Longtime readers of this modest waystation off the information superhighway – at least until the FCC shuts it down under its new Net Neutrality BS – know I am fond of dashing off down rabbit holes, eventually somehow tying assorted musings and whatnot into NASCAR. Keeps things interesting.
Anyway, we all have days during which you wonder why you are where you are.
Earlier this week – Tuesday, to be precise – was not one of them.
I was at my retail gig doing my customer service manager thing (translation: keeping the cashiers in order). I freely confess there have been a few moments in said scenario where I’ve been sorely tempted to, shall we say, speak the truth in love to a few people. But I’ve kept it restrained.
Around 3:30 that afternoon, a customer came into the store holding a clutch purse containing a phone, car keys and ID. She had found it outside by a planter. I thanked her and held on to it, figuring the owner was either in the store, or would be shortly, looking for it.
A short time later, a sheriff came in to buy some marbles for his son’s Boy Scouts project. I mentioned the wallet. He replied that before he’d leave the shopping center, he’d make the rounds to see if he could locate its owner.
Fast forward a few minutes, when a young woman came in looking for me. It was her wallet. I gave it to her. She started crying. I’d seen this reaction before when something vital had been found – customer forgetting their purse, etc – so I figured that was all there was to it.
She had mislaid the wallet because she was distraught. Understandably so, for she was newly entered into the unfortunate fellowship. Her Dad had just passed away.
The young woman was 21.
I spent the next several minutes doing what I was supposed to, namely comforting her. We talked. I gave her a leisurely store tour in a wheelchair (she was in no condition to walk around), doing my best to give her some relief. When she said she was composed enough to drive home, I brought her back to the front of the store and told her if she ever needed to talk, come by anytime. She thanked me.
I’m thinking it’s safe to say that is why I was there more so than approving returns and calling for backup cashiers.
And now back to NASCAR. This weekend, the truckers, channel surfers and Cupsters head to Hampton … er, Atlanta Motor Speedway, where the only thing faster than the cars is the rate at which Atlanta loses NHL teams to Canada.
Atlanta is a super but not quite superdeedooper speedway, meaning tons of speed, usually pretty dull races and more often than not insanely exciting finishes. Mash the pedal, stay away from the sour mash being handed around the infield, and go. It’s like restrictor plate racing minus the restrictor plate and, thankfully, the pack. The weather forecast is for moderate (a high of fifty degrees of grey clouds as opposed to fifty shades of gray, which no one in the garage will admit seeing) temperatures throughout the weekend, translating into plenty of grip save for Sunday where afternoon showers could make for plenty of slip.
Atlanta isn’t entirely about how fast you can go, but it’s the biggest part of the racing equation, thus the usual suspects (coughhendrickcough) figure to have the upper hand. Ignoring the obvious fifty shades of gray joke, as the track rubbers up the speeds go down, which given the Saturday doubleheader of XFINITY followed by trucks should translate into whoever is leading the truck race getting passed by the pace car if there’s a late caution … without having let off the gas.
Enjoy the weekend, everyone.