Out, Damned Spot!

In the mid-1980's, I worked for a small computer software developing firm in Toronto. At one point, I shared an office with a man in his 30's. Nice guy.

One day, all of a sudden, he emitted a loud sound indicative of great distress. The reason? A pen clipped to his shirt breast pocket had broken and leaked ink. Quite an impressive sea of deep blue had formed on his shirt. It would have made for a great Rorschach test image.

Now a shirt stain is not a pleasant occurrence, but I think most of us would not allow it to seriously disrupt our workday. A trip to the bathroom, a vigorous rubbing with some water and maybe a bit of soap would be about all one could do for the moment. Back to work.

Not so my friend. He immediately put all of his work on hold and got ready to leave the office. When I asked him where he was going, he explained to me that he was going to the store to buy a new shirt.

That seemed a bit extreme to me, but I could see it. After all, he often had to meet with clients, and undoubtedly wished to put his best face -- and shirt -- forward, and this most definitely did not include an unsightly blotch on one's shirt.

But this was not the reason for my friend's sudden shopping excursion. My friend continued to explain to me that he was going to buy a shirt identical to the one he was wearing -- sans spot, of course -- and throw out the old one. The reason? He did not want his wife to find out what had happened to his shirt. He was scared of the reaction he would get from her if he were to come home with a messy, ink-stained shirt. So off he went to the store, to buy the brand new shirt that would enable him to erase all tracks of his crime.

See Spot. See the person who has made the Spot run...

My friend's explanation evoked in me two very strong impulses, which, as mutually contradictory as they may seem, actually emanate from the same place: (a) a desire to burst out laughing; and (b) a profound sense of compassion for the man. For imagine a man who stains his shirt, and his first thought is: "Oh, no, my wife is going to kill me!" Talk about walking on eggshells, the poor devil. In fact, as an interesting mental exercise, just try to imagine the kind of scenes that had obviously already actually taken place in his home in his interactions with his wife, that could have led him to believe that the consequences of showing up at home with an ink-stained shirt would be so painfully abhorrent, that it was best for him to drop everything in his busy day of work and execute a scheme designed solely for hiding the truth of that ink-stained shirt from his wife.

Throughout history, men, from professional athletes to presidents of superpowers, have famously engaged in different forms of conduct which they have attempted to conceal from their wives. But a leaky pen may well be the most curious of them all.

I wonder how perceptive my friend's wife was. Perhaps she noticed that my friend's shirt looked just a tad too new when he came home from work that day. Maybe she casually mentioned something about it to him, and noted a trace of anxiety in his voice as he responded. She hires a private investigator to uncover the dirty truth. And then, my friend's worst nightmare comes true: he comes home one day to find his wife waiting for him, holding the ink-stained shirt in her hand!

A number of months later, the owner of the company threw a dinner party in his home, to which all employees and their families were invited. Naturally, I was fascinated to see the woman who so completely subjugated my friend. If I recall correctly, my sense of apprehension prevailed over my sense of curiosity, for I did not introduce myself to her. I believe that, just by seeing her from a distance, I got a strong enough vibe to satisfy my sense of curiosity.

Only now, many years later, as I document this episode for posterity, does it occur to me what a missed opportunity there was here. For I could have become the first person in history to engage in stained shirt extortion. I stroll up to my friend and his wife at the party: "Hello! So nice to meet you! I've heard so much about you! You know, I really enjoy sharing an office with your husband. Such a good worker. And such a good dresser! Always the latest fashions, always in such good taste. And his shirts! Always so impeccable!" My friend nervously looks on, quickly getting the message. Hurriedly takes me aside, and shoves a hundred-dollar bill in my hand.

Finally, I wonder if my friend and his wife ever went for counselling. Goodness knows, theirs cannot be the most open of marriages. I picture them sitting in the therapist's office. The therapist begins: "I would first like to conduct a small series of routine tests, in order to get to know the two of you better. We'll begin with a Rorschach. Please tell me what you see when you look at this picture."