March 15, 2020

Three Eighths

My friend Steven travels a lot for work and pleasure—mostly golf. He has the habit, tradition, ritual, of writing an email blog to a legion of supporting friends and family any time he takes a trip outside of Toronto. Sometimes it is from halfway across the world, sometimes just up the road in Muskoka. His emails are often very funny. Sometimes, even on purpose.

Much of his emails usually concern how much he paid, or did not pay, for something: flights, hotel rooms, rental cars, rounds of golf. He derives considerable pleasure out of getting a good deal. But even more from getting the best possible deal. I think it is much too facile to call him cheap or frugal. Best to say he has an uncomfortable and complicated relationship with money. He also reveres, I don't think it is too strong a word, fairness. He might be the most honest and honourable person I know. But why should he pay $299 if that other person paid $199?

That doesn’t seem fair.

I should point out he is, despite outward appearances, a very generous friend. Rounds of golf and meals at his country club are offered often and without restrictions.

He is just not very generous with himself.

Sometimes the generosity is intertwined with the fairness.

He and our mutual friend Alan were visiting me in Florida. He took full advantage of the weather—playing 45 holes one day and 27 the other. He badgered me about what he and Alan could get me to show their appreciation other than taking me out for dinner. I told him I didn’t need anything and it was my pleasure. He said he knows I didn't need anything but he still wanted to get me something. We were watching a college basketball game at the time so I said I would love a Gonzaga t-shirt. Large. He said a sweatshirt is nicer. I said great. He took out his credit card, I made sure not to look directly at it for fear of being blinded, asked for my address and postal code and bought one online.

Dinner was at Capital Grill. We invited our afternoon golf partner, my friend Phil. Steve calls him Florida Phil because he has a friend in Montreal also called Phil. Three of us had delicious steak. Steve, who eats kosher for reasons he is not entirely able to explain although there is sometimes mention of Pascal’s Wager, had salmon.

The mashed potatoes were delicious.

The bill came.

The three of them whipped out their credit cards.

I again averted my eyes. Twice in one day was risky.

Then Steve explained to the waiter how he wanted it divided. Pointing to Phil he said:

“A quarter on his card and three eighths each on the other two.”

3/8.

In his eyes, he and Alan were taking me out for dinner. Phil shouldn’t have to participate. So this was the fairest and most equitable split.

They ended up splitting in three ways.

I love that three eighths story. That describes Steve to a tee.

I actually feel bad writing about the three eighths story because it deprives Steve of the opportunity to write about it himself. Unfortunately, his wife (for reasons which are entirely correct) has put a temporary embargo on his blogs. So his pen is on the DL.

I, however, am not encumbered by any marital edicts and feel I should, continuing the baseball metaphor, fill in as a designated hitter.

I think he would have told the coat story.

I should mention he told us this story while we were playing pickleball. So it came in fits and spurts. Am not sure I have all the details nor the ability to match the flourish in which he told it between repeatedly hitting overheads into the net. As I am writing this I realize he will not be very happy with my version as it will be both expurgated and edited and will no doubt leave out portions which he considers not only salient but vital. Here is the gist. He was flying from Canada to the United States. In the security line, he was instructed to use hand sanitizer. Which he applied diligently and correctly. As nothing is more important to him than expediency, he is set up with NEXUS for speedy entry. Unfortunately, the NEXUS machine rejects his fingerprint. It prints out a form that shows no entry. So he then goes, oh the humanity, to the regular line. He shows the officer the form. The officer says, “Did you use hand sanitizer?” Steven says, “Yes. I was instructed to.” The officer says, “There’s your problem. You can’t use hand sanitizer before using the NEXUS machine. It blurs the results.” Steve says, “There literally is a person at the front of the line telling us to use hand sanitizer.” The officer says, “I don’t know what to tell you. It blurs the results.” Steve says okay and then makes his way to the gate. When he gets to the gate he realizes he has forgotten his winter coat on the other side.

As I mentioned, when Steve told me and Al this story we were playing pickleball. But at this point in the telling, I stop playing and just stand off to the side by the net with my pickleball racquet in my hand. I stop playing because I have understood the story is about to get good. Back in the day, when Steve was single, he would regale us with stories of his dating escapades during our monthly poker games. But if he started a sentence with “I went out with this woman last Saturday,” whoever was dealing would just stop, not a card would fly or chip tossed into the pot, until the story was told.

Anyway, that is only to say, I stopped playing so I could concentrate.

Steve finds someone of authority to speak to and explains he has left his coat on the Canadian side of the airport. He then goes on to explain, at length, it was likely because of the whole hand sanitizer debacle. The person of authority says, “In order to get your coat, you are going to have to re-enter the country and go through Canadian customs.” Steve says okay. The person of authority says, “What time is your flight?” Steve tells her. She says, “You won’t make it on time.” Steve says, “I have NEXUS.” She says, “You won’t make it on time.” Steve says, “I would like to try.” She says, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll book you on the later flight just in case.”

I retrieve a pickleball which has trickled to my feet and toss it to Steve. I say, “Let me ask you this. Did you have a wallet or keys in the coat?”

He says no.

Goes without saying I would not have gone back for a coat.

But this is his story, not mine. I’m just the designated hitter.

He re-enters Canada. He goes through customs. They ask him how long he had been out of the country. He says, “30 minutes.” The customs agent laughs and says this happens all the time. Then he turns around and goes through security again, but this time does not follow instructions and declines the hand sanitizer. He then goes to NEXUS where there is no line but the machine again spews out a no-entry paper and now he goes back, for a second time, to the regular line, which is much longer, and ends up with the same customs officer. Steve says, “Remember me? I was here about an hour ago,” and explains about his coat. The custom officer asks if he had keys or his wallet in his coat and Steve says no (full disclosure: the customs officer didn’t actually say that but I think it is funnier this way and I have now invested quite a lot of time in telling this story so I feel I have earned this slight edit). The officer waves him through.

So Steve gets back to the American side, coat in hand, with minutes to spare, and then sees the person of authority who informs him the flight has been delayed by an hour.

It is a good story. Alan and I enjoy it.

Steve writes his travel blogs on his BlackBerry. Usually late at night before going to bed. Sometimes there is a common theme which runs through them. This time, I think he would have written about how he and Alan were flying home on the same flight and much time was spent deciding when they would leave for the airport. Alan likes to get there early. Steve wants to try to get as many holes of golf in as possible before leaving. They reach a compromise. Although Steve is not really thrilled about the compromise. They leave much earlier than he wanted. Steve texts me from the airport.

The flight is delayed an hour.

Delayed flights would have been the common theme of his travel blog.

I think I did yeoman’s work. But then, the next night, I receive a midnight text from him.

“Are you up?”

I say I am.

A few minutes later, my phone rings.

Steve likes to text and email. I can count on one hand the number of times we speak on the phone in a year.

He skips the formalities.

“Can you go into the room I was staying and open the top drawer in the dresser?”

I say, “Hold on.”

The drawer is full of stuff.

I tell Steve.

“The drawer is full of stuff.”

He says, “I know. I can’t believe I forgot it. It would make a nice bookend to the coat story.”

Steve isn’t writing his travel blog and, at this point has no idea I am going to be a designated hitter. I have no idea I am going to be a designated hitter. But he’s right, it is a nice bookend to the coat story. The common theme is now things he forgot.

He says, “Can you tell me what is in the drawer and I will tell you what I want you to Fedex back.”

So I go through every item. Steve says yes to every single one.

“Photocopy of an article about last week’s Torah portion?”

“Sure, throw it in.”

“Map of downtown Boston?”

“Yeah, why not.”

I don’t throw out one thing.

Steve now wants to give me his credit card to pay for the Fedex. I say it is fine. We have an account. He insists. I say it is fine.

I box up the items and bring them to Fedex.

A week later I receive a US money order from Steve.

It is for $22.55.

The end.