Or Conversations from Outer Space
Here is an exchange I recently had with a local newspaper:
“Picture research, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, I’m phoning about an image of mine printed in last Sunday’s paper.”
“?”
“You know, the paper you print on… well… Sunday. The day before yesterday.”
“?”
” Well, there was one of my images, printed in last Sunday’s edition, I was wondering who was contacted concerning permission to use it.”
“I don’t have the paper in front of me, hold the line a second.” (follows a long hunt for the edition in question, interspersed with comments from a distance along the lines of “Some wierdo on the phone” “What’s he want?” “I don’t know, something about a picture.” amidst a rustling of paper and finally approaching steps.)
“Okay, I have it, what page?”
I give the page, explain which image, where.
“And?”
“Well, I wondered where you went to get permission to use it, since it’s not credited.”
“?”
“Let me rephrase that more clearly. DID you get permission to use it?”
“No…”
“You just printed it like that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sorry, but is that how you normally work? Just print pictures without wondering where they are from?”
“?”
I’m starting to loathe this conversation, and beginning to feel like it’s all my fault for making a fuss – well, not a fuss, really, I’m practically apologizing for bothering this individual by now.
“You know the image is under copyright.”
“?”
“Perhaps I should put you in touch with the editor?”
“You mean for money?”
Now I feel like a space alien whose GPS fouled up on entry into the troposphere. I have landed outside a roadside hamburger joint in Iowa instead of the UN and when I say “Take me to your leader” the dimwit burger jockey slopes off and returns with his “leader”. Heaving into view is a monstrous belly in a grubby t-shirt, topped with an unshaven oval countenance complete with a cigarette butt bobbing in the corner of a batrachian mouth. The being is holding a spatula and a fly swatter and I bet there’s a sawed-off shotgun under the counter. What AM I going to tell them when I get back home? If I get back home. I just knew this whole thing was a bad idea.
“Take me to your leader.”
“?”
“Sorry, can I talk to someone else please? This is giving me a headache.”
Actually, rewind to the space alien, that’s where this conversation petered out in contrite mumbling on my part. The next day when the journalist phoned to apologize and I felt even worse. John Howe’s not here I said, he left the country, he uhh… got plastic surgery, and… changed his name and went pearl diving in Iceland. Maybe it was surfing. Yes, in the Kalahari. Or the Gobi. No, I’m sorry, he didn’t leave a forwarding address.
I recently had another surreal conversation, this time from an agency that promised to INCREASE MY MARKETPLACE VISIBILITY, ENHANCE MY CONTACTS and AUGMENT MY CLIENT BASE. (Gee! All that!)
“Mr. Howe, John?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“May I speak to the director of marketing please?”
“That’s me.” (Here I resisted the urge to say “Hold the line please, I’ll see if he’s free”, then head off, make a coffee, do a bit of gardening and come back to see – bip bip bip bip – if they had given up.)
“Mr. Howe, our company can increase your marketplace visibility, enhance your contacts and augment your client base.”
“May I ask you how you found my phone number?”
“?”
“I had it removed from all the directories a while ago, I was just curious how you found it.”
(There is a second’s pause while this information is processed.)
“This is a graphics studio? I’m speaking to Mr. Howe?”
“Absolutely!”
“And you’re not in the phone book?”
“Of course not, otherwise people phone me all the time.”
(Slightly longer pause; this is obviously more information than can be processed easily.)
“You see,” I continued helpfully, “if I’m in the phone book, people will be able to find my number. And call me up. Like. You. Are. Doing. Now.”
“But… you have a graphics studio.”
“Indeed.”
“But you’re not in the phone book?”
“That’s right, otherwise it’s too easy to find my number.”
“?” (By this time, he is convinced the “graphic studio” thing is a front and I’m running a speakeasy or selling pot to high school kids.)
“Listen, as much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I dont feel that we’re making much progress. I don’t want better market visibility or anything enhanced or enlarged and the only thing I want even less is people who phone me up to try to sell me something I don’t want.”
“Bip bip bip bip…”
Boy, he sure needs work on his customer communication skills.
I often feel very sorry for people trying to sell services.
ON A LIGHTER NOTE
This is the kind of nebulous goings-on that sends me flying out of the house in a trice. (And even in my bare feet, if the clouds look like they are in a hurry.) The neighbours are accustomed to seeing me dodge traffic (cloud chasing, clutching camera) and limp back home (memory card saturated), more often than not sodden and dishevelled, but indubitably delighted. I’m sure they shake their heads in puzzlement, but discreetly.
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The Swiss, by the way, have elevated the art of discretion and unobtrusiveness to such a degree that they are often unjustly considered inordinately dull. The other day, I purchased a new pair of glasses, and was entitled to another pair free. “I have the frames already.” I said, and pulled out (with a suitable flourish) a pair of medieval ones (Sean Connery sports similar specs in the Name of the Rose). “That’s fine, sir, they’ll be ready in 10 days.”
So, the next time you are tempted to consider the Helvetians a little slow on the uptake, it’s just that they are secretly savouring NOT being inquisitive, and watching you wriggle and writhe because you can’t brag, even nonchalantly.
Naturally, they make up for it in specific areas, like garbage bags, hedges and how you park, but you could plunk down half Hollywood on a terrace in Neuchâtel, and not a passer-by would pause. Conversations might eventually run along this line:
“Guess what. Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Michael Jackson and Madonna were having a drink the other day at the Place du Marché.”
“Is that right? What were they having?”
“Just mineral water. I’d have suggested a local rosé, but I hated to intrude.”
“Of course, people should mind their own business.”
“Absolutely. They have a right to privacy too. Their driver parked with his front left wheel just over the line though, and went nearly 20 minutes past the time limit.”
