I’ve always been told I talk too much. When I’m wound up or worried, the words just come. Talking helps me sort things out, and it helps to have people who’ll humor me. That, I think, is love.
The barbershop is one of my favorite places to run my mouth. It’s a small, one-chair shop. The kind with senior gentlemen (AKA old farts) who like to talk. My daughter calls it “holding court.” I call it just another day.
The other day we were swapping stories about how unreliable young folks are (a favorite topic among us old farts). One man said he’d tried to hire a helper: forty-one applications, four interview promises, one no-show, and a grand total of zero employees who lasted. Oh, for the good old days!
I had to throw in my two cents. Back when I worked at Trident Tech, reliability was already an issue. It’s not just Gen Z, Gen X had its share too. Every manager I knew said the same thing: “If they’ll just show up and follow instructions, I can teach them the rest.”
Somewhere in all that talk, I started thinking about another time when a little well-placed BS paid off…
A long time ago, in 1976, in a galaxy far away, Scott Air Force Base, I was rapt in a discussion about something called the Airlift Service Industrial Fund — the ASIF. Nobody liked it or understood it. While others argued, I jotted down a few notes, charting how the airlift funding process worked. One of my big bosses, a high ranking civilian who knew more about airlift than anyone in the command, walked by and looked at my notes. He asked, “What’s that you’re writin, Scooler?”
“Just some notes about the ASIF process, sir,” I answered.
He stared at my notes. He then, literally, grabbed me by the collar and said, “Come with me and bring your notes.” I followed him into an inner sanctum I hadn’t seen before.
“General,” he said, “take a look at this.”
The general studied my notes. “Shee-it,” he said. “That’s the clearest explanation of this mess I’ve ever seen. Let’s clean it up and send it out.” Then he said, “Thanks, Captain… Shuler, right?”
“It’s Scooler, sir.” (Dummy. Not out loud, of course.)
That little sketch made its way across the command. Turns out, being able to put meaningful BS on paper can keep a career afloat.
And sometimes, it still pays.
After Lenny finished trimming the gray off my ears, I reached for my wallet. He waved me off. “One of your new friends wanted to pay for the vet,” he said. “Don’t tell him till I’m gone.”
So small talk and thirty years of practiced BS earned me a free haircut.
Maybe BS is my one enduring skill. It’s kept me working, laughing, and connected all these years.
Enuf.
