Cantankerously Yours
Ignore Me, Will You?
By Wendell Abern
Dear Fellow Curmudgeons,
It all started with Susie Corrigan.
Senior year. High school, Chicago. Susie sat across from me in American History.
Every senior guy in the school wanted to go out with Susie. She looked like Mitzi Gaynor’s Siamese twin. And would probably graduate as our Valedictorian.
Before each class, I flirted with her shamelessly. Nothing. I’d get serious, ask if she agreed with the Dred Scott Decision. A shrug. Played on her emotions, telling her all about my miniature Dachshund, Neanderthal. A nod.
Once class was over, she ignored me altogether.
The hell with that. I was not going to be ignored. In fact, I decided to take Susie to the prom! Knowing her popularity, I had to call her before the idea occurred to some other guy.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Susie, it’s me. Wendell.”
“Wendell who?”
This did not bode well. There couldn’t be three guys in the city of Chicago named Wendell.
“Um … the Wendell who sits across from you in history.”
“Oh. I thought your name was Warren.”
I had clearly made a big impression. Before any more blunders, I felt I had to get right to the point.
“Listen, Susie, I would love to take you to our prom.”
“The prom! The prom is in June! This is September!”
“I know. I was afraid you’d be married by then.”
“Very funny. But it turns out I am going with someone on a kind of steady basis. Do you know Bob Langston?”
“From the football team? The one they call ‘Bubba?'”
“Yes.”
Bubba could bench-press a Cadillac.
I went to the prom with Emily Gomberg.
But one learns from pain. I determined in that senior year that any time someone ignored me, I would demand attention through any means necessary.
Flash-forward 50 years. We move to Florida. It doesn’t take long to learn that people in positions of offering service have made an art form out of ignoring people.
My former bank, for example. I go to cash a check on a Saturday morning and get into line at the drive-through. After three minutes, I realize no one has moved, want to back out but can’t because of the two cars behind me. In fact, there are three cars in each of the three lanes.
I jump out, run into the bank and see three tellers completely ignoring the cars in line.
“You’re losing!” I shout.
Everyone stops and looks at me; the security guard frowns.
“The car lanes are winning, nine to three!”
The security guard comes over and says, politely, “Sir, our tellers are doing as well as they can.”
“They got a new thing!” I shout to the tellers. “It’s called drive-through. Cars drive up with people inside and expect to be helped. Very big at places like McDonald’s and Burger King.”
The security guard escorts me out. It takes me six more minutes to cash a check and six more days to change banks.
And of course, one can always cite the emergency room of any hospital, where being ignored is the accepted modus operandi .
My last visit was a little more than a year ago. Badly infected toe. An angry shade of red. Very swollen. Red streak from toe creeping up my foot.
I explain my problem to a nice young man sitting at the admitting desk. He tells me to take a seat.
I have very cleverly brought a book with me. An hour passes. I have read four chapters. I go up to the young man at the admitting desk and ask, “Have you figured out a way to solve the problems in this emergency room?”
“What problems are those?”
“I rest my case.”
“Sir, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Okay, here’s a specific problem. My infected toe is getting redder and swelling up by the minute. You may or may not know this, but this could easily be a staph infection or blood poisoning.”
“Sir, everyone here has a medical problem. I will get you in to a doctor as quickly as I can.”
Two and-a-half hours later, I see the doctor. X-rays. Antibiotics. And a lecture.
“This could easily be a staph infection or blood poisoning! Why weren’t you in here earlier?”
The infection cleared up before my toe fell off. Otherwise, I would have sued.
When it comes to ignoring customers, however, my local Wal-Mart pharmacy has raised the bar.
One morning, I go to pick up a prescription. I’m number four in line. A pharmacist is on the phone; two assistants are working behind the counter, one giving instructions to the other. No one is even looking at the four of us waiting to pick up prescriptions.
Three minutes go by.
Finally, I shout, “You’re losing, four to three!”
The elderly woman in front of me turns and says, “Good for you.”
However, not one employee looks our way. Another older woman joins the line behind me.
“We’re gangin’ up on you,” I yell.
The old woman in front of me crosses her arms, turns to me and says, “They’re always like this. Like we’re not even here.”
“Hello!” the woman behind me shouts. “We’re here! We’re here!”
I grin. I had started a revolution.
The old woman in front of me suddenly holds her tummy and shouts, “Help! My water just broke!”
Finally, one of the assistants makes it over to the counter. By this time, there are eight of us in line.
“You probably haven’t heard of us,” I say as casually as I can. “We’re a whole new species. At some places we’re called customers.”
“We’re doing as well as we can,” she huffs.
I get my prescription seven minutes later. The pharmacist shoots me a dirty look. I blow her a kiss.
* * *
A final warning to all produce clerks, cashiers, tellers and anyone else who chooses to ignore me: arm yourself well.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].