Looking out my Backdoor: Wreck on the Communications Railroad

In each life it seems there might be one or two individuals with whom, no matter how hard we try, we simply cannot communicate. We usually marry them.

Seriously, if nothing else, we surround ourselves with people of like mind. We act together in ways beneficial to both parties. We are on the same track, click-clacking to the same destination.

However, now and then we encounter a person with whom out tongue jumps the track, derails, stops at the wrong station, or otherwise completely mucks up what started as a smooth ride.

Presently I’m trying to negotiate a small business deal with such a person. I don’t think it is the fault of either of us. If I say left, she hears right. If she says up, I hear down. Makes it really hard to stay on the rails. It’s even harder to keep imagination under control and not let that creative entity wreck the whole process.

Putting aside the latest attempt to get somewhere involving a stranger and money, I went out to my washing machine to grab the load of sheets only to find water on the patio and dry sheets in the tub.

My washing machine had broken down. Hopefully, it is a small thing, easily fixed.

I put the sheets into my laundry trolley and went inside to email my friend Kathy, with whom I have great communications, a friend of 24 or 25 years. We come close to being able to mind read with one another.

We both prefer email to telephone, maybe because neither of us lives with one of those things glued to our body. So, keep in mind, most of the following was by email.

“Kathy, my machine broke. May I use the washer in Crin’s bodega?” Crin is Kathy’s sister and when she isn’t here, Crin wants me to use her machine periodically, just to keep it friendly.

“Sure. I’ll go unlock the bodega.”

I trotted over with my trolley. The bodega was locked. So I went back home, left the trolley there. I would return in 15 minutes or so.

I went to my computer to answer another friend’s email. There was a new message from Kathy. “I’m flat out on the couch. I’ve got vertigo. Don’t know what is going on.”

“Okay. No problem. Ana and Michelle are coming over. I’ll send my laundry home with them.”

So I trudged back to the bodega to get my sheets and the bodega door was open, light on, so I went ahead and filled the tub and started the washer. Kathy must have unlocked the door for me, gone back to her house and collapsed.

I didn’t worry about it because Kathy would see my empty laundry trolley and know that we’d just slid past on different tracks, side by side.

Following my visit with Ana and Michelle, I walked back to get my laundry. The bodega door was shut and locked.

Back home, I checked my computer and the email from Kathy said, “Okay. I’ll lock the bodega.”

That was strange, not like Kathy at all, but she was not her usual healthy self.

I went over to Kathu’s house. “Hello oo oo.”

“Kathy, when I found the bodega open, I put laundry in the machine. Now it is locked. My sheets are hostage.”

Together we walked back to Crin’s, with keys. “I had Richard lock the bodega.”

“Oh. That explains it clearly. Richard would not see the trolley, would not hear the machine swishing the clothes. He would simply lock the door as you asked, right?”

“You said it.” We laughed. I retrieved my laundry.

See how easily the train jumped tracks with a good friend of years?

No wonder if is more difficult with a stranger, with two people who know nothing of each other.

This is a pretty silly example, trite, inconsequential. It is too easy to add inflammatory elements such as runaway imagination, anger, hurt pride, greed, self-righteousness. Think global. Plunk in a few nuclear weapons, geo-political feuds of centuries standing, power lust, the impossibility of accurately translating many phrases, cultural misunderstandings. The list is endless.

Yes, Virginia, it is possible for two freight trains, running full steam ahead, to crash in a tunnel.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].