Attack of the Clipboard People

It’s summer in New York and like a flock of migratory birds, the clipboard people have descended on the city. They are popping up around every corner boards in hand, trying to engage me with guilt inducing questions such as, “Do you have just 30 seconds for the environment?” “Are you a registered…” And most recently, “Can I ask you how much you paid for that haircut?” And I have one of those faces, one of those very non-threatening faces and an unintimidating stature of 5 foot even to boot. Let me assure you, I have never been chosen out of a crowd for anything good in my life. I have never been a lucky audience member and was certainly always one of the last to be picked for teams in gym class.

But I have no doubt that even if I was heading down the street as a member of a 300 person marching band in uniform, that somehow the clipboard people would spot me as an easy mark and pull me right out of rank by the plume. Most times when they catch my eye I smile sheepishly at them, mumble something unintelligible, and quicken my pace so as to give the impression that I am off to perform a very important and complicated brain surgery and that time is of the essence.

I must say, even though I would approximate the average CBP age at oh about 23, those clip boards do lend them a certain air of authority and superiority. I feel as if these magic boards give the holder the ability to see into my soul and know about the time I accidentally left the air conditioning running in my apartment before going on vacation, or the one fall semester at college when I forgot to mail in my absentee ballot. Maybe it is their age or the tenor of the opening questions that seem to assume off the bat I am an apolitical polluting waste of a human being, but I can’t help but be annoyed by their presence. In fact, I think they have helped me lose a little weight as now when I see them at a distance I will walk miles out of my way to avoid them.

So I have to ask myself the question, “But why do they bother me so much?” When these young whippersnappers approach me on the last leg of my commute and I am exhausted and hungry and wondering whether when I get home I will have anything besides mustard and maraschino cherries in my refrigerator to eat for dinner, it makes me want to yell at their fresh bright undergraduate faces, “Isn’t it enough? Isn’t it enough that I work every day and pay my bills on time and always call my friends on their birthdays? What else do you people want from me?”

I guess the clipboard people bring up a question that I often try to distract myself from with everyday concerns and that is “what else do I want from me?” When I was in college I took for granted that I would be working my job while simultaneously writing the great American novel, and being active in multiple causes that were important to me. But now after a few years of working hard, paying NYC rent, and fighting cold winters, I pat myself on the back for merely getting by and make excuses as to why I can’t be expected to take care of my own problems and worry about the problems of the world. I don’t want these pesky reminders of social responsibility during my carefree summer days. Part of me is indignant and wants to hotly insist it is time for rooftop drinks and open-toed shoes, not weighty issues that require I re-examine my whole lifestyle.

But deep down I know that if say Socrates was here, (a la Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure) that old gadfly would stop and talk to the clipboard people to hear what they had to say before running off for a smattering of hemlock. And I also think of my father. When I was growing up no matter who called our house: salesperson, survey taker, or political campaign worker, my father would talk to them. Whenever I answered the phone and I would cover the receiver and ask him “Do you want me to say you are not here?” his answer was always “No, I will talk to them.” And he would. He would answer their questions about his radio listening habits, he would tell them who he was voting for and why, and he would explain politely that he was 30 years out of school and had no need to refinance his college loans at that point in time.

And so with all this in mind and with you all as my witnesses, I am resolved that the next time I am approached by a clipboard person (in fact, I think I see one approaching now) I will say “yes, I do have 30 seconds for INSERT CAUSE HERE” and find out what socially conscientious thing I could have done for the amount I paid to have my hair washed, cut, and colored.