Boredom bites. Now wait. Don’t be offended. I truly I don’t know what “bites” means in the vernacular. Is it considered a “bad” word? It sort of sounds bad, right?
Anyway, I think boredom bites. It’s aptly defined as “tedium,” and also defined as “ennui” which I always thought was that whitish, long-leafed vegetable people grow in their basements in buckets of sand so they can chop it into their salads. Bitter? Believe it. Ennui is really bad stuff.
But no. My husband “Mongo” has advised me in that tone that the veggie is called “endive,” which he pronounces “ahn-DEEV,” and that boredom is called “ennui” which he says is pronounced “ahn-WEE.” Whatever.
But back to boredom. It can rot the insides straight out of you, and can hit anytime; at certain relative’s homes, at all piano recitals, in the company of certain individuals (and you know who you are,) at most operas, on lots of dates, and at every commencement exercise.
I’d like to tell you what I think have to be two of the most boring jobs on this planet. The first is where people hold up the signs at road construction sites that say “slow” and “stop.” Those people just can’t be paid enough. There they stand all day in the worst of weather, and all they have to look forward to is when they can twist that sign from an adverb to a verb.
These bored, dedicated people, because they’re so heavily sedated from gas fumes, noise and dust clouds, understandably sometimes confuse the “slow” with the “stop.”
I saw it happen. The slow/stop guy was drowsily chatting with a crony, a tankard of coffee in one hand. Cars were approaching from both sides, the man had the sign flat against his ample belly and was leaning on it, so that all the oncoming drivers could see was the sign’s edge.
Cars honked, jerked, bucked and screeched. So did the drivers. The sign man turned to glare, clearly aggravated at being interrupted from his social discourse.
And then, glancing angrily at the cars coming toward him in a gathering wall of steel, noise and raging honks, he placed his hand playfully against his lips, eyebrows up, yelled “Oooops!” turned the sign so the drivers could see the word, looked down at it, said “Oooops!” again and flipped it around to the other side.
But hey, who’s to judge? That’s got to be one of the all-time stupefying jobs, and I for one salute these people for doing them.
The second example of ennui? That would be your museum guard. I think when they first take on the job, they’re maybe excited to be guarding great works of art, ancient bones or antediluvian treasures. Whatever. But how long can that last?
Soon, even with their walkie-talkies squawking horribly, they shuffle silently through the halls like zombies, never even glancing at the hoard and praying someone will step too close to an exhibit so they can mercifully break their boredom and say, “stand back, please.”
I saw a guard in full museum regalia protecting some extremely famous paintings in a very crowded Boston museum once. He stood ramrod straight and tall against a doorframe, and I had to know where the lady’s room was and I needed to know pretty promptly. I looked up into the guard’s blue eyes and asked directions. Nothing. The guy was like one of the Greek statues on the second floor.
“Sir! Will you please tell me … I just gotta know where …”
And then — oh no! My blood turned to tomato juice. The guy was dead!
Rigor mortis! He was standing rigidly upright up against that doorframe, eyes wide open. I approached, my shaking hand reaching out. Then oh, to my shuddering relief, I discovered I did not have to touch his deadness, because I saw he was breathing deeply and evenly. The upright, wide-eyed museum guard was astonishingly sound asleep! I found the lady’s on my own.
Another guard I watched in another museum talked endlessly to anyone who came in. Some people kept up polite eye contact and, thus, never saw the displays. Others glared at him and backed off, but the poor man, bored to desperation, chattered the ears off all the museum visitors. So eager was he for conversation and distraction, he interpreted every display in torturous, interminable detail and never noticed when his thoroughly dulled-out audience had backed away, and vanished.
Guarding museum treasures is an important job and worthy, and I also salute these people for safeguarding our nation’s stash. In my opinion though, all of these jobs cause severe endive, and they just truly bite.
LC Van Savage is a Brunswick writer.
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