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j         o      u    r  n al... 



"

 i have you down for June 1," said the barely alert automatron working in patient registration deep in the basement of the 'Dark Tower'.  The basement is where UMass Medical Center puts its little hive of outpatient clinics.  Cheerful. 

"Oh," said I, "What a waste."  But I was philosophical about my error, though I had just crawled out of a brief night's bed of only four hours sleep, which had commenced, blessedly, just before 7:00 AM, but only after long hours of anticipation.  At 12:25 PM, bleary-eyed, feverish (still!), I climbed upon my Trek to pedal my meaty buns up and over Belmont Hill to the cold grey edifice which sits in a hollow once the pastoral home of a pig farm. 

But what a glorious day!  Hot, bright sun, coupled with a gusty freshening breeze made my pilgrimage of illness quite endurable.  I did note, however, the heavy burden of this damn interminable cold slowing my progress and dragging down my energy.  I would not have gone to my appointment with my neurologist (which is only doors down the hall from the HIV clinic) if I didn't want to stay away so much. 

"

 you're right.  It should have been there today," said the charming and helpful Michelle at 3Com.  I think this cold is mystically linked to the troubles I am having with this damn NIC, and with trying to get it here.

I know it's probably petty of me, but I'm in the mood to make some noise.  Especially if I do not get what I deserve.  That's new for me.  Very new.  It has even made my ears hot.  This e-mail to 3Com explains it:

From: < joe@burgwinkel.com>
To: <3combuydirect@selectnet.com>
Subject: Failed delivery
Date: Wednesday, May 31, 2000 9:34 PM

Hi,

I am writing to complain, not about any service provided by 3Com, but about UPS. I would not be inspired to such pettiness, but for my encounter with Mike. Mike is a UPS employee in the Worcester area who called me tonight, at approximately 7:00 PM in response to a call from Michelle, (a 3Com employee at 1-877-949-3266 to whom I had spoken earlier).

When he called I asked, "Why isn't the package here? It was scheduled to be delivered today, according to your package tracking website." I'll admit, it was a very direct question, but not an unusual question for a parcel delivery service. Mike, it seems, wanted to avoid the unpleasant truth, so he hemmed and hawed, and went away from the phone a couple times saying things like, "I just want to make sure it's (the package) not in MY building."

I had already concluded UPS would not deliver, on time, and I really only wanted an explanation; something like, "Gee, we're sorry, I don't know what happened, but I promise it will be there before 10:00 AM tomorrow." I would not have called Michelle back a second time, or written you this e-mail, if that's how my exchange with Mike transpired.

He did provide some information which had not been available before 6:20 PM, specifically that there had been a 'pick-up scan' on the package on May 30 in Harrisburg, and that the package was at that moment in Chelmsford. None of that information was available at their website--ask Michelle--until after I got off the phone with Mike. Michelle and I both observed pages which indicated no exceptions, no delivery attempts, but did show a REscheduled delivery of June 1--without explanation.

The package shipped May 26 (see this link to their original, and later web tracking pages: http://burgwinkel.com/UPSerror/ ). Mike didn't like that the package shipped May 26. In fact he denied it, saying, "It was scanned on the 30th, so it's not due there until tomorrow. We didn't do anything wrong. If it was supposed to be there today, he (?) should have shipped it Saturday."

Well, that was an evasion. And blatantly untrue. I would appreciate that UPS not be paid for this delivery--if it ever takes place. I will likely not be able to be home to receive it tomorrow (like I was all day today, for that purpose). Since I have needed this card for over a week, I guess I won't refuse delivery, but Mike makes me want to.

On the other hand, 3Com's service was excellent, the order process swift, and Michelle was more than helpful. Please switch to FedEx, or USPS.

I have appended your shipment notice below. Forgive me for the length of this; it's really not that important, but Mike was inspirationally unhelpful.

joe burgwinkle

###########################################


To: joe@burgwinkel.com
Subject: Notice of Invoice Shipment
From: Buy_Direct@3com.com
Reply-to: Buy_Direct@3com.com



This is a short note from 3Com to tell you that your order has shipped.

Order #: 119872
Order Date: May 26, 2000
Ship Date: May 26, 2000
Ship Method: Second Day (2 Business Days)
Ship Tracking #: UPS 1Z6619070202746493


ITEMS SHIPPED
Unit Total
Qty Description Price Price
---------------------------------------------------------------------
1 3Com EtherLink 10/100 Combo Network Int $170.00 $170.00
---------------------------------------------------------------------




To return to Buy Direct click on this link - http://buydirect.3com.com

...and it probably won't work when it gets here.  ;-)  Actually, I guess that makes me superstitious.  It has always seemed to me that if you give an eventuality no thought whatsoever, its chances of occurring are much greater than if you recognized it as a possibility beforehand.  So, every night when I return from work, as I unlock my apartment door, I think, "It's entirely possible that some thief came and stole your computer, and you are now only seconds away from opening this door and discovering that your life is over." 

I over-magnify a bit, don't I? 

 somewhere along the line here I lost track of my original topic: today is the traditional Memorial Day.  I thought of it on my way home from the failed appointment.  I had not remembered to remember.  I had let my whining, and my negativity (I really need another day in bed, so of course I have to go out to an appointment), and my aversion for awareness (like the automatron, earlier) all have their way with me.  When I realized my unthinking error, standing in the hallway of the hospital after biking two and a half miles, I could only smile. 

Yeah, I probably am cultivating a dreaded 'opportunistic infection' here, and yeah, I didn't get enough sleep, and yeah, I got issues, and yeah, I didn't get my little toy today.  But so what? 

I know Memorial Day is too often seen only as a military holiday, but the military is a pretty good example of something really unpleasant that we would really rather not remember.  And that applies to a lot of things in our lives that need remembering. 

The two old men sat noticably still, and quiet, as if keeping a magnificent agony barely contained.  Just the two of them—no wives or grandchildren.  They were friends, perhaps; on a mission, most certainly.  They were seated behind me and Stephanie.  I'd seen them when I came in, but I forgot they were there.  Whenever I go to a movie, I always have to sit through the credits at the end—but not to read the credits, I usually pay little attention to them.  I stay seated when the credits roll to absorb the emotions which have timidly emerged, and to not rush back into a mindless frenzy, which seems to be the only purpose of rushing.  I am usually the last to leave.  When the sound stopped and the screen finally went black, Stephanie's prodding to go prevailed.  I stood, turned to leave, and there they were. 

They appeared to be the exact age of the elder Private Ryan, who's saving we had just watched—together, sort of.  It was an awkward moment.  I didn't know whether to cry, or kiss their hands.  But even though nothing was left in the theater to look at, atleast nothing visible to Stephanie and me, still their eyes were fixed to a point somewhere off in the distance, a place where maybe I did not belong, a place where surely I did not want to go.  Had they looked up I might at least have shook their hands; surely I would have wept.  How do you thank someone for being in pain?  And so I went along and left them to tend their own trauma's without my needful aid.  But briefly I remembered: Such things are real, such lives have been lived, and agonies need our remembrance—if for no other purpose than to keep us aware, preciously aware.

And the coin?  That's the year I was born. 



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