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Misunderstanding | Feb 26 2003

Lawrence, the IT Manager, tosses some rocks at me, one of which hits me on the side of the head, just above the left ear. Though it doesn’t hurt much and isn’t bleeding, I’m livid. (Some background: I’ve never liked Lawrence, save for my first few weeks on the job, when I failed to recognize what a phony he is.) We’re both standing in a river when this happens, so I go over and sort of bang his head against the pebbly sand, saying, “You can’t throw rocks at my head.” Lawrence surprises me by getting up and performing a song he’s just written, accompanying himself with an instrument that looks like a cross between a tuba and a trombone. He sings a verse, plays a few bars, sings another verse, and so on. The song is a narrative of our “misunderstanding,” as he puts it, and it goes something like this: [sings tune]. While singing and playing, Lawrence does a dance in the shallow water that involves a lot of rapid marching movements. It’s so beautiful, particularly the dancing part (which makes me think of that football drill where the players step in and out of overturned car tires), that I immediately forgive him for the unfortunate business with the rock.