Essays

My mother had a way of doing things –don’t we all? – that combined logic with good old-fashioned guilt. Guilt is generic, contrary to the myriad theories of Jews and Catholics everywhere, and Muslins and Buddhists, etc., who have landed on the guilt-laden bandwagon over the years. Many times, guilt works. And many times it doesn’t.

When I was a kid, say ten through fourteen years of age, I would accompany mom to the stores, where she did the weekly food shopping. We might stop at a convenience store, a gas station, wherever. And mom was always courteous, something she instilled within, and insisted upon, her children. To her, respect was everything, and rightly so. She came from a time and place where people said please, yes sir/ma’am, and thank you, and even, you’re welcome. And she found that treating people in a considerate, courteous way not only helped society feel better about itself, but it made the individual feel the same way. When I got into business, she taught me how to write a proper business letter, courteous, respectful, forthright. She told me how to dress properly, and to keep my car washed, so that prospective clients seeing me drive up to their offices would know that I cared about details and myself. And she taught to always appreciate, and appreciate meant saying thank you. And acknowledging a thank you with, you’re welcome. I did it then, I do it now, several decades later.

As humanity moved into the future, which it always seems to be doing, Mom noticed that just because technology was making life easier, it wasn’t making life better. Cashiers no longer had to count out change, and therefore, would just hand over a wad of bills and coins to the customer. When this started to be accompanied with a terse, “here you go,” or, worse, no comment at all, mom had enough. “You’re welcome,”, she would say, directly to the offending employee, who would then, usually, sheepishly mutter a “thank you” under their breath. Mom said she deserved to be thanked for helping pay their salaries. It made sense then, as it does now. Sadly, as the corporate stranglehold takes over this country, not being thanked may be the least of our worries.

High prices are bad enough, rotten service – or no service at all – sends us into the higher elevations of frustration, and bad products leave us at the mercy of our credit card companies. Then, as if to pour salt into our consumer-festering wounds, we are not thanked. Sometimes, threats may even be imparted. I recently heard about several customers of a cell phone giant who were dropped from their carrier because they complained too much! That’s like a football team telling their fans, “Don’t cheer so loudly!” Signs of the times, to be sure, but I notice that consumers have a penchant for rolling with the punches, for absorbing the bad with the little good that exists. High gas prices? Still gotta drive. Smaller restaurant portions? Oh, well, we must lose weight. No courtesy? That’s where I draw the line. The line, however, is drawn in invisible ink, or at least that what it seems.

I have tried Mom’s gambit of saying you’re welcome. However, and this is truly sad, I notice that many people, young mostly, have no idea what that means, implied or otherwise. I have repeated it several times, and not gotten even the slightest hint of recognition. Instead, in return, I have been told, “Okay”, Uh huh”, and the ever popular, always in vogue, “You’re welcome”. (I guess it must be Pavlovian, an oft-repeated phrase catching on.) Not a clue, not in the least. I’m not talking about them, I mean me. When am I going to learn I cannot change society merely by being right? I mean, if that were all it took, society would be running perfectly by now, wouldn’t it? Unless I’m wrong, right?

Now don’t misunderstand me, it’s not that bad everywhere, just most places. I travel a great deal, all by car, so I get more of a sense of regionalism as I stop every so often for gas and bathroom breaks. Depending upon the area in which I find myself, the ethnicity of the person and whether they are breathing or not, I can almost always tell how I am about to be treated when greeted. If I get a cheery, “How are you today?”, there is a chance I might get, at the very least, a “Have a nice day”, in lieu of a thank you. If my initial contact starts off with, “Yeah, whaddya need?” I am still not assured of rudeness, and, truth be told, I have been pleasantly surprised by the end of transaction not being told to drop dead, which I see as a major victory in customer service. The ever popular, “Can I help you?” always seemed redundant. Why else would I be standing at the counter? (No, you cannot – or MAY not help me, so there!) At the risk of being labeled a horse’s behind, and God knows I have been called worse, that appellation ain’t so bad. I want courtesy, respect and some acknowledgement that my money is worth a small kindness which costs the giver nothing. (Further gripe: Why am I being wished to have a good night at one in the afternoon?!)

Do corporations, stores, employers… PARENTS, anyone, teach courtesy anymore? Apparently not. I recently took a look at a handbook given out by a well-known company to incoming employees. Nowhere did it once mention courtesy toward the customer. It did, however, detail how to take money, how to dress, how to do everything but interact properly with the very people supporting them. Well, that’s honesty for you. The best folklore on the subject of corporate policy toward the unsuspecting consumer took place, allegedly, in 1889. A gentleman riding the rails experienced more bedbugs than he needed, and rocketed off a complaint to none other than the owner of the eponymously-named train cars, George M. Pullman. Mr. Pullman’s sensitive return missive was nothing short of flattery run amuck, with apologies and promises galore. However, enclosed within the same envelope as the request for forgiveness, was the customer’s original letter with a handwritten scrawl stating, “Send this S.O.B. the bedbug letter.” *

Apocryphal? Maybe. An urban legend, perhaps. But I sense that corporate execs exult in such stories. (Is wallow a better description?) Be that as it may, I will not cease in offering my small, though important lesson to any and all who take my order, pump my gas (New Jersey and Oregon only), and tally up my groceries. Also, I have learned to say you’re welcome in several different languages, thus assuring me of an array of international of dirty glances. It doesn’t always work however, as I found out one day in an Italian deli, when I said “Prego”, and the kid told me the spaghetti sauce was down aisle nine. Oh, well. (Self-checkouts are better, at least theoretically. While no employee is there to be rude, the automated, disembodied voice clearly thanks you, but only after speaking to you as if you just landed on this planet. Give and take, right?)

Just last week, I was shopping my favorite grocery store. I grew up with these stores, and to find them in another state was like a homecoming, truly. Even though it is three miles from my home, and I pass three other major supermarkets en route there, I am a loyalist when it comes to my food shopping. However, I was reminded that no matter how much we may love any section of society, that section is still made up of… people. As I stood, gazing down upon a selection of foodstuffs in a display case, a young, uniformed employee, speaking on a c ell phone, kicked my basket to get by! Even as I advertised my displeasure with the comment, “I don’t appreciate that!”, I had the forethought to remember my mother’s admonition. My last words, to her back were, “Thank you!”

* - See: http://www.snopes.com/business/consumer/bedbug.asp