The View From Scranton

Some Small Rudeness

I should've listened to my gut. A few weeks ago I stopped for cigarettes at this so-called Smoke Shop up on Washington and New York. It was of course a simple transaction: I request, you provide, I pay. But even in the simplest of transactions there's a modicum of civility. A Please. A Thank You. Perhaps a Have a Nice Day. At this place, from this proprietor, there was no such thing. Not a whisper. Not a smile. Not even a grunt.

So I vowed to cross off him and his stupid store. I'm not given my hard-earned change to some mannerless lank of a man.

Then last week, when I was made late for the job, the ever-clinging Kenny and I found ourselves with no other option. So we went in. For coffee. They had Green Mountain and I like Green Mountain enough. They didn't have any of the fancy flavors available, but they had Our Brew. So I bought it. The coffee was good. The lank behind the counter was halfway civil. So I decided to give him and his store the benefit of my doubt.

I added to my habit. Instead of just a quick stop for the Times and some smokes every morning at Frank's (a real old-fashioned corner stand, where all the men are polite), I now swung also by this Smoke Shop for coffee. It was my reward for walking two miles in under fifteen minutes. And as I became more of a regular, Mr. Lanky seemed to warm up a bit. He did though always cast an aspersive glance at the Times under my arm.

Since it was spitting this morning, I decided I'd feed my mind all in the same place. I don't smoke or drink while I walk, and it'd be a shame to ruin the paper before I had a chance to really read it. So the Smoke Shop it was.

When I arrived though something was awry. I could smell it. Lanky was his usual lazy self, propped up against the counter talking about nothing; his pal though -- a true blue regular -- was big on the once-over. I didn't care. I've been around too many blocks to fret a blockhead. And anyway, I'm in stained chinos, scuffed combat boots and a wounded black tee; so what's he gonna once-over? Back at the dispensery I find I'm at the bottom of the urn.

Do you know these guys are out?

Oh.

I took what was left and prepared to wait. A sigh from Mr. Lanky and a look from Mr. Once Over prepared me to leave. I capped my cup and approached the counter. Then I looked down for the paper.

No New York Times?

He looked at me like I was shot outta Mars, then swivelled a No.

Damn.

How 'bout Camel Filters soft, please? He wordlessly produced the pack. Enter, add, enter, add. $6.15. I couldn't believe it. He'd not only charged me for a full cup o' coffee, he added $.60 on to the price of my cigarettes. It may not sound like much, but that's my lunch. Who the fuck is this lank to take my lunch? And why'd he have to be so rude about it? Of course, I didn't say anything. I couldn't. One foul report to the authorities and I'm back up the river with no nothing.

I did though consider a reveric past. See, in another time, another place, under a different circumstance, I might've called the Baseball Boys to come in and teach the man some manners. They'd have made him say Please, made him say Thank You, made him say Have a Nice Day, then they would've bopped him in the nose and Polaroided the proceedings for a reminder. They'd've told him it's not nice to be rude, and if he continued to be so then not nice things were going to happen to him. Repeatedly. Instant manners, at then blunt end of a baseball bat. It was a fond stroll down a distant path, where correct used to be determined through reasoned fists. And it was about as violent as I'll ever get to be again.

I hope the rude man felt it.

posted by John Hood. @ 11:05 PM