Sir, I cannot understand you. I can’t. I just can’t.

I’m coining a concierge term for us — boomerang.


1. When used between concierge co-workers, refers to the creepers (creepy customers) who continually return to the concierge desk to try to catch your eye, flirt, chat, ask you out and get you to divulge personal information.

Mr. I-Can’t-Understand-A-Word-He’s-Saying is a boomerang. I described him the day of our staff meeting. He’s an older man. Black, graying. Likes to wear a brimmed hat. He circled the desk three times; like a vulture, waiting to prey. I avoided eye-contact as best I could, but I accidentally looked at him on the third circling. He smiled, and approached.

He likes to ask me what I’m majoring in, tell me I’ve got a nice smile, talk about Obama and other politics, and tell me how smart his granddaughters are. At least, that’s what I think he’s saying. He’s one of those quick-talking mumblers — like a cross between an auctioneer and a old Southern character you’d read about in a Mark Twain novel — who’ll say something really fast, that was surely a run-on sentence, and then end it with an audible ‘Ya’ll come on back now, ya hear?’ Think Boomhauer from King of the Hill.

Today he asked me where I went to high school, how fast I can type, and when I get off of work. At least, that’s what I think he asked me. I hear bits and pieces. “We should meet for some tea and talk about the recession,” he said. I avoided answering his questions, then politely declined the invitation to tea.

Just smile and nod. Smile and nod.