For years I’ve worked high traffic customer service jobs. This, combined with a tendency towards obsessive behaviors, has led me to a worry that’s bordering on pathological.
I’m worried about you.
I’ve seen you casually texting on, letting your kids sit on, running up on, blocking people on, and on, and on…the escalator.
You’re stressing me out.
If I had a choice of which character from a Kevin Smith movie to emulate I would chose the talented, sexually secure, way too good for Ben Affleck anyway Alyssa from Chasing Amy.
But here I am stuck being Brodie from Mallrats. Screaming at you to get your damn kid off the escalator.
Three years ago the staff newsletter at my job was left in the care of someone apprehensive about the added responsibility.
Unsure if he had enough potential writers he emailed me.
What sort of topics would I be interested in writing about?
I sent back an outline on escalator safety.
He responded that he would probably just let the newsletter fold.
I’m sure it didn’t hurt as much as the person whose hands I had to keep away from their face until the paramedics arrived, after they took hard fall down the middle of an escalator. Smashing their glasses and wedging the right lens firmly into their cheek.
But it did hurt.
I had been pitching various periodicals and attempting to gather injury stats from large venues for about nine months.
Stats are not easy to get. I was told there were privacy concerns. I suspect it’s more “legality concerns”.
And the periodicals were unanimous in their lack of interest.
After causing the staff newsletter to fold I texted my coworker Krishna about the challenges pitching this article.