When I was at university I worked in a bookshop, and one of the ways in which we coerced people into buying more books was by offering them a membership card. Many stores and companies do this: The customer gets a membership card, and every time they make a purchase at the store they collect points. Every month, or every quarter, these points are added up and the customer gets vouchers and discounts to use at the store. The more money they spend at the store, the more points they collect, and the more rewards they win. Generally speaking, the membership cards for my bookstore were blue. Early versions of the card were slightly more purple, and later versions where slightly darker, but overall they were blue.
It was drilled into us at the store that we had to ask each customer if they had a membership card. The question became robotic, but it was a useful tactic. Sometimes customers would forget to produce their card when making a purchase, or would be too lazy to fish it out of their purses. But the question would encourage them to search for their card, or, if they didn’t have one, it would encourage them to sign up for one.
The bookstore was quite a popular chain, and almost every single customer who made a purchase had one of these membership cards. In the years that I worked there, I must have seen thousands of versions of that card. I became so accustomed to seeing it that at first glance I could immediately tell whether it was old or new; or whether it was used often or hardly at all. The most surprising effect of constantly checking people’s membership cards was how quickly I was able to identify one in a crowded wallet. On quite a few occasions, a customer would open up a messy wallet and I’d spot the card instantly. The sight of it would positively jump right out at me. The customer, meanwhile would look forlornly at all the membership cards, business cards, family photos, old receipts, and bits of cash cluttering the wallet. They would rummage for a few seconds before declaring “I don’t think I have it with me” or “I think it’s in here somewhere, but I’m not going to look for it now.” Then I would lean forward and say, “Sorry, miss, but I believe it’s that card there.”
I firmly believe that everything – everything – gets better through practice. Continuous physical exercise builds muscle. Forcing yourself to speak a new language will help you to learn it faster. Sketching every day will noticeably improve your artistic ability. The same goes for looking for things. The more often you look for something, the better you will become at identifying it and understanding it. This applies to observing people too.
A few years ago, I was sitting at a tea garden with two very close friends. I was living in Chile at the time, and whenever I think of Chile I think of Sinduja and Eileen. When I wasn’t with Sinduja, I was with Eileen, and when I wasn’t with Eileen I was with Sinduja. These were my people, and I trusted them and loved them with all my heart. I still do, in fact.
On this specific afternoon, Sinduja and Eileen were both with me at the same time – something which didn’t often happen. We’d ordered tea, and sandwiches, and were commenting on how delightful the venue was. We walked past it quite often, we said, but we hardly ever went it. It was a bit pricey, but the food was interesting and of good quality. Sinduja spoke favorably about her sandwich, and went on to say, “It could do with more palta though.”
“Palta” is the word that Chileans use for “avocado.” I think it’s used in some other Spanish speaking countries as well, but as far as I know it’s not all that common outside Chile.
Sinduja had just finished making her comment when I shifted in my seat. Eileen, who was sitting to my right, looked directly at me and said, “Alright, what is it?”
Immediately understanding Eileen’s meaning, Sinduja flicked her gaze to my face, rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, here it comes.”
That was the moment that I understood just how deeply I was loved by these two wonderful people. You see, Dear Reader, I had thought of a joke, and my friends knew it even before I did. The instant the joke came into my brain, Eileen and Sinduja noted the subtle changes in my face and posture. To this day I have no idea what it was that made them aware of my thought process. To my knowledge I never pulled a face or a pose before making a quip, but somehow my friends had seen it coming a mile away. They had spent so much time with me, noticing me, that my actions were as familiar to them as the sight of a membership card was to me.
I was dumbstruck. “How did you know?” I said.
“You just get this look in your eye every time you’re about to make a joke,” said Eileen.
Sinduja corroborated. “Yeah your face kinda changes slightly. I don’t know what it is.”
They were smiling as they explained this, and I was grinning like an idiot. Inside I was positively beaming because what they were saying to me was that I mattered to them, and I think that that is such a beautiful thing to find with another person, let alone two.
Eventually I got my giggles under control, leaned forward, and said to Sinduja, “I guess you could say your sandwich… falta mas palta.”
It was not a very good joke. It’s not even a joke at all; it’s just a silly rhyme. In fact it is hardly worth repeating, ever. But the circumstances under which I uttered it make it one of my very favourite jokes.
There is no higher form of flattery that a friend who gets to know you inside and out. I was sad – achingly sad – to leave Sinduja and Eileen when I moved to Korea. I never thought I’d be loved in quite the same way ever again. No one will ever replace them, but my heart did find a certain amount of peace earlier this year when I was on a subway with Riley, Sarah, and Jenna. This time around, I can’t remember the joke, but I still remember being about to speak, and the look on all of their faces, their half smiles, their affectionate head shakes, and Riley, rolling her eyes, saying, “Just say it.”
The Hangul Games 