Going to the Well Once Too Often

An empty well doesn’t necessarily mean it went dry. Maybe there was nothing in the well to begin with.

One of the day programs that serves individuals with developmental disabilities received an impromptu visit from a health inspector. I just happened to be in the building at the time of the inspection. I wondered what irony bestowed this chance encounter. Clipboard in hand, the female inspector approached the cluttered desk, where the center supervisor and I stood finishing up a conversation leading to nowhere.

“I’m here to test the well water.” The health inspector stated authoritatively.

“We will be only a couple more minutes.” informed the center supervisor. “Can you wait?”

The health inspector looked like she wanted to bail out of the situation and it would not have been all is well to end well. To make matters worse, the phone rang and it detained the center supervisor from dealing with either one of us. In a side conversation, I introduced myself to the female inspector making mention of someone I knew, who worked for her same employer. I tried to make small talk but she offered me a cold calculated silent treatment. In so many words, none, she was anti-social to a social worker. She offered nothing more than the acknowledgement that she, in fact, is a co-worker of the person I mentioned. The inspector adopted a disgusted look on her face as inquisitive developmentally disabled clients began to filter into the meeting room. She took a few steps backwards toward the door.

“I’m going to wait in the car.” she snorted cantankerously.

Only the well water could have been colder. I didn’t expect a standing ovation for mentioning someone we both knew, but she would have done Vanilla Ice’s song Ice Ice Baby proud. I thought her behavior was odd so I studied her quick retreat to her car. A couple of the clients infiltrated the room striking up speech-impaired conversation with me. Ever the inspector, she sat lumped in an idle car watching us finish the business at hand. She stared awkwardly through the big bay window as if we were fish in an aquarium. Only the aquarium water could have been colder.

Later that night, my relentless soul placed a call on the telephone to our mutual contact. I mentioned that I had met his unstylistic co-worker, who did not embrace the importance of first impressions.

He parleyed the bad vibes. “You did not leave a good impression with her either.”

“No way. What did she say?” I was perplexed by the categorization since I had been both friendly and inviting.

He reported secondhand what she concluded about me. It was recalled with pity and indifference to human life.

'I had no idea your friend has to work with a bunch of lousy tards.'

Tard is an archaic and offensive slang for retard. Evidently, she seemed put off that I was contributing to society. Oh, well. Inspectors of wells shouldn’t be dry of compassion.