Wind
I work near the windiest corner in Roanoke. Say what you will about whatever confluence of avenues toss an occasional chilly gust in your neighborhood, the gale-force tempest in my neck of the woods could launch a Sumo air-born on a still summer day.

What is the deal with the wind around here lately? When I moved to Roanoke some twenty-five years ago the weather was delightful. Now, all of a sudden, I routinely witness giant blue garbage bins bouncing down the boulevard like stampeding cattle escaping a spring branding.

Earlier this year my son's backyard batting cage sprouted wings in a high wind and was threatening to topple our neighbor's new patio set. Janet, Will and I braved the weather and managed to corral the would-be aircraft, which, at one point, had lifted me three feet off of the ground! You might not be able to tell by glancing at my grinning headshot that accompanies this column, but I am not a small man. In fact, the last shirt I purchased came with a set of tent stakes and a free Coleman lantern. Therefore, when unseen forces lift me skyward, you are looking at a bona-fide Typhoon.

This is not my first battle with the elements of nature. Years ago, I worked in a dress factory (with my Dad and sister Emily), located on West Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. The southwest corner of that location was known to be the windiest corner in all of New York. Those who dared to turn that evil corner would be treated to an Arctic blast of biblical proportions. Legend has it that one powerful blow cleared every street in Manhattan of it's garbage, carrying the refuse Southeast and thus creating the great state of New Jersey.

Connie Sorrentonio, a life-long co-worker of my father, and I woman to be reckoned with, once traveled to work from her apartment in Brooklyn, spied a patch of ice on Fifteenth Street, watched quietly as a group of unsuspecting commuters were knocked flat by an unfriendly current, spun around and returned home to Brooklyn unscathed. Connie was no more than forty feet from the factory door when she surrendered to the elements.

Though it might not be as formidable has the Fifteenth Street Terror, my Roanoke location still packs quite a wallop. If you are ever bored enough to test the draft of which I speak, drive down to the little strip mall in the outer ring of Valley View Mall, where sits, Sprint, Catherine's, and the Casual Male Men's Shop. Begin your journey at the Sprint Store and point yourself due east towards Shaker's. When you reach the end of the men's store, turn left and grab your hat, you have just entered the Valley View Mall's "Squall Zone."

During optimum conditions there is a constant gust wafting over a large unobstructed field sitting behind the building that serves as a gathering vortex. Add a roof skimming in-bound flight landing at nearby Roanoke Regional Airport and the atmosphere reveals the burial ground of where umbrellas go to die.

Thankfully, the incoming airplane traffic is minimal in Roanoke, unlike in my previous homeland. ( I once dated a young lady would lived smack in the middle of the International flights landing path at JFK airport in New York. Every seven minutes her house would shake and rattle like a freight train was passing through their living room, earning their dwelling the nickname "Little House on the Runway.") Any more landings in Roanoke and our little store might be thrust over the rainbow, claiming a new retail home on a vacant street corner in East Munchkinland.

Since my impromptu flight with the batting cage I have remained earth-bound despite the ill winds that blow outside of my office door. My son commented that I should contact the nice folks at Macy's and offer my flight services for the upcoming annual Thanksgivings Day parade, perhaps replacing the M&M's balloon that crashed into a lamp post last year. While I appreciate Will's sincere recommendation, I believe I will remain grounded, just like my fresh-mouthed spawn, who's car keys now reside in my roomy pocket.

Patience, Patience

Normally, I am a very patient man. In fact, aside from still having most of my
hair, the ability to withstand a substantial amount of non-sense is among my only redeemable qualities. Recently, that sense of tolerance has been tested by a collection of customer service professionals who seemed determined to drive me into a stroke induced coma.

All of you have encountered these "helpful" folks. To reach an actual human being on the phone you must first dial the gauntlet of instructed key strokes on your telephone. Some menus allow you to speak the numbers into the phone rather than use your dial pad, warning, steer clear of this option at all cost. The site of a grown person screaming "FOUR" head-faced into a handset is not a pretty sight, especially when they have to repeat themselves until they become light-headed.

Worse are the phone systems that employ a virtual switchboard person who can only understand the specific language they are programmed to comprehend. I battled such an entity last week, who here and after will be referred to as "Virtual Betty." Regardless of what I said Betty responded, "I'm sorry, I am having trouble understanding what you are saying". "Really?" I responded (forgetting for a moment that I was talking to a machine), "You mean nothing that I have said falls within your 250 word hard drive vocabulary?" To which she replied "I'm sorry, I am having trouble, blah,blah,blah"….you know the rest. A vein in my forehead began to take the shape of surfacing submarine, as I lashed out at my mechanical antagonist, spewing a stream of profanity that would shame Tony Soprano's crew. Perhaps shocked into submission, my inflexible robot friend had apparently heard enough and immediately transferred me to a living breathing person in a matter of seconds. Had I unlocked the passage around Virtual Betty? Was her distaste for colorful language the chink in her amour?

Reaching the next level of customer service evolution (a human), I began my quest to have my issue resolved. I was funneled to a woman, who clearly specializes in foul mouthed customers who began our conversation by chastising me for even reaching her extension. Either Betty had rated me out or perhaps all of the particularly vulgar calls were sent to my new friend automatically. When she was finished scolding me, the woman put me on hold and transferred me to another department. A young man answered and quickly put me on hold again. Gentle hold music played (it sounded like a softened instrumental version of "Highway to Hell," but perhaps I was mistaken) as my Blackberry started to feel hot on my ear. I continued to wait for another twelve minutes.

When "Noel" arrived back on the phone he volleyed a series of questions my way, trying to understand who I was and why I was calling. I explained that my last name was Kaufman and spelled my name for him. An astonishing exchange followed.

Noel- Sir, was the second letter of your last name an "a" or an "eight" ?

Me (laughing)- An eight? What am I a part number? No, it's an "a".

Noel- Thank you Mr. Coffman

Me- Actually it's pronounced "Cowf-man".

Noel- (indignently)- No its not, its pronounced "Coffman"

Me- Noel, are you telling me that I am mispronouncing my own name?

Noel- I guess.

Me- (becoming a tad heated) You guess? Maybe I should scare-up a séance, contact my Dad and let him know that NOEL has discovered that we have been saying our name incorrectly for all of these years?

Noel- Sir, can you hold for a moment?

Before, I could answer I was whisked away to phone purgatory once again. Nine minutes passed and a familiar voice returned to the phone, it was my earlier nemesis, Virtual Betty. Betty's smiling voice prompted tears to well-up in my eyes, I had gone full circle. I tossed my phone down and placed a bag of ice on my throbbing head.

A wise man once said that patience and fortitude conquer all things, however, I doubt if that fellow had ever been summarily defeated by a combination of technology, apathy and stupidity. Patience has fallen off that short list of Jon's virtues. On the bright side, I still have my hair.