Roaches in the Keyboard

Yesterday, as per my Wednesday schedule, I went into the aquarium to work. I sat behind the only computer in the Freshwater area, an old beat-up Dell stashed behind-the-scenes. The Freshwater area houses piranhas, turtles, carp, anacondas, and all your riverine aquatic creatures and/or charismatic Amazonian megafauna. Freshwater has a very clubhouse feel: there are a lot of wooden planks, plants, and wet floors from some overflowing tanks. The air hangs heavy and damp due to the continual spray of "rainwater" that drips down to the trees and bushes in the exhibits. It took a little while for me to be able to say goodbye to my old department and the sweet, sweet Jellies. But now, Freshwater is my own little personal tropical rainforest.

Usually at work my routine is to turn on some tunes and type 'til my heart's content, pumps and water-sprays clicking on in the background and providing perfect ambient noise. However, after lunch yesterday the other intern Jimmy was "doing work" at the computer (checking his fantasy baseball roster), so I took the opportunity to take a short break.

It was late afternoon. I was tired. As he typed, I zoned out by staring into the space, gazing without seeing towards the computer area. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, a movement caught my attention. There, underneath the Enter key on the keyboard, a small pair of antennae were poking out. They tentatively scanned the surface of the table. The antennae were long, maybe three quarters of an inch. They felt around the keyboard and, suddenly frightened by Jimmy's tap tap tapping, popped back in from whence they came. Jimmy saw them, and then turned to me with an astoundingly nonchalant tone.

"Have you met the roaches yet? They live in the keyboard. I think Marion named some of them."

Jimmy pulled the little roach out by its long antennae and proceeded to walk over to the turtle tank, where a group of businesspeople were getting a walking tour of the exhibits in Freshwater. Jimmy tossed the roach into the tank and waited to see if the turtle would take it. The group barely acknowledged the action and he shrugged, walking back and hopping up to the computer.

"There's a whole family in here." Jimmy told me as he shook the keyboard against the old wooden desk. Little bits of white fluff and black things, that I can only assume were roach poo, fell out from between the cracks in the keys. "The turtles love them."

This is what most days are like at this place. And, I'm assuming, most nonprofits. There's a whole slew of unusual characters, clad in severely unflattering khaki, who work together on so many large and unconventional projects that the little things don't even phase them.  After spending an hour siphoning out orange anaconda feces from the Amazon river exhibit, a couple of live baby roaches barely register.  The discovery of roaches living in one's keyboard becomes useful as potential fodder for the turtles and merely a gently amusing anecdote.

There are other interesting discoveries that happen here, too. The deep sea fish exhibit recently had to be shut down for reasons that bring me nothing but endless amusement. You see, the exhibit was veiled behind curtains that visitors had to walk through to view special deep sea fish. The fish are (were) phosphorescent and could only be found in the deep benthos of the ocean. To see them in all their colorful phosporescent glory, you would need near-complete darkness. Hence the curtain. Upon the discovery of a pair of panties in the deep-sea fishes exhibit, the higher ups had recently decided that the exhibit was a hazard. The panties' discovery prompted many to speculate about the exhibit's possible uses by other opportunistic sex fiends, and maybe even pedophiles, that could conceivably infiltrate the aquarium's unsuspecting and kid-friendly displays. This is a family institution. The pair of panties brought the ultimate end to the really cool (albeit dark) deep sea fishes exhibit. Damn you, horny youths.

In character-building news, have you ever walked by a person holding a clipboard in the street and looking at you with eyes that shine with hopeful enthusiasm? Did you then avoid any and all eye contact with said person and turn up the volume on your headphones instead? Congratulations, you are a terrible person. On Wednesday that clipboard-carrying person and was me. Me, desperately trying to get people to answer three painless questions for aquarium research. I was supposed to get 200. I got 24. Even after I switched to a more aggressive approach ("Non-committal survey! No purchase necessary! For the good of science and your children!"), the response was less than overwhelming.  Though brimming with the aforementioned hopeful enthusiasm, I got very few takers.

We, the clipboard carrying peoples of the United States, are good, hard-working samaritans. We have feelings. We just want to study the wealth and diversity of the local populace through simple, innocuous, and virtually painless question-and-responses, the results of which will likely support the greater good of all humanity! How dare you.

Nah, I'm just kidding. Besides being completely demoralized, it wasn't so bad. And when people weren't giving me and my clipboard a 20 foot berth, their responses (besides the No thank you's, I'm all goods, and so sorry's) were, at the very least, entertaining.

Sometimes I got lessons about different parts of speech.

"Hi! I'm doing research with the New Engl-"
"Got to go get back to working. Doing work... at work."

Ah, I see. Please go on about this "work."

Sometimes I got encouragement, without the added benefit of any actual data for my survey.

""Hi! I'm doing research with the New Engl-"
"Wish I could help you. Good luck getting people to talk! Perfect day for surveys."

Don't give me any false hope by engaging me in conversation, sir. You just crush my dreams.

Dude, I'm not going to lie: doing surveys is not something I'd wish even upon a frenemy. But on my commute home I walked past a "Save the Children" petitioner stationed a few blocks away from my apartment. I still felt an impulse to leave my headphones on and keep walking. I just wanted to get home; they had to understand that! But then I remembered with shame the feelings of inadequacy I developed from being rejected by nearly every working man, tourist, and Benjamin-Franklin impersonator alike.

So I made myself stop. And I chatted the guy up. I learned that this boy Jules, like me, had just graduated. That Jules, like me, wanted to make a positive impact in the world. That Jules, like me, abhorred asking people questions on the street. He hated the rejection. Amen, brother. We shared a moment and almost laughed together, reminding ourselves of the utter importance of the data we were collecting. And how much it all would mean, one day.

I want everyone to stop and take a moment to talk with that person on the street today. You know where they are. Remember, they could be just like you. And they probably need more than a little bit of encouragement right about now. Maybe you should bring a beer. And mention the roach story; it was a good ice-breaker for me and Jules.