Mark Me

Miscreants keep rearranging the tables in the training room I oversee, so I needed a big ass marker to mark the spots where their little feet are supposed to go to make putting them back easier. I trotted over to the office supply store across the street and naively asked for one of those markers with an extra wide nib. I love the word “nib,” its ludicrous sound makes it a real favorite of mine. Regardless of how odd it may sound, it would seem that the one place that would be familiar with the term would be an office supply store. Nope. Un uh. Ixnay. I worked my way through “point” “tip” and “thing at the end” and finally wound up pointing.

Once we had finally nailed down that little negotiation, the clerk’s beady eyes lit up with suspicion. Why would I want that kind of marker? What was I planning to do with it? Let me point out that I am only slightly less respectable looking than the late Queen Mother, and yet, there I was trying to assure some gibbering shop lady that I was not rushing out to join up with my posse on a tagging spree.

Finally, she reluctantly unlocked a cabinet behind the cash register (where they probably also store the crack, judging from how hard she prevented me from seeing what else was in there) and handed it over. I assume I am now on some SFPD list as a likely gang member. Word.