Cantankerously Yours
I Gotta Keep on Kvetching
By Wendell Abern
Dear Readers,
One of the problems with writing a column featuring my grumpiness is that when I’m not complaining, people think there’s something wrong with me.
Last Saturday, I was enjoying my first cup of morning coffee, and looking forward to a bridge game after a few hours at the pool with my morning cigar. As a perennial night owl, I was in a surprisingly great mood. I reached down to pet my cat, Murray. He barked. Murray thinks he’s a Golden Retriever.
I decided to call my kids in Chicago, starting with my daughter, Amy.
“Hi, dad,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing.”
“What? Nothing’s wrong? Dad, are you sick?”
“No. I just wanted to say hello.”
“Are you taking your meds?”
“Look. All is well. I’m feeling great. I promise.”
“I’m calling Joel,” she said.
Joel is my son. He called two minutes later.
“Dad, Amy just called. She said something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong! I feel great!”
“Dad, you can tell me. Amy doesn’t have to know.”
It took five more minutes to convince him all was well.
I went to the pool, smoked my cigar, read the paper and headed to the bridge game, still wallowing in mellowness.
After we’d played seven or eight hands, my partner Harriet said, “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”
“You’ve been so nice to everyone today.”
“Hey, I can be nice once in a while.”
“Well, I find it scary.”
“Okay, okay. Her Obnoxiousness is coming to our table next. If it makes you feel better, I’ll deck her before she sits down.”
“Thank you.”
I did not deck Her Obnoxiousness. But I didn’t play very well, either.
After the game, I went to go shopping before dinner. A glorious Florida day. No air conditioning needed. Opened all the windows, and pulled up to a stop light between an old woman on my left who apparently was not bothered in the least by the young guy to my right: he was blasting some form of music at 20,000 decibels. I consider that a declaration of war. I had on Beethoven. I turned it up to 21,000 decibels.
The old woman turned and looked at me.
“He started it!” I yelled.
“A quarter after four,” she yelled back, and then made her left turn. I headed for Publix.
I strolled in, picked up a basket and sauntered over to the deli counter. No one there. Two guys behind the meat counter, serving customers.
“Is the deli counter contaminated?” I yelled.
“Someone’ll be there in a minute,” one of them yelled back.
I waited. I looked over the cheeses in the display case. And waited. I counted four different kinds of salamis. And waited.
I’d had enough. I looked around to see if my nemesis, Tiffany, was working. Publix has a policy of using beautiful women to mollify disgruntled male customers. Stunning Tiffany looks like a runway model. They always sic her on me.
No Tiffany. “Help!” I yelled. “Need help in the deli department! Cheese is turning rancid as I speak!”
A young man ran out from in back and stood behind the deli counter. A very young man. “Can I help you, sir?” he said.
“You? You’re the one who’s going to make me a sub?”
“Yessir.”
“I’m not giving you my order ‘til you get bar mitzvah’d.”
“Sir, what is it you want?”
I gave him my order, paid and left.
After dinner, I went to my computer to check my e-mails. Instead of going to my site, Google fed me pop-ups. Then the pop-ups gave birth to more pop-ups. I slammed my fist on the desk, scaring Murray, who barked at me.
I called Google. No customer service on week-ends. I barked at Murray. He ran out of the room, terrified.
It was time to prepare for the ball game I wanted to watch. I went to the kitchen, hauled out a large box of potato chips, a large bag of Cheetos, a large can of pistachio nuts and a pound of cheese. I set them neatly on the table next to my viewing chair and settled in, emotionally prepared to berate and scream at every ballplayer on both sides. Then I heard a crack of thunder. Then it started to rain. Then DirecTV lost its connection to the satellite and my screen went blank.
Seething, I called my daughter.
“Dad,” she said. “I’m so glad you called! Is everything okay?”
“No! Everything is not okay! I had a lousy bridge game; a young guy had his car radio on so loud they were complaining about it in the next area code; the only one who waited on me at Publix is a kid still in eighth grade; I’m getting nothing but pop-ups on my computer, and the storm that’s raging right now shut off my TV in the middle of a football game. So no! Everything is not okay!”
“Oh, good,” she said. “I’m so relieved. I’ll call Joel and tell him.”
I better keep on kvetching. I’m the opposite of the kid who cried, “Wolf.” The only way someone’s going to come to me in an emergency is if I tell them everything is all right.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].