first try, she believed me when I said the toilets were still here.

“The driver will be there today,” she said.

I wanted to ask Patrice if she was sure, but I thought that might come off as a little too snarky.

“Can you give me a window?” I asked.

“I thought we were talking about toilets,” Patrice said.

“No, I mean a window for pick-up. A timeframe. You know, like, how the cable company used to say they’d be there between one and five.”

“Oh, OK, I got you. The driver will be there between one and five.”

“That’s what it says on your computer?”

“No. It just says the pick-up is scheduled for today. But you wanted a window.”

I accepted the window, even though I knew it was a lie. Then I settled in to wait. It was nine o’clock Wednesday morning.

Since it was my day off, I had planned to run errands, do yoga, and meet a friend for lunch. But since I couldn’t leave the house, I canceled those plans, and told Alexa to play some Tom Petty.

I’m proud to say that as someone born in the waning years of Gen-X, I am a fucking Jedi when it comes to waiting. Here’s how I passed the time:

• I made oatmeal.

• I ran the dishwasher.

• I watched YouTube videos of Quentin Tarantino discussing Alien, A Fistful of Dollars, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Raising Arizona, There Will Be Blood, and Apocalypse Now.

• I gave a friend notes on a project.

• I followed up on a past due invoice, which took longer than it should’ve because I kept writing the words, “pay up, motherfucker.”

• I made notes for a rewrite on a novel I’m working on. The main note was: less James Joyce, more Carl Hiaasen. Another note was: write better jokes.

• I cleaned the toilets, which were dirty because when I thought we were going to replace them it seemed pointless to clean them.

• I listened to the The Daily with Michael Barbaro.

• I practiced my Michael Barbaro impression.

• I searched the internet in vain for Quentin Tarantino discussing Waiting for Godot.

• I ate a turkey sandwich.

• I checked LinkedIn, then I checked myself, lest I wreck myself.

• I emptied the dishwasher.

Just after four in the afternoon, my friend Andrea called to discuss a birthday party she’s throwing at our house for her husband Todd. But before we got into the details, we shot the shit. As soon as the shit was riddled with bullets, a truck pulled up in front of our house. I told Andrea I’d have to call her back.

I met the driver and his loader in the driveway. I opened the garage door and offered them a soda or some water from our drink fridge. They declined. Down to business. Fine by me. I handed them the shipping label.

“Where’s this going?” the driver asked.

“Back.”

“You mean you don’t know where this is going?” he asked.

“Technically, I don’t even know where it came from. But it should be on the shipping label.”

“It’s not.”

I looked at the label. The shipping address was at the top, in bold print.

“Yes it is. Right here.”

“OK, fine. But you’re supposed to have three copies.”

“The email said two copies.”

“Whatever.”

The loader shrugged and got his pallet jack from the truck. The driver slapped the shipping label on the boxes, and the loader took away the toilets. The whole experience was as puzzling as it was anticlimactic.

But that’s usually how it goes with the waiting game. You’re never sure why you have to wait so long, and when the waiting is over, it often feels like a waste of time. As Becket wrote while waiting for the cable guy, “Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.”

Bathroom reading

Toilets feature prominently in this post. On the one hand, that’s neither here nor there. But on the other hand, I feel compelled to tell you that my friend Andy says my books make for great bathroom reading. I take that as a compliment.

Pick up a copy of Not Safe for Work on Amazon, or all the other book places, and reading it in a bathroom near you.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. What are you waiting for? Dish!

2. Why is it that we shoot the shit, but never stab it? Explain.

3. Are you in the system?

4. Is there are law against playing good hold music?

5. Do toilets make you giggle, or is it just me?