The Misadventures of Bev and Lisa

My job offers opportunities to interact with all sorts. Working with volunteers is, by and large, delightful. Upon occasion, it turns into a decathlon of patience.  And very rarely, some special soul manages to be unbelievably exasperating, yet so adorable, that the situation teeters on the absurd. 

Enter Beverly.

Beverly is a woman in her mid-70’s who came to work in the office and was put under my tutelage. Bless Beverly’s volunteer-filled spirit; the only limitation on her time is that she be home before dark. Her physical body, however, is slightly more limited in that Beverly is profoundly hard of hearing.  Profoundly.

As I stood over her shoulder caterwauling instructions on how to use the phone system, Beverly took copious notes. I cranked up the phone speaker volume full blast and explained which employees received what calls.

“Send me – Rachel, that’s my name,” I slowly roared, “any calls about volunteers or applicants.”  Beverly dutifully scrawled in her journal, “Lisa – volunteers.” So as not to embarrass her, I emphatically repeated the directive, “So that’s any calls for volunteers go to me, RAY-CHEL.” She looked at her notebook, tapped her note about Lisa and nodded with a firm, assured pout. I decided I could happily be Lisa for a day.

Beverly made it very clear that she wanted to keep busy, so I decided to have her work on simple data entry.  I sat her down at the computer and she immediately began grousing about how computers upset her. This did not bode well, but I barreled on, determined to believe the best about Beverly’s skills and her capacity to learn.

As the monitor came on, I told her to “press the purple square at the bottom of the screen.” Bev looks at the screen for a minute, raises her knobby finger and slowly presses the icon on the screen.  It is at this point that I realize a) Beverly is a very literal woman and b) I should have stopped when I had to show her how to turn on the computer.

I gently (but loudly) suggest that Beverly use the mouse to click on the icon. Beverly starts looking all around the office.  At first, I think she’s just distracted - or has miraculously heard something - but then - with my Hope For Beverly dying - I realize that she’s looking not for the mouse, but a mouse. I show her the mouse at which point she tells me she doesn’t usually use a mouse on her computer at home.  This explains so much.

I set Beverly to work using a paper cutter to cut tickets. She happily chops away until the blade dulls and she begins having trouble. I stop what I’m doing, pull out the sharp rotary paper cutter for her, carefully position it in front of her, and show her how it works. I go back to what I was doing.  She looks at it for a few seconds and hollers, “I don’t think I can use this one.  It’s not like the ones I used in high school.”

Bev, I hate to tell you, but if you’re only sticking with devices you used in high school, you’re in some real trouble. The abacus and sundial have fallen out of fashion and meat is readily available in the grocery – no need to club your dinner.

I am happy to report that I did not go by Lisa for the entire day. 

Beverly's good nature was on full display when, after working for several hours, she was mystified by a call for someone named Rachel.  I was in someone else’s office and couldn’t help but overhear her loud confusion.  She lightly bellows, "Should I tell Lisa that someone is calling for Rachel??"  I peered around the corner and listened as my soft-spoken co-worker tried to explain the Bermuda triangle of Lisa and Rachel to Beverly without raising his voice. This, dear readers, was a real life madcap comedy – even better than Beverly looking for a mouse. Just as the two of them were encroaching on a state of permanent flummoxation, I sailed in and told Beverly that I, Rachel, would take the call.

Suddenly, hours after the fact, the lights came on. Beverly chuckled heartily, shook her head, and looked at me earnestly with her enormous magnifying eyeglasses, “Well I don’t know why I thought your name was Lisa!” 
That makes two of us, Bev.

Though Beverly is practically medieval, asks me to re-yell each thing I say an average of four times, and is completely exasperating, her slightly crusty demeanor belies a heart of gold and a sense of humor.