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the orland park prairie | October 3, 2019 | 13
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From the Editor
I am apparently built to spill
1. Tinley Park: Residents voice
opposition to annexation of Gas N
Wash
2. UPDATED: Duo nabbed after allegedly
stealing mail from Orland Park
businesses
3. Orland Park Police arrest five following
drug sales investigation
4. Kay’s Old Orland Marketplace to end
historic run Oct. 1
5. Home of the Week: 17328 Antler Drive
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The Bridge Teen Center posted the accompanying
image Sept. 23 with the note, “We
were so excited to host Arbor Park Middle
School this morning! More than 150 eighth
graders had the chance to experience
The Bridge Teen Center for a few hours of
games and activities.”
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“Congrats to our Section of the Week,
Clarinets! Shout out to our Marchers of
the Week as well! Great job!”
@SandburgBands — Sandburg Bands,
on Sept. 24
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BILL JONES
bill@opprairie.com
You walk through
an entranceway,
the glass shatters
and there is an explosion
of sound all around you.
Awesome if you’re
Stone Cold Steve Austin
on your way to a wrestling
ring during the Attitude
Era.
Not so awesome if
you’re Bill Jones, and the
glass shattering as you
walk through the door
is the growler you had
containing $175 worth of
change, and all you’re met
with is the stunned silence
of a few employees and a
woman setting up a new
account as you dumbfoundedly
hold what’s left
of the gallon-sized jug that
once held the coins now
strewn across the floor of
the bank lobby you were
moments before happy to
be entering.
But let’s back up a few
hours to the start of what I
considered a terrible, horrible,
no good, very bad
day that would put even
Alexander’s to shame.
I was leaving my house
in the morning, too many
things in my hands, when
a travel coffee mug found
itself open as I turned it
sideways with the key to
lock the door as I tried to
quietly escape the home
in which my son was still
sleeping.
Coffee down my shirt
and the side of my pants.
A few choice words uttered
in anger. But I found
some of those superabsorbent
paper towels in
my garage and mitigated
the harm to my pants
without having to go back
inside.
Crisis averted.
Except, the lid for the
orange juice I had in my
cup holder wasn’t staying
on right as I started to
drive. I pulled into a parking
lot to rectify the problem.
Not realizing some of
the juice had already run
down the side of the cup,
I placed it on my leg to
press the lid to the rim.
A sticky circle left behind
near my knee. Fun.
I managed to spill more
coffee on myself almost
as soon as I got to work,
because why not at this
point? And even though
I should have known to
skip the condiments at this
point in the day, I had the
gall to order a hamburger
with everything on it.
This wouldn’t be the
type of day I find myself
writing about if that
mustard didn’t find itself
in my lap.
So, I left the office —
shirt untucked to help
cover the mustard stain
— and headed to the
bank with my container
full of change. Minutes
later, I was standing in a
bank lobby, embarrassed,
bewildered, trying to wrap
my brain around my latest
problem.
Despite the handle that
remained in my hand
— the bottle tapped the
corner of the door when
it broke; I did not drop
it — the growler did not
break into big chunks; it
shattered into pieces of
various sizes, including
itty-bitty ones, mixed in
with all of the coins I have
to admit I thought for a
minute “could just be the
bank’s now, if it gets me
out of here.”
But a wonderful
employee named Maria
dutifully helped me clean
up my mess. And over the
next 40 minutes, I learned
that “picking up change”
isn’t nearly as fun as all
the hardcore punk kids
make it look. Because the
change was mixed with
glass, we couldn’t simply
sweep or vacuum the
chaos — no matter how
many times the woman
setting up her account
tried to help by offering,
“Why don’t they just get a
broom?”
I picked up coins, one
by one, as Maria swept
away the glass, instructed
customers where to walk
to avoid it and regularly
scolded me for trying to
pick up pieces of glass
with my hands. She also
worked to put my mind at
ease over the whole fiasco,
even though I know I
took her away from more
important things she had
to be doing that day.
When we finished, one
of the tellers had trouble
looking me in the eye as I
brought my slip from the
coin machine to the counter
to claim my cash.
“How are you doing
today?” she asked.
“I’ve had better days.”
“Well, it happens.”
This? I hope not too often,
for Maria’s sake. She
was a million times nicer
and more helpful than
anyone who has ever had
to help clean up someone
else’s mess ought to be.
And I hope anyone facing
a day likes this finds a
Maria there to help them
through it. But I also hope
Maria isn’t in some sort
of purgatory in which she
has to help clumsy guys
pick up glass in life’s bank
lobbies for eternity. (Shout
out to the Marias of the
world).
One final note, though:
As I left, the employee
who was setting up the account
while I was in there
said, “At least you’ve
got a new story to tell.”
And the only thing more
mortifying to me than the
idea that she recognized
me and knows what I do
for a living is that I still
don’t know if that’s the
case or it was just a casual
comment.
Either way, I really wish
I didn’t have this story to
tell.
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