Monday, April 28, 2014

Mañana.

It's 9:30 a.m. on Monday and I'm making my usual trip from my office, down the elevator, across the lobby, down the stairs and across my employer's courtyard, and over to the cafeteria in the other building for some desperately needed coffee. The coffee is always desperately needed. 

On my way out I'm behind a guy, maybe mid-50ish, wearing a jean jacket, jeans, and a trucker hat. My shoes are quiet and he doesn't hear that I'm behind him. He opens the double door to the courtyard and half-holds it, not looking to see whether anyone is behind him. I say "thank you," and I mean it, because he really did hold the door, sort of, in the sense that he didn't let it slam on me. He casts a look behind him and then says "Oh! Sorry. Have to hurry ... [mumbling] ... these tourists are too slow..." I just laugh politely, not sure what he's talking about, and we both cross the courtyard.

He turns to me and snarls, "This town moves at full throttle, let me tell you." Grumpy. Not sure what everyone's in such a hurry about.

"I used to live in New York, and that's much worse," I said sympathetically.

"Oh? Well I'm from New Mexico. And there, mañana does not mean tomorrow." We reach the next set of doors and he opens them for me. "It's means I'll get to it when I can get to it."

I said, "I like that philsophy."

He scowled, "Not when it's bureaucrats," and muttered something else.

I went off to get my coffee and Mr. NM went off to find more things to hate about D.C.


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