There is a scene in Larry McMurtry’s book, “Lonesome Dove” that is a favorite of mine. A captain in the U.S. Calvary has spied one of Woodrow Call’s ranch hand’s horses, and wants to “commission” it for the U.S. Army. Dish, the ranch hand with the horse in question, politely tells him the horse is not for sale. The captain and his men sneer derisively and proceed to take the horse anyway. When Dish tries to stop him, he is beaten. Another ranch hand, Newt, attempts to protect Dish’s horse by taking the reins. When the captain begins to beat Newt with his quirt, Newt refuses to let go. Call, who is a retired Texas Ranger, comes out of the store, sees what’s going on, and without losing a step takes the captain’s own quirt and gives him a beating so severe, he appears to lose all reason, punching and hitting the man in almost robotic fashion. He is so intent on his punishment, his friend and business partner Gus has to pull him away to keep him from killing the man. The ranch hands are speechless, as they have never seen this side of their easygoing boss. As Call walks past them, dusting himself off, he sees their stunned expressions and explains, “I hate rude behavior in a man…I won’t tolerate it.”
Dear reader, I feel the same way. We as a society have lost the art of being polite. It was a thing a Southerner took pride in, being polite. Smiling when you didn’t feel like it. Helping someone even if it meant putting your own needs aside. Paying attention to details. Saying “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am”. “Thank you”. “Please”. Respecting the property of others. Understanding that the rights of others should not get lost in your "right" to be "right". Saying what you needed to say without intentionally hurting someone’s feelings, and if you did, saying you’re sorry, even when you said it as softly as you could.
When I was in nursing school (this was not in the last century, as you might think, but only 22 years ago) I had a nursing instructor who was a true Southern belle. She came from an old southern family, went to an all female college, lived in an old historical home, and never went without her hair and makeup done. My nursing instructor would most likely starve herself and her children before she went to the local Harris Teeter (southern belles don’t shop at the Pig) in nothing less than her finest. What she wore to shop for food, I wore to church. Sometimes.
I said all that to say this: that woman might have looked like she was as sweet as sugar, but screw up on one of her discussion questions and she would bury you. She would, however, send you to your grave with the most polite, “I’m so sorry…I really hope you do better next time” and a smile on her face that made you think you scored the highest in the class. Her name was Colleen Judd, and it didn’t take long for us to label her with the nickname “Killer KO-LEEN”. Even with that nickname, and her insistence on a 20 page dissertation on fetal circulation, we loved her. We loved her for one reason: she was polite and kind. When she handed you your paper, it could be a 95 or a 35, and you would get the same smile and pat on the shoulder as she passed. She never argued with you over a question, a comment, a grade. She would let you know she was right but did it politely. Somehow a bad grade didn’t hurt quite as bad; it made you just want to do better next time. Her smile and gentleness kind of took the “zing” out of a sucky day. Yes, I said sucky, and she would not like that word. Sorry, Mrs. Judd.
I’ve had teachers, instructors, speakers, a husband, superiors (I use this term loosely), and children who snorted at every mistake I made while trying to learn something by asking what must’ve looked like to them a stupid question. And every time I hear that snort, or see that condescending smile (you know, the one where their eyes glaze over, they tilt their head to one side, and are mentally going over their acceptance speech at winning the Oscar for pretending to be interested in what you have to say) I think of Colleen Judd, who taught me the art of saying what needed to be said without wounding the soul. I have not always done this; I know this to be true. But I do try. Every day, I try. And when someone snorts at me, I feel like Woodrow Call. I just want to beat the crap out of someone. On these days I go home and watch “Cops”, hoping to see the police officers use the tazer on a particularly obnoxious person and get a chortle or two. Sad, isn’t it?
On recent occasion, this was very difficult to do. I was having one of those “should’ve stayed in bed with the covers over my head” days. Shall I tell you? Oh, yes, let me tell you. I must warn you: not but one person in my story was anywhere near a Judd. It was brutal.
The day started with me calling my insurance company to inquire why they had refused to pay for my recent eye exam when I had gone to a physician that was listed on their web site as an accepted provider. The conversation went something like this:
“It’s a great day at Blue Choice Healthcare. This is Debbie (fictional name given to protect the guilty from suing me), how can I help you?”
“Hi, Debbie. This is (me) and I’m calling to inquire about the listing you have on your website for Dr. Jane Smith (again fictional) as being an accepted provider. You have her listed, but when I had my exam, payment was denied from Blue choice, and I had to pay out of my pocket.” (Something someone who pays as much for insurance as I do should NEVER have to do)
(After quite a bit of her tap, tap, tapping on her keyboard; yes, the Poe analogy is intentional) she says, between the smacks of gum, “That’s because Dr. Smith is not listed as a provider”.
Uhm, didn’t she hear me say she was? In my mind, I’m thinking maybe she doesn’t understand Southern, so I slow my words down. “Yes, she is listed. I’m looking at YOUR website and she is listed as a provider whose services are covered under MY policy with YOUR company.”
“Ma’am, I’m not seeing her as listed with our company as a provider. Are you sure you’re on the right page?”
“Do you have another page with vision care providers listed?”
“Not to my knowledge, no. Just the one.”
“Well, it’s your web site. The web address is www……” Here, she interrupts me.
“Ma’am, I’m not sure I can access the page you’re referring to.”
“But you said you only had one page. If you only have one page of vision providers listed, surely we’re looking at the same page.”
“Ma’am, we don’t always have access to the pages the customers do. But I’m telling you (ooooohhhh….see, she messed up right there…..telling me) she is NOT listed as a vision care provider with our company. Therefore, YOU are responsible for all costs involved in seeing her…..”
“Yes, Debbie. I am aware of that. I wrote the check. My question is not whether or not I need to pay the bill. The bill is paid. My question why MY web page has her listed as a provider when she’s not. I would think you would like to correct this error before someone else pays a visit to her that costs them unnecessarily.”
By the way, the gum smacking continues ALL THE WAY through this conversation.
“Well, all I can tell you is I can’t access the page you’re referring to.”
She had to do it. She HAD to end that sentence with a preposition.
“I have not given you the web address of the page to which I am referring, Debbie. You wouldn’t let me.”
You were too busy cracking your gum, heavily sighing, and rolling your eyes through the phone at me.
“It wouldn’t matter, ma’am.” At least she did call me ma’am. Although it didn’t sound right coming in between cracks of gum. “We can’t always access the same pages the customers can.”
“But you said you only had one page of providers. If you only have one page of providers….” And that’s when I knew I was secretly being taped for “Candid Camera”. I felt like Lou Costello in that old “Who’s on First” routine. I just politely said “Thank you, Debbie” and rang off the phone. It did seem rather pointless to argue with someone who didn’t care whether they were actually helping you or not. I could have asked for her supervisor, but beleaguering a point until I wanted to climb through the phone and choke her with the cord seemed detrimental to my ability to continue paying bills I shouldn’t have had to pay.
With my newly purchased contact lens prescription in hand (I didn’t get them at Dr. Smith's office because my insurance would not have paid for them) I called a provider that Debbie assured me was listed. The conversation was short; I was going on vacation the next day and wanted to know if my prescription was in stock. The woman on the phone assured me they were, and that day after I left work, I trekked out to the mall to get them. THIS brief moment in history went something like this:
I walk into the store and go to the customer service counter, where no one is present. After a few moments, a man came from the back of the store with a huge grin.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Yes, I called earlier to see if you had my particular brand of contact lenses in, and was told you did. I came to get a box of each.” I hand him that costly piece of paper, my prescription.
“Wow. I didn’t think they even made these anymore. No one wears these anymore.”
“I do.”
“Well, little lady (I promise to God he called me a “little lady”) I don’t think we carry these in stock. Have to special order these suckers.”
“The woman on the phone assured me you had these “suckers” in stock”.
He looks around furtively. “It wasn’t me.”
“I know it wasn’t you. It was a woman. Clearly, you are not female.”
He chuckles. “Heh, heh, no ma’am, I’m sure not.” He stands a little taller and sticks out his chest like Charles Atlas. Who was he trying to convince?
“Do you have them, sir?”
This is where I just about lost my mind, because he didn’t even look. He didn’t even pretend to look. I mean, couldn’t he at least go into the back and thrown a couple of boxes around, make some noise?
“Nope. Gonna have to order ‘em.” Didn’t even call me little lady that time.
“How soon could you have them if I order them?”
“Oh, it’s gonna take probably about a week for them suckers to come in.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have that kind of time. I’ll check elsewhere. I’m going on vacation and ….” Can you believe as soon as I said I wasn’t interested in ordering, he walked away from me, before I even finished my sentence? No, “Thanks anyway, maybe next time”, or “Sorry, sure wished I could’ve helped”. He just walked away.
With blood roaring in my ears, I decided to walk down to the other place in the mall where they sold contacts and see about my luck. THAT little excursion went something like this:
I walk in to see two salesmen, one talking on a cell phone in what was clearly a personal conversation, and one preening in front of the eyeglass mirror. I clear my throat. The peacock looking at himself in the mirror turns and hits the one on the phone in the arm. “Your turn”, he hissed. I mean, did they think I was deaf? Blind? Dumb? Desperate? Well, desperate….a little.
“I’d like to see someone about possibly buying some contact lenses. I have a prescription…”
He’s relieved. He works in glasses. He escorts me to a desk in the corner where they clearly don’t observe the child labor laws, because these two girls behind the counter looked about twelve. One is on the phone, again, clearly having a personal conversation. The other has her purse on her shoulder. And gum. Smells like Juicy Fruit.
“I’d like to buy some contact lenses. I have a prescription.”
She looks at me as if I have grown two extra heads. “Uhm”, she twirls a lock of hair, “we’ve already gone to the bank…”
Well, bully for you. Glad to know you got that little chore out of the way. This is my business…..how?
“What do you mean?”
“Huh?” “Oh! I meant like we couldn’t give you, like, change, or anything….”
“I don’t need change. I have a credit card.”
Deer in headlights look again. “Ohm….well….see……we’ve, like, already locked up the contacts.”
“Did you throw away the key?” I know I shouldn’t have, dear reader, but I couldn’t help it. As AC/DC sings, “Evil walks behind you, evil talks around you”. Evil was singing its sweet, seductive song to me. Yep, in four-part harmony by this time.
“What?” “Oh, ha ha.” “No ma’am, but it’s just like……we could probably order them for you……tomorrow…..maybe?”
“I’m sorry. Did I ignore the closed sign? Are you not open?” I look around, incredulous at the….well….stupidity I see going on in this place. I ask to speak to the manager. I am ushered back to the eyeglass part of the store, where I find the manager is Mr. Peacock. I tell him of the terrible service I received…er, didn’t receive, and that I would NEVER buy a pair of glasses or anything else out of his store and that he needs to send himself and his staff to a seminar on customer service. Turns out he was also the optometrist. Guess if I went there anytime soon to have my eyes checked he’d probably try to blow my eyeballs out with the eye pressure tester.
I turn on my heel and march out the store in proper drama queen fashion. Wait, there’s Barnes and Noble. I ordered a book there last week. Let me check to see if it’s in. I walked in to the customer service desk. No one is there. I am beginning to think Customer Service is the job I am going to be relegated to in Heaven. After waiting for, count ‘em, dear reader, 7 minutes, I look to my left. There is a girl stocking books on a shelf. She glances at me. And keeps right on stocking books. I look to my right. There is a young man stocking books on a shelf. He glances at me. And keeps right on stocking books. Are they being timed? Is there a minimum quota of books to be stacked hourly? As I ponder jumping behind the customer service desk and taking it hostage for the remainder of the evening, another clerk walks. Right. By. Me. She refuses to make eye contact. Does that assure her that I will not attack her? Did she learn that in some B & N seminar? NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT. KEEP THE CUSTOMER CONFUSED. PLAY DEAD IF YOU HAVE TO. WALK FAST. Is this the new mantra of customer service? If I had a quirt, or knew of somewhere in the mall I could have purchased one, beloved, you would have woken up to the Morning News headline reading, "LOCAL WOMAN CHANNELS LONESOME DOVE CHARACTER IN BIZARRE ATTACK AT BARNES AND NOBLE".
I walk to the back of the store, where the checkout counter is located. There is life! A woman is kneeling behind the counter with her back to me, stocking books on a lower shelf. I gotta tell ya, I practically live my off hours in a bookstore, and I have never seen so many people so eager to stock books in my life. Anyway, I clear my throat. Without turning OR looking around she says, “Yes?” in a very short, clipped manner that is meant to assure me I am working on her last nerve.
“I am checking to see if a book I ordered has arrived.”
She utters a heavy sigh. She continues to stock. “Did you get a notice that it was here?”
“No ma’am. I was already in the mall and just thought I would check.”
Another heavy sigh. She groans as she rises to her feet and faces me. “Name?”
I couldn’t help it. “My name, or the name of the book?” I give her a “Killer KO-LEEN” smile.
“YOUR name.” I was really working that vein above her right eye. I could see it pulsating from where I stood.
As I give her my name, she tap, tap, taps the keys…behold, it’s in!
She points me in the direction of the customer service desk, and must see the stricken look on my face, because she assures me she will usher someone over to take care of me.
As I reach the desk, the nice older man behind the desk smiles at me and says, “Hey, I got your book you ordered right here. Looks really interesting. I see it’s about the Gullah way of life. I love reading about our South Carolina history. I visit Charleston every chance I get. Have you ever been to…?”
We have an entire adult conversation that did not make me groan, wince, roll my eyes, or wish I knew a little Voodoo.
And that, dear reader made the day all worthwhile. I wrap myself in paper and words the way some wrap themselves in a warm blanket, or take a hot bath. When I find someone else that feels the same, I exude happiness the way a dog wags its tail when its master has arrived home.
If I have point to this wretched tale I’ve woven, I guess it’s this: a little genuine-ness, a little kindness, an extra effort, a little interest in someone else’s life can go a long way.
If you work in customer service (or really if you just want to be a better human being), I want you think about this story the next time you’re in a hurry to go to lunch, or you think how you act doesn’t matter, or you want to treat others the way you’ve been treated in the past. The man I met at the end of the day was no different than any other character I introduced in this sordid little tale. He just, for two minutes out of his hectic day, made me feel better. It was a small act that went un-noticed to everyone else on the planet. Except me.
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