ONE thing I can count on in this job is a steady stream of interesting people visiting my office. You might even call some of them wacky, although I would never do that because I value the way they force me out of my routine and help me see the world in new ways. I get some strange
but interesting visitorsI got a call this week from a guy who used to visit often but hasn't been by for quite awhile. It turns out the reason is that he's in prison.
The guy talks a mile a minute and uses a lot of big words. I couldn't understand from the message he left on my voice mail why he was in jail or what he wanted from me.
He's the same motor mouth in person. I've never been exactly sure what his cause is. I just nod politely and listen to him ramble on. I always considered him a nuisance who seemed to show up when I was busiest and least able to spare him the time.
Until one day he picked up the guitar I keep in my office and started playing some of the sweetest slack key I've ever heard. I was spellbound. The stress that had been building all day melted. The pile of paper I'd been working on started to take its proper perspective. When he left, I was refreshed with new focus.
And all because I was polite enough to give a few minutes to a guy who seemed a waste of time.
Some visitors are worth the time only for their amusement value. In the middle of the O.J. Simpson trial, I came back from lunch one day to find a woman waiting for me who said she was an FBI agent. It was easy to believe. She was nicely dressed for success in an conservative suit. She had the standard black FBI shades and an expensive leather briefcase. So I invited her into my office.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Did you know that Detective Mark Fuhrman used to work vice in Indianapolis at the same time Nicole Simpson and Marcia Clark were working as hookers there?" she replied.
"Thank you very much for coming in," I said, rising quickly and moving toward the door. "I'll be sure to pass your story on to one of our reporters."
"I've written the story myself," she said. "I'll sell it to you for $25,000."
I struggled for a polite way to get rid of her. "I know I'm shooting myself in the foot by saying this," I said, "but I'll bet the Advertiser would pay you $50,000 for that story. Let me give you their editor's name and show you where their newsroom is."
Some visitors are downright scary. A guy with intense eyes came in and closed the door behind him. I wondered if anybody would hear when he attacked me.
"You've got to help me," he said. "The government has implanted a radio transmitter in my head and is beaming me instructions to kill somebody. I don't know if I can stop myself."
THEN he opened the door and ran out. I was certain that he planned a murder and was setting me up as a witness to testify that he was crazy. He was the only visitor who ever scared me enough to alert the police.
He turned out to be harmless. He came back a few more times and we had fascinating conversations about the mechanics of how the government goes about wiring citizens' heads and beaming them orders. I think he went on to become a scriptwriter for "X-Files."
Sometimes these visitors seem a terrible burden of the job. But I keep going back to the guy with the guitar and realize that everybody has something to say worth listening to. Sometimes it just takes them awhile to find the right voice to speak with.