perhaps I’ve made a tiny footprint in their lives.
A little bit of kindness goes a long way. Jill Robinson, founder and director of the Animals Asia Foundation, has brought about huge changes in the attitudes toward animal welfare throughout Asia, and her tireless plight all started with rescuing one Moon Bear.
Someday, when I am old and gray, I hope to emulate her and set up my very own charity foundation. I’ll name it The Mika and Maddy Harket foundation, you know, like The Bill and Melinda Gates foundation. I’ve got to start somewhere, so why not here? Why not now? There is no time like the present.
With the trickle of calls that filter in, most of the customers are pleasant enough, and I repay them with my generosity.
But one of the callers is so darn nasty that I am convinced he is the Grinch that Stole Christmas.
“I WANT MY INTERNET UP AND RUNNING NOW,” he explodes, rupturing my eardrums.
“Sir,” I slosh, “I am stho sthorry. But the sthevere winter sthorm has cut one nof our lines inth yer area. Unforsthunately, we won’th be able tho get our stcehnicians outh sthere sthill sthomorrow.”
“THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR THIS BULLSHIT! AND DON’T GO TELLING ME IT’S ‘COZ IT’S CHRISTMAS. I DON’T CELEBRATE THIS BLASTED DAY SO I COULD CARE LESS.”
“Oh,” I say in a relaxed and fluid voice, still abuzz from the wine. “Stho what holiday do you selethbrate sir?”
“NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS.”
“Um, okay sir. Well, is sthere anything else sthat I can help you with?” I ask blearily. MUTE. Burp.
“WELL NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, THERE IS!”
Great! I’ve just cracked open a can of worms. I hate that we’re forced to ask our callers that asinine question: Is there anything else? Even if there is nothing else, it forces them to think of something.
The floodgates open, or rather, the Hoover Dam breaks, and The Grinch barrages me with problem after problem, fires off complaint after complaint, and harangues me with rant after rant. Sweet baby Jesus, save his miserable soul!
After spending an hour assisting him with his never ending needs, I’ve had it with his sour attitude. Before The Grinch can launch into another tirade, I kindly cut him off, “Well, if that is everything sir, thanks for calling and have a Merry Christmas,” I say in a jolly ol’ fashioned way and promptly disconnect the call.
Whooooopsie! I was supposed to say Happy Holidays.
Oh well, hopefully that call won’t get monitored.
And I did not give The Grumpy Grinch two months of free service.
Bah-Humbug to him!
Without even taking a breather, I take thirty calls in a row. Now I am starting to feel slightly aggravated.
“Why in the name of the donkeys in Bethlehem are all these people calling us on Christmas?” I groan.
Kars looks just as annoyed. “I know, what the hell? Don’t they have better things to do?”
We’re both so fed up that we jam our Not Ready keys to stop the flow of calls and saunter to the Ladies room.
Aha! This time I have come prepared.
After locking the door behind me, I rip off a piece of Post-it Note and stick it right on the eye of the toilet sensor. There!
Demurely, I set my bum down and wait.
And wait.
Nothing happens.
“HA! I HAVE OUTWITTED YOU!” I shout triumphantly at the toilet bowl. No more nasty water spraying up my bum.
I rise ceremoniously to my feet and peel off the strip of sticky paper. And sure enough, the toilet flushes.
Genius. I am so proud of myself.
Standing in front of the faucet, I am washing my hands with a gratifying smile, feeling incredibly smug.
Kars narrows her eyes at me. “Maddy, I think you should hold off on the Fat Bastard. I just heard you talking to the toilet.”
By the time that Kars and I hop back on the bleepin’ phones, the calls have died down.
“WOOT! WOOT!” I whoop in a celebratory mood.
A head pops out of the cubicle in front of me.
“Greetings,” I announce grandiosely. “Merry Christmas! Feliz navidad! Mele Kaliki Maka!”
An equestrian looking woman glares at me.
“Mele Kaliki Maka is the thing to say, on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day,” I carol gaily. “C’mon, sing with me.”
But Horse Lady does not sing back. In fact, her whole face is molded in a permanent scowl.
“I’m Maddy,” I say in a gracious manner and extend the olive branch. “And you are?”
“Tori,” she says frostily and scrunches up her face, looking like a horse that just ate a lemon.
I offer the sour horse a