Boredom bites, right? Now wait. Don’t be offended. I truly I don’t know what “bites” means in the vernacular. But I know if something “bites” it means it’s not a good thing.
Thus as an example, boredom bites. “Boredom” is aptly defined as “tedium,” and also as “ennui” which I always thought was that whitish, long-leafed vegetable people grow in their basements in buckets of sand so they can chop it into their salads. Bitter? Believe it. Ennui is really bad stuff.
But no. Dear husband of 62 years has advised me in that tone he occasionally uses, that the veggie is called “endive” and not “ennui” which he pronounces “ahn-DEEV,” and that boredom is called “ennui” which he pronounces “ahn-WEE.” Whatever.
But back to boredom. As I’m sure you know, it can rot the insides straight out of a person, and can hit at any time or any place; at certain relative’s homes, at all piano recitals, in the company of certain individuals, at many operas, on lots of dates, and at every commencement exercise.
I’d like to tell you what I think are two of the most boring jobs on this planet. The first is where people hold up the signs at road construction sites that say “slow” and “stop.” Those guys just can’t be paid enough. There they stand all day in the worst of weathers, and all they have to look forward to is when they can twist that sign from an adverb to a verb.
These bored, dedicated people, so heavily sedated from gas fumes, noise and dust clouds, understandably sometimes confuse the “slow” with the “stop” sides of their signs.
I saw it happen. The slow/stop guy was drowsily chatting with a crony, a tankard of coffee in one hand. Cars were approaching from both sides, and the man had the sign flat against his ample belly and was leaning on it, so that all the oncoming drivers could see was the sign’s edge.
Cars honked, bucked and screeched. So did the drivers. Sign man turned to glare, clearly aggravated at being interrupted from his social discourse.
And then, glancing angrily at the wall of cars coming toward him, all steel, noise and raging honks, he placed his hand playfully against his lips, fake grinned, yelled “Oooops!”, turned the sign so the drivers could see the word, looked down at it, said “Oooops!” again and flipped it around. What a mess.
But hey, who’s to judge? That’s got to be one of the all-time stupefying jobs, and I for one salute these people for doing it.
The second example of endive? That would be museum guards. I think when they first take on the job, they’re maybe excited to be guarding great and famous works of art, ancient bones or antediluvian treasures. Whatever. But how long can that last?
Soon, even with their walkie-talkies squawking horribly, they shuffle silently through the halls like zombies, never glancing at the collections, praying someone will step too close to an exhibit so they can break their boredom and say, “stand back, please.”
I once saw a guard in full museum regalia protecting some extremely famous paintings in a very crowded Boston museum. He stood ramrod straight and tall against a door frame. I desperately had to know where the lady’s room was, and needed to know pretty promptly. I looked up into the guard’s blue eyes and asked directions. Nothing. The guy was like one of the Greek statues on the second floor.
“Sir! Please tell me …I just gotta know where…”
And then–oh no! My blood turned to frozen slush. The guy was dead!
Rigor mortis! He was standing rigidly upright up against that door frame, eyes wide open, just flat out dead. Deceased. Late lamented. Expired. Perished. Gone-zo. My mouth turned to ashes. I approached him, my shaking hand reaching out. Then oh, to my shuddering relief, I discovered I did not have to touch his deadness, because I saw he was breathing deeply and evenly. That upright, wide-eyed museum guard was sound asleep! I found the loo on my own.
Another guard I watched in another museum talked endlessly to anyone who entered. Some people kept up polite eye contact and thus never saw the displays. Others glared at him and backed off, but the poor man, bored to desperation, chattered the ears off all museum visitors. So eager was he for conversation and distraction, he interpreted and described every display in torturous, interminable detail and never noticed when his thoroughly dulled-out audience had vanished.
Guarding museum treasures is an important job and worthy, and I also salute these people for safeguarding our nation’s stash. In my opinion though, both of these jobs cause severe endive, and they also bite.
LC Van Savage is a local writer and can be reached at lcvs@comcast.net.
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