3 Mulligans

In the past two weeks I received three notices from our mortgage bank stating I was about to be socked with a massive late fee and penalty if I didn’t pay up – toot sweet! I knew I had paid this, early in fact, but after the third warning I started to think that maybe I didn’t. I almost always save my receipts and about a year ago it came in handy when this same thing happened. Back then I called the bank and told them I paid it, but since they had no record of it, wanted to know if I had a receipt as proof. A bank. Needing me to keep track of their business. I had the receipt and read off all the info. They researched it and sure enough, it was paid.

This recent time when I called, a teller took my information and put me on hold while she looked into it. When someone came back on the line, not the same person, and asked if I could be helped, I said that a teller was already helping me with a mortgage payment issue. She asked if I got the name of the teller (a tactic I hate, designed only to shift the blame) and when I said no, she offered to check around to see how they were doing with it. After more waiting, the second person came back on to say that no one there was working with a phone customer on a payment issue. In fact, she even went around in person to check with everyone there that day. No one and nothing. After releasing a healthy string of laughs I suggested she check with the bank’s janitors and groundskeepers to see if they had taken my call. “Well,” she said, “I’ll look again.” You know, she’ll look again for that pesky teller who likes to come in on their day off, take calls and then hide somewhere! More waiting.

When she came back on, she said that Megan had been researching this “in a different room from another computer.” I decided to sidestep making her explain that, but sure enough, I had paid it. But I couldn’t resist pulling a more technical answer from her explaining how this could happen, yet “scanning error,” was all I heard back. Happens all the time, right? People slap things on a scanner, the scanner targets a single number or letter to flip upside down or just ignore and – bingo! – I didn’t pay. But I still wanted to know how this happens, since it was the second time. She offered to have the branch manager call me back.

The branch manager was full of apologies when she called. Then I asked my question. At least she knew the answer and wasn’t afraid to tell me the truth. After receiving a payment, the check is scanned along with payment information that is hand-written by a teller. When this info is sent through the chain for completion, “It’s possible that someone incorrectly enter a teller’s handwritten information” at the final stage in the process. No dancing little people speaking backward. No mysterious hot new virus. Just the same old boring teller error like the ones we saw in the ‘70s.

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The decision was easy. I could keep the super expensive rhododendrons purchased from a local nursery, or return them and purchase others I saw at a home improvement store for a lot less. I could have saved $65 had I just waited to see what both places offered before buying from either of them. So I headed back to the high-priced nursery and prepared myself to beg in case they hesitated, but they accepted my returns without any problem.

After picking out some nice replacements at the cheaper place I got in line at the registers where I waited behind a couple who were buying a huge cart full of stuff. After their transaction, the wife left with all their plants but the husband, for some odd reason, just stood there like he needed to be told to go home. And he continued to stand pretty close to me while the cashier rang up my plants.

Buying anything these days is never as simple as just paying for your stuff. Now, there’s a book of questions every cashier is required to flip through before you’re allowed to leave. “Would you like to save $5 for signing up for our Visa card?” No. “Do you have our Preferred Shopper Collect-More-Points card?” No. “Would you like to add some batteries to your purchase today?” No. Wait – batteries?! No! It should be as simple as these three steps: 1) being greeted, 2) hearing your total, and 3) being thanked, but before we could get to Step #2, the cashier asked if I was interested in some unrelated item or service. I didn’t hear her so I turned my head, cupped my good ear and said, “I’m sorry…” Just then that previous customer, the one still standing too close, said something to the cashier and handed her his credit card. But I felt confused by not hearing either of them and looked back and forth between the two hoping that someone would clear things up for me.

I suppose if I could hear and process information as quickly as most people I could have immediately said, “Well, thank you my friend. You have now earned the right to follow me around whenever you please,” or, “Oh, that’s not necessary. I can get it, but thanks anyway.” Instead, I stood there dumfounded and mumbled, “I don’t know what to say,” because honestly, I didn’t. After his credit card was scanned he quickly signed his name and walked off. He didn’t even look at me. When he was about ten feet away I decided I had better say something. “Uh, hey. Thank you.” He finally turned and looked at me and said, “Hey, pass it along,” except all I could come up with for a response was, “I will.”

For an instant it felt like I was being rewarded for something, but I couldn’t figure out what I had done to deserve such a generous gift. I even backtracked the events of that morning but nothing came to mind. Or was it because of something nice I did yesterday? Last week? Was I singled out because of the wheelchair? That seemed too obvious, but without it I’d be just another plain customer.

As the commitment to “pass it along” sunk in that brief good feeling quickly turned sour. Look, I didn’t ask him to do something nice for me, but now I had to do something nice to someone else? It felt like he pulled me into a game of tag, unwillingly, and now I had to play even though I didn’t want to. I wanted to somehow track down this guy and say, “Look, I appreciate your gesture, but I really don’t need the added burden in my life to do something generous for someone else just because you said so.”

Why couldn’t I have just paid for my stuff and gone home with a clear conscience? Now, I had this to worry about. Who would be the recipient? Should it be planned or random? What are the criteria? Would he approve if I ordered some CDs online and passed it along to myself? Why not? I didn’t appreciate being saddled with this.  What kind of dollar amount did he have in mind? Would it count if I went out of my way to greet the trash man every Monday? Could I then order him to pass it along? Will something bad happen if I don’t follow through with all this? And what about…

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Why is it that if a gas station has a political/social view, it’s always on the redneck end of the spectrum? Either it’s just a store that sells gasoline and chips, or it’s a store that sells gasoline and chips and Duck Dynasty sunglasses and anti-Obama slogans. You have never walked into a gas station and looked down to see cute little rainbow flag keychains next to the chewing gum or made an impulse buy of the 64 oz travel mug with a Black power logo on it.

I was coming home from my parents’ house and stopped to buy gas before getting on the highway. I went in to pay and saw all these stickers for sale. There was the requisite series of Calvin pissing on various words like “PETA” and “Ex-Wife” and… Hullo! Here’s a new one: a pink ribbon sticker that says “Save Second Base.” Ugh, I’d love to see these men with dick leprosy and a bunch of women with bumper stickers that said “Save the Dicks! How else can my husband write his name in the winter?” Haw Haw Haw! I felt the way I often do out in the wildlands of Michigan — like someone is going to block the door and beat the shit out of me for having the ideas I do and for being dumb enough to get caught buying gas.

My Deliverance paranoia aside, why do certain businesses align the way they do? Every single person I know buys gasoline and there are a lot of liberal-minded Democrats where I live. To say that my parents’ highway gas station just sells what the people are buying ignores the fact that NO gas station I’ve ever been to in Ann Arbor sells Darwin fish or bumper stickers that say “Lower the Maximum Wage.”

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It’s a good thing people have settled into the practice of repeating back orders. “I’d like a double espresso and a bottle of water.”                                            “So, that’s a double espresso and you want the water added in to fill up the cup?” Strike three!

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“I’d like a double espresso and that’s it.”
“You don’t want whip cream or water in there or nothin’?”
No, but do you have any Butterfinger bits to throw in there? Maybe we can turn it into a Blizzard with a handful of those.

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At the drive-through window I asked for a double espresso. “Would you like a medium or large?” She was holding up a 16 oz. cup and a 20 oz. cup. Since she seemed to prefer visuals I shook my head and made a one-inch gap with my thumb and forefinger and squinted at her through its little space. “Ah, yes,” she replied, and turned to get started. Then I heard that sound. The one that meant no one had emptied the group head until another order came in. BANG-BANG-BANG. I wondered how long the grounds sat jammed into the filter screen before I came along. After far too much time, I looked through the window to see my espresso sitting there on the counter. Just sitting, getting cooler by the second, like it was saying, “Sorry, I’m not gonna be what you ordered by the time I get in your mouth.”

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Me: “I’d like a double shot of espresso.”
Her: “So that’s two shots of espresso, right?”

After agreeing with her I realized if I didn’t clarify, then I could expect to be served two single shots. Why was she put in control of my mid-day lift? I should have messed with her by explaining a double shot really meant three shots of espresso, but that one of them was imaginary.

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Small, locally-owned businesses offer the concept that our purchase will have a direct impact on its owners and employees, and actually make a difference. That’s why I called a nearby landscape supplier, to give them my business and to ask if I could get help weighing three pails of stone and loading them into my car. This wouldn’t be a problem, the employee assured me, and someone could meet me in the yard in ten minutes. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m disabled and would really appreciate it.”

Spotting me among the piles of stone was easy; I was the only person in the entire yard. I lined up my pails in front of the blue crushed rock and waited. After several minutes, two more customers pulled into the yard and they waited for an employee with me. After several more minutes a dump truck pulled in and I knew by its logo that my help had finally arrived. After it had parked, the driver got out and waited on the other two customers, but when he was finished with them, went back to working in the yard. Then, he went into the yard office. Then, he came out to get the mail. Then, he went back into the office. Never mind that he seemed determined to take the longest possible time between each of these points.

I knew he saw me. He looked right at me when he entered the yard, but I continued to wait anyway. When he finally came back out to mail something I decided to remind him that I was waiting for his help. I yelled, “Is there a shovel we can use?” But without even looking at me or saying a word, he pointed to one hanging on the side of a building. Then, he walked back into the office. That’s when my patience ran out.

How badly did I need this particular stone? How much more of this was I expected to take? I called the main office three miles away and expressed my frustration, then waited some more. When the driver left the office again, I saw him grab the shovel and walk toward me. When he finally reached my car he said nothing, just leaned the shovel against the car’s bumper and walked away. Was this really happening? I couldn’t believe this was happening. After throwing my empty pails back in my car I expressed my high level of disgust over his unwillingness to help me, yet all he could say was, “Well, it’s too bad you feel that way. Have a nice day.” Before driving home I took a short detour.

When I arrived at the company’s main office I asked to speak with the person in charge, but instead of the owner or manager coming out to greet me, I was told, “He said you can go back there and talk to him,” and the employee motioned toward the back office. Honestly, how much worse was this going to get? Even with my cane it was a challenge getting back there, but by that point I was up for it. There sat the owner and his wife but neither of them looked up or greeted me. What left my mouth was nearly duplicated from what I had just told their driver, only what followed was much worse. Even without an ounce of sincerity, he at least said, “Have a nice day,” yet after recounting my experience to the owner there was nothing but silence. No resolution, no compromise. I guess I could rule out any form of an apology, too. There were, however, a few things they managed to say before I was done talking, but those served only to make things worse. They stated always having done business this way, never helping customers in the stone yard, and staying in business for 52 years. They were so proud to stand their ground. “Wow. 52 years,” I said. “That is a long time for anyone to stay in business. But how does that help me?” Neither of them opened their mouths and they continued to just sit there like two turds. Their silence was more offensive than being told to take a hike. It took me a while to get back to my car but offered them plenty of time to reconsider and call out to me. Still, nothing.

Never before in my life have I felt driven to carry a sign. In fact, whenever I see people protesting and marching around I immediately think, “Oh, come on. What is this, the ‘60s?” But that’s only because I hadn’t experienced something so personal and inhuman as being refused help when I needed it. When the weather is nice you can see me from northbound 251, sitting right next to the driveway of that locally-owned business. I’m easy to spot. I’m the only guy out there holding a sign.

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Traffic slowed down as we approached the high school and I could see a line of cars leading through the parking lot. The whole thing looked like what precedes the Academy Awards ceremony. A constant stream of families shuffled toward the school entrance. Cameras flashed taking multiple shots of students from every conceivable angle. I couldn’t believe how people were dressed and how they looked, especially the girls. The run on hair products and makeup at local stores must have left shelves empty. This was how our community recognized – and promoted – 8th Grade Graduation, that important scholastic milestone.

As we inched passed the greeters and ticket-takers to reach the auditorium’s foyer, I witnessed behavior from parents that made me feel embarrassed to share their same zip code. Frantically communicating on cell phones, their common concern was where they could get the best shot. How’s the balcony look? What about the angle? Is the backlighting better up there? What about the main aisle? Entrance? Stairs? Stage? There was so much mayhem and yelling it felt like I had been dropped onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Once inside the auditorium there were few seats left. As it was, Simeon had to sit on a folding chair.

Before the ceremony the audience was shown pictures of students on a theater-sized screen. But after the screen disappeared and the lights kicked up we heard the start of “Pomp and Circumstance” – the 27-minute version. Any shorter and it wouldn’t have been long enough for all 253 students to walk down the aisle and take a seat on stage. And every time two more students appeared back at the entrance, another set of parents rushed in to get more pictures.

My eighth grade graduation was a little different. Scheduled during a school day as another boring assembly, it took place in the hot stuffy gym without parents or visitors. Mrs. Braden gave her speech on citizenship, the same one she read every year. “Citizenship. What is Citizenship?” Then it was over.

On stage Cassielle looked poised, confident and eager to start high school, but I wondered what was really going through that mind of hers. The next day I asked, “Did it signify anything or mean anything to you, the ceremony?” When she said it meant nothing to her I wasn’t even tempted to fake my way through another speech about “turning points” and “new beginnings.” She already heard plenty of that while waiting patiently for the whole thing to end.

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