Do you ever think about what the story of an average day in your life would sound like if you rephrased it to be as suspenseful and exciting as possible? Dull events become riveting. And interesting events become mindblowing adventures worthy of a movie script. With enough hyperbole and superlatives, anything can be fascinating.
For example, here's the true story of my last call shift.
Version Blah:
On Friday night around 7pm, I was called by the sales rep of a biologic membrane company, telling me that he had sent a package to the wrong hospital, and that I would need to figure out a way for that box to be picked up in the morning and brought over the the right delivery destination at our hospital. The graft membranes are delivered on ice so they're time sensitive, and they're pretty expensive, so it was important to get them to the right place over the weekend. In the morning, I called the hospital it had been sent to, made arrangements, then went and picked it up and drove it back to put it in the freezer in our clinic. The end.
Version Awesome: (in which I look like a supermodel, am dressed entirely in black action attire, and wear stiletto heels at all times)
It was an uneasy evening, too dark outside to be merely 7pm, when the sound of my secret agent pager pierced the chilly air. When I picked up the call, the trembling voice of a man named Bruce told me that he had had no other choice but to send the shipment to the dock across town instead of our previously-agreed destination. I thought I caught a trace of the sound of heavy, angry breathing in the background -- perhaps his captor, prompting him what to say, threatening his family if he didn't comply.
My mind spun, churning through the possible motives for Bruce to double-cross us. More importantly, I was working through a plan for intercepting that shipment before it was too late. Billions of pesos were at stake. I considered climbing up the exterior of the Cardinal Glennon hospital under the cover of darkness to break in and retrieve the package, but that would never work. The FedEx guy wouldn't arrive until 7:30am, and by that time of day the sun would be up and my cover would be blown. Perhaps if I strung a tightwire between the buildings. No. Thwarted again by the daylight delivery time. Similarly, laser beams and a smoke machine would likely fail, even if I did complicated gymnastics as part of the break-in process. I would have to rely on our network of internal covert operatives instead. I made a call on a secure line to "The Nurse." I can't divulge further details.
In the morning, I sped across town in a silver sports car, the engine roaring. In a hand-off coordinated down to the very second, The Nurse gave me the box the moment I arrived. In my hands, I held a human transplant, chilled with dry ice to keep it vital for a few brief hours. As I peeled out and tore onto the interstate, heading west toward safety, I knew that disaster had been averted, albeit only narrowly.
This was taken on one of the best mornings of my senior year of high school. The major project for our physics class was to build a boat entirely out of non-waxed cardboard (not even remotely waterproof) and Elmer's glue (deplorably water-soluble), which would sail two people for at least a half hour on a lake before dissolving to cardboardy mush and sinking them to a watery doom.
Dear Foil Packet of Cheap Shampoo,
Dear Texahoma,
Dear New Mexico Stuckey's Gift Shop,
