The Frankie Avalon Question
The polite smile on my face, my professional smile, you know the one, I'm sure you've perfected yours too-was wiped off my face at 1:20pm when the questions started at work and I started to crash from my happy post-drunk phase. It was one of those days when the Devil on my shoulder was tempting me with all his might, tickling the mean streak in me with his tail.
By break time I had thouroughly confused one undergraduate college student, and had another man in his 50s tell me that I thorougly frustrated him and was making things make even less sense then before he had even asked me the question. This I thought was especially great, since the man made sure to say this over and over again in a loud enough voice so that the people sitting nearby kept staring.
When all felt lost I was thrilled to recieve a call that made it all seem worth it. This is the conversation, nearly verbatim:
"I need to know if he is 72?" A woman on the phone.
After a quick google search-that's right, I am a library student and I use google!- I was able to assure her that
"no, Frankie Avalon is not 72, he is actually 67."
"Shoot, he is doing something to himself to look that good. You hear what I am saying?"
"Ya know, he has grandkids."
"Well Ma'am," I said trying to wrap up the conversation, "We can all only hope to look that good when we are 67-can't we?"
And that was the conversation that saved my day from being a total waste. I couldn't help but laugh in spite of myself when I got off the phone. It is the bizarre shit like that that makes my day great!