Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

As I was growing up, no one actually explained to me that I was mechanically challenged. Except for my mother constantly pestering me to "read the instructions, read the instructions" my disability was largely ignored. Had some timely intervention begun back then, I would have probably, by this time, been able to open an umbrella without puncturing someone's lung, or flick on a breaker switch without shorting out half the state.

Just look at what our compassionate society provides to other challenged groups: motorized wheelchairs capable of reaching the base camp on Mt.Everest; trained Seeing Eye dogs able to navigate the entire New York City subway system, including changing to a local at 42nd Street; and "Who Wants To be A Millionaire" for shut-ins.

But for guys like me, nothing. Take the time I decided to throw away my old brief case and buy an attaché case. I was still in business and went to a lot of meetings where the young pups I dealt with had a way of signaling an end to the proceedings by snapping their attaché cases shut with a noisy flourish. All I could do was silently stuff my papers in an old, ratty briefcase.

One day I decided not to take it anymore and popped into a fancy leather-goods boutique on Madison Avenue where the salesman talked me into buying one of those miniature suitcases with a built-in combination lock, which, at the time, I thought was a good idea. I couldn't wait to schlep it to my next meeting, even though it cost more than my first car.

I sat around the long table trying to sense when the meeting was about to break. I shifted to the edge of my seat. No one was going to get the drop on me, not today. When a couple of the guys started to reach for their attaché cases, I leapt to my feet and with perfect timing leaned forward and whacked my attaché shut with a click that reverberated across the room and into the corridor. "Gentlemen, I said, as I tried to straighten up. "My tie seems to have gotten stuck in the snap lock. Can someone help me with the combination? The case is too close to my face for me to see the dial." The muffled laughter didn't break out until I was well down the hall.

I can't tell you when it became de riguer for a man to appear in public looking as if he had spent the last ten days adrift in a lifeboat. During my day in the sun five o'clock shadow was not to be piffled with. A late afternoon meeting or a business dinner meant lathering up and shaving in the office.

My trusty secretary, Kitty, would always help, putting a towel over my collar to keep my shirt dry and checking me out, making sure I looked spiffy before I left. One afternoon, I was having a particularly messy time with the lather and my shirt and tie, when Kitty observed that I ought to think about getting an electric razor. "That'll save both of us a headache," she explained.

What a great idea I said to myself. Of all the benign instruments in the world the electric shaver ranks right up there with the soup ladle. What could go wrong? "Kitty you're right," I said. "For my next meeting I'll have an electric shaver in hand, you can bank on it."

On the appointed day, Kitty propped a makeup mirror on my desk so I could shave in the comfort of my favorite chair. After a few stokes, I was stunned at how smoothly the shaver glided over my stubbled face. "Kitty, this is absolutely remarkable," I shouted. "What an invention, it's like a magic. I'm shaving and can't feel a thing. I want you to order one for every man in the office."

"Sure thing, Mr. Meister," she said, "but, um …..wouldn't you get a closer shave if you removed the plastic cap?"

"The plastic cap?"

"Sure," she said. "Didn't you notice it had a plastic cap?"

How could I? I was too busy reading the instructions.