I guess it was bound to happen. And it did. Yesterday, Saturday, April 11, from the Embassy Suites in downtown Portland, Oregon, I posted a tweet with a typo.
I know, I know. It is less than 140 characters, Diccicco, how could you be such a doofus? Who can't proof 140 characters at a time?
Me, I guess. But now that I am humbled, I will be ever more vigilant. This WILL be the only error in the twelve and a half year journey that I am on.
Here, for purists among you (no need to raise your hands), is how the tweet should have read:
Hamel shifted his position on the sofa, but didn’t look up from the book he was reading. I didn’t notice, he said. He turned a page.
Now, let's put this nasty little incident behind us, shall we?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: Feb-Mar, 2009
HERE IS THE COMPLETE STORY TO DATE. I WILL NOW POST RECAPS TO THIS BLOG ON A MONTHLY BASIS.
Hamel walked out of his modest town home sipping coffee from a travel mug, strode purposefully toward the bus stop, and disappeared.
Hamel’s wife did not miss him until 7pm. By 10 she was worried. At 11 she called the police. The officer on duty seemed uninterested.
Politely: “Yes, ma’m, you can file a report over the phone.” Matter of factly: “No, ma’m, no need to wait 24 hours.” Hamel’s wife listened carefully. She picked up a pencil, scribbled “24” on the back of an envelope, then drew a line through it.
“Could you spell your name please?” The officer scanned his monitor to access the proper form. “Last name first, please.”
The realization that an official process was now underway unnerved Hamel’s wife. Things were happening a little too fast. Do I do this? she asked herself. What if he shows up now? Hamel’s wife shut her eyes, tried to think, felt a rush of anger. Where ARE you?
A truth about Hamel’s wife: She loathed attention. She always used the side entrance at church, always chose a middle pew. This is Hamel’s doing, not mine, she thought. Why am I in the spotlight? Why am I center stage? Resentment conquered worry decisively.
Oh, I think I hear him coming, she lied to the police officer. But thank you. You’ve been helpful. Sorry. She pressed End to disconnect.
Hamel’s wife was sure that the officer did not believe her. She was not a good liar — it was a skill rarely needed or employed. She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. If he’s not home by morning, she decided, then I’ll call back. But why hasn’t HE called?
What to do when your husband of 15 years — who was as predictable (and boring) as the seasons— doesn’t come home? Hamel’s wife made tea. She sat at her kitchen table, hands cradling her teacup, staring at the pieces of her life stuck with magnets to the refrigerator door.
I must remember to pay the gas bill, she told herself. Lottery tickets — what a waste. I never did use that coupon for hand lotion.
By 6am, as light from a gray sky began to fill the room, accompanied by city noises from the street, Hamel’s wife decided two things.
First, she concluded, this is not Hamel’s fault. Not possible. Some convictions — like this one of Hamel’s wife — begin small but manage to grow strong, all on their own. This evolution, tentative hope into unwavering faith, had occurred while Hamel’s wife drank tea.
The resentment she’d felt toward Hamel just hours ago was gone. And that drove her second decision. Hamel’s wife reached for the phone.
A new police voice, female this time, took the call. Not so officious, Hamel’s wife felt. Not so judgemental. She told her story.
As she listened to her own voice, Hamel’s wife was encouraged by her calm, rational recounting of the facts. She was in control.
So now, she concluded, it has been almost 24 hours since I have seen or heard from my husband. Pause. And I am worried, she added.
Hamel’s wife waited. So far, so good, she thought. But that had been the easy part of the call. Now came the questions.
No, this has not happened before, Hamel’s wife answered. My husband is a considerate man. If he is going to be late, he calls me.
No, we did not have an argument. We hardly ever disagree. I can’t even remember the last fight we had about anything. Yes, very good health. No, not moody at all. Hamel is pretty much the same from one day to the next. I’d say . . . even-tempered.
The questions continued. Hamel’s wife was a little surprised at how well, how calmly, she responded to each one of them. All the while, as the police officer probed for information, Hamel’s wife listened for footsteps, a key turning in a door handle, Hamel.
The next question was asked gently, in a softer voice. Is it possible, asked the police officer, that your husband is seeing someone else?
Another woman? Hamel’s wife shook her head silently at the irony of the question. No, I’m sure that there is no one else, she said firmly.
For a moment, Hamel’s wife considered trying to explain. And then decided no. It was too complicated. And she was sure that the agreement she had reached with Hamel — what choice did she have? — had nothing to do with his disappearance. How could it?
Just one more question, said the police officer. Have you and your husband suffered any financial setbacks recently?
Financial setbacks? No. At least, nothing I know of. My husband handles our investments — I pay the bills. It’s a good arrangement.
I’m sure it is, said the police officer. But you might want to check — just to be sure. To be sure of what? thought Hamel’s wife.
What happens now? Hamel’s wife asked. I’ve told you everything I know. Can you help me find my husband?
I know this is difficult, said the police officer. But it’s only been one day — there are so many possibilities. Try to stay positive. Meanwhile, continued the officer, our department will issue an All Points Bulletin. It’s standard practice in a missing person’s case. But we’ll need a picture — a recent picture. Do you have one? asked the officer. Hamel’s wife thought for a moment.
Yes, she said, I have a digital picture we took on Easter Sunday. I could email it to you — would that be okay?
The officer gave Hamel’s wife the email address and said she’d be in touch. Hamel’s wife slowly returned the phone to the charger.
Hamel’s wife stared out the window for several moments, focused on remembering each detail of the morning before. He hadn’t said anything about work — Hamel rarely spoke about his job. Although she knew that managing inventory at a warehouse was not a job Hamel enjoyed. It was a job that he performed. He’d told her, many times, that there was a big difference between the two.
What was the last thing he’d said to her? Hamel’s wife concentrated, replayed their morning routine, tried to remember every detail.
Most mornings, Hamel’s departures consisted of a quick kiss on the forehead and a matter of fact Have a good day. Or: See you later.
Was yesterday any different? Hamel’s wife pictured the morning in her mind. She was in the kitchen, in her robe, rinsing her teapot. Hamel was standing near the counter, tightening the lid on his travel coffee mug. Item number next to last in his morning routine. He turned to her, she recalled, and bent over slightly to deliver his routine forehead kiss. And he said Goodbye — have a good day.
And then he left. Just like normal. Just like everyday for the past ten years, since he’d begun the manager’s job and stopped shift work.
Hamel’s wife shifted her thoughts to the present. Was there something more to do, someone else to call? There was no one to tell her.
First things first. Hamel’s wife sat at the computer, located the picture file that she’d downloaded months ago, clicked to display it.
There he was. Standing erect, looking directly into the camera with that not quite a smile expression and those penetrating brown eyes.
Hamel’s wife knew that other women found her husband attractive. She wasn’t sure what Hamel thought about this. She’d never seen Hamel respond to any of the flirting directed to him. He’d never spoken to her about it, even when it was most obvious.
Hamel walked out of his modest town home sipping coffee from a travel mug, strode purposefully toward the bus stop, and disappeared.
Hamel’s wife did not miss him until 7pm. By 10 she was worried. At 11 she called the police. The officer on duty seemed uninterested.
Politely: “Yes, ma’m, you can file a report over the phone.” Matter of factly: “No, ma’m, no need to wait 24 hours.” Hamel’s wife listened carefully. She picked up a pencil, scribbled “24” on the back of an envelope, then drew a line through it.
“Could you spell your name please?” The officer scanned his monitor to access the proper form. “Last name first, please.”
The realization that an official process was now underway unnerved Hamel’s wife. Things were happening a little too fast. Do I do this? she asked herself. What if he shows up now? Hamel’s wife shut her eyes, tried to think, felt a rush of anger. Where ARE you?
A truth about Hamel’s wife: She loathed attention. She always used the side entrance at church, always chose a middle pew. This is Hamel’s doing, not mine, she thought. Why am I in the spotlight? Why am I center stage? Resentment conquered worry decisively.
Oh, I think I hear him coming, she lied to the police officer. But thank you. You’ve been helpful. Sorry. She pressed End to disconnect.
Hamel’s wife was sure that the officer did not believe her. She was not a good liar — it was a skill rarely needed or employed. She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. If he’s not home by morning, she decided, then I’ll call back. But why hasn’t HE called?
What to do when your husband of 15 years — who was as predictable (and boring) as the seasons— doesn’t come home? Hamel’s wife made tea. She sat at her kitchen table, hands cradling her teacup, staring at the pieces of her life stuck with magnets to the refrigerator door.
I must remember to pay the gas bill, she told herself. Lottery tickets — what a waste. I never did use that coupon for hand lotion.
By 6am, as light from a gray sky began to fill the room, accompanied by city noises from the street, Hamel’s wife decided two things.
First, she concluded, this is not Hamel’s fault. Not possible. Some convictions — like this one of Hamel’s wife — begin small but manage to grow strong, all on their own. This evolution, tentative hope into unwavering faith, had occurred while Hamel’s wife drank tea.
The resentment she’d felt toward Hamel just hours ago was gone. And that drove her second decision. Hamel’s wife reached for the phone.
A new police voice, female this time, took the call. Not so officious, Hamel’s wife felt. Not so judgemental. She told her story.
As she listened to her own voice, Hamel’s wife was encouraged by her calm, rational recounting of the facts. She was in control.
So now, she concluded, it has been almost 24 hours since I have seen or heard from my husband. Pause. And I am worried, she added.
Hamel’s wife waited. So far, so good, she thought. But that had been the easy part of the call. Now came the questions.
No, this has not happened before, Hamel’s wife answered. My husband is a considerate man. If he is going to be late, he calls me.
No, we did not have an argument. We hardly ever disagree. I can’t even remember the last fight we had about anything. Yes, very good health. No, not moody at all. Hamel is pretty much the same from one day to the next. I’d say . . . even-tempered.
The questions continued. Hamel’s wife was a little surprised at how well, how calmly, she responded to each one of them. All the while, as the police officer probed for information, Hamel’s wife listened for footsteps, a key turning in a door handle, Hamel.
The next question was asked gently, in a softer voice. Is it possible, asked the police officer, that your husband is seeing someone else?
Another woman? Hamel’s wife shook her head silently at the irony of the question. No, I’m sure that there is no one else, she said firmly.
For a moment, Hamel’s wife considered trying to explain. And then decided no. It was too complicated. And she was sure that the agreement she had reached with Hamel — what choice did she have? — had nothing to do with his disappearance. How could it?
Just one more question, said the police officer. Have you and your husband suffered any financial setbacks recently?
Financial setbacks? No. At least, nothing I know of. My husband handles our investments — I pay the bills. It’s a good arrangement.
I’m sure it is, said the police officer. But you might want to check — just to be sure. To be sure of what? thought Hamel’s wife.
What happens now? Hamel’s wife asked. I’ve told you everything I know. Can you help me find my husband?
I know this is difficult, said the police officer. But it’s only been one day — there are so many possibilities. Try to stay positive. Meanwhile, continued the officer, our department will issue an All Points Bulletin. It’s standard practice in a missing person’s case. But we’ll need a picture — a recent picture. Do you have one? asked the officer. Hamel’s wife thought for a moment.
Yes, she said, I have a digital picture we took on Easter Sunday. I could email it to you — would that be okay?
The officer gave Hamel’s wife the email address and said she’d be in touch. Hamel’s wife slowly returned the phone to the charger.
Hamel’s wife stared out the window for several moments, focused on remembering each detail of the morning before. He hadn’t said anything about work — Hamel rarely spoke about his job. Although she knew that managing inventory at a warehouse was not a job Hamel enjoyed. It was a job that he performed. He’d told her, many times, that there was a big difference between the two.
What was the last thing he’d said to her? Hamel’s wife concentrated, replayed their morning routine, tried to remember every detail.
Most mornings, Hamel’s departures consisted of a quick kiss on the forehead and a matter of fact Have a good day. Or: See you later.
Was yesterday any different? Hamel’s wife pictured the morning in her mind. She was in the kitchen, in her robe, rinsing her teapot. Hamel was standing near the counter, tightening the lid on his travel coffee mug. Item number next to last in his morning routine. He turned to her, she recalled, and bent over slightly to deliver his routine forehead kiss. And he said Goodbye — have a good day.
And then he left. Just like normal. Just like everyday for the past ten years, since he’d begun the manager’s job and stopped shift work.
Hamel’s wife shifted her thoughts to the present. Was there something more to do, someone else to call? There was no one to tell her.
First things first. Hamel’s wife sat at the computer, located the picture file that she’d downloaded months ago, clicked to display it.
There he was. Standing erect, looking directly into the camera with that not quite a smile expression and those penetrating brown eyes.
Hamel’s wife knew that other women found her husband attractive. She wasn’t sure what Hamel thought about this. She’d never seen Hamel respond to any of the flirting directed to him. He’d never spoken to her about it, even when it was most obvious.
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