Summer is a dangerous time in Seattle. The days are achingly
long and the unobstructed sunshine fills everybody with a thrilling energy that
makes one believe that nothing, really, is impossible.
I am fairly certain that it’s been scientifically proven that
this season is particularly treacherous for the young and single, something
about the UV rays making normally sensible heads think silly thoughts. Combine
that with the intoxicating smell of salt water and leafed-out deciduous trees
and properly cautious girls such as me feel like they can fly.
It was one of those
summer days, and I was at work. But don’t mourn for me; work was absolutely
where I wanted to be. I was home from college and had through some miracle
landed (pun sort of intended) employment at the airport. Working for an
international air cargo company was surprisingly enjoyable, but by far the most
stimulating part of the job was my intriguing and (dare I say?) very attractive
boss (whom I was secretly desperately in love with).
The workday was winding down when that same very attractive
boss gave me a final task that I should have implored him to reassign to
someone else: “Brittany Joy, call London and find out why the flight to Milan
is cancelled.”
Despite being a “language person” I am entirely baffled by
English variations, and have to turn on the subtitles to just about every movie
filmed in Great Britain. But that dazzling Seattle sun and a striking pair of
blue eyes blinded me to my weakness, and I was overwhelmed with a desire to awe
that very attractive boss with my stunning competence.
I should have run away and hidden. Instead, I reached for
the phone.
“Yes.” The Brit who answered the phone already sounded
bothered (Americans sound annoyed, English people sound bothered).
“Oh, yes. I’m calling
from Seattle. Could you please tell me why the flight to Milan is cancelled?”
“It’s because of the
stohme.” Impatient. Why is this American wasting my time?
“The stohme?”
“Yes, the stohme.”
“The stohme? The
stohme?” I scrawl “STOHME????” on a sheet of paper and wave it wildly at my
coworkers.
“The stohme!”
Bewildered silence, as I debate my next move and he
contemplates how Seattle could have hired such an imbecile.
I open my mouth to ask if he would please spell “stohme” for
me, but instead manage to get out, “Thank
you, good bye.” I hear the dial
tone before I even finish.
Quite an audience had gathered for my performance, and I
held up my paper in bewilderment. “He said it’s cancelled because of the
stohme! What on earth is a stohme?”
They stared at me, disbelieving, and an incredulous coworker
answered, “The STORM, Brittany. They have British accents!”
My mortification was instantaneous and thorough. But there
was hope of salvation; maybe he hadn’t- no, there he was, guffawing and shaking
his head. Despite my humiliation, I was
able to appreciate the irony: I am truly not an idiot, so why was this man that
I so very much wanted to impress always around to witness my less than shining
moments?
Hostility seemed like the best way to approach the
situation, so I glared my deepest glare at one and all and sternly asserted
that I would never call London again.
My extremely attractive boss turned out to be extremely sensible
too; it was summer in Seattle, a dangerous time, and London could wait.
