SOMEBODY WATCHING

Does it make you weird if you do little, pattern behaviors in certain situations? I count things; can’t remember when it started but in the classroom, before I took attendance I counted heads. How many kids in their seats! I count birds on a wire and people in a room.  When I was an usher at church and they needed a head count, I was the guy. I count steps on stairs, up or down, either way. It seems odd numbered steps on flights of stairs outnumber the evens. I catch myself counting hammer strokes while driving nails. I wonder if it’s anything like animal instinct, like dogs turning in a circle before they lie down. Some of it does require thought. In the army, OMG, that long ago: a fellow ‘Grunt’, I remember his name, George Hicks from rural South Carolina. Not that I go out of my way to malign Southerners or even poke fun but George processed information, one synapse at a time. I suspect that would be true no matter his home state. I do have a thing about Southern culture and southerners but that bias doesn’t belong in this story.  Leading up to Christmas, the library at the service club did a promotion where they conducted video interviews with soldiers and sent them to the subject’s local television station as a holiday, public service. George did that but they rejected his interview and he got in trouble with the 1st Sergeant for it.  When asked about his role in the company’s mission he told the host that his job was to be the first one over the hill, the first one killed in action. He would not change his story and they sent him on his away.  His version was probably an unvarnished truth but certainly not acceptable for a Christmas greeting.  George once told me that right handed people always put their socks and boots on, the right one first and left last, that they can’t help it. From that day on, I put on anything and everything that had a left and a right, left first and right last.  At first (1960) I did it on purpose but it didn’t take long before it was patterned. Since then if the first glove out of my pocket doesn’t work on my left hand, I tuck it under my arm without a thought and fish out the other one. If I pick up the right shoe first, I put it back and start over. Now, I find it both funny and depressing that George Hicks is still pushing my buttons. I cross my t’s from right to left. I’m told that is weird, against all the rules of ergonomics and left to right penmanship but there you go. It doesn’t stop there. I am a spitter. Must be a recessive gene and I would have to reconstruct my childhood to find the root but spitting is as much a part of me as the spit itself. The first thing I do when I step outside, day or night, hot or cold is to look for an unobstructed avenue to purge a salivary surplus. Civilized as I am, that pattern behavior is divided into several sequenced elements and the volley can be suppressed if caught in time. It’s a boy thing I suspect, like picking your nose. My mom was like a hawk, redirecting my fingers away from the middle of my face.  You learn over time; when you notice the hand moving that way it’s easy to change course and stroke your chin or smooth an eyebrow. I often pinch my nose and readjust my glasses but sometimes you are just too late. As a little kid I had a great role model for nose blowing.  When I get caught now I blame it all on him. Thumb and index finger pinch off the nostrils and a blowgun shot under a raised elbow was skillful as Derek Jeter turning a double play. The old master never blew into his handkerchief.  That was for tidying up.  You didn’t want to be a bugger face and if you use your fingers, you would have to wipe them off on something else.  So you did maintenance with the handkerchief, folded it up and wadded it into a back pocket. I can still make the under the elbow shot but I do look first to see if someone’s watching.