Dear Dr Particle

# 1. Vacuum Cleaners

Dear Dr Particle,

I am a law student who works in fast food. We buy oil in 44-gallon drums. That stuff gets in my clothes, my hair, my skin and I smell like 3-day old fried onion all the time.

Yuucch.

Dear Yuucch,

Many years ago, when I was studying for my Doctorate in Urban Morality and Interference, tuition fees were not as unaffordable as they are now but I was still required to make a sizable up-front contribution.

Fortunately a position suddenly became available at a vacuum cleaner showroom – a flamboyant title for a shop roughly the size and shape of a generous broom-cupboard.

Besides an antiquated cash-register, the shop contained several boxes of the surprisingly few vacuum cleaner models in stock as well as an assortment of vacuum bags in packets of five resting on pegs just out of the customers’ reach.

In the actual storage area out the back, there was a selection of smaller items; steam mops, handivacs and car-vacs that were only permitted to be brought out if a customer was on the precipice of purchase and such an item would tip them over the edge.

One week into the job and I was starting to see why my predecessor had left for her lunchbreak and never returned.

At best the pace was glacial.

I had read the manuals for all the vacuums and learned all the specifications by heart but my boss, Mr Dressell, who had been in vacuum cleaners a staggering thirty years, wouldn’t allow me to study when the shop was empty. I had to stand in the centre of the floor looking as though selling a vacuum cleaner to the next customer was the very thing I was put on this earth for – that nothing gave me greater joy or satisfaction.

The only concession Mr Dressell had was; every time a customer jokingly said, ‘Does it suck?’, ‘I bet it really sucks’ or something of that nature, I could tally it up and if I reached ten times in one day, I could have the rest of the day off. It had to be different customers though. So if one customer said, ‘Oh boy, does this suck, heheh. Does it suck? It really sucks.’ I got nothing. Not the rest of the day off or the rest of my life in therapy which is where this thing was heading.

I soon developed a deep contempt for the vacuum-buying public. Faith in appliances notwithstanding, I discovered their expectations of vacuum-cleaners bordered on the ridiculous. It took some effort to convey to people that although vacuum cleaners are designed to assist with cleaning, they are not intelligent; you still have to make decisions for them. For example. This plastic lid is too wide to go through this hole. Similarly, that rock is too heavy.

And bag versus bagless. A concept too utterly baffling. So many times, I had a customer stand there, right in front of me in anger and disbelief as I informed them that a bagless vacuum cleaner canister had to be emptied – that the contents went ‘somewhere’ and demonstrate over and over again until it felt comical.

It didn’t escape my notice, however, that Mr Dressell never allowed situations such as this bother him. He seemed to have an endless capacity for repetition.

My respect for him advanced further still when it came to dispensing vacuum cleaner bags. As I mentioned before, we stocked somewhere between six and eight models at any one time but there were at least twenty different sized bags on the wall. This was simply due to the fact that bags could still be purchased for discontinued models and Mr Dressell had a Merlin-like ability to know which bag to sell the customer when supplied with the most rudimentary details.

On the rare occasions when he got it wrong, a replacement packet was sold at half price. This resulted in the customer believing their advantage was somewhere in the region of winning the lottery while our profit margin went from staggering to merely ridiculous.

All this brings me towards answering your question.

After about a year of working at the store, I had to attend a formal engagement at the university. I didn’t care too much for those kinds of events but there was to be free food and alcohol and it’s always good to make an appearance in front of the people who are to have an influencing hand in your future.

When I arrived, the Campus Garden was set up with an enormous marquee. Inside, an elaborately set table was laid out with the works; white cloths, silverware, champagne and complicated-looking food on vast oval trays. A string quartet played in the corner. The ‘cello is my favourite instrument so I grabbed some provisions and drifted over to listen to my tuition fees.

As I drew closer, I saw a tuxedo-clad Mr Dressell, holding his violin as naturally as a limb. For a moment he was a stranger to me. I spent the whole afternoon in that marquee, listening to the quartet; the hum of voices, clinking of glasses and speeches dropping away behind the four strings.

So beautiful.

I had no trouble going to work after that.

Yuucch, there are tasks, there are occupations and there are passions. Apply yourself to all three with good humour but only give of yourself what each requires. Any job you do is as noble as you choose to make it but don’t lose your sensibility over fried onions or the customer you drop them on. That belongs to your violin.

Kind Regards,

Dr Particle.

(Stay tuned for # 2 of Lessons in Urban Morality or better still, send me a problem to solve. I am a doctor after all.)