The Pickle
When I was an undergraduate at Western Connecticut State University, I did a lot of off-road things for course credit--attending the Yeats Summer School in Sligo, Ireland; working as a volunteer for a Cork-based charity serving the needs of children caught in the crossfire of political conflict in Northern Ireland; pursuing independent study on Irish authors, for some examples--that absolutely baffled the little old lady working in the registrar’s office. Although my pile of paperwork documented the course requirements my a la carte learning adventures covered, she put everything down as an elective. Then, when I was a senior, I got the form letter telling me I had not met course requirements to graduate.
I had copies of all my paperwork, so it all came down to circling the wagons with the English Department and my adviser to solve the problem. But it was maddening as hell, and I was mad as hell.
During these years of going to college and living home, Dad and I would go out for Sunday breakfast and shoot the breezes for hours at a time. We have our favorite places and favorite orders, and the waitresses knew to keep the coffee coming while we yarned away those mornings.
I remember lamenting the situation with the registrar over one of these morning meals. Dad replied, “It’s like the damned pickle.”
“What pickle?”
“The one in the middle of every g*******d McDonald’s hamburger that nobody ever wants. You have to take your hamburger apart to get rid of that thing. Everyone does it. It tastes like s***t. But you go and try to tell the kid working behind the counter that you don’t want that g*******d pickle, and you’ll shut down the whole system.”
[My blank face awaits clarification. I had not been aware of this pickle situation up to now.]
“People don’t know how to deal with things that are different, that make them think. So you have to deal with your own pickle. Every time.”
“Got it, Dad.”
“It’ll work out. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
That was Dad: You’re bigger than the people busting your chops. Remember that.
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