The Best Time

I'll admit up front that I was a bit cranky yesterday. Okay, I was a lot cranky. Being under the weather didn't help.

Yesterday was not a good day. Everything which could go wrong, as the saying goes, did go wrong. Consequently I wasn't in the mood for intellectual lightweights.

So of course one called. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. 

The conversation began easily enough. "Can I come in tomorrow morning and buy some cables, Cosgriff?"

"Sure. We open at 9."

"So what's a good time to come in?" Cloyce then asked.

In exasperation, my head dropped to my chest; my eyes closed. I took a deep breath. "Anytime after 9 is fine, Cloyce."

He persisted, "So what time, Cosgriff?"

"Ten Thirty-Two and Fifty Four seconds," I mouthed off, off the top of my head and into the cell, perturbed.

"What time?"

"10:32:54."

"Oh. So tomorrow about Noon?" 

I wanted to hit my own head with a mallet. Several times. "Yes. Noon is fine," I answered, gritting my teeth.

He better get here.

I Don't Care, Cloyce

There's this one customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who apparently believes that I'm totally invested in his life story. He tries to tell it to me every time he calls.

"Hey Cosgriff, I gotta come by today and get me a cutter." 

"Okay, Cloyce."

"I have to take my wife to the doctor first,"

"That's fine, Cloyce."

"Then she wants to go grocery shopping,"

"Whatever, Cloyce."

"And we have to pick up our kid from school, it's an early day,"

"I don't care, Cloyce."

"After that I have to exchange that bad water heater,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the least. Exchange the heater."

"Of course I need to stop at Mom's and see that she's good,"

"I hope she is, Cloyce."

"Oh! And I need tires on my work van,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the slightest. Get tires. Check on Mom. Go shopping. Pick up the kid from school. I'll see you when you get here."

"It's running hot, the van, so I best stop by the mechanic too..."

By that point I just put the phone on speaker, set it down, and go about my work. Eventually he'll clam up, do his thing, and get to the Shop for the cutter.

And I'll hear all about his day. Again. I still won't care.

The routinely blocked number

Part of me feels bad for doing it. But it's kind of in self defense really.
A good customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, is a nice guy. He never argues price; indeed he always thanks us for our good service and gives us a decent amount of business. Yet he has one flaw: he's a worrywart. When he leaves a piece of equipment with me he calls constantly, in the range of every couple of hours, checking on its status until the job is done. If he drops off something Monday morning and I tell him it'll be ready Wednesday, he begins calling Monday afternoon.
I've asked him to not do that. He's always been very apologetic when I have, assuring me that he trusts me and likes my work and knows I'll call the minute I have him good to go. And then he promptly calls two hours later.
This is where I feel a bit bad. Thanks to the miracle of modern technology whenever he leaves something for repair I pull out my cell phone, go to my contacts list, scroll down to Cloyce's number, and block it. When his job is ready I reverse course, unblock it, and call him.
I suppose I should not do that. But a fella gets tired of running to his phone or struggling to get it out of his pocket only to see Cloyce's name there when it rings. It interrupts the flow of work and simply irks me.
Ah well. No doubt there are worse problems in the world.