This morning, on the drive to work, the air is filled with dust. The low light of dawn filters through the haze, softened: somehow more golden. On Gribble Road a newly mown hay field glows, the ground warm and inviting. I could lie down in the prickly, stubbly grass and soak up the morning sun. The bails of hay are piled like neat monoliths. I let my window down to smell the air — I sneeze.

There! A black cat sits before one stack: staring, body sloped and curved like Le Chat Noir. I slow the car in passing and I watch the cat as it peers at some small fascination. The cat black, the hay golden, the sky a blue deepened by the floating dust. I have my camera with me; should I stop? But if I do, I'll be late. I drive on.

---

I write price quotations and do invoicing.

I'm hungry, but my stomach is a little queasy. Isn't there some chicken noodle soup in the cupboard? There is! There's one can of Campbell's Healthy Request chicken noodle soup. The expiry date is July 1999, but when I open the can the soup smells fine. I heat it on the stove. When I taste the soup, I'm unimpressed. Yes, it would help ease my queasy stomach, but the taste is bland — not quite foul — and I suspect this has more to do with the fact the soup is Healthy Request and less to do with the fact that it was supposed to have been eaten four years ago.

I go outside and toss the soup onto the lawn. As I come back inside I notice a religious tract on the porch. It's a thin papery thing, and its cover features a pastoral scene of early fall: the sky is clear and blue, a snow-capped mountain rises in the distance, the leaves on the trees are beginning to turn. In the foreground there are smiling — laughing! — people carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables — a boy (ten years old? twelve?) is carrying a laden basket of apples in a position that no ten-year-old could ever manage. There are blueberries on the vine. A Hispanic couple (all of the people are black or brown or yellow — none are white) is holding a little girl to pet a lion, which is lying in a grassy field next to a deer (a gazelle?) and some geese. This picture is supposed to evoke Paradise, I'm sure, but nothing about it makes sense. The boy has superhuman strength; in some places the grass is a lush green, in others it is the golden hue of autumn; the mountain sports an early spring snowpack, yet the trees are turning color; the boy carries apples, but the blueberries are on, and another person carries corn and tomatoes. Does Paradise feature every season at once?

Oh wait — if I open the tract, the image continues: there's a young Asian girl petting a bear while a deer watches in envy. "Life in a Peaceful New World" the tract proclaims. "When you look at the scene on this tract, what feelings do you have? Does not your heart yearn for the peace, happiness, and prosperity seen there? Surely it does." What tremendous rhetoric! From the image alone I suspected this was the work of the Jehovah's Witnesses, and now I’m convinced. I turn to the back page and see that I'm right. Silly Jehovah's Witnesses: "In God's new world, no longer will people be crammed into huge apartment buildings or run-down slums."

I have a breakfast comprising a Twix candy bar, a piece of beef jerky, and a glass of skim milk (expiry date August 4th, but it smells fine).

---

Tony stinks today: he's a walking miasma of cigarette smoke and perfume. He hasn't emitted a foul stench in several months, but he's back to normal these last few days: stinking it up.

---

I blast T.a.T.u.'s cover of The Smith's How Soon is Now: loud LOUD LOUD. But what I'm really thinking is: "Gee — in I Capture the Castle (which we saw last weekend), I really liked the piano arrangement for that Cole Porter song (the name of which escapes me) — I wonder if I can find a copy of it someplace."

Then I spend fifteen minutes searching Amazon and Google in an attempt to determine which Cole Porter song was in the film. I e-mail Kris. Maybe she'll remember because I kept leaning over to her and saying, "I really like this arrangement!" She doesn't remember. I e-mail Aimee with the same question. My research takes longer because Nick comes in to tell me about a new idea he has for a Magic: The Gathering deck.

Eventually I just give up and, instead, go write orders.

---

Bob G. stops by.

Bob owns one of our oldest and largest customers. He and dad were good friends, and Bob loves to tell the same stories about him again and again. ("One day Steve stopped by the old place in Brooks. The hallways were narrow there. He dropped a piece of paper, and we both bent down to pick it up. We cracked our heads together and it was like a cartoon: I could see stars!")

Though we've done business with Bob for eighteen years, he's never visited Custom Box Service until today. Jeff and I give him the five cent tour. Often we're embarrassed when customers visit, but that's only because most customers are used to lavish offices and are surprised to see us operating out of a beat-up trailer house. We're not embarrassed to show Bob. He understands. The beat-up trailer house might look like crap, but it costs almost nothing. There are reasons our business is so profitable, and the beat-up trailer house is one of them.

J.D.'s definition of business sense: the fellow willing to work out of dive is likely to be more profitable than the fellow who insists on working out of a brand-new office. (This is true for manufacturers, not for professionals or for many commercial businesses.)

---

Kris eventually determines — by looking at her Natalie Cole CD — that the song in question is Ray Noble's The Very Thought of You. Aimee e-mails the same information (and even sends the lyrics!).

It's a nice song, but the version in the film is great because it has a sort of bouncy piano bass-line played with the left hand. Most versions of the song have no base line, are almost saccharine sweet. I launch Kazaa and start downloading different versions (Doris Day, Vaughn Monroe, Billie Holliday, Frank Sinatra, Lisa Stansfield — I really want Bing Crosby, but no go) of the song. Nick is going to come in any moment and complain that the images of ancient coins on eBay aren't loading quickly enough.

---

I take a phone call from a woman who wants one box. This isn't unusual — we often produce orders of one box if the buyer is willing to pay the $40 or $50 to have it made. What is unusual is that this woman wants the box in order to store a Christmas tree. In August. We get a couple of calls for Christmas tree boxes every January, but I've never had one in August.

I jotted down a transcript of an especially absurd conversation a few weeks ago, intending to make a weblog entry about it. Here's what I wrote but never posted:

From time-to-time we get dumb phone calls at Custom Box Service.

The typical dumb phone call goes something like this:

J.D.: Custom Box Service.
Caller: Hi. What size are your boxes?
J.D.: Well, we manufacture boxes, so we can make them almost any size. We don't have standard sizes that we stock here.
Caller: Well, then, how big are your medium boxes?
J.D.: Like I said, we don't have any standard sized boxes, but if you know what size you need, I'll be happy to quote a price.
Caller: I just need some dish boxes for moving.

It's at this point that I simply route the customer to another company that's going to be better able to help them. The caller in this example isn't actually dumb; she just doesn't understand how the box industry works.

Other callers are dumb.

For example, I once had a woman call with the following request: "Do you have boxes with white paper on the outside? I'm going to be moving and I can't stand the idea of using plain brown boxes."

Oh. My. God. How superficial does one have to be in order to reach a point where brown moving boxes are unacceptable, a point where you're worried what other people are going to think of your moving boxes?

Or, how about this recent conversation:

J.D.: Custom Box Service
Young Woman: Hi. You guys don't do AutoTrader do you? With the cars and stuff...
J.D.: (very puzzled) Nooooo.....We make boxes and...
Young Woman: I know, but there's another box place in Canby that does the AutoTrader and I thought maybe it was you.
[silence]
Young Woman: Okay. Thanks.
[click]

I haven't the faintest clue what she was talking about...

Yesterday a woman called and told me, "I'm calling because of the 'custom' part of your name, not the 'box' part. I need some custom post cards imprinted with my company information that I can use them in my laser printer. Do you make stuff like that?"

What does she want me to say?

And then, when I can't help her, why is she affronted that I cannot recommend a company that might be able to help? What am I? God?

---

I write orders. While I do, I think of Bob G. and of Dad, and this leads me to think of friends who have lost their parents, which leads me to think of Heather B., which I know is dangerous, because Heather B. is one of those black holes in my mind. There is a friendship lost for what seems like nothing, and it makes me pine. So while I am writing orders, my mind is being sucked over the event horizon (that's a black hole reference to continue the metaphor, get it? — yikes! I'm explaining my allusions…) into "what could possibly be done to restore our friendship?" only I reach the same conclusion I always reach: it's her call, and when she's ready, she'll contact me. But this sullen meditation leads to thoughts on other lost friendships, some more recent, and I am no longer writing orders — I am staring into space.

I am regretting.

Damn that Heather B.! I wish she'd write me.

---

Jeff comes in to tell me that the chicken strips I bought at Costco recently won't do; they aren't fully cooked.

Hm. Fancy that.

"That air conditioner isn't doing shit," I tell him. And it isn't. It's blowing air warmer than the air in the room. Maybe it is time to replace it.

On closer examination, somebody (not me) has turned the thermostat down from ten to one. Why? Probably just to be mean to poor ol' J.D.

I crank it to ten and wait for the room to cool.

---

I check my Kazaa downloads. The Billie Holliday version of "The Very Thought of You" is the closest to the one in I Capture the Castle; it has a bit of a bouncy bass line. A bit of one.

---

At no time do I perform my physical therapy exercises.

---

It's noon and I'm hungry and I should have something to eat, but I'm a fat pig who eats candy bars for breakfast so I think maybe I should fast.

Instead I microwave six mini bagel dogs, and I eat them with a bag sea salt and vinegar potato chips (expiry date February 11th!) and a can of Diet Pepsi Twist. Total: 585 calories. I take care not to notice how much fat is in the meal.

(Nick suggest that I might want to have cream of chicken soup made with chickens alive during Clinton's first term — I guess there's a can of soup with an expiry date of September 1997 in the cupboard.)

As I eat, I page through the Funagain Games web site. It's been eight months since Kris and I hosted a game night, and I've begun to crave some gaming. I'm considering the trek north to Wedcon next month. Meanwhile, I want to host a game night soon. I can't afford any new games, but it's still fun to look: Pitchcar looks fun and different; Bang! gets good reviews; The Merchants gets great reviews; and Total War looks like a game Joel would enjoy. Speaking of which: Joel and I still need to sit down and play some Wood Ships and Iron Men. (My god! but I've becomes obsessed with naval stuff lately. It's bizarre!) I send an e-mail to Mac and Pam and Joel and Aimee asking if they'd be interested in a game night.

---

A flurry of quotes and orders (all of them RUSH!) comes in. It's a nice change of pace.

---

Nick, in one of his intellectual flights of fancy, comes and asks (apropos of nothing): "Wouldn't it be weird if we ate like snakes — once a month unhinged our jaws, opened our mouths, and swallowed a calf or something?"

I tell him to move his ass so that I can write down what he just said.

---

At some point — I'm not sure when — Nick uses my computer to look at The Hamster Page.

---

In the afternoon, the fax line fails. This is the third time this has happened in the past two weeks. There's no dial tone on the line, and when the fax machine is connected to a phone line, it works fine. On the previous two occasions the fax line automagically repaired itself after an hour or two. It may do so again, but I'm unwilling to take that chance. I call the phone company.

While I'm phoning utility companies, I call the cable company and ask about adding HBO to our service. Mart pretty much sold me on the channel on Sunday when he told me that Curb Your Enthusiasm features Larry David, the creator of Seinfeld (one of my favorite shows), that The Wire is from the same team that created Homicide: Life on the Streets (which I've begun to watch on DVD), and that the other HBO shows (Sex and the City, Six Feet Under, The Sopranos) were high-quality as well. I figure that if I can add HBO for $5 a month, I'll do it. The customer service rep, Lourdes, tells me it'll cost $11 a month. "No thanks," I say, unwilling to spend $132 per year for such a luxury.

Maybe when I get home I'll pitch the "if you get rid of the TV, I'll get rid of the internet" plan to Kris again. She won't go for it, but it's worth a try.

See how I am? It's famine or feast: all of the channels and broadband, or nothing at all.

---

Nick has me call the credit card company to redeem our frequent flier miles.

Last year he hatched a scheme whereby we signed up for a credit card that earns one frequent flier mile for every dollar charged. Now he uses the card for whatever he expenses he can. Last month, for example, Custom Box Service charged $22,617.44. That's a lot of frequent flier miles.

Now Nick would like to redeem the frequent flier miles for a plane ticket, but I have to make the call because he's not authorized to do so.

Actually, I think Nick's plan is brilliant. Well, it's brilliant so long as I can share in the windfall. I don't know anything about frequent flier miles, though, so I don't know how much a ticket costs, I don’t know how many points can accumulate, I don't know any of this stuff. I'll have to ask him. Maybe he's willing to share the wealth.

Maybe.

---

In the late afternoon, Sabino calls to tell me that the Seattle Mariners have traded disgruntled pitcher Jeff Nelson (a fan favorite) to the Yankees for Armando Benitiez. Nelson had criticized Mariners management for not making any big deals to improve the team's chances at winning the World Series this year. Ironically, he'll have a better chance of doing so with the Yankees than with the Mariners.

Sabino also has some questions about his new laptop computers. I set up three new Dell laptops for Wilcox Arredondo last weekend, and Sabino has some questions about them. Like: "Where are the floppy drives?"

A few minutes later John Gingerich calls. He needs to hook up his PowerBook, which has died, to another Mac in order to rescue the contents of the hard drive. I'm unable to help. I've heard the action's possible, but I don't know how to do it myself. I say "hello" to Jenn (she's standing in the room with him).

---

As I leave the office, I think how much more pleasant eighty-five degrees and hazy is than ninety-five degrees and clear.

On the drive home I listen to Patrick O'Brian's The Golden OceanThe Golden Ocean on CD. The audiobook is ten hours long, but the trip home is only eight minutes. At this rate, it's going to take me 38 work days to listen to the book from start-to-finish. With overdue fines at 25-cents a day, I need to find a way to listen more often.

It's a brilliant book. This was O'Brian's first work of nautical fiction, and he writes for an audience that might not be familiar with the terms and customs and dangers of the sea. This is like the Aubrey/Maturin series on training wheels, but it works! The story is exciting, and the reader is given a more detailed view of the day-to-day running of a ship. I love it.

I sit in the driveway, the air conditioner running, and listen for another ten minutes.

Then I go inside to pet my cats.

---

Tomorrow: at long last, the oft-requested history of Custom Box Service.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2004 — Marrakesh   On Friday night, a group of us gathered in Northwest Portland, at the Marrakesh Morrocan Restaurant, to celebrate Andrew's birthday. I loved it.

2002 — Happy Place   I am in a happy place, the chief components of which include: reduced computer use, increased reading, intense research into British history in general and Shakespearean history and the history of the British monarchy in specific.

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