The Great Typo Hunt_ Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time - Jeff Deck [62]
Wolman pulled out a device with browsing capability and punched the quote into Google, both the way that the restaurant had it and the way that I thought it ought to be, “the man that first ate an oyster.” He announced that my way had returned more results than the restaurant’s way. The virtual jury had spoken.
After our rendezvous with Wolman, Josh and I went back to the closed restaurant and taped a small sign over the window with our correction. Below it, we left a business card. We congratulated ourselves for bettering the restaurant’s image in the eyes of the dining public, and went off to grab some seafood.
Only problem was, the virtual jury had been wrong. Later in the evening I did some Internet research of my own and discovered that “first eat an oyster” was, in fact, the correct wording of the Swift quote: “He was a bold Man, that first eat an Oyster” says the Colonel in Swift’s Polite Conversation (at least according to an 1892 printing). I felt the flush of terrible shame redden me from toe to crown. I knew then that I should not have rushed to fix something that I wasn’t absolutely sure was incorrect. Tie goes to the proprietor. Though we made no permanent alteration to the sign, the Swift blunder is still one of the two moments that I truly regret during the TEAL trip.*
On we journeyed to Washington State the next day, and the sun broke the gloom, lending considerable beauty to Puget Sound as we arrived in Tacoma. My friend from kindergarten days, Carson, lived in an attractive neighborhood right by the water. He grilled some salmon and the three of us stayed up for a while that evening, getting drunk on wine and watching stupid television. This traditional display of camaraderie helped things feel normal for a while, until I realized I was still wearing my cowboy hat.
“I’ve got to put in time at the base tomorrow,” said Carson. “Hey, if you want, I could—”
“Show us around?!” Josh interrupted, slamming down his empty glass. “Oh yeah!” He clapped me on the shoulder, and I tore my gaze away from the bright parade of ephemera onscreen. Maybe it was an afterimage from the TV, or the wine, but I thought I could see jets swooping and barreling in Josh’s fervid eyes. “Don’t we, Jeff? We do, don’t we.”
“Of course we do,” I said. McChord Air Force Base would be a poor venue for typo hunting, what with all the men with guns and all, but I wasn’t about to deny Josh the latest bounty on his quest to see the coolest stuff ever.
“I considered being a fighter pilot,” Carson said to us the next day as we walked beside him on the tarmac of an airstrip. He was dressed in full lieutenant’s regalia, complete with jaunty hat. “But then I realized that I would rather just go someplace and have lunch.”
Hence his decision to fly transport jets. Which still impressed the stuffing out of me and Josh. Carson had shown us the interior of a C-17 Globemaster III. It was a giant machine that would climb into the air and convey teenagers with guns to foreign lands. We met a few of these kids in the plane. I couldn’t help but feel silly. Here were guys several years younger than me with the means of war in their hands, and what was I doing? Semantically skirmishing with markers and elixir of correction? How could my frivolous quest even compare to the vitality of the lives these young men led?
I came away from that C-17 troubled by doubts. The airmen I’d met could be certain that they were making a difference, protecting their country from fanatics and evil hearts. By contrast, the Jonathan Swift incident the other day had demonstrated the fine line I myself walked between helping and harming. What kind of good could I be doing, if it could so quickly turn to wrong? As we walked off the airstrip, Carson swiveled toward me and barked, “Jeff! Don’t step over that.”
I had come close