Concierge


Strange. When I last answered a call on the switchboard it sounded like a hang-up, but whoever it was didn’t really hang up on me because the line wasn’t dead. I waited. It started to ring. A man answered, and not knowing what else to say, I told him it was the bookstore. He hung up.

Also: Helmet Comb-over has returned. I still can’t get over his disastrous attempt to cover his bald spot.

Advertisements

“There are too many books!” yelled an old man wielding a hearing aid and a cane. He shook his head. “There are too many books. I wish I had time and legs to explore all of these books.”

Then he hobbled over to me. “Concierge.” He pronounced it CON-sir-gay. “Does that mean information?” I told him yes, it does.

“Thank you for being so helpful, young one,” he said to me.

I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or condescending.

“You’re looking beautiful today,” a man said to me on my way to work. Never mind that he’d never laid eyes on me until this afternoon.

I should wear dresses more often. But not this one. I think I’ll wear it as a tunic rather than a dress from now on, because it’s way too short for my comfort. I get the urge to tug it down to my knees every five minutes.

A man yelled to me from his car, “You have really nice hair!” when I was on my way to work.

I like feeling attractive.

“Concierge — that’s a lovely title to give you,” she said.

Yes, I agree. French is a beautiful language.

I’m not even a half an hour in to my shift and already I’ve had about a dozen calls asking “Are you open today?” This is going to be a long day. Thankfully, I get holiday pay.

Next Page »