Damn Nuisance

"Please come and get this Damn Nuisance," she said. Her normally pleasant voice was clipped and a little strained. And this was a dame who could handle a DMX phone system with 82 lines ringing at once. In the background I could hear Stan, the security guard, saying something about putting the skateboard down and standing still.

I went down and retrieved DN. He was 13, maybe 14, dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts made for a person at least twice his size. His feet were covered with a pair of clown shoes, which I later discovered were the latest in sport shoe wear. Sections of his hair were spiked up, but did not seem to have been gelled; other sections were flattened down. He looked like an unmade bed. Sometimes the old clichés are the best ones.

We entered the elevator. DN seemed unfazed by his collar — Security Guy Stan is low key, for a lawman. DN passed the time by humming some tune I didn’t recall, and moving his body to its swinging beat.

I checked my notebook for questions.

QuestionLady: So, DN, what’s your favorite color?
(This seemed to be the wrong question. I thought so as soon as the words left my lips. DN, still humming, looked at me blankly.)

Damn Nuisance: What kind of question is that? I thought you were going to ask me some good questions, not some girl magazine crap.

I looked back at my notebook.

QL: Right. Gotcha. This is my set of questions for angst girrrl and stuffed animal chick. (I flipped through the notebook, nothing seemed to click. The elevator stopped and we headed to my office. My notes seemed to have vanished, so now I would have to wing it.) What’s it like being the Damn Nuisance?

DN: I’m not the only Damn Nuisance. There’s plenty of us. I’m just the one the Central Office sent to talk to you.

QL: Oh, then, why were you sent?

DN: The Central Office is pretty busy. Summer is a peak season for us Damn Nuisances. There were only four of us in the office at the time you scheduled. One of us had to work on his lawnmower — he has a gig tomorrow at dawn and had to make sure the motor was able to provide the maximum decibel level. One of us had to be in the supermarket express lane over the lunch hour and she had to stop to get quarters at the bank. Besides, it takes her a long time to fill up two carts of groceries. And the dog who poops in people’s yards doesn’t talk, so that left me.

DN flopped down onto the two chairs that sit in front of my desk. He removed the clown shoes, providing me with ample proof that, although the shoes are huge, they are just big enough to contain DN’s feet. The humming continued.

QL: Ok, next question. Why do you do these things? And stop humming, please!

DN: What? What’d I do? What humming?

The humming must come from some part of the brain below DN’s threshold of awareness. Too bad it wasn’t below mine. I thought longingly of the bottle of Dr. Pepper that rested in my lower right hand desk drawer.

QL: Um, you were skateboarding in the lobby. By the way, Stan will give you back the skateboard on your way out.

DN: It’s a big lobby; I wasn’t bothering anyone.

QL: Yes, you were. The noise alone was driving the receptionist crazy, not to mention it is hard to concentrate on answering the phone when someone is performing skateboard moves on the reception desk. I’d use the slang term for that, if I knew it.

DN: Slang is for wannabes.

QL: Isn’t that slang, ‘wannabe’?

DN: Yeah.

I pause, but he doesn’t seem to have any more to say about that.

QL: When I skateboarded, all the moves had the same name.

DN showed faint signs of interest. Very faint. But it didn’t stop his humming.

DN: It was no big deal. Jeez, make a big deal out of having a little fun.

This guy was harder than I had bargained for.

QL: I don’t care, really, where you skateboard, but you’re known as a DN, and that’s why I’m interviewing you.

DN: Ah, people are too tight-ass, that’s all it is. I’m not doing anything that’ll hurt anybody.

QL: Except, maybe, yourself.

(Security Guy Stan used to work with the syndicate. He’s not a man to double-cross. But what did I care? Neither Stan nor DN were on my payroll.)

DN: What’s that supposed to mean?

QL: Nothing, nothing at all.

DN: Hey, can I use your computer again before I go? Your Internet connection is better than mine at home.

QL: No.

I handed the guy his Big Drink and the clown shoes, and ushered him out of my office and into the elevator. The elevator started its decent; I called Security Guy Stan and gave him the heads up. I didn’t hear back, so I guess Stan was OK with that.

I went back to my office, picked up the mess, and sat back in my chair. I poured myself a shot of Dr. Pepper. DN was gone. For now. He’d be back. I knew it. The baseball cap in my file cabinet could prove it. And also explained DN’s unusual hairstyle.