Blast from the past

Conversation at my office door. “So, this guy was asking whether this one person who used to work for the company was still with us.”

“Yeah?” say I.

“Yeah, he can’t remember dude’s name, but he said he was working for us when we were downtown, and he had this ponytail down to his ass, and he was, like, ‘pure Californian.'”

I furrow my brow, though I begin to get an inkling. “What department was he in?”

Rick’s worked here for a while. In fact, he was one of the first guys I hired here. “Well, he couldn’t remember his name, so I’m running through all these people who were here in the other groups.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And finally I can see this is really bothering him, so I say, ‘Hey, if this is bugging you, I’ll ask Dave Hill, he’s been here for longer than me. Then he shouts, ‘That’s it! That’s who I’m thinking of! Dave Hill!'”

Which, I suppose, says something about the power of first impressions, since I’ve been here for, well, going on ten years this Thanksgiving.

And, for the record, the ‘tail didn’t ever extend beyond between the shoulder blades, and I had it for only the first five months I was here, since Margie (and, yes, she was wise in doing so) suggested I cut it off for our wedding.

I have no idea what “pure Californian” means (or meant), though.