A Gentlemen’s Pursuit of Decorum in New York (Circa late 2000s)
One may, with reasonable assurance, assume that the title is meant wryly, ironically or fatalistically. One would be, however, incorrect. While there may be some question if I am a gentlemen, there can be no question that pursuit of decorum in New York City, while a lonely and unrequited quest, is none the less a quest that is desperately called for. I may not be “just the man for the case”, but I see no others stepping up to the plate – as it were.
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Stepping up to the plate. Well, this is just indicative of the entire problem isn’t it? I mean the phrase “stepping up to the plate” is understood by most of the city. It can be reasonably translated by nearly everyone as “taking responsibility” or “making an effort”. This analogy is understood even by people who watch neither baseball nor cricket. However, the phrase “pursuit of decorum” will draw a blank stare from most people. Of course, the question “Where is the nearest coffee shop?” will normally draw a blank stare from people. It seems that the countenance of a fully feed bovine has replaced the effort to simply respond, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
How we as a city, or perhaps nation, or perhaps world, have gotten to this situation is beside the point. One must find a way to correct this, to “right the ship” as it were, before I go mad. Oh yes, I fully acknowledge that this pursuit, my windmill as it were, is based on righteous indignation of a populace gone stark raving bonkers. Even the pages of the most fashionable magazines feature vapid models in lovely clothes, expressionless and listless. As if they are already mentally posting on facebook, “Cathy (with an X – as in Xathy) is bored in Prada”. Cathay with an X, we don’t need facebook to gather this information. You are both bored and boring. You reek of the stench of it. If you hate it so much get a real job, or at least one where we don’t have to bear witness to your antipathy to life.
My sidekick, my Sancho Panza as it were, in this gentlemanly pursuit is a well-behaved and groomed Lakeland Terrier named Trevor. Unlike mid-twenty something young men in a bar, he will not hump your leg or stagger out well past 2 AM and regurgitate in the street. He does not smash into unsuspecting pedestrians with a cell-phone is glued to his ear (and all without an acknowledgement). He does not bear his private parts to the paparazzi, nor wear pants so low you that you are dazzled by his asscrack. Just because he can’t and these heathens can doesn’t denigrate the outcome. On an equivalency level he could mindlessly bark on the street constantly or lick his groin in public – but he has the good grace to do neither. He is, in short, much better behaved that any number of celebrities that attack the senses on the airwaves or in print. He is an admirable traveler on our journey.
And I do use the word celebrity purposefully, for all of American youth (perhaps all the world youth – I haven’t yet had the chance to find out) consider themselves celebrities. They may not have been discovered yet, but it seems to be their belief they are just one Episode of “Make Me a Super Vixen” or “Hanging with the Big Dog” before their rightful place is acknowledged. This has led to the twin evils of youth that are excessively arrogant and the inability of the service industry to find adequate staff. If you don’t believe me, ask your counter person to make change without using the register. It will make you weep for the future of humanity.
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I must take a momentary aside here to illustrate my point. Once, at an unnamed establishment with twin yellow adornments, the counter person told me the cost was $6.01. I gave her a ten dollar bill and said, “one minute, I think I have a penny”. The penny was quickly found and delivered. To which she said, “I’m sorry I already put in ten dollars”, and she proceed to count out 99 cents.
I stopped her and said “Just take the penny and give me four dollars.”
It was not her perplexed expression that annoyed me, it was the heavy sigh that me, an old coot of 27 at the time, couldn’t understand. She pointed at the register and said, “It says your change is $3.99” and went back to counting out change for me.
But I was not be deterred, which I suppose was silly of me. Talking to a counterperson often is like teaching a pig to sing, it frustrates you and annoys the pig. “No,” I explained. “I don’t want 99 cents. You see, that is why I gave you the penny.”
“But it says $3.99”.
“That’s because you put in $10.00. not $10.01.”
“Whatever.” (A comment that we must address later.) And she pushed the penny back to me and went back to counting.
However I was not to be deterred by the future Miss Einstein. “Stop.” And when said in a firm and normal tone stops many teenagers dead in their tracks. I think they never hear it at home. “Please call the manager.”
“I have to close the register.” She said. And it was said in a plaintive tone that indicated something unfathomable to me.
Maybe she didn’t know how to close the register, and so I explained, “Just push it back in.”
While her expression changed to venom, my suggestion did work and she stomped off to find the manager. Upon her return with a slightly older young lady, the counter person proceeded to explain what happen in great detail as if I was making an unreasonable request. After the tortured explanation, and the counter persons accusatory description of my unreasonable request, the manager simply said, “Take the penny and give him four dollars change”, in a manner that can only be describe as perfectly reasonable.
“But…” our counterperson whined and pointed to the register, “It says $3.99.”
The manager, with the patience of Job, reassured her, “I’ll fix it after he leaves.”
Thus reassured, my four dollars was forked over. No doubt the young woman daydreamed about the shitstorm she would rain down upon me when she was famous.