I could see the question on Benjamin's face. Were we two white kids going to approach this nice black lady and criticize, in even a small way, this shirt that advocated pride in the most significant black public figure in decades?

Yes. We were. The whole point of typo correcting is that it's a subcategory of a larger goal to improve communication. Could we back down from typo correcting when the perceived communication obstacles grew too large? We couldn't, and we wouldn't-the ideals of the League demanded that we summon our courage. This typo of all typos, here in the epicenter of a hundred and fifty years' worth of racial clashes and tragedies, demanded redress. If we'd acted differently than usual, then that would have been, perhaps, racist. Our hesitation highlighted a crucial characteristic of racial tension within our generation: blacks and whites may not fear each other each other the way they once did, back when slavers owned Atlanta or bigots felled Dr. King, or even as recently as the Rodney King riots, but we do fear the awkwardness of failed communication attempts. The progress made by our parents' generation gave us necessary social proscriptions against racism. But now we have the tendency to self-censor, to be overly delicate with the words we're using. The irony here is that the fear of saying the wrong thing has focused us too much on the way they once did, back when slavers owned Atlanta or bigots felled Dr. King, or even as recently as the Rodney King riots, but we do fear the awkwardness of failed communication attempts. The progress made by our parents' generation gave us necessary social proscriptions against racism. But now we have the tendency to self-censor, to be overly delicate with the words we're using. The irony here is that the fear of saying the wrong thing has focused us too much on how how and not enough on and not enough on what what we're saying. Speaking correctly has become more important than the substance of communication between blacks and whites specifically, and among all races in general. Even as I pen this, I find myself wondering if I should go with we're saying. Speaking correctly has become more important than the substance of communication between blacks and whites specifically, and among all races in general. Even as I pen this, I find myself wondering if I should go with African-American African-American instead of instead of black black. Uh, "communication between African-Americans and whites"? No wonder racial progress is in low gear.

We approached the short, trim woman with graying hair who was attending the stand. She greeted us and asked if we were interested in anything, so I fell back on the reliable, more familiar awkwardness of explaining that I wasn't shopping so much as typo correcting. "The Obama shirts caught my attention, as we're both big Obama supporters. I noticed something about one I wanted to show you." She left her seat and followed me around the stand. "See, we're going around the country fixing typos, and ..."

I pointed out the shirt and the missing apostrophe.

"You ... probably don't want us adding it in with a marker," Benjamin said.

"No, that'd be a bit much," she agreed, pointing out a whole stack of them. With that many, I'd be afraid of making too big a marker blotch and ruining more than a few shirts. "But, now that I know about it, we can correct it on the next run."

For the most part, I'd wanted photographic proof of every typo corrected in order to count it as a correction, but since she'd come up with the solution and seemed thankful that we had mentioned the typo to her, I believed her. Benjamin's well-calibrated alarm for detecting liars didn't sound, either. We knew she wasn't telling us this as an effort to repel us from her stall, because she then struck up a conversation.

She told us how glad she was to talk with other Obama supporters and wondered what had drawn us to his campaign. Seeing as we were out of typo turf and into politics, I literally stepped back to give the expert proselytizer Benjamin room to gesticulate. Only then, as I became almost an outside observer of their conversation, did I feel the ponderous weight of subtext. She wasn't asking "fellow supporters" to tell their favorite thing about Obama; she wanted to know how we two white kids had come to vote for a black candidate. I felt the familiar sensation of wanting to reach for my editing pen and make corrections to a rough draft. Red pen to slash through "white kids" and "black candidate" as I scribbled notes in the margins like: "Define your terms. Is black candidate black candidate any candidate whose skin is dark, or someone like Al Sharpton who only speaks to black voters and issues?" I listened as if from far away as Benjamin explained his preference for pragmatic, bottom-up solutions to political problems. Yet even my TEAL colleague failed to directly address the conversation's thesis statement because he couldn't blurt out, "I honestly don't care that he's black. That's a bonus, I guess, for the future of American race relations, but the bonus isn't the reason." I wanted to cut whole sentences, redact phrases, and generally ask my authors for a more focused revision. any candidate whose skin is dark, or someone like Al Sharpton who only speaks to black voters and issues?" I listened as if from far away as Benjamin explained his preference for pragmatic, bottom-up solutions to political problems. Yet even my TEAL colleague failed to directly address the conversation's thesis statement because he couldn't blurt out, "I honestly don't care that he's black. That's a bonus, I guess, for the future of American race relations, but the bonus isn't the reason." I wanted to cut whole sentences, redact phrases, and generally ask my authors for a more focused revision.

"What about this Reverend Wright thing?"

Benjamin explained that we'd been traveling and hadn't heard about this yet. She gave us the abbreviated version, telling us that Obama's pastor had spewed some anti-American rhetoric on clips that were now all over the news. Benjamin gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "They're going after him for what his preacher says? Oh man, that sounds desperate. I think it's a sign that he's winning."

"You don't think," she asked us, tentatively, "that it'll dissuade ... some people some people from supporting him?" from supporting him?"

Some people. Which people? Us people? White people.

What a treacherous verbal path we walked, black and white alike, and understandably so. Slavery had been abolished from the United States a bare hundred and fifty years ago; segregation, not even fifty fifty years ago! In the mammoth scope of human history, this was basically yesterday. The scars were fresh, some of them still oozing. Factors like typos could only infect the wounds. In 2002, for instance, an African-American spokesman for the Congress of Racial Equality appeared on MSNBC. His name was Niger Innis. Picture the worst way you could misspell his first name onscreen. Yeah, that actually happened. Or, in 2008, how about the "Lunch and Learn" event for Black History Month at Des Moines Area Community College, advertised in a widely distributed handbook as a "Linch and Learn". Both of these errors were, I'm sure, completely unintentional, but they-and the outrage that followed each incident-speak to the dangers of carelessness, and the fragility of the peace forged among diverse quarters of the American population. (Let's not even get into the seething cauldron of issues hinted at by the absentee ballots sent out in November 2008 to Rensselaer County, New York, voters, who had their choice between John McCain and ... "Barack Osama".) years ago! In the mammoth scope of human history, this was basically yesterday. The scars were fresh, some of them still oozing. Factors like typos could only infect the wounds. In 2002, for instance, an African-American spokesman for the Congress of Racial Equality appeared on MSNBC. His name was Niger Innis. Picture the worst way you could misspell his first name onscreen. Yeah, that actually happened. Or, in 2008, how about the "Lunch and Learn" event for Black History Month at Des Moines Area Community College, advertised in a widely distributed handbook as a "Linch and Learn". Both of these errors were, I'm sure, completely unintentional, but they-and the outrage that followed each incident-speak to the dangers of carelessness, and the fragility of the peace forged among diverse quarters of the American population. (Let's not even get into the seething cauldron of issues hinted at by the absentee ballots sent out in November 2008 to Rensselaer County, New York, voters, who had their choice between John McCain and ... "Barack Osama".) Anyway, would some people some people be scared away by Reverend Wright's gaffes? Benjamin said no way and then proceeded to explain what he be scared away by Reverend Wright's gaffes? Benjamin said no way and then proceeded to explain what he really really liked about Obama-the man's ability to take even the attacks against him, break them down, and a.n.a.lyze them. "He'll end up responding in some way that turns it to his advantage, because he's a great communicator." There I heard it again, like an insistent tympanum behind the conversation that had steadily gained force and tempo: communication. As he explained his lack of concern, Benjamin essentially predicted Obama's landmark speech on race that would come three days later, but I hardly noticed, caught in a revelation of my own. liked about Obama-the man's ability to take even the attacks against him, break them down, and a.n.a.lyze them. "He'll end up responding in some way that turns it to his advantage, because he's a great communicator." There I heard it again, like an insistent tympanum behind the conversation that had steadily gained force and tempo: communication. As he explained his lack of concern, Benjamin essentially predicted Obama's landmark speech on race that would come three days later, but I hardly noticed, caught in a revelation of my own.

What if the typos themselves weren't my real nemesis? Graver communication issues skulked in the shadows and back alleys of our conversations and relationships. What good would fixing spelling do if the message remained distorted? My mind reeled in the grip of these ideas. One typo-the absence of a tiny mark to contract "I am"-had triggered an illuminating conversation that I'd never have had otherwise. There was more to this than the mere hunting of typos. Without being able to express the true extent of my grat.i.tude, I thanked our fellow Obama booster for her promised contribution to orthography, and we took our leave.

I didn't know how to explain my thoughts to Benjamin about communication troubles, my mission, and the dance of subtext I'd witnessed, so I didn't bring them up. Instead we went on through Underground Atlanta, ate some subs, and caught a couple of spelling goofs topside that were encased in thick plastic: "entertainmvent," a typo in the strictest sense of the word, and double-letter confusion with "pavillion". Benjamin noted the phonetic logic of the latter, as double letters usually signal that the vowel preceding them is short.

I wanted to reflect more on the discoveries I'd stumbled onto underground with the Obama correction, but first we had to complete the day's initial objective: to find some dry-erase markers. Unfortunately, as we wandered around the downtown avenues, the clouds carried out their threat and let loose. At first we trudged on through the instant soaking, but as the intensity of falling rain increased and I noted the sky's odd glow, some primal alarm went off in my brain. I saw a bus-stop shelter, shouted to Benjamin, and we dashed in and huddled in the corner with a woman who wouldn't quite reach that baby shower on time. Two gigantic, gift-filled pink bags sat on the bench beside her.

The three of us watched the sky falling. The rain now plunged down not as individual drops but as thick, heavy sheets, slapping the streets with layers of water that overwhelmed the drainage system. Half the street flooded. I was regretting that I'd parked my pollen-covered Callie in a garage, since she could've used a bath, when we heard the first of a series of raps on the shelter that rang out above the sound of the slamming rain. Hail. I changed my mind about my car's current crash pad, glad to have her safeguarded. Soon our ankles were being pelted with chunks of ice that ricocheted off the sidewalk. The shelter took a hard beating, and we watched cars crawling by, the water level halfway up their tires, their windshield wipers swinging like wild swords to fend off the attack of a thousand hailstones.

Apparently a tornado had blown through here yesterday. Atlanta's mayor, we later heard, had asked everyone to stay out of the city today. I'd never imagined that typo hunting could be fraught with such peril.

When finally the storm had spent itself, returning to a hearty rain, we saw our shelter companion safely onto her bus and sloshed onward. Within minutes we found a CVS where I picked up an a.s.sortment of dry-erase markers. With a new appreciation for underground shopping, we returned, as promised, to the supposed cousin-rendered sign. Our work couldn't be up to its usual standard. Despite the eras-ability of whiteboards, the text was meant to be permanent, and the letters were crammed too closely together to allow a natural insertion of the second n n into into PREGNACY PREGNACY, so I had to use the proofreader's caret to do so. Having already marred this sign somewhat, I went ahead and crossed out the offending letters in SOUVINER SOUVINER and wrote in the correct ones above, considering after I finished that a quick arrow would have done the trick. Benjamin and I glared in mutual dissatisfaction at the sign, but we felt we'd met our daily obligation to humanity. and wrote in the correct ones above, considering after I finished that a quick arrow would have done the trick. Benjamin and I glared in mutual dissatisfaction at the sign, but we felt we'd met our daily obligation to humanity.

The next day, my good fortune continued as our Atlanta hosts, Abby and Eli, brought me to the Emory University Hospital ER (the one option for medical care on a Sunday) to get my ailing eye treated. Then, while Benjamin headed off for a necessary haircut, I strolled down to another drugstore for a transparent makeup bag that would serve as a container for my ever-burgeoning collection of typo-correcting tools. My Typo Correction Kit was finally an actual kit.

Still, one thing nagged at me that morning as Abby loaded us up with her savory, b.u.t.tery scones. The whole purpose of this quest, to rid the world of the scourge of typos, could be viewed in a different way: I was attending to public communication in its written form, attempting to enhance the clarity of the message. If typos were a communication issue, I wondered what other barriers existed among my countrymen that frustrated attempts at open and honest interchange.

Maybe my mission itself should be broadened to include all forms of communication troubles. Unfortunately, I didn't know how to do that. I wasn't even sure what I meant. For the time being, I decided to make a mental note of how broader communication issues surfaced during our labors. Benjamin and I said our farewells to our exceedingly gracious hosts and climbed into Callie to continue on our way westward, unaware that the Underground Atlanta episode was only the first that would complicate our seemingly straightforward quest. Like physics in the late twentieth century, my mission had begun to gain extra dimensions.

TYPO T TRIP T TALLY.

Total found: 38 Total corrected: 21

7

Fear and Retail

March 1718, 2008 (Mobile, AL, to New Orleans, LA)Chronicling a tale of two cities' reactions toward our heroes' fateful Endeavors: It was the best of typos. It was the worst of typos. From Mobile to New Orleans, the battle betwixt Automatons and Autonomy blazes.

I awoke to a joyous morning in an Alabama hotel room, finding that my battered eye had convalesced enough to actually permit vision. Markers and pens and elixir of correction are important, but oh how vital to have the most basic of typo-hunting tools, the ones physically yoked to your head, in good working order. Now I could tend to my most faithful companion, Callie, who had expressed greater distress with each turn of her engine. Before leaving Montgomery, we took her in for a new battery, and for part of the wait, Benjamin and I explored the dark caverns of a nearby mall. A deserted mall, it turned out, with more s.p.a.ce open for rent than for business; they'd decided to save money by leaving most of the lights off. Surely this was not what Victor Gruen, architect of the fully enclosed shopping complex, had envisioned. Our footsteps echoed with eerie clacks. awoke to a joyous morning in an Alabama hotel room, finding that my battered eye had convalesced enough to actually permit vision. Markers and pens and elixir of correction are important, but oh how vital to have the most basic of typo-hunting tools, the ones physically yoked to your head, in good working order. Now I could tend to my most faithful companion, Callie, who had expressed greater distress with each turn of her engine. Before leaving Montgomery, we took her in for a new battery, and for part of the wait, Benjamin and I explored the dark caverns of a nearby mall. A deserted mall, it turned out, with more s.p.a.ce open for rent than for business; they'd decided to save money by leaving most of the lights off. Surely this was not what Victor Gruen, architect of the fully enclosed shopping complex, had envisioned. Our footsteps echoed with eerie clacks.

From my first blunderings around in Boston to more recent stumbles in Montgomery, I'd discovered that to find more typos, I needed to find more text. A grocery store in Philadelphia proved as fertile a breeding ground for typos as is a stagnant pond for mosquitoes. Other venues had offered mixed results: restaurants in Maryland and Virginia, museums in North Carolina, tourist traps and upscale promenades in South Carolina, and of course Underground Atlanta. That's when it occurred to me that the League had failed to scrutinize American capitalism's most sacred territory. Montgomery's ghost mall wasn't the proper place to begin, but I had yet to call any mall to account.

I had great hopes of seeing more significantly historical-and fun-things when we got to Mobile on that St. Paddy's afternoon. My guidebook mentioned the World War II battleship USS Alabama Alabama and submarine USS and submarine USS Drum Drum, as well as other tourism focused around instruments of war. Yet the need to visit a mall lay heavy upon me. Immediately after checking in at our latest Econo Lodge, we struck out for the nearest shopping behemoth. There we viewed a familiar roster, the exact same stores we could find in our own home cities-and anywhere else one happened to roam.

"I hope they have Dippin' Dots," Benjamin said as we entered through Dillards. "I have a hankerin'."

We hadn't trodden far into the mall when we came upon an autonomous unit for mid-mall snacking autonomous unit for mid-mall snacking,* and though this concession stand held no dots for dippin', we stopped to look over the a.s.sorted snacks. There, on a candy cooker, I found a sign that stirred only my hunger for grammatical clarity: and though this concession stand held no dots for dippin', we stopped to look over the a.s.sorted snacks. There, on a candy cooker, I found a sign that stirred only my hunger for grammatical clarity: CAUTION: DO NOT TOUCH VERY HOT! CAUTION: DO NOT TOUCH VERY HOT!

What's the sound you make that indicates a period? Or a semicolon? Whereas the rest of written language is supposed to correspond to the oral form directly;* punctuation doesn't seem to fill in for any sound at all. No, it indicates the s.p.a.ces in between, and that's a relatively new invention, but one that we've stuck with since the ma.s.s production of books became possible. Printer Aldus Manutius is credited with creating our modern system of punctuation, though his marks have migrated downward on the line and gotten smaller and subtler (the way the indicator of a pause should be). He created them for the very reason you originally learned to use the comma wherever you'd pause: to give writing speech effects. A period's utility is immediately obvious it marks the completion of each thought think how difficult it would be if we didn't have those to tell us where one ended and the next began that would make reading a much more stressful task. The comma's helpfulness is more understated, but it has the same effect of aiding the reader in breaking a full thought up into pieces, offering us pause-points between each segment. punctuation doesn't seem to fill in for any sound at all. No, it indicates the s.p.a.ces in between, and that's a relatively new invention, but one that we've stuck with since the ma.s.s production of books became possible. Printer Aldus Manutius is credited with creating our modern system of punctuation, though his marks have migrated downward on the line and gotten smaller and subtler (the way the indicator of a pause should be). He created them for the very reason you originally learned to use the comma wherever you'd pause: to give writing speech effects. A period's utility is immediately obvious it marks the completion of each thought think how difficult it would be if we didn't have those to tell us where one ended and the next began that would make reading a much more stressful task. The comma's helpfulness is more understated, but it has the same effect of aiding the reader in breaking a full thought up into pieces, offering us pause-points between each segment.

In this case (CAUTION: DO NOT TOUCH VERY HOT!), any one of several different marks after TOUCH TOUCH would fill the bill. Traditional grammar might favor a colon: the directive would fill the bill. Traditional grammar might favor a colon: the directive DO NOT TOUCH DO NOT TOUCH is followed by a clarification of why touching is not desirable, much as this very clause clarifies why a colon would work in the sign. Given that there's already a colon after is followed by a clarification of why touching is not desirable, much as this very clause clarifies why a colon would work in the sign. Given that there's already a colon after CAUTION CAUTION, though, a dash might be better-to emphasize the very hotness! A period or exclamation point would break the two parts into separate sentences, though VERY HOT VERY HOT doesn't make for much of a sentence, lacking both a subject and verb. Personally, I could find room in my heart for a semicolon, that old benchwarmer of the punctuative ball club, or even a comma. Just to have doesn't make for much of a sentence, lacking both a subject and verb. Personally, I could find room in my heart for a semicolon, that old benchwarmer of the punctuative ball club, or even a comma. Just to have something something there, to plug the yawning absence that currently confused the warning. The girl behind the counter-or rather, enclosed within it-had been cavorting with a young suitor and only took notice of us when we'd remained stationary for a long moment. there, to plug the yawning absence that currently confused the warning. The girl behind the counter-or rather, enclosed within it-had been cavorting with a young suitor and only took notice of us when we'd remained stationary for a long moment.

"Oh, don't mind us," Benjamin said. "We're crossing the country correcting typos."

She laughed. "All right."

"See, it says 'DO NOT TOUCH VERY HOT!'" I said. "But without a dash or colon or anything, the meaning is confused."

"Like, they don't know what not to touch," said Benjamin.

"They're looking for the Very Hot. And they can't find it."

"They say, 'Yeah, I can't touch the Very Hot, but I can touch everything else.'"

"It's like a 'Don't tease the snake' pet-store sign."

"Right, yeah," said the girl, still laughing, "I see what you're saying."

"So we'll just fix this, then," I said. "We'll draw in the comma. I have a black marker."

Immediately our standing in her view changed from that of jocular pals to troublesome customers. The candy seller's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Ha, ha, no, that's okay."

"Seriously, we can just fix it for you," said Benjamin.

"No ...," the girl said. "I'd get in trouble with my boss."

I couldn't help but glance at her suitor as she said this. What would she get in trouble for, exactly? "Aww, you can look the other way, right?" I said. Benjamin cracked up at that, having heard the same phrase innumerable times at the bookstore, though in more earnest tones, as someone attempted coupon abuse or truffle-pocketing at the register. I was no natural wheedler, but I pressed on anyway. "We'll make it quick."

She pointed at the ceiling. "The cameras are always watching."

Now n.o.body was laughing anymore. I gestured at the sign, the barest hint of frustration creeping into my voice. "So you're saying that if we put one little comma in here, to correct this, we will get you in trouble. That is really what you're saying."

That was really what she was saying. Sensing that we could reason no further with her, Benjamin and I left the candy stand to resume our course through the mall. I wondered if the hidden supervisor had been watching us through his ceiling-mounted camera, cackling softly in some darkened control room. "You can talk with your little boyfriend all you like," I could hear him wheezing at his charge, "but even he can't save you if you let them touch my caution sign!"

Though the concession confrontation had disheartened us, our next encounter ripped the cardiac muscle from our chests with even greater force. We strolled into a Hallmark store, and Benjamin blinked, then darted for a sign on the wall. I confess that I'd pa.s.sed it without noticing anything amiss, but Benjamin has a special mental tuner for errors that slip the bonds of logic and travel into a madder s.p.a.ce. NO REFUND OR NO EXCHANGE ON ANY SEASONAL OR SALE ITEM NO REFUND OR NO EXCHANGE ON ANY SEASONAL OR SALE ITEM.

As ever, our examination of a sign did not go without someone examining us, in this case a young guy at the store's register. He leaned over the counter. "Can I help you, sir?"

"h.e.l.lo, yes," I said. "I had a question about your store policy on seasonal or sale items. Do you offer no refunds, or no exchanges?"

"Yes, that's correct," he said. "No refunds and no exchanges."

"Right, but the sign says no refund or or no exchange," Benjamin pointed out. no exchange," Benjamin pointed out.

"Yes, that's what I said," the young man replied.

"No, there's a difference," said Benjamin. "See, your sign says no refunds, or no exchanges, implying that only one of the two can be true at any given time. If we make a simple change, making the 'or' an 'and,' the sign will forbid both refunds and exchanges on seasonal and sale items."

"I have some Wite-Out and a pen, right here," I said. Before I could suggest, alternatively, eliminating the second "no," I noted another sales clerk moving over from an endcap display she'd been working on. She stepped forward like an actor with no speaking lines who's been told to act intimidating. The universal "you wanna go?" go?" gesture, implying a willing readiness for violence as a gambit to prevent it. Benjamin had made the same aggressive forward-step once at work, after a crazy homeless guy had thrown a bag of food past one of his cafe employees. In character, the woman said nothing. After a moment of cold silence, the young man behind the counter said, "Okay, we will make the change later. Thank you." gesture, implying a willing readiness for violence as a gambit to prevent it. Benjamin had made the same aggressive forward-step once at work, after a crazy homeless guy had thrown a bag of food past one of his cafe employees. In character, the woman said nothing. After a moment of cold silence, the young man behind the counter said, "Okay, we will make the change later. Thank you."

"We could do it right-"

"No. Thank you. We will make the change later."

"Now they they are lying," Benjamin said as soon as we'd reentered the tiled floor of the mall proper. "If they didn't understand the problem, there's no way they would be able to fix it, and they definitely didn't understand what we were saying." are lying," Benjamin said as soon as we'd reentered the tiled floor of the mall proper. "If they didn't understand the problem, there's no way they would be able to fix it, and they definitely didn't understand what we were saying."

"They didn't want to listen," I replied, wondering about that immediate resistance. Once I turned from the return policy to the subject of the sign itself, a wall had gone up, hindering them from processing anything I said. That clerk's eyes had remained so blank blank.

Benjamin muttered, "Future Shock." "Future Shock." I could see him jerk perfectly upright, as if inspiration had tugged on his marionette strings. "This is what Alvin Toffler pointed out almost forty years ago." He tried to articulate how we'd witnessed the consequence and conundrum of the Industrial Revolution and the throwaway society. We've got Model-T employees in Eli Whitney's cotton-gin workplace, he explained-interchangeable workers, did I dig? I could see him jerk perfectly upright, as if inspiration had tugged on his marionette strings. "This is what Alvin Toffler pointed out almost forty years ago." He tried to articulate how we'd witnessed the consequence and conundrum of the Industrial Revolution and the throwaway society. We've got Model-T employees in Eli Whitney's cotton-gin workplace, he explained-interchangeable workers, did I dig?

I dug. The Hallmark clerk had not required an apprenticeship to learn his job; it was largely mechanical. Even an employee who excelled could only do so much good here. Both the employer and the employee saw the relationship as temporary. The employer saw no benefit in the relationship's being permanent, and the employee recognized that and acted accordingly. Employees in a retail setting lacked any vested interest in the company's success or failure; they got paid the same whether the store reached its sales goals or not. Making a decision could only offer repercussions for the wrong choice, and no reward for the right one.

Switching gears before his comments had caught up to each other, Benjamin almost offhandedly added, "I'd never thought about it before, but a typo that everyone walks past and no one ever corrects signifies a much deeper communication breakdown." He started singing Zeppelin to work off his frustrations. I wondered if Benjamin meant that a typo no one noticed signified a breakdown in grammatical awareness or if he'd meant that a typo people did did notice and didn't comment on suggested that the employees weren't talking to one another. When he attempted a screechy high note, I interrupted. He clarified that he'd meant the latter. "No one cares about their work environment enough to deal with the drudgery of actually talking to each other. What a drag that can be." notice and didn't comment on suggested that the employees weren't talking to one another. When he attempted a screechy high note, I interrupted. He clarified that he'd meant the latter. "No one cares about their work environment enough to deal with the drudgery of actually talking to each other. What a drag that can be."

I nodded, then backed up to what had bothered me most about that hallmark hallmark of grammatical obstruction. "So I get that retail sales positions are as replaceable-and disposable?-as the clothing we buy rather than mend, but I'm a customer making a request. Aren't they supposed to listen to of grammatical obstruction. "So I get that retail sales positions are as replaceable-and disposable?-as the clothing we buy rather than mend, but I'm a customer making a request. Aren't they supposed to listen to my my feedback?" feedback?"

"From my own experience, no." He then launched into a jeremiad about handling customer complaints. He would go out of his way to fix the problems most relevant to service. Someone's order hadn't arrived? He'd track it down. Someone ripped the soap dispenser off the wall in the men's restroom ... again? again? Okay, he'd arrange to get a bottle of soap in there and then survey the damage. But when someone wanted to complain about something that came down from the corporate office, well, Benjamin would have no control over the policy-making of higher-ups. When people brought up Okay, he'd arrange to get a bottle of soap in there and then survey the damage. But when someone wanted to complain about something that came down from the corporate office, well, Benjamin would have no control over the policy-making of higher-ups. When people brought up noncontrollables noncontrollables such as this, he couldn't do much about them, so he'd work to end the conversation quickly rather than attempt to resolve the issue-because he couldn't. And an author coming in with her self-published opus and wanting to do a book signing, or someone wanting to put up flyers for their half-marathon downtown, would fall into an even more unfortunate category: stuff Benjamin doesn't care about that is interfering with his focus on actual customer service. It wasn't his job to help a writer who'd photocopied her self-help ramblings and expected people to pay for them. Nor was it his job to run a community bulletin board, as much as he likes those. His sole purpose at that store boiled down to helping customers obtain their next awesome read, and to make that process as smooth as possible. Anyone coming to him about anything else was in his way. such as this, he couldn't do much about them, so he'd work to end the conversation quickly rather than attempt to resolve the issue-because he couldn't. And an author coming in with her self-published opus and wanting to do a book signing, or someone wanting to put up flyers for their half-marathon downtown, would fall into an even more unfortunate category: stuff Benjamin doesn't care about that is interfering with his focus on actual customer service. It wasn't his job to help a writer who'd photocopied her self-help ramblings and expected people to pay for them. Nor was it his job to run a community bulletin board, as much as he likes those. His sole purpose at that store boiled down to helping customers obtain their next awesome read, and to make that process as smooth as possible. Anyone coming to him about anything else was in his way.

He stopped to reflect. "The typo hunting is an interesting case, because I would group this in the same category as the bathroom thing. It's a controllable thing that reflects on the store, so while I might not want to hear it, I'd still want to act on it. Also, the Hallmark store had no customers. The other lady was using the time to do a merch display, but we didn't interrupt her. We went for the bored clerk."

Benjamin's observations sang true to my open ears, but I sensed that the melody of the modern retail worker contained still richer timbres. He had described the perspective of an employee making thoughtful decisions that ultimately served the greater welfare of the store, but the Hallmark guy had been acting via instinct, not his gray matter. Why did he respond differently than Benjamin would have?

The journalist Art Kleiner offers one rather dismal answer in his book Who Really Matters? Who Really Matters? The Hallmark clerk struck a deal with his supervisors that effectively sells off his brain for each eight-hour shift behind the register. We tend to automatically bestow the mantle of legitimacy upon the shoulders of our bosses; we do what they want us to do. Eventually, says Kleiner, this transforms into us doing what we The Hallmark clerk struck a deal with his supervisors that effectively sells off his brain for each eight-hour shift behind the register. We tend to automatically bestow the mantle of legitimacy upon the shoulders of our bosses; we do what they want us to do. Eventually, says Kleiner, this transforms into us doing what we think think they'd want us to do. We create a miniature, mental version of our supervisors, and then consult this imaginary stand-in whenever an issue arises. Frank the real-life boss might have once said in pa.s.sing, "Could you order me some more blue pens?;" henceforth, the mental Frank will decree, "At this company we use blue pens, so don't you dare use a black one on any official forms!" Thus our decisions are easier, faster. Now you're using blue ink on all your paperwork, even if it doesn't show up very well on corporate's new green forms. Our gift to those above us in the company hierarchy is legitimacy, and their dubious gift to they'd want us to do. We create a miniature, mental version of our supervisors, and then consult this imaginary stand-in whenever an issue arises. Frank the real-life boss might have once said in pa.s.sing, "Could you order me some more blue pens?;" henceforth, the mental Frank will decree, "At this company we use blue pens, so don't you dare use a black one on any official forms!" Thus our decisions are easier, faster. Now you're using blue ink on all your paperwork, even if it doesn't show up very well on corporate's new green forms. Our gift to those above us in the company hierarchy is legitimacy, and their dubious gift to us us is simplified cognition. Such a trade-off perfectly explains not only the dead-eyed Hallmark guy, but also the girl at the candy counter, who imagined her boss as literally peering down at her from the ceiling, like some adjudicating G.o.d. is simplified cognition. Such a trade-off perfectly explains not only the dead-eyed Hallmark guy, but also the girl at the candy counter, who imagined her boss as literally peering down at her from the ceiling, like some adjudicating G.o.d.

In an infamous experiment on obedience, the psychologist Stanley Milgram led test subjects to believe they were administering electrical shocks to individuals in another room. The troubling results showed that as long as an official-looking representative stood nearby and nodded for them to continue, a majority of people would administer continually greater shocks, some going all the way to the highest voltage even when the supposed victim had become nonresponsive. Having an authority figure to look toward releases us from feeling feeling personally responsible for our decisions and actions. personally responsible for our decisions and actions. Not my problem; I just work here Not my problem; I just work here. Milgram also carried out many variations on this experiment. In one, he played with the physical presence of the authority figure, removing him from the room and having him give the subject instructions over the phone. Subjects complied far less readily without the authority figure looming over them in person.

The disquieting implication of Kleiner's argument is that the work environment is short-circuiting this last effect, bending the employee's will permanently toward following the instructions of a boss-avatar perched on her shoulder.

Rather than pursue these dour reflections further, I suggested we shelve the typo hunting for now and head for RadioShack. We hoped to find a new battery for the video camera my cousin had mailed us in South Carolina, but they'd apparently stopped manufacturing batteries for this model right around the time that Murphy Brown Murphy Brown went off the air. I pa.s.sed by a whiteboard on our way out, then spun around and headed back inside. A different clerk greeted us, and I said, "Sorry. I noticed something on the whiteboard out there that I don't think is quite right. Isn't there a double went off the air. I pa.s.sed by a whiteboard on our way out, then spun around and headed back inside. A different clerk greeted us, and I said, "Sorry. I noticed something on the whiteboard out there that I don't think is quite right. Isn't there a double s s in 'Sony Ericsson'?" in 'Sony Ericsson'?"

"I think so," she said, and followed me out to the very edge of her jurisdiction. I'd been reaching for my camera to take a quick photo, but she took one look and, while saying, "Yeah, that's wrong," swiped a hand across the last two letters of the original rendering, ERICSON ERICSON.

Wow! Immediate action! So immediate that I swore that, from this day forward, I would be certain to snap a photo before mentioning a given typo to anyone. As it happened, I now had a dry-erase marker, albeit not in exactly the right color, that could aid in the correction. We thanked her, and she thanked us, and we thanked her for thanking us. After an awkward pause during which Benjamin and I separately considered that we already had beautiful girlfriends waiting for us back at our respective homes, we parted company from our fetching, forthright ally.

When I wondered aloud about the difference between RadioShack and our other two encounters, Benjamin burst into hearty laughter.

"RadioShack! Of course!"*

Our last stop was to roam Target for a strap for my Typo Correction Kit, like the one I used for my camera bag. I'd envisioned crossing the straps like bandoliers over my chest, a bada.s.s gesture that would send the message to grammatical vandals, defilers of language, and other itinerant evildoers that trifling with Jeff Deck would be one's final trifle. Failing to find something appropriate, Benjamin grabbed a carabiner clip from the camping equipment section, and I simply linked the Kit to my camera strap. Now I felt like an authentic typo hunter, wearing the weapons of my trade. We exited the mall through the nearest department store and breathed the carbon-monoxide-tinged air of the parking lot with grat.i.tude. Our mall adventure had yielded dispiriting results, but at least we'd broken new territory.

The following morning we hit the road for New Orleans, stopping in Biloxi, Mississippi, on the way (an adventure outside the bailiwick of our tale; suffice it to say that if you ever blow a tire in the South, look for Jerry, repairer of rubber and mender of dreams). By the time we arrived in the French Quarter, afternoon had already begun, and with it a hearty wind. The wind didn't prevent us from consuming some beignets at Cafe du Monde, but it did send the powder from those beignets all across Benjamin's jeans and T-shirt. My white-speckled companion and I proceeded to tramp down Decatur Street. Despite the ravages of Hurricane Katrina, this neighborhood stood pretty much intact.

After our troubles of the previous day, I confess we started out our typo correcting in stealth. Benjamin had been raving for some time now about the ratio of corrected typos versus total found. The percentage had dipped a hair below fifty percent in his first days on board, but we'd gotten it back on track by Beaufort, North Carolina. Since then it had wavered barely above that mark, ever threatening to fall again. With a horde of uncorrected Mobile typos, we'd begun the day at twenty-two of forty-two corrected, only one ahead of the zone of shame. Thus goaded, I consented to his nefarious strategy without much reluctance. We took down several typos via covert a.s.sa.s.sination, including a Styrofoam sign in a shop window and a cardboard sign for plastic reptiles at a tented bazaar. While fixing the latter, I wondered if many new speakers of the English language made New Orleans their home. We'd set a hard rule for the League to never go after non-native speakers. Those new to our language deserved to be cut some extra slack; English can still get difficult on me, and I've been using it my whole life. The spirit of TEAL focused on catching errors made by lifelong speakers, not by those who were still learning the basics.* In practice, this meant bypa.s.sing ethnic restaurants, stores, and sometimes even whole neighborhoods. Occasionally, though, we couldn't even tell whether we'd run into a second-language situation. People don't always fit into obvious categories. In those cases, more often than not, we stayed our pens. In practice, this meant bypa.s.sing ethnic restaurants, stores, and sometimes even whole neighborhoods. Occasionally, though, we couldn't even tell whether we'd run into a second-language situation. People don't always fit into obvious categories. In those cases, more often than not, we stayed our pens.

Our clandestine campaign came to an end when I spied a blackboard typo that we had to bring to someone's attention. We went inside Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville, where the lifestyle embodied by the song could be supplemented by the purchase of faux-tropical tchotchkes. The store seethed with employees lacking an immediate purpose, so we figured that we could peel at least one off to grant the permission we desired.

A friendly guy in a festive shirt came over. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi," I said, "we couldn't help but notice that Thursday was spelled wrong on your blackboard outside. With your permission, we'd like to fix it."

He said, "Sure, if it's wrong, we can fix it. Lemme see." We stepped back outside to look at the blackboard. Then something astonishing happened-the man laughed. "Oh no, we close at seven Monday to Thrusday? Thrusday? And it's all flowery and everything. I know who did this. Hold on, don't fix it yet, I got to show Jerome this." And it's all flowery and everything. I know who did this. Hold on, don't fix it yet, I got to show Jerome this."

He retrieved one of his co-workers, who, once shown the mistake on the blackboard, also had a t.i.tter over it. Then both of them reentered the store and came out a few seconds later with the employee who had probably made the error in the first place. She, too, was gracious enough not to get annoyed, even though her co-workers kidded her about it. Thrusday! Thrusday! We'd finally found some people who got it. They laughed again when we told them about our mission. Benjamin mentioned how little errors like this popped up everywhere, mitigating the sign writer's embarra.s.sment. Mimicking her flowery style as best I could, I swapped the letters and we made to depart, but the first guy told us to hold on for a moment longer, as he had a final errand back inside Margaritaville. Within two shakes of a tumbler, he emerged with a prize for us-a We'd finally found some people who got it. They laughed again when we told them about our mission. Benjamin mentioned how little errors like this popped up everywhere, mitigating the sign writer's embarra.s.sment. Mimicking her flowery style as best I could, I swapped the letters and we made to depart, but the first guy told us to hold on for a moment longer, as he had a final errand back inside Margaritaville. Within two shakes of a tumbler, he emerged with a prize for us-a prize prize, for pointing out the mistake! We were now the beaming owners of a TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE HAVING RUM TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE HAVING RUM b.u.mper sticker. b.u.mper sticker.

What a pleasant shift, we thought, from the latent hostility we had suffered yesterday in the Mobile mall. Here were employees who weren't afraid of acknowledging mistakes. Granted, an alteration in chalk carried less grave potential consequences than fixing permanent signs, but the gratis token of appreciation had helped to make the distinction plain. This was what I'd hoped for, a friendly reaction to our quest, displaying humor and grat.i.tude. Sure, I'd expected that many wouldn't like being told they'd made a mistake, but I saw my efforts as a clear boon for humankind. Reactions like Margaritaville should thus have been more common, but they weren't, making this one all the sweeter.

Benjamin checked his cell phone. "If you want to head back to the car so we don't have to pay for another hour, now's the time."

I nodded, and we sped up, until one last typo blazed out at me from the window of a tourist center. "Dear G.o.d, that thing's huge," I said.

"Another hour it is, then," Benjamin replied, following me into the place.

Inside, a middle-aged woman surrounded by pamphlets on various attractions and arcana of New Orleans ruled over a surprisingly large amount of office s.p.a.ce. I deduced why the room was so big when I spotted a couple of Segways parked over in the corner-tourists would be able to fumble around open floor for a while before taking to the narrow streets. I went up to the woman and smiled. "h.e.l.lo! We noticed that the word cemetery cemetery was spelled wrong on your sign in the window." was spelled wrong on your sign in the window."

She seemed dazed by this p.r.o.nouncement, and her gaze didn't follow my finger to the window. Instead, she gave both of us an uncertain stare. Pranksters? Miscreants? Even worse?

"It should have an e e instead of an instead of an a a," said Benjamin, pointing at the reverse of the sign through the window. "See?" He helpfully plucked up a flyer that rendered the word with all three of its e es.

"We'd like to fix it," I said. "If that's okay."

She eventually looked at the sign. "Oh, you're right." Immediately she switched from wariness to staunchly supporting our cause. "Hey, we hired somebody to do those signs." Ah, I hadn't even spotted the second copy of the sign in another window. Double the error and potential shame brought upon the tour office. "We didn't do those ourselves. We paid a lot to get them done, and h.e.l.l, they didn't do it right, did they?"

"We're actually traveling the country correcting typos," Benjamin said.

"It'd be nice to have this as another success story," I said.