I Know Exclamator is Not a Word!

The other day I entered a Seinfeld episode. Jerry was not there. Nor Elaine, George or Kramer. Just a bit player. A quirky, one-episode caricature acting out a scene.

She looked normal enough. Nondescript clothes. Funky glasses. Big teeth but not big enough that Jerry would not date her over.

She came to my cafe with a friend who had been in many times before. This ‘Whistler’, who always orders one small coffee and stays for 3 hours using the free Wi-Fi. This does not bother me. What annoys me is his ordering one small coffee which he has not once drank. I tried to sell him on a tea (same price after all) but he just shook his head, ordered the coffee, put sugar in it and did not look at it again. Shit, this alone could be a Seinfeld episode but this is not about Whistler.

This is about his friend. Upon entering the cafe she immediately stops to stare at the two blown-up photographs on the front wall. “Wow!” she exclaims, “These photos are amazing! Really impressive! The light and composure and wow! Fantastic!”

I am flattered since I took the photos but do not say anything. Then she asks, “Do you know where these are taken?” I tell her.

These are the photos.

“Oh wow! You took them? Are you a photographer?! You should be! You could sell these! Wow!”

I apologize, reader, for the use of so many exclamation marks but this is precisely how she talks. The ‘Over-Exclamator’. Somewhat obnoxious, yes, but I am still flattered. Confident. Ready to step out into the world and proclaim myself an artist. A photographer!

Over-exclamator makes her way to the coffee bar. Peering up at the drink menu, she exalts “Wow! What great looking drinks! They all look so yummy! So many options! Wow!”

Then she glances into the display case of food. “Oh wow! Yummy! This food looks incredible! Everything looks so delicious! Wow!”

Then she orders. A small coffee and an oatmeal cookie.

Jerry would dump Over-Exclamator’s sorry ass. Elaine would smack her. Kramer should run in smacking her head with the door. As for me, I’ll just hand her over a surly editor holding a Xanax. Period.


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